Marrying the Captain

by Carla Kelly

  Her artless confession only served to increase his humility even more than his ardor. She was handing him something precious, and he knew it right down to the soles of his feet, which were getting cold against the guildhall stones.

  He knew he could never again listen to Handel’s oratorio and think of Christmas or Easter. With peace in his heart and Nana in the circle of his arms, he listened as she softly sang “He Was Despised,” along with the contralto in the hall. He could literally hear a clock ticking inside his brain as he counted down the hours and minutes until the Tireless would put to sea in the morning. He had never felt so sad to be going back to the Channel Fleet and his work, which was difficult and dangerous and he knew would occupy him fully.

  But here was Nana and the night music, and the pungency of a tide rolling in that would roll out and help the Tireless on her way. Even the tug of the moon was working against him. He had never felt so puny before. He could almost hear his father thundering from the pulpit, “‘What is man that thou art mindful of him?’” They were simply two little people in a world at war. And still we kiss and cling, he thought, as though we could stop time in its tracks. What folly, but how right it felt.

  He wasn’t rightly sure how much more kissing he could manage before a sharp-eyed constable would declare him a public nuisance, but there she was and all he could do was kiss her. They were both getting better at it with every attempt, right up to “The Hallelujah Chorus.”

  “We’re supposed to stand up,” Nana said against his lips.

  They both started to laugh. A hand to her face, Nana put her other hand over his lips to quiet him. He kissed her fingers as he hauled her to her feet, still wrapped tight in his boat cloak. He never should have pressed against her, considering the advanced state of his ardor, but he already knew that affecting missish airs was not her suit. A speculative “Hmm” was all she could manage, which only increased the high humor of the moment.

  “Hmm?” he echoed. “That’s it?”

  “See here, Captain,” she whispered, even as she stepped back. “I am improvising.”

  Smiling to himself, even as he felt the blood rush now to his face, he unwrapped Nana from his cloak. “Time to go home,” he told her, even as the cold fact came surging back that he had no home, and it was all wishful thinking.

  He steered Nana around the crowds coming from the guildhall because he didn’t want his dear one to chat with anyone but him. You people of Plymouth can have her sweet face and good nature when I am gone to sea, he thought.

  A misty rain began as they slowly walked toward the Mulberry. He had taken her under his cloak again, and she had voluntarily put her arm behind his waist to hug him tight. He was already recognizing that as a gesture peculiarly hers, like the way she watched for him each night, and sat with him while he ate, looking so interested in what he had to say about the Tireless. She would be a captain’s ideal wife.

  Some things aren’t to be, though, he told himself. I will go no further with this.

  To his surprise—and if he were honest, to his chagrin—she solved the matter in her own forthright way, the moment they entered the Mulberry, the entrance hall lit only by one lantern.

  Gracefully retreating from his cloak, Nana stood with him at the foot of the stairs, and tugged at his shoulder. Accustomed to this now, he leaned down and she kissed his cheek.

  “Good night, Captain,” she told him. “I want above everything to come upstairs with you, but I’d rather break your heart than Gran’s.”

  He had to smile at her frankness. He kissed her forehead. “I wasn’t going to suggest it, my dear, even though I want to. I wouldn’t do that to Gran, either, or more especially, you. What a pair we are.”

  “A good pair,” she assured him, and his heart warmed.

  He pulled her into his embrace one more time, and she offered no objections, folding into him in an almost boneless way that made loving her the simplest thing he had ever done, in all his complicated life.

  “There is one thing,” he whispered into her hair. “In light of the fact that for the past two hours we have thoroughly thrashed the Advent Season and, I might add, George Frideric Handel, I think you are almost—well, nearly—required to call me Oliver.”

  He felt her laughter against his chest. “I agree, Oliver,” she said.

  “Much better.” He held her off and looked at her. “I do require one more thing. Promise me before I ask it.”

  “No lady should do that,” she protested.

  “You must.”

  “Yes, then.”

  “Don’t see me off this morning. It’s too hard.”

  She started to cry, and he held her tight again. “Promise.”

  She nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “Go on to bed now, and don’t look back,” he ordered.

