by Carla Kelly
It might have been awkward then to stand there, waiting for the maid to return with his cloak and hat, except that carollers stood outside the front door. His exit from the house seemed to signal a burst of music, almost as if they were celebrating his departure from a house of mourning that he had disturbed.
They sounded quite good, harmonising on ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’, as he walked down the steps and stood beside them, digging out a few coins to give the collection. He saw many children and likely parents among that number, supplying volume where needed. He could tell from their sturdy but practical clothing that they were of the same social sphere as his friends from the mail coach. He looked at the boys, seeing them in the fleet in a few years, or marching with Sir John Moore in Spain and Portugal. He averted his gaze; it was not a pretty thought.
He shouldered his duffel again and started back the way he had come. Too bad there were no intelligent men in Kent who should have courted and married such a pretty lady as Verity Newsome.
He shook off the thought, reminding himself that he had fully discharged his duty to his second luff and bore no more responsibility for a young man gone too soon. In Plymouth he had discharged a similar duty to the widow of his carpenter’s mate. He had given her a small sum that he lied and said was Nahum Mattern’s share of prize money gone astray from a mythical fleet action in the Pacific. He had sent two letters to more remote families of able seamen, along with more prize money of a mythical source. He had done what he could.
He counted his blessings that his frigate had only lost four men at Trafalgar. He knew the butcher’s bill was much higher on the ships of the line that did the actual fighting. He didn’t envy those captains.
He stood in the shadow of trees a short distance from the Newsome house until the last strains of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ died away in the cold air. He knew he had two weeks before reporting to London for Admiral Nelson’s funeral, without a single clue how to spend leisure time. It was a foreign concept. Perhaps he could catch up on his reading.
Chapter Five
Joe enjoyed a good dinner at the Gentleman Johnny, propping a book on navigation against the water jug while he ate shepherd’s pie—two dishes—brown bread with butter—not rancid—and rice pudding with sultanas and figs. He decided against coffee.
He slept well enough, thanks entirely to a bedwarmer with just the right amount of coals in it, well wrapped in flannel. He dreamed, but of nothing more strenuous than hauling down and raising signal flags with amazing speed. Somehow—how curious was the overactive brain—the final signal was ‘brown eyes’. He woke up with a smile on his face.
* * *
Late breakfast was another pleasure: all the bacon he wanted, eggs fried so carefully that the yolks quivered, but remained intact, and toasted brown bread with plum jam. Coffee suited him, well sugared and with fresh cream, another novelty.
His scar hurt less. Too bad he did not have the name and direction of the kind lady who had pressed that jar of goose grease into his palm on the mail coach. He would have sent her a letter of thanks. Maybe in a week he could work up the nerve to clip the sutures.
He sat by the window, looking out at a slight drizzle that seemed certain to dissipate any moment. He wondered whether to stay another night to read and continue eating well, or return to Torquay and bother the shipwright about repairs.
His gaze focused on a young person, head down, cloak-enveloped, pushing towards the Gentleman Johnny. When she looked up, he recognised the young maid from the Newsomes’ home. He poured himself another half-cup of coffee and looked around when the same child approached his table and peered at him, too shy to say anything.
‘Aye, miss?’
She stepped closer, looked at the ceiling and recited, ‘I am to give you this, Captain Everest, and they will not take no for an answer.’ She held out a note.
So he was Captain Everest to a Kentish maid? Hiding a smile, he took it from her and nodded to the innkeeper. ‘Can you find some more toast and jam for this little lady?’
‘I can and will, sir. Come along to the kitchen, Susan.’
He read the note. ‘So you won’t take no for an answer?’ he asked out loud, since the inn’s dining room was empty. ‘What can have happened?’
Dear Captain Everard,
We were remiss in our hospitality to you last night. Would you return and spend a few days here? We’d like to hear stories about our son on your ship. We hope you have time to humour us.
Sincerely,
Mr and Mrs Augustus Newsome
I suppose there is a first time for everything, Joe thought, as he pocketed the note, drained the coffee cup and stood up.
