Critchel was there, by invitation, but next to him sat Heneage, the Prince’s toady; at a guess his royal master was still a little twitchy about his connection with the villain Pursenett, felt that public approval of the man who had hanged Pursenett’s son must clear his yardarm. Frederick caught Heneage’s eye, smiled and half-bowed – he had little use for the Prince’s approval, but feared his enmity: he was a bitter, remorseless, cowardly back-stabber, a stranger to honour who must not be offended.
“Thank God for my butler,” he murmured to Lucius. “I thought he was less than serious when he said that cards of invitation had been accepted by three hundreds so he would provide food for five and drink for six!”
Lucius smiled, said he should be thankful he had chosen to wed in this out of the way location – had he married in London it would have been a thousand.
Frederick winced, remembering his instruction to his butler Wymington not to stint– all of the best and Burgundy at four pounds the dozen!
The bride walked confidently on her father’s arm, lightly veiled, smiling very happily, grinning at a pair of cousins overawed in their pew. Lady Partington’s family had shown strongly, quite rightly, formed the bulk of the bride’s side, my lord having but two surviving spinster sisters to display. Frederick had hardly been able to speak to his new relatives, for lack of time and chance, but understood them to be freeholding farmers, yeomen, who had opened coal seams on their land and become mine owners of a rapidly increasing prosperity. The one he had met on his arrival two days previously had been nervous of the titles and estates, but sensible in the little he could be persuaded to say. They were a new sort of people to Frederick and he wanted to come to understand them, for they seemed to be more a part of the modern England than he was. His Dorset was a backward sort of place, he feared, not a manufactury within its boundaries, ropewalks excepted.
The wedding breakfast followed, in the nature of things, was as lavish as Frederick had intended. He made a mental note that Sid must receive a very substantial present for his efforts, his menu was truly inspired, had risen far above English roast beef, yet had been acceptable to the insular bulk. Comments reaching his ears suggested that the wines were of a sufficient quality to satisfy all but the most exacting of oenophilists, and nothing would ever satisfy them! At the conclusion of the speeches he reached into his pocket, brought out the packet that Abrams had delivered three days before, quietly passed it across to Elizabeth.
“With all my love, because I love you truly, my wife.”
She opened the flat case with a little trepidation, wondering just what extravagance he might have committed, was struck almost speechless.
“Mama! Papa! Look!”
Pale gold from West Africa in a short necklace of heavy links, a choker; a dangling chain set with four good brilliant diamonds and a thumbnail size ruby, blood-red, a warlike eye to pulse against fair skin.
“Put it on, my dear,” Lady Partington urged in an undervoice, neat fingers settling the clasp, placing the pendant centrally. “Magnificent! A beautiful piece! I envy you, daughter! An heirloom, the Harris Ruby.”
By the end of an hour every guest in the great room had seen, admired and in most cases mentally priced the stones. Sir Frederick could afford to put five thousands, at least, about his bride’s neck – there was much to say for prize money, and for love-matches as well. The word spread that the piece had been made in Winchester, at Abrams, far out of the ordinary run of provincial gemsmiths, it would seem, well worthy of patronage by all who wanted to show that London was not the centre of the universe.
Warren was flourishing, had been able to cut out a very pretty blockade-runner sheltering off a fishing port at the mouth of the Bay.
“From the States, Sir Frederick, naval stores mostly – turpentine, cables, ropes, cordage, spikes and nails, iron chain, twenty anchors fit for third rates, buckets full of soft soap - and a few bales of furs, beaver skins mostly. All inside territorial waters, sir, no doubt where she was headed, so she can claim to be as neutral as she likes, she will be condemned as fair prize. A six hundred ton ship, sir, new built of best American timbers – the hull alone will fetch a pretty sum!”
Warren, as ever, was openly gleeful – he did so enjoy his new riches.
Jackman offered his felicitations.
“Post captaincy! My best congratulations, Captain Jackman! What is the story, sir?”
