Captain's Lady

by Sharon Milburn

  “Thank you, sir. Yes, I would like that. I’ll see you later this evening.” Edward gathered up his dignity and his boat-cloak together. He clapped his hat onto his head and saluted his superior, making it out of the office before his composure broke. He strode down the hill to the dock, looking neither right nor left. He barely acknowledged the salute of the first lieutenant as he came on board, or heard the trill of the sideboys’ whistles. The cabin door slammed behind him.

  His coxswain waited for him, as always. Taking an old friend’s liberty of speaking first as he helped him off with his cloak and sword, he expressed what they both were thinking. “That’s it then, she’s finished.”

  Edward looked around the shabby cabin, where repairs and new paint told their own story of battles past. He slid his hand over the battered frame of the stern lights. How many times had the glass been replaced, shattered by shot or musket fire? He’d lost count. The melancholy sound of the pumps, necessary even at anchor or tied alongside the quay as she was now, broke the silence like a death knell.

  “Yes, Harding.” He nodded, forcing the words out. His last battle. To be defeated by poxy worms and by rot. “She’s finished.”

  Harding did his best. “There’s a letter from Winchester, marked urgent and the purser would like to speak to you at your convenience. The first officer has his lists made up and then there’s the surgeon’s report.”

  There was always something to do. Edward mentally braced himself as he turned round to sit at the desk. He dragged the small pile of correspondence and reports toward him. After this, he would begin his task of writing what references he could for every last man and every ship’s boy. And after that was done? Nothing.

  “Coffee, Harding.”

  As his captain slit the seal on the letter from Winchester Harding left him to it. “Aye, aye, sir. Coffee it is.”

  * * * * *

  Lavinia wouldn’t part with her pearls, or her earrings, but she did produce a small locket that by rights should have been Penelope’s. Determined to make the most of the pitiful amount it raised, Alice plucked up her courage for a walk to the village. Mr. Smedley, the baker, was known to her more by reputation than direct knowledge. It was with no little trepidation she pushed open the door and walked in. The smell of fresh bread hit Alice like a physical blow. Her mouth watered as her stomach growled its demand.

  Smedley’s smile of greeting vanished the instant recognition struck. With arms folded across the non-too-clean apron barely disguising his corpulence he waited for her to approach. When she was still six feet away he snapped, “There’s no credit to be had, so don’t bother asking. If you want bread you pay for it.”

  An attempt at a conciliating smile got her nowhere. He continued to stare, one foot tapping impatiently.

  “Mr. Smedley, I don’t wish to beg. I have a little money. I hoped perhaps you had some older bread you could let me have at a reduced price.”

  He snorted. “Aye, I just wager you’d like that. Cheating an honest man out of his due recompense! Bread is bread, young lady. Pay up or go away. I’m a busy man.”

  There was wood to be had on the estate and the oven at The Priory. Flour might be the better way to go. Without another word Alice turned on her heel and left. The miller was nothing like this man. Even if he was, there was nothing worse he could do to her, after all. She’d been humiliated without exception by most of the tradesmen in the village. Only the blacksmith had a good word to her in passing and that was because they had no need of his services.

  Once more the thought of writing to her mother wormed its way into Alice’s brain. Mama would look after her. How easy to turn her back on all of this. Her brother would come and fetch her, even if he did so reluctantly. But no, her mother had enough worries. Living as a poor relation in her own son’s house must be truly galling to such a wonderful woman as Lady Sarah Carstairs. Alice simply could not add to her worries. She would fight a way through this nightmare somehow. But she would do it honorably. She was the granddaughter of an Earl, after all. The bluest blood in England ran in her veins. Her ancestors had ridden out on the field of Agincourt with King Henry and at Worcester with King Charles. She could do no less. Taking a deep breath, Alice strode off to bargain with the miller.

  February neared its chilly end with no relief in sight. By dint of some clever negotiations with one of the late Sir Gregory’s tenants and the sale of a cartload of turnips, Alice managed to keep food in their mouths and a fire in the kitchen range. They were all of them waiting. Waiting for spring, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the obnoxious Mr. Scripps to descend upon them with Sir Edward’s instructions to turn them out. What then?

