Hope's Betrayal

by Grace Elliot

  Thinking like a smuggler, Huntley reasoned they would bolt for shallow water and hug the coastline where the deep-drafted Vigilant could not follow. His best hope was to cut them off before the shallows. At Huntley's signal, with a smoothness which made him proud, the sails were set and the cutter picked up speed, gaining nicely. It would be a close run thing but they would overtake the sloop and even in his dream, Huntley felt the anticipation of triumph. This was what he loved doing, this was what made him feel alive.

  “Steady. Wait for my command.”

  The Vigilant was slower but more agile, and in a confined space the two vessels were closely matched. It was as if the two were dancing, as the sloop slowed and the sloop cut inside, in a desperate attempt to go back the way she’d come.

  “Arm muskets.” Huntley commanded. “Prepare to board.”

  But a hailstorm of lead shot drowned out further commands as the smugglers opened fire. Flashing flints lit the darkness, the tang of cordite hung in the air. A shot whistled past Huntley's left ear and he threw himself to the deck. With a growl he rose up on one knee, steadied his pistol on the bulkhead and fired. Poof! A few seconds later, across the water a man crumpled and fell overboard. Silence in the smugglers boat, then a renewed volley of fire.

  Huntley became aware of a young ensign by his side. The lad was like an eager puppy, trying to impress him all night. Huntley yelled at the boy to get down. But his warning was lost in a melee of lead shot rattling through the rigging. The lad stood frozen, and instinctively Huntley flung himself across to shield the boy. A shot ripped through his leg, and another caught his hip. At first he felt no pain, just a trickle of warmth down the back of his thigh, then he tried to move—shattered bone on bone —and a pain which made his ears ring. He passed out.

  With a scream, Huntley woke, sweating and breathless. In the darkness his heightened senses heard a sound; a soft tread on the landing, the door handle turning. Yellow candlelight fell through the opening door as a figure entered. Huntley’s eyes flew open, braced for attack as he felt for a pistol which wasn’t there. And then in the amber flickering light of a candle, he saw Hope's face.

  "You!" he breathed out, "What are you doing here?"

  He watched bemused as Hope, dressed in a night-rail with a shawl about her shoulders, padded toward the bed. Her hair drawn back and tied at the nape of the neck with a ribbon, she looked demure and innocent. It was strange, Huntley thought bitterly, how appearances could be deceptive.

  "I heard you cry out and was concerned."

  “Well, you needn’t be.”

  He watched with a tightening heart as she sat on the mattress edge.

  “Miss Tyler, this isn’t appropriate. You should go.”

  “I came to see you were alright. You sounded distressed.”

  “A bad dream. Nothing more.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Huntley considered her question—it seemed an odd one. No one had ever invited him to talk about his feelings before.

  “That’s not necessary.” He replied gruffly and closed his eyes. But when he opened them again, Hope was still seated within touching distance, her hair glowing in the candlelight, her skin peachy soft. Her boldness in entering his bedchamber was not lost on him. "You should go."

  Hope sighed. "I'd rather keep you company awhile. I wasn’t asleep."

  "Did I disturb anyone else?"

  “No. You can hear Lady Ryevale snoring from the landing!”

  Huntley permitted himself a half-smile. “Don’t let her hear you saying that.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. How are you feeling?”

  Huntley considered the answer. The remnants of his left buttock stung, his shattered leg sang with pain, he felt sick from the laudanum and his head throbbed fit to burst.

  “Pretty good, all things considered.”

  Hope pursed her lips and wriggled her bottom further onto the bed. Evidently she meant to stay, and Huntley felt relieved. He couldn’t face the nightmares again tonight and Hope's company was a pleasant distraction.

  “It’s so warm in here.” Hope nodded toward the blazing fire. “Much warmer than my room.”

  “One of the perks of being an invalid.” They both fell silent, conscious it was the first time Huntley had referred to himself as such.

  "Well, Captain Huntley, if I know you at all, you wont be laid up for long."

  Huntley felt insanely grateful for her confidence.

  "That fool of a physician from London said I'd never walk again. I told him exactly what I thought of that."

