A Captain of Consequence
Westham Chronicles, Volume 2
Rachel Osborne
Published by Rachel Osborne, 2019.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
A CAPTAIN OF CONSEQUENCE
First edition. June 26, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Rachel Osborne.
Written by Rachel Osborne.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Also by Rachel Osborne | Regency Historical Fiction
About the Author
Chapter One
“Do not even try to blame your poor performance on your horse, Devereaux!” Captain Arthur Sudbury called, as his own steed put on a burst of speed drew level with his friend, Sir Benjamin Devereaux. “Look to your left!”
“My left?” Devereaux turned his head, relinquishing his tight hold on the reins for a moment as he did so and allowing Arthur to pass him easily on his right to sail, laughing, across the boundary they had pre-determined as the finishing line for their impromptu race across an empty field in Westham.
“There! I am the victor!” Arthur called, tugging on his reins and commanding his horse to slow and turn to face his opponent.
“You are a cheat,” Devereaux grumbled.
“And you are ever graceful in defeat.” Arthur made a lazy salute towards his friend. “And so we are even.” He leant down, brushing his horse’s neck in reward and silently promising to order an extra serving of oats upon their return to Roland Park, the home of his friend and soon-to-be brother-in-law.
“I do not see why you must speak of everything in terms of victory and defeat,” Devereaux remarked, as the two men slowed their horses to a walk.
“Why must I?” Arthur laughed. “Well, it keeps life interesting does not it?”
“If you had lived as interesting a life as I have, Sudbury, you might be happy to simply enjoy a little peace and quiet now and then.”
“You speak as if you were three decades my senior! Tell me, ought you to be riding, still, at so advanced an age, or shall I fetch you a chair? Perhaps a pipe and rug while I am at it?”
His gentle mocking earned him a scowl, but he did not mind it. He knew Devereaux’s moods and took great delight in teasing his friend. Since Devereaux’s engagement to Arthur’s sister Amelia a few short weeks earlier the two gentlemen had become firm friends. He had not expected to find the fellow so engaging, having heard more than he cared to know of Devereaux’s rumoured misdeeds and rakish reputation before his return to Westham. Happily, the very worst was a fabrication, and Arthur found the two shared a great deal in common. It was good to have so amiable a friend in the small town he called home.
“I am surprised to find you so easy to waste an afternoon riding with me, Sudbury,” Devereaux remarked. “Do you not prefer to spend your hours paying homage at the shrine of Miss Hardcastle?” His eyes flashed with amusement. “Or does she tire of your affections so soon?”
“She is otherwise engaged this afternoon,” Arthur remarked with a grin. “And you may mock me all you wish, Devereaux. I shall not be so easily goaded into embarrassment over my feelings. I do not conceal them as you do, for I have always valued frankness and shall never be put to shame for feeling as I feel.” He tilted his head back, lifting his cheeks to the bright winter sun. “I cared for her once, long ago, and now that I have earned both fortune and distinction I may put my suit to her at last, and trust that she might accept it.”
“And has she?” Devereaux asked, an amused smile tugging at his lips. His friend’s innocence was endearing, but he was not above seeing him brought to his senses by a rejection or two along the path to true love. “For I presume, with all your espousing the virtue of honesty and frankness, the first words from your lips upon your meeting again were a profession of love and a proposal of marriage?”
Arthur said nothing.
“Aha! And so it seems that frankness is not the only virtue to which Captain Arthur Sudbury clings to. You are prudent enough to wait for an opportune moment in which to speak, at least. To allow the lady a little time to know you first. Wise, indeed.”
“Frankness does not mean folly, my dear Devereaux,” Arthur declared, colouring a little at this detailed dissection of his plan to charm Miss Emily Hardcastle and win her for his own, at last. He did not speak often of matters of the heart and had Devereaux not become so recently engaged himself he would not have trusted his friend with such intimacy. He cleared his throat. “But let us not talk so much of romance. That is for drawing rooms and parlours and the company of ladies.” He grimaced. “I am eager for exercise, and this is the first fine day we have had in close to a week. We do not all have a house as grand as yours to prowl when we are forced to keep indoors. Come, let us race again. You deserve one last chance to beat me and return home with your reputation at least a little intact.” He pointed towards a tree-lined fence in the distance, identifying a large, twisted oak. “Let us make that our marker. I do not suppose you care to make the race interesting?”
Devereaux rolled his eyes.
“I know you do not. You shore up your savings for a home of your own, do you not?”
“Very well,” Arthur said, good-naturedly. “I shall allow the dread Devereaux to minister to my better nature. There, I am sure you never once expected to hear those words uttered with regards to yourself when you returned to Westham. Come, let us race. On the count of three. One...two...”
“Three!” Devereaux declared, clicking his heels into his horse and darting into motion, taking the lead from the off.
“Hey!” Arthur protested, hurrying after him. “Now who is a cheat?” He clutched tight hold of his reins, his eyes eschewing his competitor to fix on the horizon. He could beat his friend again if he focused, and focus he would.
