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

by Susan Kaye

  Henrietta broke the gaze and said, “It is awfully cold out here.” She chaffed her bare arms.

  Louisa began to unfasten her cloak. “Here, take this…”

  He touched her hand, and said, “No, keep yourself warm. Allow me.” Pulling his coat from his shoulders, he placed it on Henrietta’s shivering frame. She pulled it close and thanked him sweetly. “No matter who noticed my absence, I am now found out. Let us head back and join the party.” Offering each lady an arm, they began to pick their way through the darkness.

  The evening was beginning to lose momentum, and the young ladies debated how it might be saved. The Miss Musgroves suggested an impromptu concert, all the ladies presenting an entertainment.

  “Very well for you, Henrietta and Louisa, for I am sure you have done little but practice,” one of the Hayter ladies said. The scheme was roundly rejected, and it was made clear that they wished more of the evening than singing an occasional song and making up the audience. The elder Mrs. Musgrove agreed that compelling the Captain to sit through a second concert in just a handful of days would be very bad manners. The alternative she suggested was dancing.

  This was greeted with a great deal of enthusiasm from both families. Wentworth enjoyed dancing and looked forward to the activity. Even before the men were called to move the furniture, nearly the entire assembly turned, en masse, to the sofa where Anne sat.

  “You will play of course, Anne?” asked Mrs. Musgrove.

  A faint smile came to Anne’s lips. She nodded and went to the piano. As he watched her take her seat at the bench, he knew everyone was quite accustomed to this arrangement. With her tacit consent, the room burst into a flurry of activity. Footmen gathered vases, candlesticks, and glasses while others moved furniture, and a third group rolled up the carpet.

  “Sets me to mind of a well-ordered clear-for-action,” the Admiral said, as he, too, observed. Sophia joined them, reminding her husband that the last time they had danced was on board the ship leading the convoy from the East Indies.

  “Remember, dear, there was a storm coming in and the deck was pitching more and more as the evening progressed.”

  “Aye, one had to be careful, else you wound up with the wrong partner.”

  “Or worse, a broken leg,” she said, a bit of fun in her voice.

  “And such proves my case concerning ladies on ships. No woman should be expected to dance in the midst of a blow.” Wentworth smiled at his sister, and before she could respond to the jibe, he walked away.

  A table with refreshments had been tucked into a far corner. He worked his way through the crush of aunts, uncles, cousins, sisters, and brothers to pour himself a cup of punch. He helped himself to a biscuit. The slightly bittersweet tang delighted him. Finding any sweets made with arrack was always a pleasure, but especially so in the wilds of Somerset. Dipping another in his punch, he enjoyed the commingling of tastes and softening texture of the crumbs. His enjoyment was cut short when he realised he was staring at the piano, and that he had no other desire but to watch Anne.

  The young ladies were crowded around her, making their requests for particular pieces of music to be played. One or two of the young ladies merely thrust sheets at her, while others casually dropped them on the keyboard. The party expected her to play, and she would accomplish it well. Wentworth knew her talent was more than up to the task and that her keen sense of responsibility would not allow her to disappoint. Anne would play and comfort herself with the notion that she was giving pleasure to everyone—if not to herself.

  In the summer of the year ’06, as they were becoming acquainted, it had pleased him a great deal to see that Anne was most accomplished on the dance floor. She knew all the steps perfectly, and she had the ability to make even an unsure partner feel extraordinarily confident. Besides, she was the most beautiful woman any man could partner with. He could not help being aware that when they danced, people were drawn to watch. The envious looks of other men had given him immense satisfaction.

  The party had been dancing for nearly an hour when a break for refreshments was called. Standing near the punch bowl, he again watched her. She stood there amidst the younger women, speaking only when spoken to, which was very little. He could tell she was observing them over the rim of her cup, not joining them in the spirit of the evening. When she moved to join his sister and Mrs. Musgrove, again she was amongst them only in body, not in mind or spirit.