  “Perhaps I’m waiting for a shining knight on a white horse to sweep me off my feet,” Alice told the laundry tub one day shortly after noon as she scrubbed at the baby’s dirty linen. “Sir Lancelot. No, Sir Galahad. He would be better. Sir Lancelot turned out to be sadly loose in his morals.” She wiped her upper arm across her forehead, trying to push away the strands of hair that fell into her eyes as she scrubbed. She paused for a moment to look around the dingy scullery where she worked. Was this it? Her lot in life from now on? A skivvy? Dear lord, surely not.

  “Sir Galahad! Come and rescue me.”

  Almost before she’d finished her absurd cry for help a bell pealed on the board in the servants’ hall.

  “Someone’s at the front door, Miss Alice,” Cora called.

  Giggling at the absurdity of Sir Galahad ringing the doorbell like a morning caller, Alice dried her hands and hurried to button her cuffs before straightening her hair as best she could without a mirror. Barlow would answer the door, but no doubt she’d be called on to deal with the debt collector, or worse still, that maggot, Scripps.

  But no, it wasn’t Scripps. A stranger stood there. He’d just handed Barlow his cocked hat and was in the process of extricating himself from the folds of an ankle-length boat-cloak. Alice didn’t need to see the blue and white of the naval uniform to guess who he was. Not Sir Galahad, this, but the new owner of The Priory and the master of all their destinies. Sir Edward Masterman had arrived.

  Still unobserved, she paused to inspect the newcomer. What a man! Her heart skipped. Two gold epaulettes graced his shoulders. No longer a lieutenant then, but a captain and a post-captain at that. He was tall, taller than Sir Gregory had been by far and infinitely slimmer than his brother’s self-indulgent corpulence. His dark hair was cropped in a businesslike style, while his countenance was deeply tanned, much as she expected. There was menace here, barely concealed. A man ready for action, was Sir Edward.

  Perhaps aware of the scrutiny he turned to face her. The impact of brilliant blue eyes contrasted markedly with his complexion, but Alice was more struck by the depth of his expression. He looked tired beyond mere weariness and yes, even a little bewildered. In an instant the look was gone as an impassive mask hid any hint of his emotions.

  The butler introduced them. “Master Edward, this is Miss Carstairs. She’s governess to Miss Penelope.” Barlow shuffled off with the captain’s cloak and hat after he made the introduction, leaving them alone for a few moments. Alice sank into a curtsey and then held out her hand.

  “Welcome back to your home, Sir Edward. I trust your journey wasn’t too frightful. Traveling the highways in February is never a pleasant thing. Won’t you please come into the book room?”

  He took her hand very briefly and she became aware of a piercing scrutiny. She colored a little under his direct gaze. Of course he wasn’t to know that she’d been engaged in scrubbing linen. She must present a very odd appearance to one used to naval discipline and order. Her nose and cheeks were red from the cold and from exertion and her hands were rough and chapped. Her old gray gown was clean, but that was all that could be said for it.

  His own appearance was immaculate, even after his long journey. She’d been judged and found wanting. Confused and embarrassed, she turned away.

  “Unfortunately we
have no fire, but the sun strikes through the windows here. Barlow will have gone to fetch you some refreshment and as soon as you’re comfortable I’ll inform Lady Masterman of your arrival. I regret she is as yet too unwell to leave her bed…”

  Her speech withered under his continued scrutiny. Stop babbling, she told herself harshly.

  “Thank you, Miss Carstairs. I’m sure you’ve duties to attend to.”

  His voice sounded pleasant, the cultured tones of a gentleman, but the dismissal was as curt as it was final. Unbelievably mortified, Alice bit her lip. Without venturing on another word she curtsied briefly and almost ran from the room. Even in her anguished state she noticed that he made no move to open the door for her. She was merely another servant as far as he was concerned. Less than nothing.

