A Season Lost

by Sophie Turner

  “I am merely glad things are not as changed as they could be,” said Elizabeth. “For at least during much of that time we have lived together in the same house. I know – oh, I know someday you must leave me and take up your household at Clareborne, and when it happens I shall put on a brave face and tell you how beautiful your new home is, all the while heartbroken that I will live a whole horrid two hours away from you.”

  Jane leaned over and embraced her. “It will not be for a very long time, I think, until you must do that – not with the new house being built in such weather.”

  “Well, then perhaps we have found the one blessing of this wretched season.”

  Chapter 10

  Mary Stanton entered Wincham’s Church of St. Mary Magdalene, having taken particular care to select her dress and bonnet that day. She had never before been one to care about such things, but it was Easter and it seemed important to her, now that she was the rector’s wife and stood before the congregation as an example, to honour God by dressing in a most respectable manner for this day.

  She was not dressed in a gaudy manner, though. Catherine had been perpetually attempting to convince her to adopt thinner muslins and lower necklines, but when Jane had taken her to Derby to be fitted for her trousseau, Mary had held fast to her scruples and ordered a conservative set of dresses. Still, she owed Catherine a debt for making her think at all about the fabric she chose and how her bonnets were trimmed. It was important, she now saw, to be able to greet her parishioners, to say good morning to Lord and Lady Winterley, in modestly fashionable clothes.

  It had been some weeks since she had first taken up her place among David’s congregation, embarrassed by being the centre of attention until the pleasure of hearing him give his sermon had calmed her nerves. Now, although she was still called on to go in first when they were invited to dine by Lord and Lady Winterley or one of the other local gentle families, she was not nearly so much of a novelty as she had been.

  Across the church, she espied Mrs. Hobbs, the wife of one of the Winterleys’s tenants, who had been ill for nearly a fortnight with a severe sore-throat. Mary had not expected Mrs. Hobbs to be well enough to attend services today, and pleased to see this was so, Mary walked across the church to greet the woman.

  “Mrs. Hobbs, I am very pleased to see you up and about!”

  “I thank ye, Mrs. Stanton. I was none so sure I’d be here for Easter, me-self, but I woke yester-morn and felt quite well again,” said Mrs. Hobbs. “I cannae thank ye too much for the willow bark tea, for t’was it that gave me most relief.”

  “I am glad it was helpful,” Mary said, watching as each of the five Hobbs children followed their father into the pew and were seated. Mary was fairly certain she had learned the names for each of the children, but not sure enough to test herself and risk embarrassment, so instead she said, “It has often been a remedy for many maladies, within my family.”

  “I’ll be swearin’ by it now,” said Mrs. Hobbs.

  Mary felt there was more she should say in response to Mrs. Hobbs, but in truth her interactions with the Hobbs family over the course of the woman’s illness had been much easier for Mary than Sunday pleasantries. Then, there had been willow bark tea to brew and children to help look after, and Mary was at her best when she could identify some action to take, some occupation in which she could be useful.

  In the end, she merely said, “Happy Easter to you, Mrs. Hobbs,” which the woman seemed pleased enough by, as Mary departed her company.

  After a great many other greetings, Mary took her seat in the front pew, and thought the old medieval church looked as well as it could on this day. Lady Winterley had donated flowers from Winterley Hall’s hothouses, and assisted Mary in arranging them throughout the church. They brightened the space beyond what its leaded windows could do with only the grey light of yet another wet day to illuminate them.

  David began his services in a way that only a clergyman well-respected by his parishioners could – he quietly walked up into the pulpit and opened his prayer-book, looking expectantly out at the pews before him, waiting for those in the congregation to take their seats. That they did, in a rapid cavalcade of pew legs thumping against the flagstone floor. Unlike his father, he kept strictly to the common prayer-book until he shifted to his hand-written sermon.

  This was Mary’s favourite part of the service, and, she had gathered, the favourite of most of the others around her, favoured enough that some of the people in attendance were not from within the parish of Wincham at all, but instead came from neighbouring parishes to hear him speak. David spoke well and clearly, but Mary thought this popularity was more because of what he had to say; he was tremendously well-read, but able to translate the theological arguments of their day into something that could turn the common man to thoughtful introspection, without his being overwhelmed. She had heard him do this, Sunday after Sunday, and after each speech found herself even more proud of – and in love with – her husband.

  “It will not surprise you that I wish to talk today of resurrection. I suppose it should surprise you all more if I were to speak of anything else. But the resurrection I wish to speak of is not precisely what we heard of in today’s readings,” David said. “Most of you will recall how, nearly four years ago, I went through a very dark time in my life.”

  He must have been referring to the death of his first wife, Isabel, Mary thought, and she felt herself momentarily seized with a strange, paralysing discomfort.

  “Many of you have been through similar times,” he said. “For it is a part of life that those of us left behind must suffer the death of our loved ones, even if we are spared their passage in so horrific and painful a manner as that in which Christ was crucified. We are all, in a way, like Mary Magdalene and the disciples, running to the tomb in our grief and confusion.

