Fair Winds and Homeward Sail: Sophy Croft's Story

by Sherwood Smith

  She was dressed plainly but well. Sophy instantly liked her as she conducted them into the low-beamed salon, against whose walls had been built bookcases.

  “I am truly sorry,” she said, “that the banns were put up the week before the Emperor of the French abdicated. The news reached us the day after we married, or we would have postponed everything so that you could be with us. Mr. Wentworth was certain you would be given liberty directly they sent Bonaparte away, and so it came to pass.”

  Sophy smiled at her ‘Mr. Wentworth.’ It was very clear from the slight consciousness with which the bride uttered the words how dear they were to her—and how new. Sophy said, “I would not have postponed your happiness for the world.”

  Mrs. Wentworth blushed, smiled without archness, then said quietly, “I could not but feel for him. The entire parish came to Monkford, with all my relations, but he had no one there outside of our friends.”

  “We are here now,” Sophy said comfortingly. “Will you show me over the house? You must know I once lived in Taunton, but though Edward was sometimes here, when he was taught by Mr. James Gregory, I was never inside. It is very beautiful—very much in the style of Queen Elizabeth, if I do not mistake? These diamond panes in the casements, the carving in the beams?” Sophy added as they stepped into a beautiful salon, with high bookcases down either side, “And so many books!” For these cases looked quite new.

  “The cases will go with us when we are carried to Shropshire. They are a gift from my own father. Mr. Wentworth and I became acquainted over books,” she admitted. “We girls had been strictly enjoined not to get in the way of Papa’s curate, who was living in the family . . .”

  As she showed Sophy to a plain but clean guest chamber, she told her story. Sophy could easily imagine the handsome young curate and the vicar’s daughter making conversation over books—hesitant—each scrupulously polite and cautious.

  It was no sudden romance; what was not said, but Sophy easily filled in, was Dr. Hopgood’s reluctance to permit his eldest daughter to marry an impecunious curate, and so his daughter had set out to earn a living translating Madame de Genlis’s pedagogical works, and other similar items.

  However, once the word had come of Edward’s imminent appointment to a very fine living in Shropshire, everything had changed.

  They proceeded down a few stairs and up a few stairs. Sophy looked around, liking what she saw, and to make conversation, said, “Monkford! I was never there. Some say it is the pity of marriage, that one is frequently called upon to quit one’s neighborhood for something strange, and often not an improvement. Tell me a little about what you left behind?”

  As Mrs. Wentworth conducted Sophy out into the garden to catch a sight of Mrs. Gregory’s prize roses in the fading light, she readily furnished a description. As must be expected, she had mainly known the local clergy families, but as people will, she offered the names of the great people of the Monkford parish, coming at last to, “. . . and the Elliots of Kellynch Hall, though of course I was never there. My sister wrote me this very week to say the family is renting Kellynch Hall, and retiring to Bath.”

  Sophy recollected the name instantly, and stole a glance at the bride, who spoke the words without a shadow of consciousness. Sophy reflected that Edward’s bride must have been a girl of twelve when Frederick made his fateful visit.

  Not that she would allude to it by word or deed. She thought as they walked back into the house to change for dinner, she might understand but little of what people of a certain rank termed delicacy, however she did thoroughly comprehend honor. She would despise anyone trying to worm old gossip out of a wife, whether she knew it or not. Besides, Frederick had most likely long forgotten the mysterious Miss Elliot. Sophy hoped so, for she did not like the notion that his heart was still sore.

  Over a late dinner, Dr. Gregory asked for the latest continental news, which the admiral was happy to furnish, and then Sophy asked about the extensive library, knowing that that would make an easy topic for the newlyweds.

  Edward said proudly, “All those downstairs are ours. One might say we met over books. The ladies sat forward, and Dr. Hopgood’s study was next to the church, so we only encountered one another in the library. But however,” he added proudly, “Mrs. Wentworth is not just a translator and reader, but a writer as well. She is midway through the composition of her own book.”

  His wife blushed to the ears, looked down at her plate, and said, “It is only a novel.”