  "I heard you expressed yourself rather eloquently with a chamberpot…"

  Huntley grinned. "For a large man, he didn’t half move quickly."

  "I didn’t like him. I'm glad he's gone."

  “Perhaps I was a little over-harsh but I've never been one for sitting around doing nothing…and now I can’t even sit.” For some mad reason he found himself grinning.

  She looked at him steadily.

  “Are your injuries so very bad?”

  He felt trapped in her gaze and suddenly wanted to shock her. He had held back for so long, made light of things so as not to alarm his mother, it was a relief to let go of pretence.

  “The surgeon wanted to amputate, but I refused. He called me a damned idiot with a death wish—but without the leg I’d rather be dead. The naval surgeon removed the shot and told me to expect gangrene to set in, but it didn’t. And so, if you can call this being lucky, here I am.”

  Hope frowned. “Well, you are feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “I’m entitled to. And if you don’t like it, go!”

  “I don’t like it,” she admitted, “not because you’re not entitled, but because self-pity doesn’t suit you.”

  He blustered. “And being useless doesn’t entitle me?”

  “A little, but you are wallowing rather.”

  “I am not!”

  “Hmmm. Let's change the topic.” She licked her lips, which sent a surge of desire through his belly. “What can I do to take your mind off things?”

  Huntley looked up sharply, wondering if she was deliberately provocative or merely naive.

  “Plump my pillows. That’s what you do for invalids, isn’t it?”

  “Very well.” With an angel’s grace she leaned forward and reached for the pillow. “Lean forward.”

  Bemused, Huntley struggled up onto his elbows. But Hope didn’t move, her arms framing his head. He felt her heat and the fight went out of him, craving simple human comfort as she wrapped her arms around him. He breathed deeply, drinking in the scent of warm woman and fresh laundry. He allowed his eyes to close, reveling in the softness of her breast like warm velvet against his cheek. They stayed clinging together for a minute or two, and then...with a sigh...Hope climbed up to lie beside him.

  Her head on the pillow beside his was comfort personified. Her vitality warmed his blood and for the first time in weeks, he was glad to be alive. For a while they lay in each others arms, growing used to each another, Huntley listening to her heart beat. Then, when her lips sought his, parting in eager response, he almost cried from the relief of being treated like a man; not pitied or patronised but caressed and desired.

  They kissed. Years later, Huntley would look back and realise it was this kiss which gave him the will to go on. It was like no other, as her lips imparted comfort and warmth, showering him with mutual need that made him feel strong again.

  “I was so scared you would die.” Hope whispered " It gives me strength, knowing you are alive, even if we have no future together.” Dampness tickled his shoulder.

  "Don’t cry."

  "But I'm not sad," she sniffed, "these are tears of joy."

  “Oh, my dear sweet Hope.”

  He wanted to touch and be touched, and tried to sit but lacked the strength.

  “Hush, my dearest love. Lie back.” Her long silky fingers stroked his forehead.

  Exhaustion made him weak, and relucta
ntly he lay back against the pillows. Anticipation warmed his belly as she leaned forward and captured his mouth, fluttering kisses over his lips and cheeks until he groaned with delight. All the confusion and hate for his ruined body melted away. He was bathed in the glowing warmth of desire so as to be floating. His eyelids grew heavy and her touch softer, stroking his brow, murmuring caresses, and he drifted into a wonderful, pain-free place where dreams of an angel pleasuring him replaced the nightmares.

  And to his eternal regret, before he could return her affection, Huntley fell sound asleep.

  *****

  Huntley woke the next morning in confusion. Hope cared for him, he did not doubt, but that he returned her affection unsettled him. Yes, he craved her company, but that was now while he was bedridden and weakened by nightmares—what about when he was well again?

  He ground his teeth. He would walk again and rejoin his ship. His future lay along that path and he didn’t need Hope complicating things—best all around if he didn’t string her along but kept her at arm’s length.

  Despite the logic of his plan, Hope haunted Huntley's dreams. That night he dreamt that she was kissing him...deeply...sincerely...and with such sweet intensity. His heart hollow with longing, he relived the press of her body against his and the lack of her became an ache in his chest.

