by Susan Kaye
“Poor fella. That is a real shame.” Placing the cloth back on the wound, he turned to Wentworth. “But I didn’t know that ladies particularly liked men who could whistle. Whenever I whistle ’round a lady, they turn all red, and I’m sure to get thumped.”
It was all he could do to keep from shouting with laughter. The revelations of Lyme had cast a shadow on his entire life, but it would seem that the Almighty had his cure in the form of one George Tuggins.
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
Wentworth sat for a moment and let the dark, dreary night press in upon him. An overcast sky and the accompanying freezing rain had stayed with them since setting out that morning. Despite the fact that he’d had no sun with which to gauge time or direction, he was confident that the clock in his head was true. He’d heard no sound save the rain and George’s teeth chattering for some time. “Walk on,” he urged the horse. It was fast approaching midnight.
Determined that they would make Crown Hill without spending another night on the road, he had been disappointed by their lack of progress and had only begrudgingly stopped once to dry out, take a meal, and rest a bit early that afternoon. The Captain was glad they were closing in on their destination. The boy was not eating or sleeping well. But how could he? The child would only pick at his food and would not sleep in a proper bed, electing to curl up with Anne’s blanket near the fire instead. He regretted taking the fellow from whatever sort of life he had cobbled together for himself in Plymouth.
The Captain was heartened when the landscape began to change and the number of houses increased. In short order, they were riding onto the high street. As could be expected for the time of night, the only lights were from the inn. The only movement on the street was a small but loud group of men moving away from the village centre. For a moment, Wentworth considered foregoing the inn and riding over to ask them for directions to the rectory. He decided against it. Though the town was small and, no doubt, peaceful, he would trust the directions of a sober innkeeper over those of men whose state of sobriety was questionable.
He dismounted and said, “Come inside and warm yourself while I ask about my brother.”
The rain was heavy enough that he could see nothing, but George’s voice rang out plainly, “I shall stay with the horse, sir.” There were neither eaves nor overhang under which to shelter the pair. The enquiry would have to be quick. These were the most words the boy had strung together all day. Wentworth put his growing quiet down to extreme discomfort and, perhaps, George was nursing a little regret of his own.
“Suit yourself,” Wentworth said, heading to the door. As he sloshed his way through the mud, the Captain shoved aside snatches of the alarmed conversation they had exchanged when the boy found out Edward Wentworth’s occupation.
“You never said he was a preacher, sir.” George’s tone was approximately that of a trapped animal.
“I did not think it was significant. Besides, what did you imagine a brother of mine do for a living?” They were just settling in for the first night’s rest.
“Well, as we’re going into the country, sir, I thought perhaps he was a farmer or a blacksmith or something useful. But not preacher, sir.”
Wentworth generally agreed with the boy. He, too, believed most clergy were at best of little use, but he could not feel this way about Edward. Naturally, his brother was the exception that prevented all his brilliantly conceived ideas about religion and its practitioners from settling themselves neatly away in his mind. To his shock, the Captain found that the boy’s incensed tone caused something of a defensive sensation to rise up within him.
“My brother may be a man of the cloth, but he is useful. When my parents died, he raised me until I went to sea. I owe him a great deal.” He never thought of his relationship with his siblings in terms of debt, but he did owe much to Edward. “He is a good man.”
Tuggins eyed him for a moment. “You were reared by a preacher?”
“No, he went into that after I left home.”
“So, you don’t know nothin’ of him since?”
“I’ve stayed with him a few times I’ve been on shore.”
“You don’t know what he does to people though.”
He hesitated. “Other than behaving like a dyspeptic spinster at times, I think my brother is quite harmless. His preaching goes long occasionally. I think that is a hazard of having your audience captive and unable to escape.” He chose not to enlighten Mr. Tuggins to the fact that it was very nearly the obligation of all those in authority to bore their inferiors on occasion. “If he looks to be heading down that dangerous road, I’ll challenge and you can be my second.”
“Aye, sir. At least you’re safe when they’s in the pulpit.” And that was the last that George would say on the matter.
Few of the tables in the public room were occupied and then only by one or two stragglers, most likely single men with no proper homes. The keep returned from his rounds of the tables and asked how he might help him.
“I am looking for the parish rectory.”
The keep eyed him up and down. “You look to be better than keeping body and soul together, if you ask me. You don’t look to be needin’ help from the poor box.”
Wentworth was always surprised at the lack of modesty of country people when it came to stating things that were none of their direct concern.
“You are right, I do not. I am looking for my brother. He is the rector of this parish.”
The man frowned a moment then brightened. “Ah, you’d be the Captain! Oh, well, why’d you not say as much? The Rector is always speakin’ very highly of you, sir.”
He wondered that his brother spoke of him at all, but it was good to know that any ill opinions of him were kept quiet and not bandied about with the rustics.
“And with him bein’ just married and all, he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. Not that he weren’t a cheerful enough fellow to begin, mind,” the keep added.
