by Erica Vetsch
“I shall be fine, Marcus.” She eased out of his embrace, not sure she spoke the truth. “Thank you again for all you’ve done.”
“At least come back to Haverly for one night. Or for luncheon.”
She shook her head. “You will only try to prevail upon me to stay. I do appreciate your offer, but I must be with Mamie at Primrose. It is where she feels most comfortable. It is her home, and now mine too.”
Marcus squeezed her tightly once more and brushed a kiss on her forehead. “You always were a stubborn child.” He cupped her shoulders for a moment and then helped her up into the coach. Closing the door, he rapped on the side, and the coachman put the horses into a walk. It was unseemly for the carriage to hurry under the circumstances.
Sophie leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired. Yet every time I lie down and close my eyes, my mind won’t let me sleep. There are so many things to see to yet.
“It was a lovely service, wasn’t it? The vicar said such nice things about my boy.” Mamie stared out the open carriage windows, a faraway look in her eyes.
“It was a lovely service. And everyone has been so kind.” Sophie kept her voice even and pleasant so as not to upset sweet Mamie, but she wanted to leap from the slow-moving carriage and run all the way to the haven of Primrose Cottage, where her memories of Rich were the most vivid. She wanted to curl up in her bed and reread his letters, cry when she felt like it, and not have to be strong for anyone.
The coach plodded on. As they approached the cottage, the sound of the horses’ hooves dulled. The gardener had spread straw on the gravel path to deaden the noise.
Mrs. Chapman met them at the door. “I’ve lain on tea in the drawing room.” The housekeeper raised her arm and barely refrained from putting it around Lady Richardson, a breach of protocol that would be unprecedented and probably embarrassing for both parties.
Sometimes Sophie hated protocol. It kept people from being natural with one another.
“Thank you, Mrs. Chapman.” Sophie removed her hat and gave it to the housekeeper. “It was a lovely service.”
“Donnie and I and the girls had a moment of silence when they rang the bells.” She sniffed and touched the corner of her eye with her little finger. Donnie was the gardener, and “the girls” were the laundress and the upstairs maid, who came in daily from the village.
Sophie led Mamie into the drawing room. Everywhere she looked, there were mementos and memories of Rich. His seashell collection, gathered on various holidays to visit his mother’s family on the Devon coast. A cricket ball on the mantel, trophy of his school’s triumph in some match or other. His favorite books. A painting he’d purchased because he had liked the look in the dog’s eyes.
But they were more than possessions. Sophie had worked so hard to keep Rich present for herself and for Mamie while he was deployed, it was as if he were still here. Not a spirit or ghost. Sophie didn’t believe in such things. It was all the memories, the hope of his return, the promises for the future they had made that still seemed current. As if nothing had changed, and yet everything had.
She was both comforted and cast adrift.
Mamie eased into her favorite chair. “Thank you, Sophie, dear.”
“You’re welcome, Mamie, but for what?” Sophie knelt beside the older woman, taking her hand. Had the day been too much for her?
“For taking care of me. For trying to make all this easier for me, which makes it harder for you. You’ve shouldered all the burdens while Rich has been away, and now he’s gone, you’re still carrying the load.” She raised her other hand, soft and plump, and caressed Sophie’s cheek. “I know I am not much help. I can’t always remember …” She frowned. “It’s such a relief to know you are in control of all those matters I can’t look after any longer.”
“You’re no trouble at all, Mamie. I love living with you, and I promise, no matter what happens, I will take care of you.” She rose and kissed Mamie’s gray curls. “Have your tea, and don’t worry your head about anything.”
Later, when Mamie was in her room resting, Sophie slipped outside to the back garden. Daisies bobbed in the breeze, butterflies flitted amongst the nigella, and bees bumped and buzzed through the scented stock. Color ran riot on the slope behind the house, and Sophie wandered to her favorite spot. Surrounded by dahlias and sweet peas, she sank onto the open square of grass, wrapping her arms around her knees and lowering her head.
