by Susan Kaye
“Somerset.” At every turn there was mentioned people and places he would rather forget. This letter, too, he folded and put away.
The letter from the Port Admiral was indeed about the Courts Martial. He was being informed that if any in his brig were in need of justice above a flogging or minimal punishment, his clerk was to write up a notice and bring it to the admiral’s clerk for scheduling. The letter also notified those captains with no one in need of a hearing that they should prepare to be convened in a fortnight.
Wentworth had no desire to return to Plymouth under such circumstances, but he was grateful the official summons would bring a conveniently timed end to his misbegotten errand of mercy. He folded the letter and thought how justice was an odd business. He had once sat a board hearing the murder of one seaman by the hand of another. To hear tell of a murder was shocking, but it could be spoken of in a dispassionate way, almost as a tale told round the fire. However, to hear all the particulars from those who saw the blows and heard the cries made the crime very real—uncomfortably so.
Having placed the letters safely in his pocket, he joined Eyerly and Benwick. They bid one another good-bye and Wentworth walked to the waist with the coxswain.
“Will we be seein’ ya soon, sir?” He stepped down the ladder a step.
“I think it will be soon. I am not needed here as urgently as before.”
Eyerly glanced at Benwick and nodded. “Aye, his spirits seem to be risin.’ There’ll be another lady along soon enough.”
He had told no one on Laconia of Benwick’s loss. “You continue to astonish me, Eyerly.”
“It’s the scuttlebutt, sir, the most notorious source of intelligence known to man.” He touched his forelock and descended into the boat.
Benwick joined him watching the boat become part of the hubbub of the harbour. “I have decided to forgo the dinner tonight.”
Wentworth continued to watch the boats. “I would beg you to go with me. These are perilous times for a captain, James. Like it or not, you must keep your ear to the ground and keep abreast of the news.”
“You can keep me apprised of all the news.”
“I suppose I could, but I will not always be here. Moreover, you must realize there are officers who will speak freely to you who will have nothing to say to me. These epaulettes can be as much of a disadvantage as an advantage.”
“Will Danforth be present?”
“Aye, as far as I know.”
“The poor unfortunate fool is usually amusing,” Benwick said. He could feel him move away. “I shall go down and prepare.” His voice was pure resolve, no anticipation to speak of. Nevertheless, he was moving under his own power, and there had been no having to wheedle him to change his mind. It was heartening to Wentworth. He would be forced to leave soon and was relieved Benwick might truly be on the mend.
Six were invited for dinner, but before the meal began, several others joined them and the party was moved to a larger private room. It was only a bit larger with just enough space to allow the keep to attend to the table but none for milling about by the patrons. The forced inactivity allowed Commander Danforth to quicken the usual pace of his drinking. The man was in his cups and quite amusing by the fish course.
Wentworth took part in one or two conversations but had taken care to put himself out of the way by posting in a corner. From this vantage, he was better able to observe Benwick, who had taken the one opposite. The meal progressed and at the end, he hoisted his glass and drank to the king. It pained him to see his friend’s expression when the glasses were then raised to wives and sweethearts.
As the bumpers of port and walnuts made their way around the table, the course of the conversation turned to Napoleon. The group divided the tablecloth into various bodies of water, representing various parts of the world. They availed themselves of cutlery, saltcellars, nutshells and bits of bread to re-fight innumerable battles.
This behaviour was not unusual for a naval gathering. The keeper of a drinking establishment near a port was accustomed to glasses broken and silver bent in the heat of re-enacted or invented battle. Moreover, in such times as these, it was not so unusual a diversion to ward off the apprehension of being thrown ashore. It was a comfort that, with each battle, every captain and commander became more skilled, more brilliant, and quicker to subdue his foe. Wentworth applied himself to his port and considered how much life and property such imagined speed would have spared. He considered as well how much wealth he would not have gained were wars so swiftly ended.