  In a dismal mood Alice set about her tasks, all the while struggling to banish the impact made by those harsh blue eyes. He knew nothing about her. Oh, horrors! What if he thought her red nose and cheeks was a result of drink, not the bitter cold? His old nurse had been a drunkard, according to Barlow.

  After tending to Lavinia and informing her of her brother-in-law’s arrival she prepared the master bedchamber as best she could and then returned to her laundry. The problem of what to serve for dinner occupied her thoughts as she completed the mundane duties. There was no help for it. They would have to sacrifice one of their three remaining chickens. She’d been hoping to save them for the eggs. They had potatoes still and cabbages. There were always turnips. Alice never wanted to see another turnip in her life. Perhaps she could prepare some soup followed by the roast bird. It would have to do. She couldn’t work miracles, or turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse, even though a sow’s ear would have been a most welcome addition to the menu if it had magically appeared just then.

  Penelope wasn’t in the kitchen when she went to look for her. She’d left her to practice her handwriting, but the slate and copybook were abandoned on the table. Cora had no idea of when she’d left. Alice sighed. She was probably whining to her mother again. Hurriedly she set off to find her before she could cause trouble.

  Penelope wasn’t with her mother. Alice’s stomach churned. Penelope had insinuated herself into the book room and was pouring out her tale of woe to her Uncle Edward. Alice was just in time to catch the end of her complaint.

  “And she makes me sit for hours and hours in the kitchen. Last night, all I had for supper was bread.”

  Which was more than I had, Alice thought as she hurried to Penelope’s side.

  “Here you are. I’ve been searching for you, Penelope.” She risked a glance at Sir Edward, but quailed at the look of burning anger in his eyes. What had the little madam been telling him?

  “Penelope, would you please return to the schoolroom for a few moments while I speak to Miss Carstairs? She’ll not be long in coming to you.”

  “I don’t have to go back to the kitchen, Uncle Edward, do I?”

  He looked down at her with grave understanding. “No, child, you do not ever have to return to the kitchen.”

  Penelope fled, her eyes alight with triumph as she smirked up at Alice before closing the door.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” The angry demand jerked Alice’s head around. The captain paced up and down the room with his hands braced behind his back. He was utterly, furiously angry. “That child has painted a picture of such deliberate neglect, nay, cruelty, that I am appalled, Miss Carstairs. You’ve taken unconscionable advantage of your employer’s situation to disregard your duties and wreak some petty triumph over one who can never defend herself. If you were in my employ you’d be out of the house this instant. This instant, do you hear me?”

  It wasn’t difficult to hear him. No doubt his voice could make itself heard from one end of a ship to the other in a screaming gale. Alice trembled with shock and with bitter resentment at the injustice of his words. She opened her mouth to reply, but her throat was so constricted with emotion she could make no sound.

  “You’ve no defense, do you? Get out of my sight and go to your charge. You will devote yourself to her welfare until I can find someone to replace you. Do your duty at least, even if you cannot show the child any affection. God knows, children don’t expect much from their guardians. While I’m any way responsible for this girl’s welfare she will have someone who cares what becomes of her. She’ll not be banished to the kitchen if I have any say in the matter.”

  Alice barely managed to drag herself out of the room. She felt as if she’d been flayed. It was so monstrously unfair! She stumbled up three stairs, but could go no further. Sitting huddled against the wall, she hid her head in her hands.

  Ten minutes later she at last managed to compose herself. Penelope noticed nothing wrong as she whined about the cold in the schoolroom. Alice ignored her as much as she could, until she could stand it no longer.

  “Let this be a lesson to you, Penelope. Your dislike for the kitchen blinded you to the fact that it’s the only warm room in this house. Why on earth do you think I made you sit in there in the first place? Be a little more careful what you wish for in the future. Get on with your sketching, please and no more chatter.”

  Penelope sniffed. “I’ll tell my Uncle Edward you were mean to me again. He’ll have you sent off. You’ll be sorry.”

