A Royal Likeness

by Christine Trent

  Not even at Darden’s insistence, if he was even still alive.

  26

  “Sir, I insist that I’m not deserving of this honor.” Darden stood at attention in Captain Hardy’s quarters, where his superior was dashing off multiple memoranda, letters, and ship’s log entries at his writing table, which had been placed back in the center of his cabin once they were through the worst of the storm.

  “Nonsense, Hastings. Your quick thinking preserved Nelson for us a little longer, and was absolute brilliance in drawing fire away from the other men until we could get our bearings after our ships collided. The nation is grateful. A promotion to post captain is the least that can be done. That will entitle you to a medal, and a greater share of prize money, too.” Hardy added his signature to a document before him and scratched some notes on a page already filled with scribbles. “Although I admit that I would have never thought to bring those silly figures topside prior to anything happening to Nelson or me.”

  Darden continued to stare straight ahead, his mind awhirl at the reward being given to him. He’d no thought of promotion when he boarded Victory to chase down the French and Spanish. He needed time to think about how such a promotion would affect his other crucial work.

  More importantly, what will Marguerite think?

  “Sir, it was my duty to help England win this war, and I’m thankful that I could be present for her glorious triumph.”

  “And you did your duty. Thank you, Lieutenant. By the way, Collingwood is sending Pickle back right away with the news of our victory and our unfortunate loss of Nelson. I’ll have the schooner drawn up alongside Victory to pick up mail and some other papers. See to it that Mrs. Ashby is aboard Pickle, will you? No sense keeping the poor woman on board any longer than we have to. It’s too bad she can’t be counted as crew. For her work with the wax figures and her clear head down in the orlop, the woman deserves promotion to captain as well.” Hardy laughed at his own joke.

  Darden knew his grin was foolish, but he couldn’t help it. “I’ll be sure to extend your felicitations, Captain.”

  “Right. Now in the meantime we need to repair Victory as best we can. I’d say she’s been very much mauled, eh? I want you to ensure she’s got enough mast to get us home.”

  Darden saluted again and departed, still amazed by his stroke of good fortune.

  He sought Marguerite out at the first opportunity to tell her of her impending transfer and Hardy’s admiration of her. She blushed prettily and demurred at the captain’s praise.

  “But I was there, Marguerite, and saw with my own two eyes what you did. You’ll not play modest with me.” He brought his scarred hand up and cradled her cheek. Marguerite closed her eyes and brought her own hand up to cover his, running her palm over the weals and hardened tissue.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? An old injury.” He pulled his hand away, but she held fast to it, bringing it to her lips and kissing it gently. She used the fingers of her other hand to trace the raised ridges down around his hand and alongside his little finger.

  “But how did it happen?”

  “A foolish accident, really. I managed to get burned while assisting with the firing of a cannon at the Battle of Cape St. Vincent.”

  “I see. I find it hard to believe that Lieutenant Hastings would ever act foolishly in the heat of battle.” She smiled at him, lightly tapped his foot with her own, then brought his hand to her lips again, placing feathery kisses along his disfigured finger.

  The all-consuming heat that overcame him when he was around her began radiating upward from where her foot had met his. He never felt as undisciplined as he did around this splendid creature.

  And what would happen now? Was her ardor for him just a result of shared hardship? Soon she’d be aboard Pickle and returning to her previous life, whereas he had just taken the next step in his naval career and had much to accomplish that would only be complicated by a woman waiting for him.

  She must have been of the same mind, for although she still held his hand she stopped kissing it to say, “I suppose we are saying farewell now?”

  “I believe our paths are different, yes.” Was he mistaken? The brave and fierce Marguerite Ashby wasn’t about to cry, was she? The woman had not spilled a single tear since he found her in Nelson’s cabin.