  The next night the dream was different but equally unsettling. This time they sailed in a skiff with Hope's hair streaming out in dark tendrils, her eyes fixed on the horizon. Then, there was a bone-crunching lurch and Hope was thrown overboard. Huntley reached out for her but she was gone, claimed by the sea—and he woke in tears.

  But with each dawn, so reason reasserted itself. Enough of this lying around, Huntley decided, it was time to get back on his feet—but he needed help. Dr. Lansbury just made him angry, but as he thought about it, there was one man he could trust. Doctor Joseph had brought George into the world, and had seen him through many a childhood scrape. Huntley chewed it over. Joseph had been retired for years, he must be quite elderly now, but even so, if anyone could help, Joseph could.

  *****

  Two days later, at a knock on the door, George felt unaccountably anxious.

  "May I come in?" A small man with an avuncular face peered around the door jamb.

  "Of course." George couldn’t help but smile as he recognised the elderly doctor.

  Joseph had less hair than he remembered, but his hooded eyes were still bright behind his spectacles. Indeed, the older man exuded rude good health, as typified by his ruddy cheeks. "Doctor Joseph! Welcome. Would that we were meeting under different circumstances."

  "Indeed."

  "You look well."

  "I am well, thank you. Retirement agrees with me. I hadn’t realised what a drain patients can be, until I stopped seeing them."

  "Does that include me?"

  "Dear boy, of course not. It is always a pleasure to see you—not to mention a challenge."

  "Then thank you."

  Joseph peered over his spectacles, fixing his patient with a kindly, but intimidating, stare. "You mother is worried about you." His frankness was disarming.

  "Well she needn’t be."

  "Glad to hear it.…" Joseph frowned and then pulled at his neck cloth. "Gosh, it's hot in here. How do you bare it?"

  "That fool Lansbury insisted the room is kept warm."

  "Hmm, warm perhaps, but not like a tropical glasshouse. Let's open a window before we suffocate."

  George caught the whiff of tobacco on Joseph's tweed jacket and grinned. Here was a man with the proper priorities, so much more reassuring than the carbolic soap smell of that London physician.

  "Now then my boy. Sounds like you've got yourself into quite a scrape this time."

  "Worse than when I broke my arm as a boy, I'm afraid."

  Doctor Joseph stroked his silver moustache.

  "That was a nasty fracture of the radius and ulna, if I remember correctly. You healed miraculously well. Good strong bones."

  "Exactly! That's what that other damn physician didn’t understand. We're not dealing with ordinary bones here but the Huntley variety."

  "Hewn out of rock." Joseph smiled and continued stroking his moustache. "Now then boy, best let the hound see the rabbit. Roll over so I can take a look, there's a good chap."

  Joseph peeled back the blankets. In an unflattering pose on his right side, George lay still, biting his lip as Joseph removed the bandages. The doctor took his time before speaking. "The skin wounds are knitting well. You will have quite a collection of scars, but heal you will."

  "And the leg?" Huntley felt anxious to the point of nausea. "What about the leg? Will I be able to walk again?"

  "Before I can give my opinion, I need to perform some tests. The splint must be removed for a full examination. Is that alright?"

  "Of course." George found himself unexpectedly eager. It seemed Doctor Joseph was not about to dismiss him out of hand.

  A cage of wooden slats was strapped around the injured leg. With painstaking care so as minimise the discomfort, Doctor Joseph loosened the leather laces which held the contraption together. The splint eased away and Joseph proceeded to unwind the linen padding. He hummed as he worked.

  "I'd quite forgotten the satisfaction of doctoring."

  "Glad to be of service."

  "Tell me what you feel."

  George stared at the ceiling as Joseph proceeded to tickle his feet, stick pins in his toes and tap his knee with a small hammer. After what seemed an eternity, Joseph seemed satisfied and draped a sheet back over George's exposed flank.

  "Well then?" George said, impatiently, as he awaited the verdict.

  "That naval doctor did a first-rate job of removing the shot. The soft tissue wounds are clean and healing well."

  "So the risk of infection is less?"

  "I'd go so far as to say unlikely, at this stage."

  George let out his breath. "Thank heavens. And the bones? How do they fare?"

  "Therein lies the thing."

