by Erica Vetsch
Sophie’s hopes sank. She should have brought Charlotte along to help her convince Mother.
But Sophie hadn’t counted upon the captain.
He took the dowager’s hand and led her to the settee. “Madam, I understand your concerns. I know it might be difficult to imagine, but as a captain, I have much the same feelings toward my crew, especially the younger ones. But …” He sat beside her, not relinquishing her hand. “When the time is right, one must let the younger ones fledge. I have to trust in the training I have instilled in my crew. I know you must have trained Lady Sophia very well indeed, and no matter where she goes, she will be a credit to you. She has matured under your guiding hand, and now, when you visit London together, you will be able to testify to your peers that you have a daughter with a mature, caring heart, who through your guidance and training is both loyal to her promises and capable of seeing them through. She cares so much for others, through your fine example, that she would even forfeit her own time of heartache to see that Lady Richardson had an opportunity to fulfill her fondest wish. I imagine your peers in London will be both envious of your fine efforts in Lady Sophia’s training but also quite admiring of your relationship with your daughter.”
Mother blinked, her mouth opening a fraction, and was that pink suffusing her cheeks? Sophia had never seen the like. The captain had unplumbed depths. And he wasn’t finished.
“I give you my word as an officer of the Royal Navy that neither Lady Sophia nor Lady Richardson will come to any grief under my care.” He stared so intently into the dowager’s eyes that Sophie found herself nodding.
Then his gaze broke away from Mother and found Sophie. His look sent a tremor through her. It was almost as if he believed the things he was saying to Mother about her.
“That’s all very nice, Captain Wyvern, but my answer is still no.” Mother folded her hands in her lap. “While I am quite certain you are capable of protecting Lady Sophia and Lady Richardson, you are not a fit companion for them, being merely a sea captain. I’m sure you understand.”
Sophie wanted to protest, but Mother would entrench herself deeper into her stated position if Sophie breathed a word against it.
CHAPTER 5
HE’D BEEN so certain that the dowager duchess would agree, her refusal set him back on his heels. Not to mention the crushed look in Lady Sophia’s eyes. He’d failed her.
Again.
How could he change the dowager’s mind? Or should he advocate rebellion and offer to take the ladies without gaining permission? It was quite ridiculous that a woman of Lady Richardson’s age and position asked leave of anybody for anything.
The return to the manor house was accomplished in silence.
Rodbury waited at the front door. “Captain Wyvern, sir, there is a gentleman in the parlor waiting for you. An Admiral Barrington.”
Thoughts of the dowager disappeared. Barrington was here? Did he have a command for Charles? But why would he deliver new orders in person? Charles vaguely remembered telling Barrington that he would be visiting Lady Richardson, but the admiral must have followed nearly on his heels to arrive so soon.
“I’ll leave you to your meeting.” Lady Sophia walked toward the stairs with her head bowed.
“Please, I’d like you to meet the admiral.”
He entered the parlor and snapped to attention, saluting smartly. “Lady Sophia, may I present Admiral George Barrington.”
The admiral had risen when Lady Sophia entered, and he took her offered hand, bowing over it. “Milady, may I express my sincere condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you.”
She sounded quite composed, but Charles caught the strain in her voice. Was it the mention of her grief, or was it her disappointment in her mother’s stance on the chance to travel?
“If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’ll have refreshments sent in.” Lady Sophia paused at the door. “Admiral, I do hope you will be able to stay? I am sure my brother, the duke, would wish to meet you.”
“Thank you, milady. Most kind.”
When she’d left, Barrington stared at the closed door for a moment. “Well, Wyvern, she’s as lovely as I had been told.” He seemed to realize Charles was still at attention, and shook his head. “At ease, sailor. Come. Sit.” He beckoned to the chair opposite. “We’ve much to discuss.”
“I didn’t imagine you would deliver orders in person, sir.” Charles flicked out the tails on his coat as he sat. “Surely a factotum could have performed the task.”
Barrington dug in his pocket and produced a silver toothpick. He clamped down on it, tucking it into the corner of his mouth. “I’ve not come with orders. I’ve come with news. I am sorry to have to tell you that your uncle has departed this mortal world.”
Charles’s chest heaved like it had been hit by a rogue wave. “He’s dead.” He felt no sorrow, because he hadn’t known the man, had never laid eyes on him.
“I’m afraid so. Your hope he still had time to marry and beget an heir has come to nothing. He died nearly a week hence. Heart, I believe. As his legal successor, you are now the Earl of Rothwell.” Barrington bowed his head slightly. “My lord.”
The title sent a cold, stark wind through Charles. His mind thrust away the notion of a title. He neither wanted nor needed it. He was a sea captain, not an earl. His uncle had wanted nothing to do with him since before his birth. He had shunned his sister—Charles’s mother—and her husband, forbid them to return to the family home, and settled all his attention on his elder sister’s son, Arthur Bracken. The earl and his sister’s hopes had died with Arthur after he tried to assassinate the Prince Regent. Even then the earl had wanted nothing to do with Charles, and Charles felt the same. He had ignored his future inheritance as effectively as his uncle had.