The afternoon became evening and the room grew more crowded as one would leave and another two entered the snug. Thinking it time to take his friend back to the ship, he changed his mind when he found Benwick engaged in conversation with a Lieutenant Moon. If Wentworth was not mistaken, Moon had also lost a wife recently. Perhaps there were words of solace and experience passing between the two—
“Wentworth, don’t be coy; only you can adjudicate this matter between Beresford and me.”
Putting Benwick and his troubles aside and focusing his attention on his tablemates, he looked from one to the other. Both men were bright with wine and good-natured debate. Knowing Captain Beresford well and Commander Paul by reputation, he knew the controversy would involve either dogs or guns or, God forbid, the fairer sex.
“We are divided, Wentworth. Paul here says you hate women. I say you are merely afraid of them. Which of us is right?” The two men giggled as he imagined young girls might when they were being deliberately naughty.
For a moment, he contemplated telling them God’s truth on the matter. However, they were too drunk and he was feeling too low to revisit the past.
“Gentlemen, this is a question that has been debated by finer minds than yours, and still there is no understanding.” The men laughed too loudly and Beresford punched Paul, causing him to totter in his seat. “But I think you would be better served applying to Danforth. Perhaps this is the night you all will solve this perplexing conundrum.” They laughed again as he rose and left the room.
Settling on a crate around the side of the inn, he watched the fragrant cloud of the cheroot float away and wondered what there was about his romantic attachments or, more precisely, the lack of them which fascinated Beresford. The man was like a dog worrying a bone. He was married, though unhappily, if one believed the rumours. So perhaps it was just his wish that everyone share in his misery. Wentworth dropped the cheroot and ground it out. There was no understanding the perplexing nature of humankind.
This thought brought him to Edward’s sudden defection from the unmarried state. He was astonished and dismayed. Edward’s determination to remain unwed was something Wentworth had been certain would never change. However, it was no different from his certain knowledge of always having a ship under him, a rock solid belief that was crumbling all too quickly.
He moved closer to the lamp outside the doorway of the inn and read the letter fully. The new Mrs. Wentworth was born Catherine Keye and was from a large and prosperous family in Glencoe Parish, the next one over. She had taken the liberty of writing a postscript which led him to think she was sensible and good humoured. Her invitation to come to stay with them at the rectory of Crown Hill Parish was warm and genuine. There was little to indicate how old a woman she might be. Not that he should concern himself with such things. Circumstances were working furiously to make their meeting sooner than later a certainty.
He was being petty he knew, feeling nettled that Edward seemed happy. He decided it had more to do with the fact that he had ignored his brother’s advice concerning Anne and the engagement and that he could have been happy years ago rather than alone and—
“Enjoying a word from home?”
He started. Benwick apologized. “You interrupted nothing,” he said, folding the paper and tucking it in his pocket. “Just a word from my brother, Edward.”
“How is the Rector? Still in the country?”
“Yes. Shropshire now.” His friend had nev
er met his brother, but Benwick’s father was a religious man and he knew something of the life and its ways. “He has married. I am surprised.” It occurred to him that Benwick was not the one to tell about a new marriage.
There was no smile, but Benwick raised his brows, nodded and said a genuine, “I wish him joy.” He walked away slowly. Wentworth followed at a distance. They were not moving towards the docks, and he wondered if he should leave him to think his own thoughts.
“I spoke at length with Lieutenant Moon this evening. His wife died of a putrid fever early in the spring. There was nothing to be done. It was a terrible suffering for him and the family.” He rested against a cart loaded with empty barrels.
Wentworth chose a short stack of crates and took a seat. “That must have been an agony for them.”
“It made me grateful that Fanny was spared such a fate.”
Wentworth looked at his friend. There was still something of the morose about him, but there was also an air of normality. As if the real world was beginning to take hold again.
“I hope the conversation was useful to you, James—that Moon was able to offer you some comfort.”
Benwick turned. “Oh, he did. His counsel was most welcome. His best bit of advice was that I should, as far as possible, get on with my life. He said I would never forget her, but that I must go on.”