  "Speak plainly, doctor. I trust you to tell me the truth." George braced himself.

  Joseph eyed his patient then nodded. "Very well. If you continue to rest and keep the weight off the leg, it will be a long, slow process, but with luck on your side, you may yet walk again."

  "Thank heavens." Huntley grinned. "So I can return to active duty!"

  Doctor Joseph narrowed his hooded eyes. "That isn’t what I said. If you are lucky, you will walk on solid ground, but on a ship in a high sea, that's a different matter."

  Huntley felt as if he'd been shot all over again. "There is no doubt?"

  "Well, there is always room for doubt, but given the balance of probabilities, I would say not. I am sorry."

  The remainder of Doctor Joseph's consultation passed in a blur. George had the vague recollection of exchanging pleasantries but his heart wasn’t in it. All he was conscious of was the darkness of despondency closing over his head. He needed the fresh air and open seas, he needed the thrill of the chase and the knowledge of doing right—without the Navy his spirit would wither.

  Huntley was so distracted he didn’t remember Joseph leaving, because it coincided exactly with a feeling of utter futility, of his life being over. He wallowed for an hour, maybe more, until he stopped feeling sorry for himself and grew angry instead. Damn it, this was his body. The doctors had one opinion, and he had another. Who was to say which of them was right?

  Thereafter, Doctor Joseph called once a week. But as the days passed and Huntley's superficial injuries healed, it seemed his temper deteriorated. Now able to sit up in bed, he quickly lost patience with reading, playing backgammon with his mother, or cards with his valet. The slightest thing irritated him, from berating the maid for being noisy setting the fire, to meals being cold. It was generally agreed among the servants, that while it was good their master was out of danger, he made an intemperate invalid.

  On Joseph's third visit, Huntley's valet took him quietly aside and ex
panded on the extent of his master's frustration. And so, after examining his patient, the doctor grudgingly agreed that George could be moved to a chair by the window, provided he used a crutch, didn’t put weight on the broken leg and had someone with him at all times. Much to everyone's relief, the Captain accepted these conditions with good grace.

  However, behind Huntley's acquiescence lay an ulterior motive. He was plotting. It made sense to him that after weeks in bed, he would feel weak and it was therefore sensible to have someone on hand. Therefore he would accept help, meek as a lamb, and in so doing put everyone off guard.

  Indeed, that first time out of bed, with his valet gripping his elbow—as Huntley stood, the room swam. But as he grew used to being upright and the dizziness cleared, he asked for the crutch.

  "I'm fine. I can do this. Don’t fuss."

  But weakened by bed rest, his good leg refused to move. Huntley scowled.

  "Very well, take my arm if you must."

  Putting his weight on Jenkin's shoulders, he hobbled to the chair. He slumped down. "Well, it's a start."

  Once he knew his limits, then he'd exercise to build his muscles. Feeling certain that no one would approve, Huntley decided to keep the plan to himself.

  Huntley insisted on moving to the chair at least twice a day and as the good leg grew stronger, a plan took shape. For what he had in mind, he'd need to choose his time carefully so as not to be interrupted. He decided on mid-afternoon, when Lady Ryevale worked in the office and the servants thought him asleep. With an actor's skill, when the maid collected his lunch tray he yawned and pretended to be tired. Once her footsteps echoed away down the corridor, he grinned and threw back the bed covers. The splinted leg was heavy and it took both arms to manoeuvre it over the mattress edge. Grasping the crutch, he put his good foot on the floor and stood without human assistance. He felt a little giddy but waited for the sensation to pass. Encouraged by this small victory, he set off across the room.

  But after a few steps he felt weak as a kitten. His leg shook beneath him, and for the umpteenth time he cursed the weeks of inactivity. It took longer than he ever imagined possible to cross those few feet to the desk. And just when he was within touching distance, disaster struck. A ruckle in the rug caught his foot and sent him sprawling. The crutch arced through the air. Luckily, the desk broke his fall and saving himself on his arms and unspeakable pain gripped his thigh and Huntley feared he might vomit. But slowly, nausea receded and the walls came back into focus. He debated what to do next. It seemed a shame to get this far only to admit defeat. What harm could a few pushups do?