To go or not to go? He had faithfully discharged his last duty to a crew member. He owed the Newsomes nothing more. He shook his head. They owed him nothing, either. Better to let the dog of duty turn around a few times, settle down and go to sleep. They would get on with their lives and he with his.
All the same, he knew he owed the Newsomes a response and it was easy enough to write one because it was the truth. While Susan ate her toast and jam, Joe procured a piece of paper and a pencil from the keep and wrote a reply there in the kitchen. He folded it and held it out to the child. ‘Take this back to the Newsomes, if you please,’ he said and took out a coin. ‘And this is for your troubles.’
His heart sank when her face fell. ‘Sir, I was supposed to bring you back,’ she said.
‘Oh, I can’t...’ he started to say, but stopped when she put down her toast and folded her arms, refusing to take the note or the coin. She was almost as tough as the men he commanded, looking him in the eyes, her gaze not wavering.
He reconsidered. What was a few days, in the larger scheme of things? ‘Very well, miss. Let me get my duffel and pay the keep, since you insist.’
She had a winning smile. ‘Finish your toast,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back.’
Upstairs, he spent one cowardly moment wondering what would happen if he refused to come downstairs. How long would she wait? Deciding such chicken-heartedness was not worthy of an officer and gentleman who had prevailed at Camperdown, the Battle of the Nile and, for God’s sake, Trafalgar, Joe bowed to the inevitable and packed his duffel. He paid the grinning landlord and joined Susan in the dining room.
‘We’d better go now, Susan,’ he told her. ‘Though we’re going to get wet.’
They did, but it wasn’t a trial, because Susan proved to be a charming companion. She had a tongue on wheels and knew something about the occupants of every cottage they passed. By the time they arrived at Chez Newsome, he knew that Mrs Buttars was due to be confined any day, Paddy Bennett liked his rum a little too well, the vicar’s sermons were so boring that several of his parishioners wagered each Sunday on whether they would exceed thirty minutes. And Millicent Overby had got herself into trouble of some sort that Miss Newsome refused to divulge.
‘I want to know what sort of trouble she is in,’ Susan concluded as the house came in sight. ‘Perhaps Miss Newsome would tell you.’
‘I’m not that brave,’ he admitted, even though he wanted to wander out of the maid’s hearing and have a good laugh.
‘But you’re Royal Navy, sir,’ the irrepressible Susan reminded him. ‘You must be a hero because you have stitches.’
He decided that logic was not her strong suit and assured her that anyone could come by stitches in the navy.
She seemed ready to argue, except that the front door opened and Miss Newsome stood there to usher them in. He still hoped that an afternoon of discussion would be enough to satisfy their curiosity about their son and brother. Long acquaintance with grief had informed him that most people needed time to turn catastrophe into acceptance.
He tried to explain this to Miss Newsome as they stood together in the hall, but she wasn’t buying it.
‘Captain Everard, my m
other wants you to stay a few days,’ she explained again in her kindly way. ‘I confess she surprised me with her request, but I assure you that Mama, once set on a course, does not usually deviate from it.’
He felt some disappointment at her answer. Somewhere in his brain in a corner not occupied by the alarms of war, he hoped the request had come from Miss Newsome, as well.
‘Please, sir.’
‘I don’t wish to upset her further,’ he hedged. He noticed that Miss Newsome had raised her hand as if to rest it on his sleeve, then lowered it. She smelled divinely of roses.
‘She will be more disappointed if you choose not to stay,’ Miss Newsome told him, then smiled. ‘Let me show you to your room, Captain.’
‘I am being managed by females,’ he protested, but mildly, as she indicated the stairs. ‘First Susan bullies me into walking here and now I must stay on pain of disappointing a lady who I was certain yesterday wished to see me no more. And here you are, looking at me with...’
Good God, someone stop me, he thought, as his neckcloth felt tighter and somehow hot. One just doesn’t blurt out ‘big brown eyes’ to an acquaintance of scarcely twenty-four hours.