  “We do not have that sort of resurrection – a true resurrection – to hope for, and it is not the goal of my sermon today to demean the importance or the significance of that most miraculous event upon which our faith is founded. But it has been my own experience that we each have in ourselves a more private sort of resurrection, in which we may be reborn from the darkness, and brought back to the light of our Lord. Some of us are able to find our way to that light through God’s assistance, while for some of us, He sends another, to bring them back.”

  Here, he looked directly at Mary, and she thought for a moment she might burst into tears, but managed to hold them in, although she trembled violently with the effort.

  “The resurrection of Jesus Christ can seem sometimes to be an event so miraculous that it is difficult to comprehend, and even to believe. I think we are given our more private resurrections for this purpose. Because when you are seated in darkness, and fear, and despondency, a return to the light may seem as impossible as God sending His Son to earth to be crucified for our sins and raised from death. And yet that we may triumph over our own darkness provides a sort of evidence that God may make a larger and more fantastic event happen.

  “I hope, if I have made any of you remember your own darker days, that you shall see this evidence in the happiness and hope you live in now. And if there are any among you who dwell in that place of darkness presently, that you will speak with me of it, so I may pray for you and assist as I may.”

  David concluded, as he always did, with a prayer. Although it had been the shortest of his sermons heard by his wife, when she looked about the congregation as much as she trusted herself to after the service, she thought it had been the most impactful, for while the message had been simple, it had been powerful. There were a great many people who wished to speak with David, while the others were filing out of the church with thoughtful countenances. Mary knew she should stand and give further Easter greetings, but she was still feeling a little overwhelmed and remained where she was.

  When the last parishioners could be heard to exit the church, and the door banged closed with a reverberating thump, David approached her an
d said, “Mary, are you well? I am sorry – I should have spoken to you of what I intended to put in my sermon, but in truth I was not entirely certain I was going to give it until just before I did. I had an alternative written out, one much more like my usual speeches.”

  “I never knew you felt like that,” said Mary, finally surrendering to her tears and rising to embrace him. “But why me? I do not understand what it was I did to help you.”

  “You made me realise I could have a life and a love beyond my career again, and now you have given me both. That is what you did, Mary, and it is everything.”

  Chapter 11

  Georgiana had not been out in society for very long before marrying, but she had known enough house parties to be aware that unpleasant company could make such an event very miserable, even in a house so large as Pemberley. And if it could be so at Pemberley, it could have been far worse, on a frigate. Thankfully, she had found thus far that save Lieutenant Holmes, who had not deviated from his usual hard-faced self, all the other men she lived in company with ranged from reasonable to very pleasant indeed, which made her role in presiding over the great cabin a relatively easy one. She passed her time there conversing with the men, if any were so inclined, and if they were not, with embroidering her cushions, reading, and practising the pianoforte, which she was often encouraged to do, there being several aficionados of music within the embassy.

  On this morning, she was at the pianoforte, and finished her song to find that in addition to those who had been listening when she had begun, Lord Amherst and his son were added to their number. She rose, greeted them, and inquired as to whether they wished for any tea or coffee, there being relatively fresh pots of both on the great table in the middle of the room. Her offer was accepted, but they bade her to continue playing; they would much rather listen and pour their own refreshments. Thus, Georgiana continued through a few more of her favourite sonatas and was embarrassed to find herself applauded when finally she rose from the bench.

  “I did not realise we were to be so terribly spoiled on board this ship,” said Mr. Ellis. “I shall begin to consider it a requirement that every embassy is given passage on board a ship in which the captain has a very musical wife.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ellis,” Georgiana said, blushing.

  “I do hope you shall take some time to go on deck, however, Lady Stanton,” Lord Amherst said. “We were just there and it is a fine day – please do not feel as though you must stay to entertain us all morning.”

  “I will go up in a little while,” Georgiana said. As they neared the equator, the weather had continued to improve, and Georgiana now spent much more of her time on deck, enjoying the warmth and the fine, fresh breeze. She was eager to go up now, but did not wish to slight Lord Amherst or his son. She remained in the great cabin for some time, therefore, partaking in the sort of light conversation that came from a party that had already become well-acquainted over the course of many breakfasts and dinners, with nothing new except what had occurred on board the ship recently – which was little of note – to speak on.

  It was Hawke who interrupted them, in a less genteel way than a butler would have done, summoning Georgiana to the door to speak with him. “Bowden an’ I caught a prodigious great tunny, milady,” he said. “Since which, I wondered what we should leave the mutton for another dinner, with the fish to serve instead.”

  “Very well done, Hawke, and indeed we should,” Georgiana said. She had become accustomed to dealing with the ship’s limited supply of grocery – even with all that had come on at Chatham and the additional supplies they had taken on at Gibraltar, there was always a feeling that everything should be carefully rationed, so they did not run out before they reached the Cape. That Hawke and Bowden had caught a large tunny meant one of the sheep should receive a stay of execution until a future dinner, and those that had been invited to dine in the great cabin that evening would be treated to a fine, fresh fish.