  “You are a very good dancer, Captain.” Louisa joined him at his little outpost.

  “Thank you. I enjoy dancing. It is one of the few civilized pleasures sailors might indulge on board ship.”

  She laughed heartily. “But, since you allow no ladies on your ship, do the men dance with one another?” Her eyes were full of mischief and begged him to join her in the fun of the tease.

  “Certainly not, Miss Musgrove. We have instruments—tin pipes mostly—but the occasional fiddle comes along. And in the evening, the men gather on deck and take their turns at jigs and fancy steps from whatever part of the world they hail from. Again, Miss Louisa, I must remind you that we are not savages.”

  “And you drink your tea in a fine bone china cup and watch your men. Do you ever dance, Captain?”

  It was her audacious question that made him picture himself on the capstan, like one of his men, dancing a jig. It was vulgar and hilarious at the same time. “No, Miss, I do not dance on board ship, aside from the rare ball. And that is why I am enjoying myself so much this evening.”

  “What sort of music do the men play?”

  “Canty tunes and shanties. Sometimes hymns. But they do not, of course, dance to hymns.”

  She caught him by the sleeve. “Show me,” she said, taking him to the piano. He glanced about and saw that Anne was occupied with his sister and Mrs. Musgrove.

  After a few moments of trying to hum a tune for her to pick out on the keyboard, he took the seat himself and plucked at the keys. When he looked towards Anne, she looked on the whole scene with what seemed to be amusement. It was then he noticed that her sister and the young Hayters were joining them.

  The tune was quite familiar to him, and he wondered why he was having difficulty with it. After several tries, he succeeded in remembering the fingering and played the short tune completely. The ladies applauded and proclaimed him a wonder. It was ridiculous that such petty accomplishments were greeted with such adulation. It was also ridiculous that he enjoyed the attention so much.

  “Perhaps we should have you play for the next set,” Henrietta said.

  Turning to answer her, he could not help but notice Anne standing off to one side watching them. Her colour was much improved and her posture indicated that the weariness had lessened. There was an obvious softness about her face. Her eyes were brighter than earlier in the evening, and a trace of a smile graced the once pale lips.

  Glancing about, the young ladies were awaiting a clever reply. “I don’t think that wise. Only one music teacher has ever been able to penetrate this thick head of mine. The time was short and these, unfortunately, are the only bits of music I am able to play.” It was all he was able to muster under the circumstances.

  Her smile had grown a bit and he thought he knew why. His reply came extraordinarily close to telling the group that it was Anne who had taught him how to play the selections in the first place.

  That summer, it had taken some time for them to become acquainted. After being introduced, they gazed at one another across one or two crowded rooms. Finally working up the nerve, he approached her to ask for a dance. Her warm acceptance bolstered his opinion that she was quick and intelligent and a good judge of character. After that first dance, her attentions were paid to others only as far as it would keep the two of them from being the topic of gossip in the neighbourhood. He cared nothing about such trivial matters but understood she knew the lay of the land and was determined that nothing untoward might travel back to the ears of her father.

  The acquaintance between them grew
quickly and, he was certain, was becoming more serious. It was only a fortnight or so before he was speaking of their association extending beyond his time in Somerset. While she was always quick to point out the difficulties and dangers of carrying on such a relationship, her expressions all said that she looked forward to it.

  Nothing was yet declared between them, but he was continually feeling the tug. Every meeting was sweet and anxious at the same time. Every meeting was an exercise in strategy. The problem was age-old: how to be as close to her as possible without rousing the suspicions of the entire neighbourhood.

  It was a happy accident that brought the two of them to the piano bench. She had been curious about a tune he occasionally hummed. He told her as much as he knew about its origin, and it was she who suggested an experiment. For some time, at a party much like this, they sat side-by-side while he hummed to her various snatches of songs; and she transposed them to the keyboard. Her natural talent and acute ear for pitch could not help but impress him.