“The next Gazette will tell it, sir. I had the luck, sir – I was given a convoy to Gibraltar to settle me in command of Jedburgh, a shake-down cruise there and back, then I was sent to Palermo as escort to a pair of stores full of French refugees. Two days out and a post-ship and a brig came out of the sunrise, twenty four and eight, nines and sixes, down the wind, silhouetted against the light, which gave me some time. We were cleared in any case for dawn, the way you taught me! The wind was just brisk enough, not so much as to call for reefs, so we wore, too soon, as if to cross their bows, let them commit themselves into tacking, so that they could give us a broadside apiece. As soon as they were fairly committed we came back to our original heading and ran between them, them in irons for having tried to reverse their tack, all unawares, taking hardly anything from them, fired both sides, shaving the brig’s counter, gutted her, crabbed onto the post-ship’s bows and held off her quarter and served up grape as fast as the guns could fire – twelve pound carronades on her broadside, Jedburgh, and her crews had been well drilled, sir. The brig had no rudder, fell into the trough and then onto the post-ship’s bows, so we gave her what we could and she took fire. The post-ship hauled down her colours at that and we all sweated a few minutes booming the brig off and I brought the post-ship in, lightly toasted, the Admiral at anchor in the Bay, and there I was, made!”
“What next, Captain Jackman?”
“I brought Nymphe back, sir, and she is to be mine after a refit in Pompey. Two months or so, they think, needing to change her guns and tidy up the damage we did.”
“Have you a house in England, Captain Jackman?”
“No, Lady Harris.”
“Number Five, Captain Jackman – I am treasuring the name! Will you stay with us at Abbey, sir? We return in ten days, I believe.”
Jackman was delighted to do so, had no other acquaintance in England, hardly knew the country, having spent just one week in Chatham between ships, when Magpie paid off.
The round of the guests complete, bride changed, they escaped to their chaise for the short journey to Dorchester where a suite had been booked at the County Arms, they to travel on to Long Common on the morrow. The weather was rarely perfect, a better day than any they had had in the harvest, September at its warmest and sunniest. It was festival in every village they passed, tenantry and villagers alike standing at the roadside to cheer them by, many of them staggering happily.
“Drunk out of their heads, my love, hopelessly helpless! The amount of free beer that has flowed today they would have cheered a pair of stray dogs going past. The beeves should have roasted by now, so they’ll fill up on meat and drink another gallon this evening.”
Elizabeth was distinctly unimpressed and the words ‘Demon Rum’ almost reached her lips, but she had so far fallen as to take a glass of wine-and-water herself, could hardly lecture others on temperance. She touched her neck, again.
“Frederick! It is, I am aware, utterly vulgar even to wish to know – nouveau-riche at its worst! But… how much did it cost?”
“It is worth maybe eight, but it actually cost us less than a thousand in cash, necklace and rings together. The firebird went for more than seven thousands in the end, two collectors getting wind of it and bidding each other up – it now sits in one of the great houses, I am told, in its own cabinet, one of the few pieces of early Byzantine in England – and just what that signifies you may know better than I!”
She shook her head, ancient history not her field.
“The ruby is Indian, from Serendip, I am told, think they mean Ceylon which we took fro
m the Dutch not too long since, came in and Abrams snapped it up before it reached the open market – a friend of a friend, it would seem.”
She sniffed, muttered about Hebrews.
“Be that as it may, it seems almost good enough for you, my love. I doubt we shall be able to afford to match it for a few more years, but in time earrings would be a good idea.”
She was appalled that he might even consider such a thing, wondered, tentatively, if they ought not to sell it on, the money could do so much good on the estate… she was quite pleased to be told not to be silly.
“As for the people in the villages – it will be just as bad at Christmas, I fear – but we must be seen to be generous, open-handed, and a feast is better than a present of a joint of beef and a guinea a household, is much preferred for some reason.”
“But, husband, ‘strong drink is the curse of the labouring classes’, is it not?”
