by Susan Kaye
Frederick nodded in acknowledgement. “Ma’am, I believe I have had the pleasure of dining with your cousin once or twice. He is an officer we all do well to watch.” The obfuscation was quite clever in his opinion and would give the lady the impression he thought highly of her cousin. But, when he looked into her face, the tiniest narrowing of her eyes informed him she was not fooled by his shrewdness and that she fully understood Wentworth had no good opinion of her family member.
If possible, she straightened her shoulders even more. “As you should, Captain. He is quite an example to the entire family.” Just then, Abernathy cleared his throat. His glass rang out when he put it down on the table. Mrs. Abernathy took her eyes from Wentworth’s and glared at her husband. She turned to Edward. “I would think it too early for wine, Rector.”
The doctor moved away from the desk and picked up the battered black satchel sitting on the floor next to his chair. His movements were stiff and precise. “It was my doing, Julia. We were toasting the Wentworth’s good fortune of a child.” He took out a small bottle and handed it to Edward. “Have your wife take—”
Mrs. Abernathy interrupted. “I helped Mrs. Wentworth to dress.” She looked directly at the Rector. “She is resting now. You may go up when we are finished.” Nothing could be done until she had stated the instructions. The woman’s tone made it clear she had no expectation of anything but utter obedience on the part of the Rector.
In nearly the same thought, Frederick put aside his distaste of Mrs. Abernathy’s manner and awaited the doctor’s instructions for Mrs. Wentworth. Other than how they came into being, Frederick knew next to nothing about babies and was uncertain that medicines were a part of the usual procedure. His stomach knotted at the possibility of something seriously amiss for his little family.
Abernathy continued as if there was no interruption. “Have her take this every evening. It may help with the sickness in the mornings. If not, it’ll only last another month or so.” He shut the bag with a snap. He bowed to Wentworth with his back to his wife. He smiled as broadly as before his wife joined them. “It was an honour to meet you, Captain. I hope I have another chance to speak with you during your visit.” The smile vanished; he turned and joined his wife at the door. “Well done, Edward,” he whispered back to the Rector before he followed her out.
Edward took a deep breath and relaxed. He absently parted the tails of his coat and took his seat. With Mrs. Abernathy’s departure, air and life seemed to flow quickly back into the room. Frederick was about to say as much when he looked at his brother. Edward was remarkably placid. It was clear that his mood was not in the least dampened by the doctor’s wife. Wentworth pulled one of the chairs from in front of the hearth and placed it next to the desk. “So, I am to be an uncle.” It was ridiculous to even speak it, but he was at a loss to say anything else.
Edward still smiled and now nodded. “Yes. She’s going to have a child. My child.”
Frederick thought they each were stupefied in their own respective ways. His emotions seemed to gravitate to petulance and jealousy. The Rector’s was shock manifesting in a slightly daft grin. As he thought about it, his brother’s faraway look had been in place since Mrs. Wentworth’s arrival home. They had known about the child for some time and, for some reason, had chosen not to share the news with him. Again, he felt a touch of something unpleasant and wrong.
Edward knocked on the desktop and stood. “I didn’t think that woman would have the audacity to come right in.” He put away the wine and put the glasses to the side to take away later.
It seemed odd that Edward preferred to speak of the doctor’s wife rather than the joyous news of a child. “Audacious seems to be a most apt description for Mrs. Abernathy. They are a very contradictory couple.”
Edward nodded vigorously. “Yes. Their marriage is the product of haste and gross misjudgement.” He took his seat.
The statement was ripe with possibility having not only to do with the departed couple, but with him as well. Frederick took a seat in preparation. “How so?”
“He comes from a London family of great wealth. There are no titles, but there is immense influence. She wished to rise above her upbringing of moderate means and saw him as a wealthy man with an interest in medicine. He turned out to be a man of compassion who happened to possess a great fortune and a great zeal for treating the sick. Abernathy says she assumed that if he did practice it would be in London, not in the wilds of Shropshire. She pictured her life as one of grand society and ease. The truth of it has proved to be extremely disappointing.”
Did Louisa Musgrove also assume life as the wife of a Naval officer more interesting and exciting than it was in actuality? “You said there was an element of haste involved.” The Abernathys seemed to be an example tailor made for his study.
“Yes, he saw her at a ball, gained an introduction, and they were married in a matter of months.” The Rector picked up a quill and began to sharpen it. “She hates living here. She acts as his nurse, though she despises dealing with us provincials.” Each stroke of the knife punctuated every few words of the statement. “He thought he could love her enough that she would change her mind. But that has proven impossible. So—” He held up the quill for study and then looked at Frederick. “So, Mrs. Abernathy makes life difficult for the doctor most of all, but for the rest of us to varying degrees, as well.”