“He sounds quite wise. Are you not glad I coerced you into having dinner tonight?”
“I am, sir. Moreover, I am determined to take Moon’s advice.” He looked quickly at him, then away.
“I have tried to reconcile myself to the fact that Harville was not able to come and bring the news himself.” He paused and looked at Wentworth. “I know it is a ridiculous point, that I am meditating on the insignificant, but I cannot get it out of my head that he should have come. Then when I think of you telling me, it all becomes a rush of feelings that I am unable to keep in check.”
“That must be terribly difficult.” He knew Benwick was not finished, but he was uncertain as to what he might be leading up to.
“This being the case, I think it would be best that you should leave as soon as can be arranged.”
Wentworth was neither shocked nor saddened by this statement. His only concern was the condition of their friendship.
“Grappler is so small, and it is impossible for either of us to escape the other.” His expression showed he thought himself unkind. “Captain, it is like being in a storm and falling into the trough of a huge wave every moment. I don’t want you to think—”
“Benwick,” he said a little sharply. “I understand. Would you rather I stay ashore tonight?”
“No, certainly not.”
“Then I shall make arrangements to leave in the morning.” He started to the door of the inn to see about transport.
Benwick hurried to his side and took hold of his arm. “Please know that I am grateful to you for all you have done…staying with me through this. I would not have survived otherwise.”
“There is nothing that needs saying about this.” His frame of mind was not such that he cared to call up these fears.
“I shall overcome this and everything between us shall be right, Captain. This is just something I must do alone.”
Wentworth looked at his friend and knew he was correct. It was becoming more evident to him, moment by moment, that all difficulties in life are truly borne alone.
Chapter Six
It took a month of false starts to move Laconia from the side of the ledger declaring her fit for duty to the side that made her a prisoner of the Plymouth shipwrights. Wentworth rose each day dreading word from the Port Admiral. He was almost glad when it came, not in a letter, but in the form of a little man surrounded by red-coated marines carrying the sealed box containing the money to pay off the crew. The ensuing chaos was a relief. Once a man received his pay, he would hare off below, gather his few possessions, and do whatever was necessary to place himself on one of the three small boats running back and forth between Laconia and shore. Wentworth’s last night on board was quiet; only the superior and warrant officers remained, along with Eyerly and some of his handpicked mates. The next morning he turned her over to a crew of lubbers who would determine her fate.
He was now installed in Mrs. Bale’s boarding house. Mrs. Bale was a quiet woman with an odd assortment of relatives who depended upon her biddable nature and open door. Her rooms were clean and the house was off the beaten path and quiet for the most part. However, he was not certain whether they would remain so this particular evening.
“Thank you ever so much, sir, for not cuttin’ up Jack as much as I’m fearin’ you might have liked.”
He looked at Mrs. Bale’s pallid face in the mirror of his shaving stand. The entire situation was his own damn fault, though he never thought giving her young nephew an opportunity to hone his skills as a manservant would leave him in such an absurd predicament.
“I know ya only wanted ya hair trimmed up a bit; it was certainly needin’ it; but he got holt of an old pair of scissors I shoulda throw’d out, and they’s not sharp, ya see. Had he’d’a asked, I’d’a give ’im my good barberin’ shears, ya see.”
Her mangled statement seemed to accuse him for his growing hair, the dull scissors, and her nephew’s propensity to take things without asking. Perhaps it was entirely his fault. It was only right that this, his last official day of duty to the Crown, should be marked by calamity. However, must it be one of such a ridiculous nature? Thank God he insisted the boy cover his uniform before proceeding to cut his hair!
On the few occasions a stay off-ship had been required, Wentworth had always been able to find a room with Mrs. Bale. She liked him and, without exception, complimented his manners and his tidy ways. He was certain she also appreciated the extra shillings he was careful to leave on the dresser when he departed. By way of polite conversation, he had been told endlessly of her nephew, Jack, a young man of brilliant potential if the lady was to be believed. There had never been an opportunity for them to meet until earlier that week. Unclenching his jaw, he made a mental note to forgo the shillings.