“What about a command?” He held on to a thread of hope.
“For pity’s sake, man, I just informed you that you’ve become a peer of the realm. The last thing on your mind should be trying to find a command. Your place is in Devonshire at your estate. Gateshead, I believe it’s called? It’s time to come home from the sea and take up your position as landed gentry.” Barrington slapped his thigh. “Do you know how many men under my command would give their last farthing to be in your position?”
Charles knew Barrington spoke the truth, but still he resisted. His life was aboard a ship, sailing into the horizon, not in a manor on the coast, weighed down with decisions about crop rotation and livestock pedigrees.
The ropes tightened around him as surely as if wound on a capstan.
All he wanted was to return to the sea. Why was God trying to keep him on land?
With the admiral staying the night, Mother had invited herself and Cilla to dinner at Haverly. Sophie took the chair the captain held for her. The lines beside his mouth had deepened. The admiral must have brought bad news.
Marcus, at the head of the table, said grace, and Sophie looked from one bowed head to the next. Mamie, across the table, looked as if she wanted to curl into a ball.
She hadn’t cried when Sophie broke the news that the dowager had refused her blessing on the trip. A small nod, a tightening of the mouth, and some quick blinks were enough to break Sophie’s heart … and begin the first stirrings of mutiny.
Why did she need Mother’s permission anyway? Especially if Captain Wyvern would be kind enough to escort them? How did one honor one’s mother when she was so unreasonable and controlling? How did one honor the woman who would have been her mother-in-law when doing so meant defying one’s mother?
“Milady?”
Sophie started. The prayer was over, and Captain Wyvern leaned to the side so the footman could serve her.
“So, Barrington, is the Admiralty still awash with naval officers?” Marcus asked.
The admiral, seated at the far end of the table next to Charlotte, nodded. “Filling up the scuppers. Bringing the ranks down is going to be a challenge. Some are mustering out, some are taking jobs on merchant ships, and so
me are even accepting postings to man the cutters patrolling the shores for smugglers. But most are waiting for new postings.”
“Is that what you’re doing, Captain Wyvern?” the dowager asked. “Or do you have other plans now that the war is over?”
“He surely does.” Admiral Barrington took a sip from his wineglass. “That’s the reason I came up from London. To bring the news that his uncle, the Earl of Rothwell, has died, and the title is now his.”
Everyone stopped eating and looked at the captain.
He was an earl? The Earl of Rothwell. Sophie hadn’t known he was a member of a peerage family. He’d grown up in Portsmouth, gone to sea at twelve. How could he be an earl?
The dowager leaned back in her chair and eyed first the captain and then the admiral. “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure the old earl is dead? Yes. Am I certain Charles is his heir? Again, madam, yes.”
Marcus toyed with his fork. “I had heard Rothwell was ailing. I was waiting for you to mention the fact that you were his heir, Captain Wyvern, though I perhaps know why you didn’t.”
What passed between them in their looks? Marcus’s was challenging, while the captain’s was wary. Had he secrets to hide?
“I was never meant to inherit. That honor belonged to my cousin. I am content to be a naval officer and never looked for anything else.”
“So now it will not be out of your way to escort Sophie and Mamie to Devon, since you will no doubt be heading that direction yourself anyway?” The corner of her brother’s mouth quirked, and he nodded to her.
Sophie’s stomach muscles tightened. “Actually, we will not be able to accompany the captain. Or should I say earl? Mother has forbidden me to go.”
“Oh, now, that’s all changed.” Mother sputtered and dabbed her lips. “I had no idea the captain was also a peer. As the Earl of Rothwell, he’s more than welcome to escort Sophia and Lady Richardson.”
The captain grew white about the mouth, and his hands tightened on his fork and knife. “Is that so? You realize, madam, I am exactly the same man I was this morning when you turned down my offer to see your daughter to a cottage by the ocean? Nothing about me has changed.”
“But it has. Surely you can see that it has. You’re a titled gentleman now.” Mother smiled and nodded. “Much more acceptable to chaperone the daughter of a duke, don’t you know?”
When Charles dropped his cutlery onto his plate and leaned forward, Sophie surprised herself by putting her hand on his arm. The muscles were bunched, as if he were tensed like a cat to spring.
“She won’t understand, and it’s no good reasoning with her,” she whispered. “Please.”
He looked down at her fingers on his sleeve, going completely still. But as she withdrew her touch, his arm followed her a few inches, as if wishing to prolong the contact.
“Sophia, I shall help you pack, and we’ll decide upon an itinerary for you.” The dowager was away with her plans, but Sophie didn’t much care. “If I wasn’t so needed here, I would go with you.”
Sophie’s mind balked at the thought of a holiday with the dowager.
She could already see the oceanside cottage, down a sandy path between sea grasses to the shore. Mamie would walk along the beach with her, arm in arm, breathing in the salt air.
With seabirds crying and the shush and scrape of the waves rolling in, perhaps Sophie could release some of her grief and begin to mend.
But in the background of her image, the captain stood staring out toward the horizon, as if waiting for a ship to emerge in the distance.
Which was silly, because after they found their seaside cottage, they would most likely never see Charles Wyvern again.