  She lowered her face so he could no longer read her expression. “Yes, Lieutenant, I suppose you’re right. We’re on different paths. I’ll return to my comfortable life modeling wax with Madame Tussaud, and you’ll continue riding the high seas as a gallant officer. How many more ladies in distress will you comfort, I wonder?” She looked up at him with a smile, but tears were running down her face.

  He knew he shouldn’t, but Darden folded her in his arms one last time, the unwanted heat be damned.

  Brax’s grin at his good news also bordered on idiotic.

  “Lieutenant Selwyn, I have a special assignment for you,” said Admiral Collingwood.

  “Sir?”

  “I need to send someone back to deliver the news about our success, and of course about our great loss, to the Admiralty Board in London. I’ve decided to send Pickle with this singular honor.” Collingwood grimaced in his chair and shifted his injured leg into a more comfortable position.

  Brax said nothing and remained impassive. This was a great honor indeed, and one that would surely result in a promotion for the lieutenant in charge of Pickle, John Lapenotière. But Lapenotière was extraordinary only in that he was so unremarkable. A feeble officer at best, he had little skill in commanding a ship. And why entrust this mission to a schooner that was the second-smallest ship in the fleet? Why not a larger frigate?

  As if reading his thoughts, the admiral said, “Lieutenant Lapenotière once saved a ship I was on, and I promised to do him a service if ever the opportunity arose. That time is now. However, although I am giving Lapenotière this mission, I’m not convinced that he has the sailing skills to return to London as quickly as possible. That is why I’ve called for you, Selwyn. Although Lapenotière will have the credit for delivering the news, I want you to have overall command of Pickle, to ensure it gets back with all speed. Assuredly, Lieutenant, the Royal Navy will be deeply indebted to you for this quiet service. I will see to it myself.”

  Brax was stunned. Would he get his promotion just by conducting a single-ship race back to England? The simplicity of it all left him speechless. Slowly, a grin stretched across his face.

  “One more thing, Lieutenant. There are prisoners aboard Pickle. I want them sent to the Revenge. You’ll also need to go around the fleet and pick up letters from men to their families. And finally, there’s a woman aboard Victory who needs to be escorted back. See to it that she returns safely. Captain Hardy asked me for this special favor.”

  Brax saluted Collingwood smartly and left the admiral’s cabin.

  He ignored his fellow officers who asked why Collingwood wanted to see him and set about preparing to transfer to the Pickle. So overjoyed was he that he sang at the top of his lungs for hours until Pickle pulled up alongside Royal Sovereign to pick him up.

  “Rule Britannia!

  Britannia rule the waves.

  Britons never,

  never, never shall be slaves.”

  Yes, Britannia ruled the waves, and Brax was now ruler of his own destiny. He didn’t need anyone else’s help. Captain Braxton Charles Selwyn. He’d have to write to his father about it the minute they landed in Portsmouth.

  Brax was anxious to begin the journey back to England. He had ensured the transfer of prisoners to Revenge, including survivors who had been picked up from the French ship Achille, which exploded late in the battle four days ago. Royal Sovereign was a mile away when the ship combusted, but the booming noise could be heard even over the lingering fighting going on. And of course the leaping flames drew every eye from both fleets.

  The survivors had been a sorry lot, half-naked and badly burned. But one surviv
or in particular was wearing on Brax’s nerves. This was one Jeannette, who had followed her husband on board the Achille. She lost him in the fire that raged on the ship. Unable to find him, and finding herself trapped by flames, she eventually divested herself of her clothing and tumbled into the sea through a gun port. The woman found a piece of cork and was floating there when Lapenotière and his men found her.

  Brax admitted to a certain admiration for the woman’s pluck, but the crew on board Pickle adopted her as a kind of mascot, offering her silks, muslins, stockings, and other goods they had obtained from a Spanish prize ship, so she could fashion herself a more becoming costume than the uniform a purser could provide. All the men doted on Jeannette now, to the point of neglecting their own duties.

  Why would a man lead his wife out into battle? Brax wondered in disgust. And this woman is distracting the crew beyond reason.