Frederick had given little thought to the new Mrs. Wentworth during his travels. He did begin to wonder what the woman would have to say about his sudden appearance—along with that of his young protégé. It was not a subject he would consider discussing with his new acquaintance and he again asked about the location of the rectory.
“Well, I would send you the shorter way, due to the rain and all; but the path is pret’ near invisible in the dark, and I’d hate to be the one to send you off into the river.” He leant closer. “It’s the rector’s business to forgive, but I think he’d have a devil of a time, seein’ as how you’re his favourite brother and all.”
The keep straightened and wiped the water from the counter that had dripped from Wentworth’s coat. “I do appreciate that. So, can you tell me the long way to his house?”
“Oh, yeah. Now which way did you come in?” The Captain told him. “Well, then, you’ll want to turn around and go back until you come to the last house. The fella keeps pigs so you can tell by the smell...” The man went on to tell of a tortuous route he was sure promised to drop him and George in the river by the morning. “And once you see the cemetery, you’ll know you’re about in his yard. Just be careful of his garden. Not that there’s much there this time of year, but he’s particular that people stay out of it.”
“Thank you for your time, sir,” Wentworth said. Walking to the door, he tried to make some order of pigs, a high stone fence, and an overgrown hedge. Then there were a few other landmarks that the man assured him he would not see by night and the worry of trampling his brother’s garden. He exited the inn, looking to see if the loitering men from earlier were still about. They were gone. Obviously more rational than I gave them credit for. Gone home and snug in bed by now, he thought.
He joined George at the horse and prepared to turn back up the street.
“Sir, I think I spotted the church. Wouldn’t your brother live in that?”
Wentworth smiled. “Somewhere near it, I would imagine. Where away?”
“Over there. There
are a few lights between those trees. Let your eyes get used to it, and you can see the spire.”
“Well done, Tuggins. Your sighting is all we have to go by. Stay onboard and I shall walk her.” With the noise of the rain nearly deafening, he wanted to have his feet firmly on the ground if they were indeed close to a river. In short order, without pigs or fences or hedges, they came to a house all alight. If nothing else, he would ask directions to the rectory. Not sure how the house was situated, he walked around until he found the back entry. Wentworth hesitated, not wishing to alarm those inside. Years earlier, he had learnt in one of Edward’s other parishes that some country folk answered the door, no matter the time, with weapons in hand. Even a frail old woman can be a frightening sight with a blunderbuss primed and ready to fire.
The horse stamped its foot, and George made a small noise as he shivered. The house would give them either shelter or hope of it soon. Before Frederick could get to the stairs, the door opened and his brother stepped out, holding a small lamp aloft.
“It’s about time, my boy!” He joined him. “Give me your bags, and you can take the horse to that shed over there.” He indicated with the lamp a small building a short distance from the house that looked to be little more than a lean-to. Just then, a sneeze drew the attention of both men. Edward raised the lamp higher and went to the horse. “What’s this?” George sat up taller and pulled the oilcloth coat from over his head. Edward looked back at his brother. “Frederick? Who is this?”
“This is George Tuggins, Edward.” In all the time he’d had to think while journeying to Shropshire, Wentworth had never formed a precise explanation of his relationship to the boy. “He is a—”
“I am Captain Wentworth’s second, sir.” Wentworth had forgotten that they had discussed such a thing. It suited for the time being.
Edward laughed and looked at the boy. He leaned close to Frederick. “Have the two of you had much cause to be duelling along the way? It is illegal, you know.” He continued to smile as he awaited his brother’s answer.
In the past, Edward had never welcomed him in such a full and energetic manner. Frederick had always come to the door and been greeted like the proper visitor that he was. Edward even being awake at this time showed he anticipated Frederick’s arrival. Everything about his brother was upside down from what he knew. Even his appearance was extraordinary.
Edward had always fought his deep black beard with all the precision of a military campaign. Some days, when he was required to appear at an important social function, it had been necessary for him to shave twice in order to look the part of the proper religious gentleman. It seemed that he had tendered his surrender. He’d also rarely seen his brother without his black suit coat. On the occasions they had shared a home, Edward had always been scrupulous about his appearance even in private. More than once, his brother had explained that a religious man never knew when his clerical services would be needed and that it would not do to be caught undressed. Frederick had often wondered if there was the religious equivalent of the Articles of War setting down requirements for the particular uniform to be worn when performing one’s required duties. It was either that or his brother was merely fussy.
Not that Wentworth was careless regarding his own appearance. When he’d appeared in Monkford, fresh from a well-publicised battle and sporting a handsome new uniform, Edward had muttered something about no man in the area standing a chance against such gilded glory. He could admit still to a bit of pleasure in wringing such an admission from his brother. That time in their lives was long gone, and this brother might be quite interesting, if for no other reason than he possessed a new look. Perhaps it was a portent of a deep, substantial change.
“No, there has not been any reason to. The trip was uneventful. But cold—”
“And wet,” piped a small voice.
“Mr. Tuggins!” There had been a few discussions about the need to learn the proper comportment if he wished to sail with Wentworth. This included holding his tongue and not interrupting his betters.
