None But You (Frederick Wentworth, Captain: Book 1)

by Susan Kaye

  When he had read his brother’s letter a few weeks earlier, he had thought a curse lay upon him. It was difficult not to give over to a sailor’s natural superstition to believe all the recent unbidden thoughts of Anne Elliot were some sort of evil omen and that Edward’s letter was their confirmation.

  His brother’s letter was full of irony concerning their sister and her husband’s choice of home. Wentworth could not agree more that the Fates had been quite clever in rescuing the despotic Baronet’s fat from the fires of financial embarrassment by way of a simple sailor’s desire to live a genteel life in the country. Kellynch Hall. Having heard none of this previously from his sister, the letter was a terrible shock and assumed that he already knew about the letting of Kellynch. His sister’s letter relating the Crofts’ new living arrangements had arrived the following day and filled in blanks spots left by Edward’s.

  When he arrived at the church, Wentworth surveyed it with dismay. The faint breeze ruffled disorderly shrubs while in a nearby flowerbed the dead heads of some sort of yellow flower bobbed. Cobbles leading to the door were ringed with tufts of grass that pushed them this way and that. Splits in the door’s black paint showed the silver grey of long exposed wood. It was disappointing to see the once tidy place in such a slovenly condition. It caused the same little ache he felt viewing an old ship that he had known in better times. A tidy expanse of lawn, which had separated the church from the cottage, was gone and replaced with a lush green field of knee-deep grass. There was no cottage in sight.

  “What do you want?”

  Wentworth was startled and annoyed that he had not noticed the older gentleman approaching.

  “I was looking for a cottage that stood here some years ago.” Observing the collar, he added, “The curate at the time lived there. Edward Wentworth.”

  The man paused, leant on his cane and began to think. Shaking his head, he said, “No, no Edward Wentworth.”

  “Perhaps he was before your time.”

  The bent body straightened as much as possible and a defiant look came over him. “I will have you know, I have been the vicar of Monkford for twenty-seven years.” The rheumy eyes of faded blue were as fierce as such an old man could muster.

  “I beg your pardon, sir. I meant no offence.” That summer, he’d only put himself in the way of meeting the vicar once and that had come just after his arrival. To his embarrassment, this man did not seem in the least familiar, and he could not for the life of him remember his name.

  The wrinkled face softened at the apology. “Ah, I am sorry. This morning has been far too rushed and has put me in a bad humour.” A bit of smeared egg on his cassock seemed to confirm the statement.

  The vicar began to walk away and then turned. “Regardless, I remember no curate, no Wentworth.”

  “He was here in the year ’06. I stayed with him for a summer and was curious to see the place.”

  Nodding, the vicar said, “Him, I have no memory of, but the cottage I remember.” Pointing towards an overgrown thicket, adrift in the field, he said, “It stood over there. It was the primary residence for the incumbent, but my wife disliked it being so close to the wood. We moved closer to the inn.” As an afterthought, he said, “And now we live with my daughter.”

  Wentworth surmised that living with the daughter might explain his bad humour. Before he could ask what happened to the cottage, the old man continued. “The place was falling down, but there came a fellow one day and wanted to buy it. No one was occupying it, so I sold it to him. He come and took it down and away bit by bit.” The old man was still for a moment, looking over the field. Wentworth imagined the far away look was his mind’s eye observing the area’s alterations.

  “I remember a small orchard. There were several apple trees.”

  “Aye, the fruit was very good, particularly after the gardener pruned them properly. Older fellow, now he did live in the cottage. As I recall, he stayed for quite some time.”

  Wentworth smiled. He suspected “the gardener” to be Edward. The whole of that summer, whenever he had wanted to speak with his brother, the man was out-of-doors if there was daylight or a strong lantern available. He had worked up a small vegetable garden to which he was always amending the poor soil with various sorts of manure lugged in by wheelbarrow. Armed with leather gloves, he endeavoured to resurrect some bedraggled rose bushes with judicious pruning. His proudest accomplishment had been the apple trees.

  The tiresome story went that early in the year, during an icy rain, he had carefully pruned every one, and during flowering, he had carefully chosen only the choicest blooms to remain on the limbs. Then, when the Captain was visiting, they were setting their fruit and every walk through them was full of plucking and snipping and lopping. It was under one of them that he told Edward he had proposed to Anne Elliot.

  Edward had escaped to the sea when Frederick was only a baby, returning over a decade later when their parents died. On that return, the differences in their ages being significant, Edward assumed the role of father to his younger siblings. They had only two years of this arrangement until Frederick was taken aboard a King’s ship at fourteen. The two never played or fought as ordinary brothers, until one particularly hot, emotional night.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you? I have my duties in the church.” The vicar looked perturbed, as if he might have repeated himself.

  “Uh, no,” Wentworth said, a little startled, but grateful for the interruption. “Though, might I stay and have a look around?”

  The old man turned to go to the church, nodding his assent. Wentworth held his breath as the man tottered up the stairs, took forever to unlock the door, and then disappeared into the gloom of the building. As he looked back over the field, the warm autumn sun urged him to remove his coat. Carefully draping it over his arm, he realised, with an unexpected sadness, that everything to do with the cottage and that summer was gone.