Would you not rather spend your hours paying homage at the shrine of Miss Hardcastle? Arthur grimaced, gripping the reins tighter and urging his horse faster, faster on. Devereaux teased him, but it was not groundless. He had devoted hours - too many, perhaps – to planning how things might tumble out upon his return to Westham. He had left in obscurity but promised himself that when he returned, victorious and wealthy, the beautiful Miss Emily Hardcastle would have no reason to refuse him. He had called on their home a few times, claiming to renew his old acquaintance with Mr Edward Hardcastle, but that was only partly the truth. He wished to show that gentleman how he had changed in the time he had been away. He was no longer young Arthur Sudbury, skinny and slight, filled with promises of the greatness he would one day win. He had won it and returned from the navy with rank and fortune all his own. That would surely open the door that Emily’s father had firmly closed upon Arthur’s quest for his daughter’s hand five years previously. His argument then had been that the pair were too different. Emily was a gentleman’s daughter, well-bred and distinguished, and with a dowry that could not be matched in all of Westham. Arthur Sudbury was nought but a sailor’s son. That Arthur’s father was no mere sailor but an admiral counted for little i
n the eyes of worldly Mr Hardcastle, so Arthur had been determined to prove his own merits. And he had done so. He had lost many an evening to dreaming of his glorious return, with all the honour and prestige he had hoped to secure, and Mr Edward Hardcastle clasping his hand warmly in his own, granting him not only permission but his own hearty blessing in marrying Emily. It had not happened yet, but by God, it would. Arthur was not so easily dissuaded from his prize.
“Come, Arthur!” Devereaux’s shout carried on the wind. “Or are your winning days behind you?”
“I am merely biding my time!” Arthur declared, feeling his heart buoyed by the sentiment that could apply to more than mere horse-racing. “Hold on to your hat, Devereaux, for I am about to knock it off your fat head!”
DON’T MOVE.
Grace Hardcastle wasn’t sure whether she was addressing herself or the tiny robin she had spotted, perched happily on the outer reaches of a tree branch. Grace wasn’t so much perched happily but rather balanced precariously. She held her breath, shifting her weight a little, and propping her leather sketching cover on the branch before her. She worked quickly, sketching out the form of the bird in charcoal. First, its head, tilted inquisitively to one side. Then its breast, its soft red feathers fluffed up against the cold. She must remember that colour for when she returned home, and perhaps try to match it in paint. Then its wings, closing so perfectly as if they had been hewn from two halves of one unique whole.
Her father and mother would both have despaired had they been permitted to know what their younger daughter had devoted her afternoon to. Not content with walking, or propping up an easel and painting the view, as her few artistic friends would have been, Grace had wished for a literal change of perspective, clambering up into the limbs of the sturdy oak tree that bordered the outer edges of her father’s estate and waiting. She had settled into this particular branch – or others like it - often enough that she knew she would not need to wait long before her subject revealed itself to her. Occasionally she was visited by an inquisitive squirrel or a bird or two. If not, there was usually a spectacularly detailed leaf or even a mystery of clouds that she could appreciate far better through the spider-web of tree branches than she ever would have from the ground. She was a detailed artist, choosing charcoal and ink over the vague, impressionistic water-colours of her friends. It had earned her several scowls from her drawing master, who had, at last, refused to teach her any longer, throwing what could only be described as a tantrum at her last lesson when she had haphazardly splashed watercolours onto a canvas and called it done within a few minutes. Your daughter is a menace, Mr Hardcastle! the pretentious little man had declared, his vaguely European accent making his words difficult to decipher. He had raised his hands to the heavens, railing against Grace’s numerous failings. She takes no instruction. She is more interested in the lines on one hand than on the skill of portraiture. She will never be a great artist, and I fear you are wasting your money in continuing to pay for a teacher!
Grace sniffed, caring little for the opinion of a man who had never even exhibited a single work of his own. She would continue as she chose. And if she found interest in small details, then what was the matter with that? There were a thousand tiny glimpses of beauty that the average person overlooked because they did not pause long enough to notice them. Grace squinted, seeing the sparkle of light in the perfect obsidian rounds of this robin’s eyes. What are you thinking, sir? she silently asked him as she tried to capture the precise glimmer before he spotted her and was startled into flight.
The branch creaked beneath her and the bird moved his head. Grace held her breath, not daring to move lest branch or bird give way and ruin her moment of close study. Her robin soon relaxed, hoping a little further along the branch but not launching into flight, as she had feared. She let out a low sigh, the branch holding true beneath her. She moved as delicately as she could, selecting a fresh sheet of paper. From this angle, she had a far better view of the intricacies of shade in the robin’s red breast. She wished she had brought her paints with her so that she might manage to recreate it, but the thought of trying to juggle paints and brushes as well as her papers whilst balanced as precariously as she was at present made her smile and the branch creaked still more nerve-rackingly beneath her. She swallowed, sketching a little more quickly and feeling certain she would be forced to abandon her perch before too much longer. At least she could master her robin first and then have something useful to show for her afternoon’s work.