“Beyond doubt, my love, without any question. So many times I have seen my sailors half-drunk and injuring themselves unnecessarily, fighting and coming under the lash, hanging even, and all from alcoholic stupidity! But what are we to do? Their lives are so harsh, so miserable, that only the booze will free them for a few hours. I have no answer, ma’am, wish I had.”
“Educate them perhaps, but how, I also do not know.”
Into the suite in Dorchester, one bedroom, a large four-poster and a degree of trepidation.
“Mama has explained the act of night to me, Frederick, I believe I know what I must do.”
“You must do nothing, my love – there is much that I would like to do with you, nothing that I shall do to you. I love you, my dear, am not your master!”
They retired to the tiny dressing rooms on either side of the bedchamber where Frederick proceeded reflectively to strip and wash. He waited for the candles to be snuffed, the maid’s signal that she had left the room. He found his Elizabeth lying stiff and straight in a long linen nightrail, covered from neck to toes under the blankets; he slipped into bed beside her, naked but untouching. Enough light showed through the curtains to disclose her wide-open staring eyes.
He wondered what exactly her mother had told her of the ‘act of night’ – it certainly suggested an unflattering image of her father.
“Elizabeth, I love you, will not hurt you – would you like just to go to sleep?”
She turned her head a few degrees, “Mama said you would have to ‘slake your needs’, would not be able to help yourself, because that is the nature of men. She said that in a few weeks you would become gentler, easier, and I might come to quite like what was happening.”
He had a sudden understanding, sought the best words – he had no wish to condemn her father.
“Not all men, Elizabeth, and not by nature. If a man comes from too… sheltered, shall we say, a background, if he has never before lain in a woman’s bed, then he has much to learn and no teacher available!”
Frederick chuckled, leant on one elbow. “This is hard to say politely, my love, but for a man there is nothing more exciting than to be in the bed of the lady he loves, and it is possible to forget everything other than that excitement, the more especially if the experience is new and he does not really know exactly what is under his lady-love’s nightdress!”
“But you do know, I presume, sir?”
“I can guess, ma’am!”
She smiled, relaxed a little. “Poor Papa, he wanted to take Orders, you know, but his Papa died young and his grandfather forbade him, said he would deny him an income if he did, but he has always said that he lived as if he were a priest, cannot understand why any young man should not!”
“Should I light a candle, my love? It might be easier if you were to see clearly rather than make guesses.”
She nodded, stared in amaze and some distaste as he bobbed his way back to the bed.
“Is that what is supposed to go into… are you sure?”
“Quite certain, my love.”
“Oh… I suppose I should lift up my nightdress for you…”
“It would be easier if you took it off, my love, let me help you.”
A little persuasion, a ribbon tweaked untied and the garment was worked over her head, the blankets falling a very few inches, his hand outside the bedclothes and brushing a breast, teasing a nipple, very soon bringing the covers to her waist. A few more minutes and the blankets were forgotten, an hour and she lay sweaty and dishevelled in his arms, clasping him tight.
“So silly of me! I knew I should not be frightened, not of you! But I could not help it – Mama tried so hard to set me at ease that I grew more and more convinced that something horrible must happen. She told me to remember that you loved me, as if I could forget! And she said that in a year or two I might even welcome the act, might come to enjoy it so much that I might request it, or at least show very encouraging – but I did not think that Papa…”
“A young man, religious, sheltered – from what you say he had never, ever, touched a woman, and your mother perhaps knew less than you. I feel rather sorry for them both.”
She snuggled tighter in his arms, tried to get comfortable, finally excused herself and fled to the dressing room.
She slipped back into bed, trying to cover herself from him, modesty reasserting, rapidly lost as his hands roamed across her.
“There is no great dignity when a man and woman are in bed together, I find, Frederick!”
“None at all, my love – it is all about the undignified parts, I fear me!”
She laughed, put an arm round him, clumsy and uncertain of herself but willing. “To think, sir, just six months ago I had decided that I should be housekeeper to my brother, in a small cottage in Oxford, some books, a piano and a pussycat the compass of my desires. Now! Lady Harris, no less! I shall be mother to my own children and aunt to Lord Partington’s. This is how children are started, is it not, Frederick – shall I have our firstborn now?”