Traveling with women in tow was vastly different from journeying alone. The amount of baggage staggered him. A separate wagon had been required, driven by one of Marcus’s grooms, who would return as soon as they were safely delivered to the coast. Mrs. Chapman agreed that her place was with Lady Richardson, no matter where they went; therefore the carriage was crowded. Lady Richardson and the cook sat on one bench, and Lady Sophia sat beside Charles.
Under normal circumstances, Charles supposed most men would choose to ride beside the carriage on horseback, but as a sailor, he sadly lacked the skills of horsemanship. If he was indeed to be consigned to a life on land, he probably should look into acquiring some ability on a steed.
Not that he was complaining about the close quarters. Rocking along with Lady Sophia wasn’t the most arduous of duties, in spite of the warm day. It was just that everything took longer when women were involved. For a period of time, he thought they might not escape Haverly Manor at all. Between the hugging, the instructions, and the well-wishes, Charles had been ready to slip the mooring lines and shove off long before the women.
Then there were the stops. It seemed at least once an hour one or the other of the ladies needed to “stretch her legs.” Not having spent time around the female of the species, he didn’t know if this was normal or not. All he knew was that progress by carriage seemed infinitely slower than aboard ship.
Mrs. Chapman kept her hand on the basket wedged between herself and Lady Richardson. The woman seemed to think there might not be provisions available outside Oxfordshire and had stuffed a hamper full of victuals to stave off starvation. And she pressed food upon anyone who accidentally met her eye.
“Would you like some bread and butter, Captain?” she asked, her face hopeful.
“Thank you, no.” He’d already had his fill, merely to be polite. The warmth of the day had robbed him of appetite, and he wished he could yank off his cravat, pull off his coat, and roll up his sleeves. Yet another obligation of traveling with ladies. One must remain properly attired at all times.
Lady Sophia looked as fresh and pretty as when they’d set out hours before. And for the first time since meeting her, she wore something other than black. Her dress was a dove gray, trimmed with darker gray ribbon. Still somber, but the bonnet framing her face had a brilliant sapphire lining that brought out the blue of her eyes.
She alternated between looking out the window and poking her nose into a slim volume that the Duchess of Haverly had pressed into her hand at the last minute.
“What are you reading, if I may ask?”
“It’s Robert Herrick’s Hesperides.” She flipped the book closed, her finger marking her place, so he could see the title on the spine. “I love Herrick, don’t you? He seems so approachable and not puffed up with his own importance. Herrick and Burns are my favorite poets. Charlotte thinks one should never travel without at least a book or two.”
Charles’s education had consisted mostly of geometry, astronomy, and mathematics, taught to him by whatever first officer had held the post on the ships he served. His knowledge was sorely lacking when it came to literature. He doubted he had ever read a poem by either of the authors she mentioned, and the only rhymes he knew were sea shanties he would never utter in the presence of a woman. Learning to navigate by the stars, calculate speed, and anticipate the weather had seemed a more prudent curriculum.
Though it pained him to admit his ignorance, he could not bluff his way into making anyone believe he was deeply literate. “I fear I am not familiar with Herrick. Perhaps you could read one of his poems?”
She pressed her lips together, studying him, and then nodded. “Rich first introduced me to Herrick when he quoted part of a stanza to me.” She smiled, her expression going to another time as she leafed through the pages. “I had just burst into the parlor at Primrose, talking before I was even in the room, and I suppose my appearance was a bit disheveled. I seemed always to be in haste back then, with so much to say. As if I needed to cram as much as possible into our short time together before he returned to the marines.”
Which matched everything Rich had told the crew about his Sophie. That she filled every day to overflowing with her joyous life. Would Rich have been disappointed at the new maturity she now showed, or was her somberness solely
a result of Rich’s death? Had he not died, would she still be the same effervescent romp of yesteryear?
Lady Sophia held the book to catch the late afternoon light and began reading:
“Delight in Disorder”
By Robert Herrick
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribands to flow confusedly;
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me, than when art
Is too precise in every part.
Charles mulled the words and the images the poetry created. His entire world was one of order and discipline, routine and tradition. However, this Herrick fellow might be on to something. He could envision Lady Sophia just as this poem described.
Seated among the wildflowers, her hair blowing in the breeze.
Lady Sophia waited for his response, and he could feel the housekeeper and Lady Richardson looking at him as well. He cleared his throat. “Most interesting.”
At Lady Sophia’s sigh, he knew he’d disappointed her. He couldn’t feign knowledge he didn’t have and wax lyrical over literature. If her heart lay deeply with the poets, their paths lay far apart.
That gave him pause. Their paths lay far apart in any case. Though their contact had been extended for a few days by this journey, after he saw them into a cottage near Lady Richardson’s birthplace, he would take his leave and trouble them no more. Common interests had nothing to do with it, and he would do well to remember that.
Charles paid the tolls and decided to stop in Newbury if the lodgings should be of a good standard. When they reached the coaching inn, he thought “good standard” might be a stretch, but Lady Richardson had begun to flag, and pressing on was out of the question. The inn, such as it was, would have to do.