Edward looked from one to the other. “Well, you are come at last. I had begun to think you shanghaied!” he said, with a smile. He offered his hand.
Now the formalities would begin. He’d barely taken Edward’s hand when the rector pulled him close to embrace him. This startled Wentworth.
The last such show of affection between the brothers had been when Frederick had gone to sea at fourteen. On the busy, smelly Liverpool docks, Edward had stood with tears in his eyes, doing everything humanly possible to keep them from falling. Frederick had wanted to cry as well, but even then he was acutely aware that others aboard the ship would be watching him and making judgements. This being so, any unmanly behaviour was to be avoided at all costs. At Edward’s last touch, he’d stood ramrod straight and made no move to reciprocate the tender gesture. His fears had been baseless; not even in jest had anyone commented on the act.
Edward pulled away, looking embarrassed by his unreserved actions. Frederick realised he had just reacted with the same lack of affection as he had on that scandalous Liverpool dock. The rain was beginning again and Edward raised a hand over his face, blinking away the drops. “I am glad to welcome you, Frederick. I shall take all the bags in, and you can take your horse around back and put him in with my poor old cob. There’s a good fire and plenty of food when you’re finished.” He took the bag and urged George into the house before him.
He meant to hurry as his brother had suggested, but as he stripped off the horse’s saddle and hefted it over the stall’s wall, he couldn’t help pondering his brother. Apart from the beard, the man looks and sounds like Edward. He unbuckled the bridle and carefully removed the bit, hanging the gear on a nearby peg. But he looks nearly naked without his full black uniform. He gathered up some hay and dropped it into the manger. The horse’s velvety lips greedily sought it out. She raised her head and chewed with an unperturbed regularity. “I always knew he could pry it off if he cared to,” he confided to the mare. “I’ll observe him closely and let you know what I find.”
He gave her a pat on the forehead and stood quietly for a moment, preparing himself to enter the house. As he did so, he couldn’t help noticing the slovenly construction of the tiny stable. Had the builders felt it their duty to keep the occupant of the rectory from thinking more of himself than he ought? For Wentworth’s part, they had succeeded. No one being forced to use such a building would ever mistake himself grand or even respected. A small bay horse of indeterminate age stood quietly watching him. The beast seemed to be further proof of his theory.
He found a brush and took a few swipes over his own horse’s back. The mare nickered her approval. No matter how the evening went, their arrival was a relief. He admitted to himself that both man and horse were showing signs of wear from being so much on the road and in the foul weather.
He ducked through the door and latched it for the night. The darkness was thick and seemed to wrap itself more tightly around him as he felt the strengthening wind. He stood in the yard for a moment, enjoying the silence. The rain had stopped and the clouds were moving on. A crystalline sky and pinpricks of starlight were already promising hard beauty on this freezing December night.
As he approached the house, he especially appreciated the homey warmth it gave off. Frederick hesitated at the door and watched Edward through the kitchen window. George was nowhere to be seen. While a man in the kitchen seemed odd—which was a silly notion considering in his world men did all the cooking, sewing, and nearly every manner of womanly work—it seemed to fit exactly the apparent changes in his brother’s life.
The warmth of the kitchen embraced him as he entered. The good smells of the promised meal teased his empty belly. “You look frozen to the bone,” Edward said, as he stirred a pot on the fire. “Hang up your things and remove your boots—stockings as well. The bootjack is outside; bring it in if you must. Then come and warm yourself.” Glancing at him, Frederick noticed the smile was missing. H
is brother’s voice lacked the enthusiasm of earlier and had taken on all the charm of a surly bull. He wondered if the boy had said anything untoward.
“What have you done with Mr. Tuggins?” He hanged his coat and hat on pegs near the door then set about removing his boots. The ancient jack had a loose upright, useable only if wedged against the sole plate. As he held the contraption together and worked his foot from the boot, he studied the garments already there. The great coat he’d bought his brother nearly eleven years ago occupied one of the pegs. Edward’s fussiness paid off, for it looked practically new. Alongside the coat there hung an apron and a straw bonnet with grey ribbons. This was the first evidence of the new Mrs. Wentworth he’d seen so far. It suddenly struck him as odd that she was nowhere to be seen.
“He’s eaten and is in bed.” He was pulling crockery from a shelf and paused. “Is he yours?” The bowls clattered when he set them on the table.
Wentworth was at a loss. It had not occurred to him how it looked that he had the boy. Of course people would assume they were father and son. Edward did not wait for an answer. “You should get out of those wet clothes. Are your things in the bag wet? Most likely! Shuck it all off, and I shall fetch something dry,” Edward ordered, leaving the pot and the fire for the door.
Abandoning the jack, he stood with one boot still on, the other falling to the floor. “Excuse me?”
“What? I don’t need you getting sick from a cold. Get undressed, and I shall be right back.” He seemed put out by Frederick’s reluctance to strip down in the kitchen.
“And what of your wife?” When it was strictly the two of them—with no fear of a female appearing suddenly—certain proprieties could be set at naught, but a woman changed all that.