“There!” she whispered, making a final touch to the light drawing. The bird tilted its head toward her as if he cared to see his likeness and she smiled, seeing her own face reflected in his tiny dark eyes. “You care to see my work, I suppose,” she continued, in a muted whisper. “Well, Mr Robin, I fear it would make you fly away, and neither of us wishes for that. Thank you for posing for me. You are an undeniably generous subject.” Her thoughts strayed to her sister, who had long ago tired of being forced to sit still while Grace sketched. You never make one look at all pretty, Grace. I think you do it deliberately, exaggerating one’s ugliest features and turning one into a caricature of oneself. I certainly shall not sit still for you to mock me like that any more!
Grace swallowed, delicately folding her papers into their leather case, and slipping her brushing down her skirts, which had collected all manner of leaves and bark fragments during her time in the tree. The movement startled the bird and he flew away, catching Grace’s eye with the flutter of his wings.
“Goodbye, Mr Robin!” she said, in something like her normal tone of voice. She wriggled backwards down the branch towards the safety of the great oak tree’s trunk, beginning, now that her task was complete, to consider the predicament of quite how she might manage to get down to the ground. Before she could conceive of turning around, though, a shout from below and the thunder of horses’ hooves reached her ear. She flinched, sending her leather case tumbling and she reached out instinctively to catch it. This was her error, for it shifted her weight so dramatically that her posture could not be righted, and the branch tired of holding itself under her. There was a creak, a crack and then a cry as she, art case, branch and all tumbled painfully to the ground below.
Chapter Two
“I see you win, this time. I - good heavens!”
Arthur so fiercely on his horse’s reins that the animal reared up and would have thrown him, had he not known how to counter the motion and bring all four of the horse’s hooves back to the ground whilst keeping himself in his saddle.
A body had fallen from the sky - no, from the tree. The large oak tree that stood but a few feet in front of them. Dismounting hurriedly, he left his horse for Devereaux to collect and hurried to the hedgerow, fearing the worst.
“Hello? Are you - Grace?” He recognised the figure almost as soon as she recognised his voice and scampered to her feet. She did not manage to stand for even a moment, though, before letting out a bone-chilling whimper of pain and collapsing back into the dirt.
“Miss Grace Hardcastle!” Arthur kept his voice light and teasing, but he could not entirely keep his concern at bay. “What are you doing climbing trees?”
“I was not climbing a tree!” she muttered, with an imperious toss of the head. “I was sketching, and I - I - fell.”
“Indeed you did!”
Devereaux had dismounted his own horse, tying both animals by their reins at the fence post and hurrying to Arthur’s side.
“Can we be of service, Miss -?” He eyed Arthur.
“Miss Grace Hardcastle,” Arthur murmured, leaning down and helping the poor wretch to her feet. “Miss Hardcastle’s younger sister.”
“Ah, yes.” Devereaux nodded, stiffly. “I see the resemblance.”
Arthur glanced at Grace, askance. Resemblance? Her brown curls were a birds’ nest, even before her fall from the tree, and her plain grey dress bore all the scars of her scrape, covered in mud and leaf mulch that she tried to haphazardly brush away. Her grip
on his arm tightened painfully and his appraisal became concern.
“Can you stand?”
She shook her head, white and tight-lipped. Hesitating only a moment, Arthur lifted her into his arms, so that he carried her whole weight. She wriggled momentarily, pointing desperately towards the ground.
“My papers!” she spluttered.
Arthur shot a look at his companion, who stepped forward and retrieved the leather case, holding it up for Grace’s perusal.
“Your papers?”
“Grace is an artist,” Arthur remarked, his voice strained. He shifted her weight in his arms until it was distributed a little more comfortably. “Although why you saw fit to climb a tree in order to prove it, I do not know.” He wobbled and began to walk towards the Hardcastle estate. “Devereaux, bring it, won’t you? I fear Miss Grace will mourn its loss far more than she will the damage to her dress.” His voice lowered. “Or herself.”
“I am alright!” Grace maintained, adopting that same imperious look she had worn at ten years old. It became her rather more at this age, Arthur thought, her green eyes flashing with irritation. “I fell a little heavily on my ankle, that is all.”
“We shall see if that is all once you are home,” Arthur remarked, increasing his pace and fearing the damage might yet be worse than his protesting bundle claimed. “No doubt your mother will wish to judge for herself and perhaps send for a doctor.”
“I shall not need -”
“Best not to argue with him, Miss Grace,” Devereaux’s low voice rumbled behind Arthur. “I have it on good authority he’ll not let the matter drop until he is the victor.”
Arthur could hear the wry smile in his friend’s voice and let out a sigh, not trusting his hold on Grace to be steady enough to risk turning to glare at him.
“Come along, Grace. It will all be well, you’ll see!” he declared cheerfully, glancing down into her upturned features with a smile. Her eyes, which had been fixed on him, darted away as he soon as he looked at her and his heart went out to her. Surely she must be in a good deal of pain and unwilling to admit it to him. She was braver than some of the sailors under him had been, who wept and wailed at the tiniest wound.
A Captain of Consequence (Westham Chronicles, #2) Page 1