  A wall separating the property from the next house was broken down in places. All the trees were gone, leaving little hillocks where they were pulled out of the ground. The weeds were higher in a rectangle of ground. He suspected this to be the place where the garden had been. The only thing left was a large flat stone he decided was what remained of the entry.

  Standing on the stone, he remembered feeling quite smug when he had entered the cottage for the first time. It was small and he felt quite large from his foreign victories. Everything inside was shabby while he gleamed in his new uniform and polished Hessian boots, all of which had taken up no little sum of his prize money. All that was left now was a faint outline of the foundation and fading wildflowers that dotted the overgrown grass. A mouse darted away, emphasising the neglect. The only ones inhabiting this place now were those who used the web of animal trails running through the space.

  He walked over to the wall. There was a stile, indicating that at one time there had been good relations between the neighbours. He replaced one of the steps that had broken loose and counted the bell-tolls from the church. There was still time to look around before walking back to the inn. Lightly tapping the step into place, he tried to remember a story Edward had told him about the stile. Something about a slow-witted fellow in the neighbourhood raiding his trees. Wishing now that he had listened more closely, he made his way through the deep weeds to where the apple trees had once stood.

  He had been grateful for the vicar’s intrusion, but his mind went easily back to the argument. There wasn’t much to it in reality. As it came more clearly to his mind in the very spot where it took place, he owned his share of the harsh words. But it was Edward’s superior insight that dogged him this afternoon.

  “…I think Anne Elliot is a splendid young woman…”

  “…have you stopped to consider how the Baronet will react to this proposal…”

  “…of course I think you worthy of her…”

  “…you have undervalued the power Lady Russell exerts over the entire Elliot household…”

 
; “… I do wish to see you happy…”

  Wentworth had been in high spirits when he confided the news to his brother, and he had expected Edward’s unqualified joy. When he received words of caution instead, he became angry and took the words of warning as interference. As the conversation continued, he had even accused Edward of caring more for his living and position in the community than Frederick’s future happiness.

  “Living and position in the community,” Frederick now said under his breath. Leaning on an undamaged portion of the wall, he was embarrassed to remember his ridiculous behaviour. “The dear man had every right to point out my rash expectations and the reality of the situation. He had every right to fear for his position.” The stones of the wall began to shift and he stood.

  Certainly he loved Anne in a way he’d never cared for a woman before or since, but honour now compelled him to admit that, before he even set foot in Kellynch Hall to talk to her father, he had gotten a perverse pleasure from the notion of forcing that preening peacock to acknowledge his position, his worth, and his excellent prospects.

  Catching a head of the ripening tall grass, he began to pull off the seeds. “Edward’s biggest offence was offering me nothing to feed my vanity.” He tossed the stripped stalk. “What headstrong dolt wants a liberal dose of practicality and good sense?” he asked the field.

  In the beginning of the conversation, there had been only one attempt to dissuade Frederick.

  “Of course I consider Anne Elliot to be a splendid young woman, but good God, Brother, can’t you fall in love with a woman of your own class? We have nothing as a family to recommend us to anyone of their station.” When that had been answered with a vigorous denial, the curate had done his best to warn of the obstacles that would be placed in his way. “I don’t suppose you have stopped to consider how the Baronet will react to this proposal. Her best interest is the least of his worries. I am sorry to say that you are not important enough for his tastes…”

  At that point in the conversation, for some inexplicable reason, Wentworth put forth that Lady Russell would champion him and his suit. Edward looked astonished and said, “You need only enter the room and the woman is agitated. You have refused to go out of your way to curry her favour, and I think you perhaps enjoy shocking the old girl. You have put aside her opinion at your own peril, Frederick. You have undervalued the power Lady Russell exerts over the entire Elliot household, I’m afraid…” Edward had been right and he knew it. He had nursed a hope through the night that it was, indeed, his brother who had miscalculated the situation.

  The final word had been about Anne herself. “I know I am merely a curate, but I am no fool. I have observed these people for nearly a year, and I think I know them and their ways a bit better than you. I have no doubt you love her, Frederick; I also do not doubt she has feelings for you. I do wish to see you happy, but Anne Elliot is not the sort of woman who would be coaxed into an elopement. Nor should you try.”

  The argument ended there. He had thought Edward was being a coward, a man ridiculous and afraid to reach out for happiness. He, on the other hand, had proven that risk and satisfaction went hand-in-hand.

  Saying nothing to Anne about the miserable reaction of his brother, he had decided to wait a day or two before going to Sir Walter. Meanwhile, their time together was a wonder to him. Never before had anyone placed him so high in his or her regard. Never had anyone stirred in him such feelings of attachment and devotion. All her looks and words enforced the belief that she loved him and that nothing could come between them. He would move heaven and earth to keep her by his side—and he was just arrogant enough to believe he could.

  “Ah, there you are, Captain,” the driver called from the edge of the field. “It’s a good thing somebody saw you head off this way. We need to be pushing on now. The weather’s been a bit cool at night and the snakes come out from the tall grass right soon after the sun’s up,” he added.