Lord, why? Why did You have to take him from me? You could have kept him safe, could have healed him from his wounds, but You didn’t. All my plans are in ruins, and You seem very far away. How could this be Your will? This isn’t fair.
Tears wouldn’t fall. Somehow the sorrow was too deep. On this spot, just over three years ago, Rich had taken her into his arms and asked her to marry him.
He could have surrendered his commission and stayed in Oxfordshire, but he hadn’t. Just a little longer, he’d promised. The Royal Marines needed him; his men needed him. When he’d made that promise, he couldn’t have known how long it would be and that he would never return.
Mother had suggested … commanded … because of the whirlwind nature of their courtship and betrothal, that they wait until Rich returned from his next stretch of duty before they wed. Sophie hadn’t wanted to wait, and neither had Rich, but when the duke, her father, had waded in, they had acquiesced. They had their whole lives ahead to spend together. A few months or even a year wouldn’t matter much. They would honor her parents by giving in to their request.
How joyful Sophie had been to be loved by Rich, and proud of him in his uniform, proud of his sense of duty and honor. Of course she would wait for him—forever if necessary. Of course she would move to Primrose Cottage and care for Mamie until he fulfilled his duty.
And now it was all ruined. He wouldn’t be coming home to claim her as his own. They had put off their happiness for three long years, and now none of their plans would come to fruition.
She had been able to bear the loneliness when she thought there would be a happy ending someday, but how would she endure it now?
Everything she had thought was God’s will had been dumped on its head. All the promises made were fallen to bits. She had no idea what to do next.
The sobs finally came, and her carefully constructed house of whist cards blew away on the storm of tears.
CHAPTER 2
CHARLES HAD NEVER seen so many epaulettes and bicorns all in one place. His heart sank like the barometer before a storm. He had known it would be challenging, but these odds were decidedly longer than he had anticipated.
He ascended the steps into the Admiralty, removing his cover as he passed through the doors and tucking it properly under his arm. Officers crowded the halls, their voices low. Each set of eyes that met his were troubled.
These men had a head start on him, for they had not languished in a hospital in Portugal for nearly three months. When peace had been declared, they had been cast upon the shore to make their case to the Admiralty for a new command, while he had been stuck on the Peninsula.
Charles edged through the officers until he reached the department he sought. The small foyer was standing-room only, with enough gold braid to gild a church altar.
“Excuse me.” He waited for a narrow opening to form as men jostled to create space for him.
“No good butting in. You’ll have to wait your turn like the rest of us,” one man muttered. “Who do you think you are?”
Charles didn’t answer. The man had a right to be testy. Peacetime could be trying to a battle-hardened sailor. He reached the clerk’s desk.
“The back of the line, sir.” Without looking up from the papers on his small table, the clerk raised his hand in the direction of the far end of the hall. His voice dripped with boredom. Half a meat pie lay on a greasy paper on the corner of the desk, and the man’s collar was unfastened. The papers before him weren’t personnel records but a rather lurid-looking br
oadsheet. What had the navy come to that slackers like this were employed at the Admiralty?
“Sailor.” Charles used his “command voice,” the one he employed on high seas when the crew needed guidance.
The man’s head snapped up, and several others turned as the sound echoed off the groined ceiling.
“On your feet, man.”
The clerk jumped up, gulping, and organized himself to attention.
“When was the last time you were aboard a ship?” Charles’s stare pinned him in place as he took a sounding of the man’s depth.
Charles made a circle in the air with his forefinger to take in the occupants of the crowded anteroom. “Sailor, every one of these men has served bravely for more years and more battles than you can count. They have endured hardship, peril, inclement weather, and privation all in the name of the Royal Navy. While you have been growing calluses on your haunches, clerking for an admiral, these men kept Old Boney from marching up Pall Mall and planting the French flag at St. James’s Palace. It would behoove you to show a modicum of respect, for these men, for the Royal Navy, whose uniform you wear, and for Admiral Barrington, whom you serve.”