  Sorry? It would be a relief. “As he’s already going to do that, your threats don’t overly worry me, young lady. Please do as you’ve been bid.”

  Alice turned to look out of the window. Spring would soon start to make inroads on the bleak desolation of the winter fields and the bare trees. Would she ever be warm again? It was little comfort to her that the wheat would soon start to grow. She wouldn’t be here to witness the summer, or the harvest. Sir Edward would see to that.

  Chapter Two

  Captain Sir Edward Masterman sat in a large leather chair, gazing gloomily into the bare grate in the center of the fireplace. It wasn’t that he minded the lack of a blaze, or that fact that the leather seat was cracked and broken and far from comfortable. After all, he had become inured to harsh conditions since the day he had first entered the gunroom of the old Ajax as a midshipman. No, it was the less-than-subtle attempt to offer him a cold welcome that annoyed him. Not a single servant had entered the room since Barlow had offered him a glass from a decanter with a bare inch of sherry in the bottom of it. Lavinia had not sent for him and though he’d never set eyes on the woman her silence smacked of contempt. He couldn’t help being the heir. God knows, it was the last thing his father would ever have wanted, Gregory either, for that matter.

  What sort of a man had Gregory become? He’d been a brother to avoid at all costs, a cruel and devious liar. Perhaps he’d changed. The last time he’d seen his brother he’d been a spotty sixteen-year-old, prone to chasing maids and sneaking brandy into the house. He must have changed. God knows he himself had changed in twenty years. They both of them had grown up. He shouldn’t think ill of the dead, anyway.

  Edward gloomily regarded the toes of his shoes. And now he held the title. Sir Edward. How strange it sounded. Captain was a title he had earned, one he had striven long and hard for. Captain Masterman, of the Seabird. No, it was Captain Sir Edward Masterman, now, of nothing. Half pay and no prospects. He had to get another commission. He just had to.

  Suddenly restless, Edward sprang to his feet to gaze out of the window. He was out of his depth here. Put him up against a French frigate and he’d know what to do. As it was he felt like a little child again, sent to face his fate without as much as a goodbye. If it hadn’t been for Cook he would have been sent off without even the bare necessities. To be honest Barlow, too, had done what he could. But Cook was dead and Barlow now an old man grown feeble in service to the Masterman family.

  He was under the control of that woman, with the sympathetic smile in her gray eyes, looking so sweet, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She had unsettled him. At first he’d thought she must have been his sister-in-law. The unfathoma
ble stab of disappointment he’d felt had shocked him at the time. But she was no relation and governess or nurse, they were all the same. After twenty years he still remembered the treatment he’d received. Still bore the scars, if the truth be told.

  This Miss Carstairs was the only woman to speak to him in months, one of the first apart from his crew to call him “Sir Edward” and he hadn’t known how to reply to her at first. She sounded so welcoming and so gentle. She’d looked so fragile and so pretty. He’d learnt though, the hard way, not to trust people. She was no better than the rest of them. Toadying up to him in the hope he wouldn’t discover what she’d really been about. Penelope had soon set him straight. Dear little child, to have lost her father and then to be treated like that when her mother couldn’t intervene.

  With a savage oath he turned away to find the bell cord. “I’ve met your sort before, madam. There won’t be another neglected child in this family!”

  By the time Barlow entered the room Edward had recovered some of his temper. The butler looked at him warily. As if he could ever shout at Barlow. He was the only one he remembered from that other life, the only one apart from Cook to show him any kindness.

  The sun had long ago lost its feeble warmth. The book room felt dank and chill. “Is my bedchamber ready?” Edward inquired. “I should like to rest before dinner. What time is it served?”

  Barlow looked bewildered. “I don’t know about dinner, sir. Miss Alice usually sees to it.”

  That woman again, dictating what time the meals should be served. Had she insinuated her assumed authority everywhere? “Miss Carstairs is the governess, not the mistress in this house. Her duties do not include determining the timing of the meals. I shall dine at six o’clock.”