The couple’s hasty marriage sounded extraordinarily like Anne and him. It was a sad tale but it proved the situation was not so unusual. If the worst happened and he was expected to marry, Frederick thought his observations months ago of going to sea and leaving a wife to reside close to her family at Uppercross an excellent solution to any of the stated difficulties. There would be no inconvenience to anyone, and no one would have to deal with anyone’s disappointments...except of course, Louisa and him.
Edward pulled a pot of ink to him. He put aside the quill and began fiddling with the lid. “I know that for ages prior to ours and for ages to come man and women will marry for things other than love. Even I was bent upon it. For the most part, people find a genuine sort of happiness. But a marriage like Abernathy’s gives one reason to think very hard.” The lid was fixed, and he dipped the quill and began to scribble on a paper.
Frederick wished to leave the uncomfortable topic of the doctor’s marriage as soon as possible. He rose and poured them each another glass of wine. “Difficult marriages are a subject for another time. I wish to toast to the joyous announcement of a brand new Wentworth on the horizon.” He raised his glass and took a sip. He wished his heart were lifted high as well.
Edward thanked him and leant back in the chair.
“You don’t seem happy.” His brother’s face mirrored his own emotions. Edward’s expression when Frederick entered the room was completely different than this one.
He looked out the window for a moment and then to Frederick. “I am happy. It’s just that Catherine and I never spoke of children. Of having them together I mean. She is not too old for it—obviously—but I am 48 years old, Frederick. I am just surprised by it all.”
“You may be shocked, but you are certainly not out of the game. Obviously.” His brother’s lack of consideration on the matter amused him.
Edward looked up. “No, not at all. In fact, I have told Catherine many times that I have always thought of you more as my boy than my brother.” He returned to the desk and fixed his attentions on the trimmings from the quill.
Frederick was now taken aback. He knew Edward had always had mixed feelings about him. There had been times of great closeness when Edward returned to England to care for him and Sophia. As Frederick grew a little older, the feelings grew stronger on both sides. After Edward had seen him off on that Liverpool dock, things had grown strained. He was still “my boy” on most occasions, but the warmth of the words had disappeared over time, replaced with a perfunctory sort of tone. Only since his arrival in Crown Hill had they regained some of their previous tenderness. E
dward’s admission touched him, and in the Captain’s ragged emotional state, it was a soothing thing to hear. Although, he now realised, since Catherine’s arrival home, Edward had not used the endearment at all. “And now you may have a true son of your own.” Frederick knew he was losing a little something with this declaration, but it was the right thing to say.
“Yes, but in a way he’ll be my second son. When you heard it, you looked torn. Are you disappointed that you may not inherit my vast fortune?” He laughed. Frederick enjoyed the jest as well.
“How could I begrudge the child a heaping pile of theology books and your mended surplice? Oh, and that horse.”
“The horse isn’t mine. A fellow in Ludlow just lets me have use of it.”
They sat for a moment, amused with their banter. Soon, Frederick realised that most lives were the sum of all that, even his, with all his money and all the possessions he might ever obtain. At this moment, his brother, with the love of a woman he admired and a child on the way, was far richer than he might ever be.
“There is something that has worried me since Catherine told me of her suspicions.”
“What is that?”
“What if I am like him?”
There was no having to guess who his brother meant. Edward had suffered at the hands of their father in ways Frederick only knew from Sophia. Rarely did anyone ever mention the man who gave them life, and when one of them did, it was only in passing. All the Captain knew was that Edward left just after turning sixteen. A savage beating had been the impetus. Frederick had been only two at the time. When he was older, it was not unusual to find his mother crying and his father raging. More often than not, Edward’s name was connected to those violent scenes.
“You are nothing like Phillip Wentworth.” He could think of no two men related by blood more dissimilar.
“I did not think so, either. Then I wondered if it was having children that made him so...hateful. I could not help but wonder if it was not my birth which touched off something inside his mind.”
“You are nothing like him. Nothing at all.”
“How do you know? How can anyone know what sort of parent they will turn out to be?”
“You came to Sophie and me when we needed you. You were good and kind to us. You hardly even raised your voice to us. You are not that sort of man.”
Edward stared at him intently. “You cannot say that for certain. You do not know everything about me.” He finally looked away.
Frederick had to admit that Edward was a puzzle to him and that he did not know all there was to know about his brother and his life away. But he knew enough that he was sure there was not a trace of their father’s violence in him.
Frederick rose and walked to the door. His only hope was that his comments would bring comfort and reassurance to his brother. For good measure he turned and said, “If either of us is in danger of turning out like Father, I think you can rest easy and know it is me.”
“What makes you say such a thing, Frederick?” Edward scowled.
Frederick paused, uncertain he wished to reveal so much of himself on such a happy day. “I have, at times, taken pleasure in the punishments to which I have sentenced certain men.” He gestured. “Just a kernel of pleasure for men who I felt deserved to be punished. So you see, Brother, we all have pitiable things to regret.” He left before Edward could respond.