“Charles, are you scolding my staff?” The voice came from the office doorway, and everyone snapped to attention. Admiral Barrington flicked a glance at his aide and then around the crowded room. “I can’t say that it isn’t warranted. Seaman Phipps, Captain Wyvern has an appointment, if you will check your ledger, and he’s exactly on time. While I speak with him, perhaps you can do something useful and organize some benches or chairs for the men who’ve come calling today?”
He stepped back and invited Charles into his sanctum, closing the door and shutting them in. Papers, books, charts, and maps littered the desk and meeting table, and more crammed the shelves.
“Have a seat, if you can find one. Someday the broadsheets will announce I have been killed in an avalanche of paperwork. If it isn’t the Chancellor of the Exchequer wanting reports down to the last grain of gunpowder, it’s Customs and Excise wanting to know what the Royal Navy is going to do about the rampant smuggling along every coastline in Britain. As if this was a navy problem. We’ve just finished fighting the most glorious naval war in our nation’s history, and the Revenue wants to turn us into constables on the coast. They should sort out their own problems.” The admiral rounded his desk and dropped into his seat while Charles moved a stack of logbooks from a Windsor chair. “And before you ask, no, I don’t have a command for you. Not for you nor for the scores of other officers who darken my door each day.”
“What about the Dogged? Return me to my ship and I’ll be a happy man.”
“The Dogged is docked in Portsmouth with most of the fleet, and that’s where she’ll stay. There are no orders for her and no need of a captain, though if there was such a need, there are others in line ahead of you. Officers of higher rank and lengthier service will receive commands first.”
“Surely there must be something? It doesn’t have to be a frigate. I’d take a sloop. At the moment, I’d take a leaky row boat.” Desperation tinged his voice, and he sought to quell his feelings. “Just give me anything afloat.”
“I know.” Barrington planted his elbows on his desk, denting the papers as he rested his chin on his clasped hands. “But there are decorated men with more experience and better connections at the front of the line. Men who are not coming off months in hospital, recovering from nasty cutlass wounds. How are you feeling, by the by?”
“Never better. A paltry cut that is fully healed.” This wasn’t strictly true, but near enough. The wound had healed, though he suspected he would always have some stiffness and restriction of movement.
Barrington, who had captained the first ship Charles had been assigned to as a boy of twelve, nodded, his eyes sharp as sail needles. “Glad to hear it. Have you any idea the complications of drawing down our navy now that we’ve won the war? Not even the Admiralty can agree on what size our fighting force should be, and there are so many backroom deals being done for who gets to command the remaining ships, it resembles a cross between the London Stock Exchange and a boxing bout.”
“Then how can I get one of those deals made for me?” Charles hated the politics involved in the navy, especially when it came to handing out positions to people who were unqualified but had the right connections. In his case, he was both the nephew of an earl and an experienced commander. He wouldn’t be shorting the navy if they gave him another ship. He had earned his way up the ranks and had experience and intelligence. Though he hated trading on the family name, especially since his uncle wanted nothing to do with him, he would at least explore that option before he submitted meekly to being put on indefinite shore leave. “Do I need to rely on my pedigree to get a command? To whom should I speak to see it done?”
Barrington slumped in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “There’s a bit of a complication with that, I’m afraid.”
Charles straightened. “What complication?”
“It seems your family is persona non grata at Whitehall these days. Having a cousin who tried to assassinate the Prince Regent is a bit of a blight on the family tree. Only your exemplary service record and the need for experienced ship captains kept you in command this long.”
Arthur Bracken, the black sheep of the family. The man who had attempted to assassinate the Prince Regent, failed spectacularly, and been shot trying to escape. Charles’s relationship with the former Viscount Fitzroy wasn’t common knowledge amongst his navy peers, but those in power in the Admiralty knew.