  But it was more than her musical talent that had excited his feelings for Anne Elliot. The room had been warm with early summer, and it was then he first noticed her scent. Like most proper young women, she smelled of roses or lavender. When they passed one another while dancing or walking together, he would catch an occasional whiff of sweet flowers. As the night went on, he still noticed the occasional scent of lavender but fused with something richer, deeper; something not born of flowers. Whatever it was, he knew it was a little wild and conjured in him both desire and attachment. There was a creeping certainty that he would do whatever was necessary to have her for his own.

  Laughter and a gentle nudge to his arm brought him back to the present. Looking about, he saw Anne standing closer, just outside the little circle of young ladies. He had to leave. He stood and said, “I beg your pardon, this is your seat.” It had been a delicious torture to be seated next to her on that bench long ago, but now the stark recollection threatened to sink him.

  Stepping back and motioning towards the bench, she said, “Please, Captain, continue with your songs.”

  To remain in her presence and continue at a diversion that started with her years ago was, of course, impossible. Taking a cup offered by one of the Hayter ladies, he said, “No, Miss, this was just some idle foolishness, nothing serious at all.” Without looking back, he walked off to search out something stronger to drink.

  In short order, the next set began. Anne was back in her place. The particular dance was neither long nor very interesting and when they had finished, he asked, “Will Miss Elliot play the entire evening? Surely she will want to dance as well.”

  Henrietta answered: “Oh! No, never; she has quite given up dancing. She had rather play. She is never tired of playing.”

  As kind as the Musgroves were to him, it was obvious they were caught up in their own enjoyment. To anyone really looking at her, Anne was, indeed, tired of playing. The colour and softness of the previous hour were gone. In their place was a pale fatigue and discrete stretching to loosen tired muscles. She began again to play, and he turned back to his partner and the dance, hoping to put away stray thoughts of her aching muscles giving way to the gentle pressure of his hands.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Frederick Wentworth had little use for dreams. Neither grand aspirations of future accomplishments nor meddlesome, fantastical visions that deprived one of needed sleep. Of the first he thought very little. Having one’s head in the clouds and wishing for a brilliant future would never replace personal exertions, sacrifice, and the willingness to shed blood when necessary. He considered the second to be no more than a variant of the first, run riot. He had come to this opinion shortly after taking command of the Asp.

  In a brilliantly coloured, heart-thumping dream of facing a frigate treble Asp’s size, he manfully climbed to the tip of the foremast, boarding axe in hand, dagger between his teeth, and jumped onto the deck of the enemy ship. He barely hit the boards before he was on his feet, hacking and slaying everyone in sight. It was a laughable idea that after such a momentous leap he would have possessed fewer than a dozen uncrushed bones and killed more than a hundred men single-handedly. Having sole command of a ship and working through the mundane and tiresome chores connected to that responsibility soon pounded out of him such romantic notions. The only other dreams he had involved the opposite sex. He never saw their faces, but more often than he cared to name, these cunning and provocative sleep thieves caused him to awaken frustrated and angry.

  This morning he woke with neither pleasant visions of the future nor a decent night’s rest. The dancing at the Musgroves’ had gone on very late. The elder couple had retired at an early hour, but not before ordering that a generous collation be served so all might renew themselves. By the time he and Sophia and the Admiral had reached Kellynch, it was nearly two in the morning. After turning in, he had dozed lightly and dreamed constantly.

  In the first dream, all the ladies of Uppercross were dancing but none of the gentlemen. In fact, he was certain he was the only gentleman present and that he was merely an observer. This seemed to go on for a long time, but when he woke and looked at the clock, barely an hour had passed. The next dream began the same way, but this time all the ladies were Louisa or Henrietta Musgrove. There seemed to be dozens of women, but no matter which face he looked into, only the younger of the two smiled back at him. This dream did continue awhile. Upon awaking, he saw that the hands of the clock had moved an hour-and-a-half. The most exasperating part of these dreams was that Anne Elliot played the music he heard in the background.