  She did as he said, squaring her shoulders and walking away from him without a backward glance.

  Oliver knew he wouldn’t sleep, so he lay in bed with his hands behind his head, counting all the ways and reasons he loved Eleanor Massie. I must survive this war, he told himself. I want her for my wife and children of her body.

  At three o’clock, he dressed again and repacked his duffel. He looked around the room, with its shabby, comfortable furniture, and view of the ocean, dark now, but out there, always out there: a friend sometimes, an enemy other times.

  He put on his cloak and slung his duffel over his shoulder. Mr. Proudy shook his head whenever he hoisted his own duffel, but Oliver knew he never stood on much ceremony. Besides, he had seen the great Lord Cochrane himself carry his own duffel.

  He went down the stairs, and stopped.

  Nana had almost kept her word. Wrapped in her robe, a pillow under her head, she had curled up on the settee in the front hallway. He looked closely at her in the light of the lantern, which still gave off its soft glow. She must have worn herself out with crying, from the tear streaks on her face.

  “Bless and keep you, my love,” he whispered. “God knows if we shall see each other again.”

  Quietly, he took his cloak from his shoulders and laid it on her. She stirred, but did not waken. He had another cloak aboard the Tireless.

  He had not ordered a hackney on purpose. He had a long walk, but Mr. Proudy would have the Tireless trimmed and anchored in the Cattewater. The jolly boat would be waiting quayside. His men would row him out to their frigate; the bosun would pipe him aboard, and life would go on.

  Everything had changed except the duty ahead.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Nana woke up that morning, enveloped in the familiar cloak, she managed to take several deep breaths before bursting into tears. She pulled the cloak as tightly around her as she could.

  How could that man have been so quiet, coming down the stairs? she thought, when she had exhausted herself with tears. Then, Why did I have to fall in love with someone destined only to go away? And then the cold bath: He never said he loved me. How could he? I am illegitimate.

  Knowing that Gran would be upset, Nana willed herself into calmness as she lay there in the dark. She reminded herself of all the times she had cried when she had to return to Bath and Miss Pym, leaving her dear Gran and Pete, and even Plymouth, not the kind of town any of Miss Pym’s other students lived in.

  She wondered how navy wives survived such painful separation. I have none of that, she reminded herself with sorrow. There is nothing binding me to that beloved man who will never be out of my thoughts—no declaration, no promise, no pledge, no ring, no shared words of love, no experience beyond a few weeks at the Mulberry Inn, and an unforgettable performance of Messiah. For all she knew, Oliver Worthy behaved like that in every port.

  As she lay there dry-eyed in the dark, Nana wondered if her own mother had suffered torments when Lord Ratliffe went to sea. At least I will not know the panic and horror of ruin, she reminded herself. History did not repeat itself.

  She didn’t know what time it was, but soon Sal would be rising to start t
he kitchen fire, heat water for guests and prepare breakfast. Gran mustn’t find her here, collapsed in a soggy heap on the settee.

  Nana took off the cloak when she entered her room. There wasn’t any point in hiding it. She would just spread it across the end of her bed and wrap it around her at night.

  If breakfast felt a little like sleepwalking, so be it, she decided a few hours later. It was easy enough to smile at the guests because she did appreciate their presence. She relied on her naturally cheery disposition to get her through the meal, and it did. And once she knew she could manage, cleaning the rooms was easy enough. Mercifully, Sal took the floor Captain Worthy had vacated, so she didn’t have to go into his room and see him irretrievably gone.

  The floor above was simple: Henri Lefebvre preferred that she not disturb his room. The other rooms were easily cleaned and prepared for the next lodgers. I can manage this, she told herself over and over, as she scrubbed and tidied.

  At midmorning, she realized he only made her promise not to see him off from the Mulberry. Dropping her broom and dustpan, Nana ran down three flights of stairs, pausing only to throw her cloak around her shoulders.

  She knew that for centuries, wives and sweethearts gathered at the Hoe to watch the ships leave Plymouth’s harbors and enter the sound. She turned her face to the wind, wishing it would blow hard from the south and keep the Tireless bottled in the sound. The wind blew from the north and west, where it had been blowing since the third day of the Creation, when God decreed it.