To his relief, Miss Newsome laughed at his feeble diatribe. ‘You told us yesterday that you have no pressing engagements of a nautical nature, since your ship is in dry dock,’ she reminded him.
He had the good grace to know when he was defeated and capitulated, thinking of moments when it was better to salute as the ship went down. What did a few days matter?
So there he was, following a managing female up a flight of stairs and admiring her hips in motion under her dress.
I need a holiday far from here, he thought. Perhaps Constantinople or Madagascar.
She opened a door on a room that Joe knew at once must have been her brother’s. ‘Make yourself comfortable, Captain Everard,’ Miss Newsome said. ‘If you would come downstairs in a half hour, Mama would like to pour tea and hear about Davey.’
He managed some pleasantry which must have satisfied Miss Newsome, because she smiled and closed the door after saying, ‘One half-hour, if you please.’
He took off his shoes and set them by the grate, where coal glowed. His stockings came off next, the soggy things. Barefoot, he padded to the window and looked upon Kent in winter, with fields fallow. He saw an oast house in the distance with its distinctive two spires that looked like witch’s hats, where farmers dried hops, in preparation for making beer.
A good dark beer sounded appealing, but he doubted the Newsomes indulged themselves. The bed appealed even more. Taking off his uniform coat, he lay down with a sigh, unbuttoned his trousers and waistcoat and stretched out. Just a minute or two would be enough, he had no doubt. He closed his eyes.
Chapter Six
‘Verity, it is one hour since you directed Captain Everard upstairs,’ Mama said. ‘I am past ready to pour tea and listen to stories about Davey. You are certain you told him one half-hour?’
‘Positive, Mama,’ Miss Newsome said. ‘I’ll knock on his door.’
Verity went upstairs and stood outside the door a moment before she worked up the nerve to knock. She tapped and listened. Nothing. A second knock yielded the same result, so she turned the handle quietly and peered inside.
Captain Everard lay spread out on the bed, trousers and waistcoat unbuttoned and neckcloth askew. He was barefoot. He had somehow tacked his stockings to the fireplace, hung there to dry. He looked completely relaxed, flat on his back, hands spread out, snoring softly.
She had seen Davey sleep a time or two, but never a full-grown man with whom she could claim no relation. He intrigued her because he was handsome in a rugged sort of way, not like a solicitor or country gentleman who did nothing more strenuous than tend to other people’s genteel business.
This was a man of the sea; she could tell by the fine lines around his eyes caused by exposure to scouring winds and salt water. His hair was ordinary brown, but with flecks of grey in it. One of Davey’s letters had referred to Captain Everard as the Old Man, but she doubted him much over forty. When she remarked on it to her father, Augustus Newsome had told her that was the common navy term for captain. ‘And that, dear daughter, exhausts my entire knowledge of the maritime profession,’ Papa added.
She had no business to stand there gawking. Strange how he could look capable, even as he looked vulnerable. She watched his expression, which seemed to change as he lay there. He frowned, he sighed audibly, spoke as though he were giving an order, then settled back into deeper slumber. She hadn’t the heart to wake him.
Before she left the room, she quietly put a few more lumps of coal in the grate, then covered him with a light throw from the chair by the fireplace. Perhaps she shouldn’t have tucked the coverlet by his side, because as she straightened up, he opened his eyes, hazel ones, and looked at her as if he wondered where he was.
‘Captain, I didn’t mean to...’
‘’Pon my word, Miss Newsome, I never oversleep.’
They spoke at the same time, stopped, laughed, then spoke again. ‘Beg your...’
‘Such rag manners, ’pon my word.’
He put up his hand finally, but beyond that, remained as he was, stretched out and comfortable. Verity thought that singularly charming, for some reason.
‘I obviously overslept, Miss Newsome,’ he said, not moving. ‘Please extend my apologies to your mother and tell her I will be down directly.’
Verity made an executive decision. ‘Stay where you are, Captain. You look comfortable and would probably go back to sleep if I left you alone.’ She went to the door, grateful she had not closed it. ‘We keep country hours, so dinner is at six.’