  Georgiana would have announced the promise of the tunny for dinner, but two of the men currently occupying the great cabin had not been invited to dine on that evening. This had nothing to do with their manners or anything like, and was merely because the great cabin could only hold so many to dine at one time. Thus, while Georgiana had been keeping a household account of the grocery that had been ordered, her more important account was of who had dined on which evenings in the great cabin, among the men of the embassy and the officers of the ship. It was this she brought to her conferences with Matthew, to determine who should be invited on a given evening. Of all of those who could be invited, only Lord Amherst, on account of his rank and position, was assured of an invitation on any evening in which a dinner was held in the great cabin, generally three to four times a week. On the other evenings, Lord Amherst and his son dined themselves in their cabin, and the rest of the embassy dined in the space that had become their own, forward of the wardroom. Georgiana and Matthew also generally dined themselves in the sleeping cabin, although once a week they were invited to dine by the wardroom, and on these occasions Georgiana was glad both for the respite in planning and the company of Mrs. Travis, in addition to the officers.

  Already near the door when she had finished her conference with Hawke, Georgiana took this as her opportunity to take her leave of those in the great cabin and take the air on deck. Most of the party would have been required to use the little hallway Mr. Randle had created to do so, but Georgiana instead cut through the sleeping cabin, where she found Matthew writing in the ship’s log.

  “You sounded very well in there,” Matthew said, looking up from the little secretaire at which he was seated.

  Georgiana felt badly for him, for in other times this would certainly have been something he would have done within the great cabin, when he had command of that space as his own and the light of the great stern window to aid in his work. He did not seem overly upset by it, however, and she thanked him and kissed him before she would continue.

  Her path took her through the more public part of the main deck, and while there she heard the sound of Moll’s tremendous laugh and sighed, looking down the deck to where her maid was conversing with Bowden and Taylor, in too friendly a fashion. Moll had improved greatly in manners towards her employer, but Georgiana had come to realise she was a terrible flirt, when she was not on duty. Georgiana had attempted to speak to her of it already, but Moll’s response had been that she was not flirting, and the difficulty of it was that Moll did not believe what she did was flirting – it was merely her own natural reaction to life as it came to her on the ship. Georgiana’s only consolation was that the men Moll dined with were sober, reliable men such as Hawke, Bowden, McClare, and Taylor, and that Mrs. McClare provided some manner of additional female presence, so Moll was not such an anomaly.

  Bowden, upon noticing Georgiana, came aft to assist her up the companion-ladder, and Georgiana had not the heart to tell him she only required such assistance when she was with child, which she was not and would not be, while she and Matthew were taking an intentional break from marital relations to allow her womb time to heal. She quietly accepted his assistance and complimented him on having caught the tunny, pleased he had found occupation on board the ship, for it must have been strange for him to return to an environment in which he had previously held the elevated status of coxswain, but was now to act as a servant.

  On deck it was a very fine day, and Georgiana felt herself enveloped by the pleasure that could only come from experiencing such a day in such a place, with the great white sails above her head filled with the wind, and the unending blue expanse of ocean on every side of the ship. There was something very beautiful and pure about it, something that could not but prompt happiness in anyone who witnessed it. Georgiana sighted Mrs. Travis standing by the rail, and made her way over to her friend, to comment on the fineness of the day.

  How long Georgiana stood in that place enjoying both weather and conversation she could not tell, but she was eventually removed from
her enjoyment by loud voices near the ship’s wheel, where Holmes and Grant were engaged in an argument, which it seemed Lieutenant Holmes won by shouting, “We shall tack when I damned well say we shall tack!”

  Lieutenant Holmes followed this by grasping the wheel and pulling it violently toward him. Following this, Georgiana noticed what seemed a panicked bit of running about by the seamen on deck, to pull on the sheets associated with the sails, which seemed at first causeless. Gradually, however, something came to feel very wrong about the ship’s movement, as though the Caroline was losing all her forward momentum. When this first happened, Holmes seemed to show no remorse, but poor Grant stared ashen-faced about him for some moments, until he seemed to rally and ordered some of the men to lower one of the ship’s boats.

  Into all of this – and with his ship drifting to a near halt – came Matthew, as furious as Georgiana had ever seen him, shouting, “Loose jibs!”

  This command, which it appeared some of the other men had been awaiting, prompted them to let out the sails on the bowsprit as much as they could be loosened. Despite a great amount of expectant staring by much of the ship’s company at the bowsprit, the sails there did not fill with wind, and it was left to the men in the boat to take a rope passed from the ship in order to tow her head around, pulling hard on their oars until, coinciding with a great degree of sail trim that had been ordered by Matthew, the Caroline once again saw her sails fill with wind, and she drifted back into motion, eventually reaching her previous pace.

  Georgiana knew enough of this nautical world to piece together that what she had just witnessed was the ship missing stays, that most egregious of errors which should never have been committed by a ship such as the Caroline. The men clearly knew it, as well, for they exhibited a disproportionate degree of zeal in assisting the boat back into its place on deck, and then in glowering at Lieutenant Holmes. Still, Georgiana was unprepared when Matthew, upon looking about him and seeing his ship was once again in order, and commanding Lieutenant Rigby to take over the watch, looked over to her and said, “Lady Stanton, will you accompany me below?”