  She slowed to a more ladylike pace when she came to the Hoe, that headland where Sir Francis Drake had bowled and watched for the Spanish Armada. Other women were there: several of the hard-looking women Gran always told her to ignore, and well-dressed ladies, the wives of officers. She saw Mrs. Brittle, wife of the sailing master and probably a veteran of many such moments.

  Mrs. Brittle motioned her closer. “Come for a last look, dearie?”

  Nana didn’t think there was anything in her own expression to cause such sympathy on Mrs. Brittle’s face, but when the sailing master’s wife held out her hand, Nana grasped it like a rope thrown to a drowning man. In another moment, Mrs. Brittle clasped Nana as though she were her own child.

  “There now, there now,” she soothed. “I wish I could tell you that it gets easier, but I’d be lying.” She pointed. “There they are, love. My Daniel’s probably shouting his orders, keeping the sails trim.” She shaded her eyes with her hand. “It’s a tricky harbor.”

  Nana was almost too shy to ask. “What…what would Captain Worthy be doing?”

  “Some captains turn the leaving of a harbor to their first mate, who gives the orders. Captain Worthy sometimes takes the helm himself, to leave Plymouth Sound. He’s probably at the wheel, love.”

  “He doesn’t trust his crew?” Nana couldn’t help asking.

  Mrs. Brittle hugged her closer. “He trusts them more than most! Daniel thinks Captain Worthy is a true deepwater sailor, never happier than when he is conning the ship.”

  I hope he has another boat cloak, Nana thought. I wish I had taken the time to show him how to make a wheat poultice for his neck and ears. I wish a lot of things.

  They stood close together, watching the ship leave the sound and enter the swell of the Channel, where the rollers and troughs waited. “How long have you been coming here?” Nana asked.

  “Some thirty years. They do come back to port.” Mrs. Brittle indicated a well-dressed lady standing by herself, and lowered her voice. “It’s only Mrs. Proudy’s second time, poor thing.”

  “Should we say something to her?” Nana whispered back.

  Mrs. Brittle shook her head. “I’ve tried. She’s not like us, Nana. Her father’s a baronet. We have too much of the common touch about us, dearie.”

  I’m the bastard of a viscount, Nana thought, and it’s a wider chasm than you can begin to fathom. They watched until the Tireless disappeared from view, then walked down the hill together. She glanced at Mrs. Brittle then, grateful for her hearty kindness

  “You live in Torquay?” Nana asked, shy again.

  “I do, love. Don’t you know, our house overlooks Tor Bay. Sometimes the Tireless puts in there. As testimony that they return from sea now and then, Dan and I have four children.”

  Nana laughed, even as her face turned red. “May I come and visit you sometime?”

  “Anytime you’re lonely, come for a chin-wag.”

  I’m lonely now, Nana told herself, as she said goodbye.

  Lodgers came and went in the next few days, and it was easy enough to keep too busy to think about anything but the work of the Mulberry. The start of each day began with her mind on the end of it, when she could retreat to her room, wrap herself in Oliver’s cloak and cry herself to sleep.

  She couldn’t fool Gran. One afternoon, after spending far too long shining the brass doorknob and dreaming that Oliver would come through the door any minute, she looked up to see Gran watching her.

  “If you polish that any more, you will wear a hole in the knob,” Gran said, her voice gruff, but kind.

  Nana managed a laugh. “Silly of me.”

  Gran stayed where she was in the hall. “I’ve been going over the accounts and Christmas looks more promising,” she said. “Would you like a length of muslin for a spring dress, or a new muff? What would you like, my dear?”

  “Captain Worthy,” Nana blurted out. The words hung between them like channel fog. When she realized what she had said, she put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Gran, I…”

  She didn’t know what she was going to say, but it hardly mattered. In the next moment, she found herself sobbing into Gran’s apron as the woman held her close on the settee. She cried until she felt as drained as a water keg after a two-year voyage.