“It’s good that these sorts of difficulties are worked out before Jack goes out and finds hisself a position with a real gentleman.”
Wentworth turned, and looked eye-to-eye with Mrs. Bale. Was he not a “real gentleman?” His behaviour to this point was most gentlemanly, considering that he desired nothing better than to flog her dear Jack, the aspiring gentleman’s gentleman, within an inch of his wicked life. Mrs. Bale’s simple brown eyes kept him from launching into the greatly desired tirade.
“I merely said what I felt needed saying under the circumstances.” He turned and rose, beginning to unbutton his dress coat. I should have known better. I was practically out the door. What ever possessed me to be manoeuvred into this wretched scheme?
Wentworth was a soft touch for a young man trying to improve himself so that he might make his way in the world. As a man of experience, part of him was loath to admit his share of crack-brained blunders. He had come to understand that mistakes were only useful in what they taught. While errors could not be avoided, the challenge was to only make small ones that left no one harmed. The only thing worse, in his mind, than committing a blunder, was to repeat it. He feared Jack hadn’t the brain for either of these lessons.
Resigning himself to the situation, Wentworth said, “Please, Mrs. Bale, go down and get your barbering tools.” Her face brightened, and with a whoosh of skirts, she was out of the room.
He sat before the shaving stand to await her return and strove to adopt a philosophical turn of mind. As his career was ending, he could see an eerie sort of harmony in this whole bizarre business. His posting to the Laconia had been the event that shifted his youthful ideals concerning himself, love, and his career. It was the point in time he last seriously gave thought to Anne Elliot and how she had played him for a fool. He had marked the event by rekindling his dedication to becoming successful…and wea
lthy.
Stepping into the command of Laconia was an accomplishment of which Frederick Wentworth could be rightly proud. His elevation had been preceded by the capture of a French frigate he’d longed to engage. After taking her into Plymouth, the Asp had dropped anchor in the Sound and been promptly battered by a four-day blow until she sank. The naval proceeding following the sinking of the Asp cleared him of any carelessness or wrongdoing. He had, in fact, been commended for keeping the whole of his crew alive when, after two days of the hellish blow, he had been obliged to order his men to risk their lives to dismast her. Afterward, the Admiral of Plymouth had installed him as the captain of HMS Laconia, and he made the momentous shift of the epaulette from the left shoulder to the right. Only personal happiness could have added more joy to the greatest accomplishment of his career.
Wentworth stood and walked to the window. The weather outside was dry, and a soft breeze blew through the lacy curtains. It was impossible not to notice a number of couples making their various ways on the streets and sidewalks. “Where is Mrs. Bale?” he said aloud. Probably comforting dear Jack with the news that I will not flay him tonight. The laugh of a woman echoed over the street.
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
After the celebrations of his promotion and new command were finished, Wentworth noticed much of the sting of the past was gone. The events of the summer of ’06 were still fresh and vivid, but the bitterness and the anger they once produced had eased. Several times he had taken pen in hand with the intention of writing to Anne Elliot. However, he found he had had little to say that wasn’t accusatory towards her or her family, and his own desires were not precisely formed. He had put the pen away and, again, thrown himself into his career. He hired a genuine steward, had new uniforms made, began building a reputation as a captain with one of the finest tables in the fleet, and set about keeping himself and his crew employed relentlessly in seeking prize. For six years, there had been no time to consider his appearance. When an occasion requiring him to be decent presented itself, he put full faith in the capable hands of Michaelson. And all told, this had worked well while at sea. But now, everything was changing. Anne Elliot’s ghost seemed to be everywhere he looked, his career was in the doldrums, and it would seem that he was not even capable of keeping himself properly rigged without getting into a ridiculous scrape. The door opened and Mrs. Bale entered the room, taking care to immediately comfort him with the statement that she rarely bloodied or maimed any of her regular patrons.