  “Novels! We like them right well, do we not, Sophy? Times out of mind, when the wind was bitter, we’d read aloud to one another from Roderick Random, or Humphrey Clinker—lord, were I ever to visit Bath, I would not go near the waters, ha ha!” the admiral exclaimed.

  Sophy recollected Mr. Smollett’s novel, and reflected on how it might be considered indelicate, but Dr. Gregory only smiled—his tastes belonged to a more robust era—and neither Edward nor his wife protested, so they finished out the evening talking over favorite books. After that, the Crofts being tired from their long day’s journey, and the elderly vicar keeping early hours, everyone retired.

  o0o

  Sophy was very ready to set aside her questions about Kellynch Hall and its inmates until, a few days later, after their visit to the admiral’s Delafield half-brother, he said suddenly, “I’ve half a mind to take a house. See how I like the role of fine gentleman, at least for a time, until we decide to buy on our own. Before we get ourselves a family of our own.”

  “A house?” Sophy repeated, smiling back at him. The family, she was prepared for; they had decided upon that once he retired, and she was still young enough. Her mother had been six years older when she first married. But a house?

  The admiral chuckled. “I will admit only to you that I think it would do that rantipole half-brother of mine some good if he came a-calling into a house bigger than his. There was a little too much of Lord This and Sir That, did you not think?”

  Sophy laughed. “I believe your brother was doing his best to impress you because he has never been farther than London, and the closest he came to a battle, or the great men who conducted them, was in newsprint.”

  The admiral rubbed his hands. “Nevertheless. If something came my way, I confess it would give me a great deal of pleasure.”

  Sophy sent him a thoughtful look as they bumped over the rutted road in their hired chaise.

  “And I mean to attend the assizes, and learn the lingo of land,” he added, as the coach rocked violently, nearly sending Sophy through the glass window. As she straightened her hat, he said, “And also learn to drive. I cannot believe I would be as bad a driver as some of these jarveys—why, that lee-lurch was the equivalent of a double-reefed t’gans’l gale, and here there’s nary a breeze.”

  Sophy said nothing immediately. Her first concern had been that the admiral, finding himself at loose ends for the first time in his life, might feel cast adrift. If he had a mind to try his hand at managing an estate (and taking the wind out of the eye of his prating half-brother, whom Sophy had found a sad bore), perhaps it were better so.

  “As it happens,” she said on impulse, “Mrs. Wentworth made mention of a very fine estate that is to be let.”

  “She did?” The admiral rubbed his hands, and clapped them on his knees. “Capital! How do we go about it?”

  It turned out that nothing could be easier. Mrs. Wentworth knew who the land agent was. An application was sent, while the admiral entertained himself with touring several possible houses. Sophy, of course, must be by his side during all these tours.

  Nothing they looked at would suit. This one had been left too long, and would require an army to make it livable; that one was far too large for two people; a third was inconveniently distant from Taunton.

  Sophy had suspected that after receiving their application Mr. Shepherd, the land agent, would inquire into the admiral’s circumstances at Whitehall, whereupon he would learn that Admiral Croft was a rear-admiral of the white, born a gen
tleman, and very, very rich. She was therefore not surprised when they received not only a letter but a call from the man himself.

  Consequently it was not long until a tour was arranged. Sophy found herself intensely curious by now, a sensation that she kept strictly to herself as Mr. Shepherd described people in Kellynch parish whom they would be expected to meet if they took Kellynch Hall—fine titles and ancient families—until they rolled up the drive to a house that was well-built, though to Sophy’s eye was in want of a better gardener, and perhaps fresh paint.

  They were conducted into a well-lit sitting room built to noble proportions, though the hangings were sadly shabby. Here a handsome man in his fifties waited in a rather grand pose by the fireplace for Mr. Shepherd to perform the office of introduction, which he did.

  And then, Sophy at last, found herself face to face with Miss Elliot.

  Her first impression was good: Miss Elliot was exceedingly handsome, her manners assured as she stepped forward to welcome them. But as they passed from room to room, every condescending utterance, every supercilious glance from those fine eyes, engendered in Sophy a fresh wonder not that this lady would turn down an offer from Frederick, but that she had been interested in him at all. Still less that he had had any interest in her.