  Wentworth waved an acknowledgement, and the driver started back. “It’s only fitting,” he muttered, as he made his way along. “A garden. Apples. Snakes.” His longer strides caught him up to the driver in short order, and he was informed that he would no longer be alone in the coach. “Two local ladies. They’re harmless enough.” The remark struck him as less than promising.

  If he was to be in the presence of ladies, he thought it best to appear clothed properly and slipped on his coat. Involuntarily, he reached back to flip his clubbed tail out of the way. Blast. Will I never learn it’s gone?

  “Mrs. Chawleigh, Mrs. Crow, this here is Captain Wentworth. He’ll be travellin’ with you to the area of Kellynch. We’re a little late, so don’t be alarmed as I try to make up the time.” The driver slammed the door, and the coach shook as he mounted.

  The ladies smiled as Wentworth nodded an acknowledgement. The older of the two ventured to speak: “Well now, a captain. That is a rank of real responsibility. I have a nephew in a regiment in the north, and he is forever sayin’ how the captains are the backbone of the army.”

  The younger woman leant close and spoke to the other. Wentworth was certain she said something to the effect that the nephew had said “backside.” While he loathed agreeing with a lobster on any point, it was an opinion of with which he could find no fault.

  “I’m sure your nephew would know better, for I am a captain in the Royal Navy.”

  Each lady’s eyes widened and he anticipated the usual naïve questions that, as a rule, followed this disclosure. When each emitted an “oh” that was less than enthusiastic, he was a bit shocked. It was not the customary response of those on land, particularly ladies.

  “Well, I suppose riding in boats is enjoyable enough, and that the Navy has its compensations.” The ladies smiled and nodded in unison. Then the younger offered, “I am sure it was exciting to see the Emperor.”

  Again, he was puzzled, and just as he was about to ask for an explanation, the elder said, “The papers say he is amazingly short. Is he really such a little man?” Both leant slightly forward in anticipation of his answer. He had seen this before in those ignorant of the Navy. Many had a notion that the entire Navy sailed the seas as one large armada and that they all took part in every battle and hence, knew every bit of gossip.

  “Uh, I have no idea. I have never seen the Emperor Buonaparte. I was on a mission far west in the Atlantic when he was captured.” The information excited nothing more than a glum, “Oh,” from each of them as they sank back into their seat. It was time to retreat to the safety of his newspaper. “If you ladies will excuse me, I think I will catch up on my reading.”

  Reading turned to dozing, and he awoke to: “…and so I set her straight, I did. A rector’s wife’s got no business puttin’ on airs and suchlike. ‘Another new dress,’ I said. And her reply was that her mother had sent her enough for the dress and the bonnet as well. I told her, bein’ the wife of a deacon myself, that her lack of humility was a bad example and that it would reflect poorly on her husband should word get back to the bishop.”

  The conversation between the two women had obviously carried on without pause for breath since Monkford. Returning to a story in the paper concerning a local trial, which was characterized as sensational, he determined that life in small English villages was no different from life aboard a King’s ship. Both societies featured gossip and backbiting, merriment and times of crisis.

  The carriage jostled to a stop. “Crewkherne,” called the driver. The riders up top hallooed those come to greet them and removed themselves. The thudding of crates and bags hitting the ground mixed with the calls of the carriage crew as they took on freight and new customers. The ladies kept talking. The door opened and he expected they would be admitting someone new, but it was merely the driver.

  “We’ll be takin’ a detour to Uppercross. Picked up a package for Mr. Robertson and need to see it in his hands right away.” Without waiting for a response, he slammed the door.

  The name of the village rang familiar, an
d it immediately raised a feeling of unease. Sophia had mentioned it in her letter. Cudgelling his travel-weary brain he tried to remember what she had said.

  “Well, I never! Let the apothecary see to his own packages, my daughter is expectin’ me at the fingerpost. Her husband won’t like her havin’ to wait alone. Course if he’da come with her…” After savaging her son-in-law, the woman turned her kind ministrations on the local poulterer’s sad lack of knowledge when it came to cutting up game birds. Wentworth pulled the letter from his pocket, determined to know what his sister had said about the place.

  Dear Frederick,

  In my last letter I told you of our search for a home in the country of Somerset. You will be glad to learn we have found the most perfect place. The countryside is beautiful and the house is, I am almost embarrassed to say, truly a mansion. It is the family seat of a Sir Walter Elliot…

  He could never get past this line of the letter without recalling the day he had gone to request the honour of Anne’s hand in marriage. The first reaction of the prating, preening fool had been shock. It was never clear whether the Baronet was surprised Wentworth would dare ask or that anyone would wish to marry his second daughter. When the shock was passed, the older man had taken the time to explain to “Lieutenant Wentworth” that if he cherished hopes of “profiting” by marriage to an Elliot, all that should be put aside. Nothing monetary would be done for the pair. The silly ass did not even have the common courtesy to face Frederick like a well-bred gentleman but spent the whole of the insulting harangue preening before a mirror over the fireplace.