  In life one could suspect that a certain thing was true. In dreams one knew to the core of his being that something was true, even without the slightest bit of support. He saw no face, he saw no instrument, but he knew the fingers that played the notes. After putting some order to his scattered thoughts, he got up, looked out the window, took a drink of water, and returned to his bed. “Enough of this,” he muttered. His body cried out for real sleep, and as he settled himself, it was with the consolation that he was not required to rise early to duty, or shooting, or anything of consequence.

  Out of the blissful nothing, he sensed her presence. His dream eyes were closed, but he knew there was no one else to see. She encompassed him little by little—a laugh, the thrill of her hand in his, the warmth of her next to him when they rode in his brother’s gig. He gave in to the sights and sounds and sensations of their short, barren engagement.

  Her kisses were insistent, though soft and gentle, and he could not help but respond in kind. His lips were equally resolute in their exploration. He wished to reach out and touch her soft cheeks and neck, take her hair down and feel the silken strands caress his hands. Most of all, he longed to take her in his arms and, pulling her to his chest, make her part of himself. But, there was no holding or touching save the kisses.

  The sweetness went on and on. The frustration went on and on as well. She was just out of his grasp and there was no relief. Each caress of her lips became its own delightful, taunting agony. Feeling her move away, cool air troubled his lips left warm by her touch.

  He could now, in the dream, open his eyes. The scene that greeted him was of Anne, moving farther and farther from him. Her expression was passive. She was neither glad to leave him, nor did she plead to stay. He could not even be sure her look was directed at him. Soon, she vanished completely into whiteness, and he awoke.

  He stared at the gathered fabric forming the canopy over the bed; the orderly, symmetric folds stood in stark contrast to his ragged breathing and blighted pleasure. It was not the physical discomfort that bothered him most; it was the deep and abiding disappointment that greeted him. He’d not felt it so deeply in years, and this morning he felt for all the world as if he’d had the breath knocked out of him.

  It was not the first time this spectral Anne had visited him. The very first time he fell asleep after she broke their engagement, this was the dream that haunted him. The first few
months after leaving Somerset, the dream had followed him. It diminished with time, but regardless how few the occurrences, it caused a bitter waking.

  Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to drift back into the dream. No sooner was the delight of her re-established, than the door opened and the smell of coffee told him Harkness had arrived.

  She vanished immediately and, though the scent of the brew was delicious, he considered whether a simple flogging or the more barbarous keelhauling would be an appropriate punishment for the interruption.

  The sounds of water pouring into the basin and a tray being set on the table told Wentworth that Harkness had a helper this morning. The sound of the strop was overlaid by the sound of the curtains sliding open. The room brightened noticeably. While Harkness was proving to be an accomplished valet, the open curtains would never do.

  “Leave them,” the Captain said. The clink of the rings on the rod accompanied the returning darkness. There was a moment of silence.

  He heard the distinctive ting of crockery touching. Hushed whispers followed. Footsteps to the door could be heard.

  “Shall I pour you a cup, sir?”

  “No. Not now.”

  “Shall I leave, sir?”

  “Please do.”

  There was more silence after the door clicked shut.

  Try as he might, the dream and the agreeable feelings it had engendered would not return. Just as she invaded his mind and upset the peace he worked so relentlessly to maintain, Harkness had broken the spell with his coffee and hot water. The dream was depressing for it was a vivid reminder of how she had used him and then moved coldly away from him. It would seem that in nearly nine years, nothing had changed.

  He rose, determined to be doing something. Brooding was not his way and would not become so now. Fastening his stock he lectured himself on self-discipline and the importance of taking command of one’s mind. He suspected the lecture would become a regular part of his dressing regimen. The small and unvaried society of Uppercross and Kellynch would afford him no means of avoiding her company. Suddenly, he was famished. The late dinner and the collation at midnight convinced his stomach that it should be full constantly.