  Although Brax delighted in a woman’s company in almost every conceivable situation, he was most disapproving of a woman being trapped inside a man-of-war with hundreds of other men. He was happy to see the back of Jeannette as she and the other French survivors were relocated to the Revenge.

  So after the Revenge transfers, he’d led the ship around to collect as much mail as possible from other ships in the vicinity, finally stopping at Victory to pick up yet another cursed woman for the men to lavish attention on.

  He watched from topside with arms folded across his chest as the launch from Victory was winched up to Pickle. At least this was the last errand and he could finally get Lapenotière off on his mission.

  As the launch drew even with the ship and the crew helped the woman and the bags of mail onto the deck, Brax blinked in disbelief.

  It can’t be.

  But it was. He’d recognize that proud and erect carriage anywhere, even if it was clothed in a dress that belonged in a burn pile. Once she was on board with her bags around her, he strode over and stopped the sailor who was picking them up to stow.

  “I’ll assist the lady.”

  This time it was Marguerite’s turn to blink in surprise.

  “Lieutenant Selwyn? Is that really you? How wonderful! But I thought you were aboard Royal Sovereign.”

  “And I thought you were headed back to Dublin.” He lifted her rust-stained hand and put his lips to it.

  Marguerite threw back that mass of hair, still stunning even if it was a bit unkempt, and laughed.

  “Lieutenant, if I told you my story, you would never believe it.”

  “I am ready to believe anything you say, Mrs. Ashby. I insist that you have supper with me in my quarters so I can hear this amazing story.”

  And so every evening of the journey back, Brax invited Marguerite to his quarters to dine. She was weary from her ordeal, but he admired her pluck for having volunteered to stay aboard Victory to help the surgeon. Although if she had transferred to Pickle as originally planned, he’d have had her company sooner. And Darden wouldn’t have had it at all.

  She mentioned little about Lieutenant Hastings, other than to say he’d made extra effort to ensure the journey was as comfortable as possible for her, but Brax didn’t like the glow in her eyes as she said it.

  But Darden was on Victory for the foreseeable future, and the lovely Marguerite was with him here on Pickle. Their journey passed swiftly for Brax, not only because they were physically racing to shore, but because he was enthralled to have the little waxworker almost completely to himself. She gradually relaxed in his company, and soon they were bantering like old sea dogs, swapping stories about the battle and about their own personal lives. She shared with him deeply personal stories about her twice-over widowhood, and he was enthralled with her unstated bravery in both situations. Combined with what must have been a serious well of intestinal fortitude in the battle, Brax couldn’t help his high regard for Marguerite, despite his objection to women aboard ships.

  Brax loved all women in his light and easy way, but this woman was … different.

  For certain he could see why even taciturn Hastings was attracted to this woman. He was, wasn’t he? Hard to tell what was going on behind that scowling visage.

  Well, Lieutenant Hastings, you got the glory for being in the heat of battle aboard Nelson’s flagship, but I’m the one who earned a captaincy. And I also plan to win the lady’s hand. She’s more worth fighting for than a thousand French and Spanish ships.

  Within a couple of days of Marguerite’s departure, Darden was already cursing his mulishness. The importance of all his future plans seemed infantile now that Marguerite was gone. He should have done something. Offered to escort her back to Dublin. Told her he’d request a shore posting. Asked her to marry him, for heaven’s sake.

  And now it was too late. She’d forget him as soon as she returned to her old life, and some country squire would come along to claim her hand, move her to his estate, and that would be that.

  Well, there was nothing to be done for it now. Best to try to forget her, too. If Horatio Nelson could hold fast to his sense of duty until the very end, well then, so could Darden Hastings.

  PART SEVEN

  London

  27

  Portsmouth, November 4, 1805. “Sweetheart, come quickly. There’s a ship docking. It’s not big enough to be Victory, but it’s definitely a naval ship. We should be able to get some news.” William rushed into their room after taking a walk.