  She found a dry spot on Gran’s apron and dabbed at her eyes, hoping no one had heard her outburst. She finally dared to look at her grandmother, knowing she had to reassure her.

  “Gran, please know this. I didn’t—We didn’t—do anything to shame ourselves, or you.”

  There was no mistaking Gran’s sigh of relief.

  “I wanted to, Gran, even though I knew better,” Nana said honestly, picking her way through a narrow lane of emotions. “I hope you’re not ashamed of me for even thinking it.”

  Gran had her own struggle then. “Never,” she said. “You’re my darling and I trust you.” She managed a ghost of a smile. “Isn’t that onerous?”

  Nana blew her nose. “The worst.” She took Gran’s hand. “What I would like to do, if there is an extra shilling, is ask Mr. Lefebvre if he would make a sketch of me that I could send to Captain Worthy.”

  Gran considered her request. “You haven’t promised the captain anything?”

  “Nothing. I don’t even know what he really thinks of me,” she said simply. “I just want to do it.”

  “It’s not proper.”

  “I know. Miss Pym would give me such a scold,” she replied. “I would deserve it, but I would still want to send Captain Worthy a picture.” She leaned her head against Gran’s shoulder. “Maybe the apple didn’t really fall so far from the tree.”

  “Yes, it did,” Gran said firmly. “But send him a picture, anyway. I think…No, I know…. he’s a lonely man.”

  Shy but determined, she approached Henri Lefebvre later that day. “Just a small picture. Maybe that one you did of me after you sketched Sal?”

  “That one?” Lefebvre asked. “I could do another one. Perhaps a better one for someone serving so valiantly in the fleet.”

  “I only have a few pence,” Nana said, embarrassed again. “I have an idea.”

  “Ask way, mademoiselle.” He made an elaborate bow. “How could any man refuse you?”

  Easily enough, she thought. “Here’s what I would like.”

  Lefebvre walked with her to the back of the guildhall, where she sat on the steps in Oliver’s cloak and asked him to paint her there. He worked quickly, and finished before the sky clo
uded over and the rains came.

  She spent an evening composing a letter, heading it Dear Captain, because she hadn’t the courage to write Oliver. She told him she had gone to the Hoe and, in Mrs. Brittle’s company, watched the Tireless leave the harbor. She wished him Godspeed and signed it, Your Friend, Nana.

  It was too bloodless, but she knew she did not dare write what she really felt, considering that he had not stated any official position of his own. She stared at the antiseptic words, willing him, somehow, to read, instead, her heartfelt love and constant devotion, no matter where the winds took him, or whatever befell him. You have my whole heart, she thought, as she fashioned an envelope and put in the sketch from Mr. Lefebvre. I had no idea of my own heart’s depth, until I met you, Oliver Worthy. I just wish I were worthy.

  Considering that she hadn’t a clue what to do next, she enlisted Pete as an accomplice.

  “Address it to him, then put the ship on the next line, and Channel Fleet below,” he told her. “Do you know his station?”

  “Ferrol. I don’t have any money to frank it,” she said.

  “No need. There’s a sloop of war in the harbor right now. I’ll take it to the captain and he will do the rest.”

  “Suppose the sloop is not going toward Ferrol Station?” she asked, thinking of all the ways her foolish correspondence could go astray.

  Pete clapped his arm around her shoulders. “It’s the Gold-finch, Nana. Captain Worthy and Captain Dennison were in conversation at the Drake no more than ten days ago. He’ll know where to find your captain.”

  “How do you know all this?” she asked.

  “I watch things, too, Nana,” he replied. “Trust me to do this for you.”

  She watched him go down to the docks, tempted half a dozen times before he was even out of her sight to call him back. She knew so little about men—their habits, their constancy. “I just want you to have a picture of me,” she whispered, as Pete disappeared from view. “Just a picture.”

  Despite her state of mind, Christmas was the best in years. There were no guests currently staying at the Mulberry. Even Mr. Lefebvre had gone to visit friends in Cheltenham. Gran had thrown caution to the winds and purchased a duck, which Pete dispatched, Sal and Nana scalded and plucked and Gran cooked to a brown, crackling goodness.