  But beauty could sometimes carry all, she reminded herself as they proceeded down the hall, and then all her assumptions fled when Miss Elliot waved an elegant hand in a dismissive gesture. “This west-facing bedchamber belongs to my younger sister. As you can see, it might be suitable for some guest, though of course the principal guest room is at this end . . .”

  There were two Miss Elliots?

  The question remained unanswered as they finished the circuit at a small bedchamber, Miss Elliot saying, “And if you were to entertain a considerable party, there is always this chamber, which belonged once to my youngest sister, now Mrs. Musgrove, who will one day be mistress of Uppercross, a respectable estate three miles distant. They are congenial people, not of course belonging to the best circles, but suitable enough for—and here, you see, are the guest rooms down this hall . . .”

  No, three Elliot sisters, one married. Which of these three possible ladies had been the one to throw over Frederick back in 1806? Sophy did not know what she dreaded worse: that this cold, arrogant Miss Elliot had been she, or that Mrs. Musgrove, now forever out of reach, had been the one.

  She must be certain; as they descended the last staircase, she threw out a compliment to the parish, saying that her brother, who had lived at Monkford, had much to say in its praise, and should Miss Elliot wish her to carry back any greeting?

  Miss Elliot heard these words with a face of unconcern, saying, “I do not believe I was acquainted with the gentleman, except to exchange the time of day. One of my sisters was used at one time to visit in Monkford, I believe. But that was long ago. I may forget.”

  Sophy accepted this repulsive politeness with a strong sense of relief.

  As soon as the ladies rejoined the gentlemen, who had just come in from a walk about the gardens, to Sophy’s surprise, the admiral looked about the sitting room with a decided air and then said to Sir Walter, “I find myself amazed that you wish to leave this fine house, but then a man requires a change of scenery, I can well understand that, ha ha! Name your price, and I will meet it. Let us close at once. In the navy we are trained to board and carry . . .”

  Sophy listened in wonder. She was left with nothing to say, until later, when they once again sat in their chaise, she turned to him in question.

  The admiral met her gaze with a happy smile. “Next, I must learn to drive. As well he seems willing to leave his horses. Lord, what a dressy man! Did you see the mirrors in that dressing room?”

  “Is this truly the house you favor?” she asked.

  He looked a question. “I thought you were as pleased as I, or was that all smoke? Say the word, and we can undo it.”

  “No, no, if you are happy—I am merely caught by surprise.”

  “You know me, Sophy. When I see the thing I want, why, there is no purpose in wasting time. It was that way when I first saw you. There would never be anyone else. But when that mumping scrub Forsham—ah, that ship is long sailed. Did you hear that he’s been married these ten years? A handsome Irish lass he met in London, is what my cousin said. She takes snuff from no one, least of all the squire’s wife, ha ha! Where was I? Ah, Kellynch.”

  He glanced out the window at the last of the estate fading from view. Sophy had to admit that it looked fine, a beautiful house set in the middle of English verdure. “It is well-built, and comes with servants so we will not have to trouble ourselves. It is comfortably worn, so I may sit as I please—no finicking French chairs, or Egyptian fashions that a man feels he cannot touch lest it fly to flinders. Finally, it is larger than my brother Delafield’s house by at least half again as much.” He chuckled to himself. “It will do very well for a year or two. What say you?”

  He was happy. That was what mattered. As for the house, Sophy decided that there were enough things to occupy her, beginning with that wretched paper in the best sitting room.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When they arrived back in Taunton, Dr. Gregory was away on parish business. Edward met them with a letter, and a sober countenance.

  “Is aught amiss with Frederick?” was Sophy’s first question before she had even removed hat or gloves.

  “Yes. That is, no,” Edward said. “Not with him. My letter was brief. I do not know the individuals in the case. I expect yours explains more.” He proffered it.