He explained that it was a hit-and-miss procedure, requiring often many attempts to achieve its true goal, and that it tended to take some nine months from act to birth.
“So, June at very earliest, possibly much later. Good! Plenty of time for everything…”
She drifted off to sleep, awoke disoriented, amazed to be naked in a man’s arms, but she seemed quite happy to have her memory jogged.
They enjoyed a leisurely week together at Long Common, seeming to spend as much time in bed as they did exploring the tiny estate or driving to Waltham or Botley or Winchester. Elizabeth, discovering the delights of the flesh, began to worry that she might be of too carnal a nature, wondered whether it was right that a good Christian woman should take such pleasure of her husband. She decided that she must, at some future time, take advice on the point, but that for the while she should be content to make her new husband happy, and if this involved welcoming him to her bed, well then, so be it! Cares of the manor and the estates were put aside for the week, both having better concerns to worry about.
They returned to take up normal life, Elizabeth to become mistress of the great house and with sense enough to ask Mrs Montague for her help rather than give her abrupt orders. Little appeared to change, on the surface, but the house became a fraction neater, tidier, better polished. What had been good enough for a man, Sir Frederick being a generous master, was generally agreed not to be for his lady – in the nature of things a female would have a keener eye for the details.
The fortepiano was a comfort to Elizabeth, for she had less to do in a physical way than she had had as a daughter in Partington House. The instrument, larger and with a greater range in the bass than the piano she was used to, offered a first challenge and then an abiding pleasure, Mozart especially suited. Reflecting on the matter, she had read of Mozart composing and playing on a large piano, had not realised its exact nature.
Unlike the daughter of the house, especially a house that valued sobriety and the virtues of hard work, the mistress did not dust and polish or wash the ornaments or
take down curtains, she certainly did not go into the kitchen to do any cooking. Hers was to discuss the menus with Sid, to make plans to refurbish this room or scrub out that; she could examine the curtains in the library and determine that they must come down – but she did not do these things herself. Music, reading, fine sewing occupied her at first, until she plucked up her courage to face Bosomtwi in his stables.
“Could we possibly bring my pony over from Partington House, Bosomtwi? I would like to ride out, if I may.”
He shook his head, did not at all approve of the idea of putting the pony back to work.
“She an old lady now, milady, better she put out to grass, quietly and peaceful. Besides, I seen you ride, isn’t it, milady, you good on a horse. I ask the captain yesterday if it right with him for me to fetch you saddle here, because we not got no side-saddles, and I done that. If you like, we ride Thunder and Lightning out to exercise in the mornings, milady.”
Frederick did not join them on the daily rides, unwilling to bounce along on the cob in the company of so much more accomplished a pair.
Jackman arrived from Portsmouth to be their guest for a month. A few days and he relaxed, was willing to talk in her presence, a fund of reminiscences of cruising in the Caribbean, chasing the French in the Spice Islands, of the foreshortened commission in the Mediterranean. Elizabeth listened, asked intelligent questions, discovered much that her husband might have preferred her not to – he felt that she should be sheltered from the more brutal aspects of his existence.
She was intrigued to discover that Jackman, scarred almost to disfigurement, a terrifying ogre at first sight, was a gentle, peaceable, quiet sort of man who had in many ways led an existence as sheltered as hers – taken away from his ship and placed ashore in the unknown land that was nonetheless his, he was quite lost, did not know how to get on at all. She was amused when she found that Jackman felt he needed new shirts, that he ought in fact to buy a whole new wardrobe, having not quite gotten round to doing so for some years now, and that he had no idea at all of how to actually go about the process. He had spent almost none of his prize-money, for not really knowing how to. They took him into Dorchester, led him to tailor and haberdasher and hat maker and cordwainer and then to the gunsmith where they ordered a pair of plain military pistols as a gift.
Britannia’s Son (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 4) Page 5