Edward’s supposition, at first, was ridiculous, but the more he allowed it to get into his mind, the more Frederick saw some merit in it. He had said what he did to Edward to ease his mind and put him off that disturbing path. He had not really thought himself any more like their father than Edward. Now, as he made his way through the house to take a walk, he pondered the idea that an event could be so harmful to a person that it would fundamentally change them from sensible and rational to violent and ugly. Thoughts of his mother’s harassment by Phillip Wentworth made it clear that some thing at some time had released a beast that had no trouble inflicting such agony.
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
The customary afternoon walk led nowhere. The Captain’s need to be alone made walking for pleasure impossible. Plump drops of occasional drizzle made it downright unpleasant at times. For some time now, Frederick had rested on a stile and watched a man rebuilding a section of stone fence. In the distance was a small farm surrounded by an unremarkable stand of woods. The farm itself seemed to be of no real distinction either. All the buildings were constructed of the same stone as the fence and, though the rain intensified the few shades of colour offered by the brownish grey winter landscape, they seemed to fade away into the surrounding forest.
The man had not acknowledged his nod when he’d taken his seat on the stile, and he did nothing to indicate he cared that Wentworth watched him work or that he would prefer him to continue on his way. The man did, though, occasionally glance the Captain’s way as he lifted or placed one of the stones. Frederick glanced away occasionally as he surveyed the area and tried to decide whether to continue walking or return to the warmth of the Rectory.
The man eventually placed the last stone in the wall. To check his handiwork, the farmer laid hands on various stones and seemed to give them a shake. Frederick wondered if this was to check his craft or prove to his observer that he was a capable builder. The man gathered a few things lying out of Frederick’s view and placed them in a pouch he slung over his shoulder. Frederick nodded when the man glanced his way, but he merely turned and walked off in the direction of the farm.
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
After Wentworth returned home, he was still in the mood for solitude. His trunks had arrived from Lyme the previous morning, and he retired to his room to shift a few things from them to his travelling case. As he looked through his possessions, it was clear that a man’s life could easily be winnowed down to a very few square feet of space. “Not counting the coffin,” he muttered. He chose a few new articles of clothing to wear, took out a book, and then put it back. When he thought he’d taken out all he needed, he spied the blanket Anne had sent with him on his journey back that dreadful night. He was tempted to shut it away in the trunk and get it out of his sight. Such an action was useless. He would know it was locked up in there, its presence teasing and begging him to view it. At least with it in the open he could pretend it was proof of her sympathy towards him. It, along with the food and drink she had sent him, let him know she had thought of him, even if it was only in the most perfunctory way.
He placed it at the end of the bed and wondered if she had touched it herself. More than likely, she had merely pointed to it and directed the serving woman to include it in the bundle to be taken to him. A picture of her picking it up and deciding to include it played out in his mind. It was ridiculous and overly sentimental to think she’d made any such effort on his behalf. He kicked off his boots and lay back on the bed, slipping his feet beneath the blanket.
Anne would be in Bath at the beginning of the year. For now, she was with her godmother. There would, of course, be no mention of his doing the favour of delivering the note from Lyme. Without any knowledge of his actions and an uncertain opinion of the events, Anne might even take it upon herself to give her version of Louisa Musgrove’s accident to his sister.
During his visit at Kellynch Hall, there had been little discussion of the matter. There were no probing questions. Disinterest—he suspected something more like discretion—rendered the barest facts as satisfactory to both Sophia and the Admiral. There had been talk of Lady Russell’s return to the neighbourhood and how they expected a visit from her. Because of the close association, they could look forward to a visit from Miss Anne, as well. Anne’s reaction to some trivial changes around the house would provoke more interest than knowing anything about him or his state of mind.
He was just beginning to sink into a daydream of her when someone sat on the end of the bed. He opened his eyes and there was George. Wentworth hitched himself up a bit and put his arm behind his head. “What can I do for you,
Tuggins?” By the look on his face, the boy was in trouble or thought so.
“I went into the study, and they were in there.”
“You forgot to knock.”
“No, sir. The door was open. A little bit.” He looked down and twisted a button on his prized blue waistcoat. This would be the moment to address how to announce one’s entrance, but Wentworth was in no mood to launch into a lecture. His own manners were suspect enough. The boy picked at a snag on the blanket covering the Captain’s feet. “Why do you keep this horse blanket in here?” Mr. Tuggins had a knack for redirecting Wentworth’s thoughts.
“It’s not for a horse. And it is...” He had just been over it all in his mind, but what to call this token? “It is a gift from someone I care for very much.”
George frowned, and Wentworth could read his thoughts. How much could a person care if they gave only a scruffy coverlet? “I treated this person very poorly—rudely, in fact—but she gave it when I needed it.” He hoped the questions would end. The more he talked about it, the more foolish it seemed to endow the covering with remarkable, touching qualities.
The informal nature of the conversation allowed Mr. Tuggins to forget himself and settle more comfortably on the end of the bed. “It was a girl? Girls do nice things for people they care about.” He looked at Wentworth expectantly.