He laughed softly, turned over and went back to sleep as she stood there.
* * *
Awake, alert and with his hair combed—he did have an amusing cowlick—Captain Everard presented himself downstairs at six o’clock. With a bow, he greeted them and said, ‘Now, where was I?’, which made Mama laugh, a sound Verity had not heard since news of Davey’s death.
Dinner was sheer delight, somewhat to Verity’s surprise. Captain Everard’s first impression as a cut-and-dried, strictly business sort of man was perhaps not accurate. Had oversleeping in a soft bed rendered him more casual? He asked a few questions about Papa’s business and even seemed interested when her father launched into detailed description of his duties as chief steward of Lord Blankenship’s various holdings in this part of Kent.
‘I noticed oast houses,’ Captain Everard said, as he passed the beef roast to Verity. ‘Do you make your own beer on the property?’
‘We call them hop kilns here in Kent,’ Papa corrected. ‘And, yes, we do. If you have time tomorrow, I could take you to our brewery.’
‘I will go gladly,’ Captain Everard said. ‘Please tell me it is a good, dark beer with a woody taste.’
‘I can do that, sir,’ Papa said and beamed at Verity. ‘You could come, too, my dear, even though I know your opinion of beer.’
‘I might,’ she replied, surprising herself.
The ease with which Captain Everard inserted himself into their house impressed Verity, because he made it simple to include her brother into the dinner-table discussion in a way that caused her mother no pain. After a few well-placed questions, Mama started talking about Davey’s early education at the hands of the local vicar and the way he wore them down with his patient but firm insistence that the seafaring life was the career for him.
‘When he came aboard Ulysses, his excellent scores on his lieutenancy exams and good references from his captain convinced me that we were lucky to have David Newsome,’ the Captain said over the final course of fruit and nuts. ‘And so it proved to be. He was an apt student of the sea.’
They adjourned to the sitting room, since no one in the Newsome household had enough puffed-up consequence to
leave the gentlemen with cigars in the dining room and the ladies engaged in idle chat elsewhere. Verity watched Mama, pleased with her eagerness to learn more of Davey’s short life on the water and hoping she would not overexert herself.
She shouldn’t have worried. Captain Everard had no trouble in reading the signals either, telling her worlds about his care of his own crew.
‘Please, Captain Everard, tell me everything you remember about my son,’ Mama said, once they were seated and she had taken out her mending.
Verity watched as the Captain’s demeanour turned thoughtful, and then amused. ‘I have such a story for you,’ he said.
Mama and Papa both leaned forward, eager as young children prepared for a treat of epic dimensions.
‘If you looked in David’s leather case, Miss Newsome, you found volumes one and four of The Mysteries of Udolpho,’ he said, settling back.
‘But no two and three,’ Verity said.
‘Nowhere in sight. We were suffering through months of blockade duty off the coast of Spain.’ He passed his hand in front of his face. ‘It’s beyond me to describe the tedium of the blockade so I will not attempt it. Morale was lower than a dungeon cell in the Tower of London. David tapped on my door one night and asked for a moment’s time.’ He chuckled at that. ‘Hell’s bells—beg pardon, ma’am—I’d have given him all the time he wanted, anything for a diversion.’
And we here in England take your efforts and our safety for granted, Verity thought, as she picked up her knitting.
‘He said he wanted to write a play for the crew to perform, based on Udolpho,’ Captain Everard continued. ‘I asked him what he planned to do about the two missing volumes, and he just waved his hand and said, “That’s a mere trifle.”’
Mama pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. ‘He said that often enough at home. Nothing daunted him.’
Verity watched the captain observe her mother, as if assessing her and not wanting to cause her undue anxiety. He must have liked what he saw, because he continued. ‘The scamp called it The Mystery of Udolpho on Short Rations, or Better Two Volumes Than None. Signor Montoni, the villain of the piece, looked and behaved remarkably like Bonaparte.’