“I had nothing to do with that. I hadn’t seen Arthur in ten years at least. He was a child the last time we were face-to-face.” Charles crushed his bicorn on his lap, then tried to relax his hands. When word had spread that Viscount Fitzroy, heir to the Earl of Rothwell, had tried to stab the Prince Regent, Charles had been ashamed and appalled. He hadn’t mentioned the familial tie to his crew lest he be tarred with the same brush.
“I’m afraid you’re guilty by association.” Barrington frowned. “Not guilty as such, but having that swirling about you when the discussion of who gets a command and who doesn’t means you’re always going to be moved to the back of the queue. Especially as you are now Viscount Fitzroy yourself.”
Charles wanted to snap that it wasn’t fair, but he knew how childish that would sound. “Very well.” He rose. “I hope you will keep me in mind should something arise.”
“Now, Charles, don’t be like that. I’m doing my best for you. You’ve had a long time in service. Maybe it’s time for you to retire. You’ve certainly got the means, what with all the prize money you must have amassed since taking command of your own vessel. Will you go to the family estate? I’m sure the earl would be glad to see you. You are his heir now, after all.”
I am equally sure he would not be glad to see me. He would have to renege on many a tirade in order to welcome the “spawn of his slattern sister and that baseborn sailor she married.”
“I may be the heir at the moment, but I still have hopes that my uncle will marry and produce a child of his own and relieve me of the title. He’s getting on, but other men his age and older have begotten children. Now that he knows the title is set to go to me, I suspect he’ll be only too eager to procreate. I am not his favorite nephew, though I am the only one remaining. I imagine he has long hoped some French bullet or cannonball would take care of the problem for him. No, I won’t be calling upon my uncle. Beyond that, I have another errand that will take me to Oxfordshire. If there is anything I can do to further my cause, you’ll let me know?”
“Of course. What takes you to Oxfordshire? That’s as landlocked as can be.”
“I must visit the late Baron Richardson’s mother and his fiancée. I must repay a debt I owe.” He bowed and spun on his heel, wanting only to remove himself from the Admiralty so he could reassess.
All the way down the crowded hall, he met the eyes of those who stared at him, looking for any indication t
hat his petition had found favor. He hoped his face gave away nothing.
Once outside, he settled his bicorn on his head, points fore and aft, and squared his shoulders. If the path to another command was blocked for the moment, he would have to face it. He must discharge his debt to Major Richardson. Perhaps by the time he accomplished the deed, a position aboard ship would have opened up for him.
Nearly a fortnight after the memorial service, Sophie hurried up the gravel drive, clutching a handful of condolence letters and cards close to her chest in an attempt to keep them dry. Rain, a few drops at first and then a deluge, plunged from dark-bellied clouds in a headlong dash to hurtle into the ground. The wind whipped and gusted, tearing at Sophie’s skirts as she gained the front steps.
Once inside the house, she flicked through the damp letters. Though she knew it was foolish, she couldn’t quell the futile hope that there would be a letter from Rich. It had been a habit for so long, waiting for Thursday, hearing the coach, hurrying to the front gate full of anticipation. How long would it take for the ingrained response to the weekly mail delivery to diminish?
Mamie came from the back of the house, over her arm a trug laden with flowers. “I’m glad I finished before the rain started. Mrs. Chapman is bringing a vase. Aren’t they beautiful? The scented stock is almost too strong, but I love it.” She set the basket on a side table. “I thought having something bright and happy in the house might cheer us up.”
Sophie forced a smile. “What a lovely thought.”
“Were there letters?” Mamie’s voice held hope too.
“Several from friends. A few from addresses I don’t recognize.” Somehow Sophie would summon the strength and will to answer them all. No one had told her that grief was so exhausting. Her body felt battered and her mind drained before she even got out of bed in the morning.
“Do you mind if I arrange flowers with you in the drawing room? I can take them to the kitchen if you’d like. I don’t want to disturb you.” Mamie took a few steps toward the rear door.