  Claudette dropped the letter from Marie Tussaud she was reading and scrambled to put on shoes and a bonnet. By the time she and William reached the sloop, goods and crew members were spilling out of it. To one side, an officer was already jumping into a post chaise and shouting orders for the driver to take him to London without delay.

  In no time, they heard the news from men milling about. A great triumph had been had over the French and Spanish combined fleet, yet woe to England, for their great leader, Nelson, was gone.

  “Where is Victory?” William demanded of a nearby sailor.

  “She’ll be in soon. A few weeks, maybe. She took a lot of damage and had to make a stop at Gibraltar. Torn up terrible she was.” The seaman moved on.

  Claudette trembled. “A lot of damage? What do you think that means? I can’t bear to wait weeks to know what happened, William. My nerves are frayed as it is. We must—”

  William grabbed her elbow and pointed at the gangway. “Look. Do my eyes deceive me?”

  Strolling onto land on the arm of a neatly uniformed officer was Marguerite. Her dress looked like it belonged in a charity box, but other than that, she seemed healthy and whole. She was gazing at the young officer and laughing at some joke he was telling.

  “Marguerite! Marguerite!” Claudette couldn’t help shouting across the quay like an ill-bred hoyden.

  Marguerite heard her name and turned her head to find the source of the shouting. Seeing Claudette and William standing together, she tugged on the officer’s arm and dragged him over. She dropped his arm to throw herself at them. Claudette grabbed the girl in a mix of tears, hugs, kisses, and laughter. William maintained better composure, and shook the hand of the officer.

  Claudette held the young woman out at arm’s length. “Marguerite, we’ve been frantic with worry over you. How in the world did you end up staying on Victory? Did you meet Lord Nelson? What a sight for worried eyes you are. Were you frightened much? Did you sail through the hurricane? We’ve got to get you changed into better clothes.”

  “Aunt Claudette, I’ve looked far more dreadful than this over the last few weeks, believe me. May I introduce my friend, Lieutenant Brax Selwyn, to you? Lieutenant Selwyn captained the ship that returned me home, and was very good company for my weary soul. Were you not, Lieutenant?” Marguerite looked at the officer fondly.

  “My dear Mrs. Ashby, to the contrary, it was you who provided the delightful companionship. The voyage was pure bliss with your niece aboard, Lord and Lady Greycliffe. She’s told me much about you, and she is indeed fortunate to have you waiting for her.”

>   “We thank you, Lieutenant, for taking care of our niece. We are greatly indebted to you. But now it’s time to take her home.” William was swiftly concluding the meeting.

  Marguerite offered Brax her hand, and he bent over it gallantly. “Mrs. Ashby, I do hope we have an opportunity to meet again. Will you be going straightaway to Dublin?”

  “No. I know Uncle William and Aunt Claudette will want me to spend time at Hevington, and besides, I need a rest before thinking about another sea voyage, short as it may be from Bristol to Dublin.” Actually, she didn’t plan to return to Dublin at all, and had an idea in mind for how to avoid it, but that could wait.

  “Hevington, then Dublin. I’ll remember.” He shook hands warmly with William again and walked away, whistling the national anthem.

  “Aunt Claudette, I have so much to tell you, but first I would truly like a genuine bath. One with fresh, warm water. Oh, and I have a letter to post from one of the sailors on Victory to his wife. I could have put it in Pickle’s mail bag, but I wanted to take care of it personally. I owe the poor soul that.”

  Within a week Marguerite was settled back at Hevington as though she’d never left. The servants, glad to see her so confident and in high spirits since the long-past days of her bereavement, welcomed her warmly and fussed about her constantly. The Greycliffe children were in awe of her adventurous tales, which were so fantastic they could not quite believe they were true. Little Bitty followed her around with a sketch pad and pencil to capture a drawing of their very own heroine.