  Standing inside the vestibule, for Sophy could not wait longer, she and the admiral put their heads together over the letter. It was reassuring to see Frederick’s familiar dashing fist. Nothing was amiss with his hands, or his intellects, at the least.

  She ran her gaze rapidly over the few sentences there. “Harville . . . Benwick . . . oh, dear, this is terrible. Poor Miss Harville! And poor, poor Lt. Benwick! Of course it must be Frederick to go to his aid . . .”

  “Damme,” the admiral exclaimed, too overset to recollect Mrs. Wentworth, but neither of his young relatives demurred. “Damme, that is just what I would expect of Frederick, never behind when it comes to facing down a French broadside, or addressing a ticklish affair.”

  Sophy had never met Miss Harville, but she had heard a great deal about her, and felt all the regret and sorrow due to so tragically early a death. “He says he will join us when he can leave Lt. Benwick. We might be moved to Kellynch Hall by then.”

  Edward said, “We will have to send him that address, because my friend Septimus will be here by then, and us on our way to Shropshire.”

  o0o

  As it transpired, Edward and his wife were the first to depart. Promptly on the 29th September, the Crofts took possession of Kellynch Hall.

  They had ordered some changes, and put in hand others that they could oversee, beginning with the admiral’s dressing room. They had not spent a day before he requested Sophy to help him shift some of the many looking glasses into one of the closets.

  Sophy liked the servants, who seemed a quiet, attentive set of people; she gave few orders outside of changing the hangings in the sitting room. She preferred to leave the admiral to his own devices, for she could see that he gained a great deal of satisfaction in walking about with the carpenter and—as he put it—banging such things as the laundry door, and other oddments, into shipshape.

  Of course they must be called upon, after a decent interval. Scarcely had the fresh hangings dried upon the walls when they received their first visitors. The butler announced “Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove.”

  The admiral advanced to greet them, saying, “Welcome, welcome. This is indeed a pleasure—this is treating us as neighbors.”

  Introductions being got over, Sophy gazed curiously at Mrs. Charles Musgrove, whose age was difficult to determine. She could be anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five, with what Sophy had come to regard as distinctively
English features: hair of an indeterminate brown, a complexion somewhat the color and consistency of dough, and a pair of dark eyes that darted avidly about.

  Mrs. Musgrove spoke in a high, somewhat artificial voice as she asked if they were settled in—how they liked the Hall—did the garden please them—could she explain anything. “Though I have not lived here these four years, having, unlike my sisters, been married,” Mrs. Musgrove said, indicating her husband, who had walked out onto the terrace with the admiral.

  Mrs. Musgrove then appeared to think that she might have lowered the prestige of her sisters, adding swiftly, “My eldest sister was used to act as mistress since her sixteenth year, and my second divides her time between Lady Russell, her particular friend, and Uppercross.”

  The slight emphasis on ‘Lady Russell’ suggested that this unknown second sister might be as pretentious as the elder Miss Elliot had been, but Sophy caught herself there. She must not assume. She had already been wrong about the eldest sister.

  Mrs. Musgrove further offered opinions on neighbors of rank, until the gentlemen rejoined them. Before they left, after the admiral promised to return the call, Mrs. Musgrove said that they should find the entire family at their service—including her sister.

  Well, then, Sophy thought. The last of the mystery would soon be solved. She would not guess which of the three Miss Elliots had thrown Frederick over until she had met them all.

  In due course, the admiral—still waiting for the gig he had ordered—ordered the aging coachman to drive them in the family chaise to Uppercross, and the cottage wherein resided Mr. Charles Musgrove and his family.

  They found Mrs. Musgrove at home with the last of the sisters. More quiet and reserved was Miss Elliot—Miss Anne Elliot, as she was presented by her sister—a slender lady with a fine pair of dark eyes, dressed simply and tastefully. Her complexion was wan, her manner gentle.

  Sophy, still uncertain, found it easy enough to settle herself by this intriguing Miss Elliot, leaving her husband to entertain the lively young Musgrove boys with sea-faring tales, and the sort of old tricks and jokes he had once used upon homesick midshipmen, as their mother looked on with a languishing air of boredom.