Hayden raised his glass. “We must have a toast. To Post Captain Robert Hertle.”
Hertle smiled modestly, pleased by his friend’s kindness, and by the gratifying warmth the words seemed to spread through his entire being. “It is undeserved, as you well know.”
“It is richly deserved. Think of all the deadwood that made their post before you—though the Lords Commissioners set them upon the quarterdeck instead of beneath the stern, where deadwood belongs.”
Robert laughed. “What I was trying to say was that I am not as deserving as you.”
“Well, I won’t hear any of that talk,” Hayden enjoined, trying, for his friend’s sake, to mask his bitterness and disappointment.
“You shall hear it, I fear, and not just from me.” Robert gestured to a chair. “Please, Charles, be at ease.”
“As soon as I am dry.”
Robert rang a little silver bell and a maid hurried in. She curtsied to the gentlemen. “Anne, can you find a blanket to lay over the chair? Lieutenant Hayden was caught by a squall with all his canvas up.” He set his snifter on the mantle and peeled off his friend’s coat. “It must be dried,” he admonished. “I’ll find you a frock-coat for supper.”
The dripping coat went out with Anne, and a thick blanket came quickly back to be draped over a chair. Charles settled himself, suppressing a shiver.
“You must tell me all the particulars,” Charles said. “What ship have they given you?”
“Just a little brig until a frigate comes off the stocks. My commission will be granted then.” He was trying not to sound too pleased with his situation, Charles could tell; no doubt out of consideration for him.
“Now,” Robert said, taking the seat opposite, “tell me about your visit to the Admiralty.”
“How in this world did you know of that?”
Robert smiled, enjoying this small triumph. “You were observed, sir. Observed ascending to the First Lord’s chambers. I have not been still all afternoon in anticipation of good news.” Robert waited a moment. “Well, don’t keep me in uncertainty,” he said when Hayden offered nothing. “Did they give you a ship?”
“No. Nothing like it. A first lieutenant’s position only—aboard a frigate.”
Robert closed his eyes a moment and his face went pale with anger. “How can they treat you so? You’ve had command of a brig-sloop.”
Hayden rose and paced back and forth before the fire. “Yes, well, apparently job-captains are abundant and command little respect in Whitehall Street.”
“Even so, it is unjust. You should have been made Master and Commander—long ago. Tell me what the First Lord said.”
“First Lord? It was the First Secretary with whom I spoke.”
“Stephens?”
“None other.”
This apparently surprised Robert, who leaned forward in his chair, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Pray, what did he say you?”
Hayden took a sip of his brandy by way of buying himself a moment to consider. Anger and resentment surfaced again, and he pressed them down. Hayden wanted his friend’s council, but the truth was he felt ashamed of what had transpired, of what Stephens had asked of him—and the shame fuelled a long, simmering resentment.
“Are you familiar with a thirty-two-gun frigate named the Themis?” he asked, exerting all his energies to compose himself.
Robert sat back in his chair as though pushed. “Not Hart’s ship?”
“The very one.” Hayden gazed at his friend, unsettled by his reaction. “I am to be Captain Hart’s first. Do you know the man?”
Robert let his gaze flow once around the room, as though it were suddenly unfamiliar. “I have met him once or twice, but his reputation precedes him. I am astonished you have not heard. Among his detractors he is known as ‘Faint Hart.’ The good captain has his command courtesy of Mrs Hart, whose family tree has more than one branch extending into the Admiralty. It would be very charitable to say that he is not held in high regard among his peers in the service.”
Hayden cursed silently. “You are deeper into the Admiralty court than I, Robert. Have you ever heard of any cause for antipathy between Mr Stephens and Captain Hart?”
“I have not, but Hart gave me the distinct impression that he had little charm to spare for those he does not consider useful to his own particular cause. Stephens is a man of immense ability, so it is easily imagined that an officer known as ‘Faint Hart’ might earn his disdain. Men like Stephens have little time for fumblers. Did the First Secretary give you some indication that he harboured a dislike of Captain Hart?”
“I was left with the impression that someone within the Admiralty was no friend to Hart.”
A small roll of the eyes by Robert. “You’ve not accepted this position, surely?”
Hayden drew in a breath and released it in exasperation. “And what other choice have I, Robert?” he asked, the edge of his anger making itself known. “Mr Stephens was at pains to point out my French parentage and made it clear that within the walls of the Admiralty building no one but he knew my name.”
Robert looked positively alarmed at this intelligence. “Is he aware of your … affairs in France, do you think?”
“If so, he was too discreet to mention them.”
Robert did not appear to be reassured by this, but also rose and went restively across the room to the window. “You’ve never told anyone what you told me?”
“No one, though any number of people know I was in France that year, even in Paris. That was never a secret.”
Robert smiled bitterly. “Then your revolutionary past is likely still buried.”
Hayden bridled at his friend’s attempted jest. “It was but a few days, caught up in the moment … like every one there. Once I had witnessed a mob set loose, I was soon back in my right senses. You cannot know, Robert, how much I have come to regret my actions of those days, and I was all but blameless in that place—an innocent.”
“I have noted that you’ve come no nearer forgiving yourself, even so.”
Hayden felt the usual distress wash over him when this subject surfaced. “There are times when it is important not to forgive oneself,” he said quietly.
A look of distress crossed his friend’s face. An awkward moment, and then Robert said, “I don’t suppose Stephens mentioned if Hart had requested some other to be his first lieutenant?”
“He said nothing of it.” Hayden was happy to turn away from the subject of his sojourn in Paris.
“Then let us hope Hart did not. Imagine your position if so? I do not like this situation one bit, Charles. I’m not convinced you wouldn’t be better to refuse it.”
“Then you will not need to return my jacket when dried. I will have no further need of a uniform.”
Robert leaned back against the sill, his look pained. “Did Stephens promise you anything if you took this position? a ship, advancement?”
“Nothing. He seemed to suggest that he might be inclined to secure me a better situation in the future … but it was clear that success in the offered commission would first be required.”
Robert cursed softly. “It is unforgivable that he should offer you a situation—so beneath your gifts—and promise nothing in return.”
“That is not the worst of it. There is apparently some discontent among Hart’s crew and Mr Stephens seems to believe I will remedy it.”
“Blast the man to hell! If Hart has an understanding that you are being sent as his nursemaid you will be made most unwelcome.”
“Let us hope he does not comprehend that.” Hayden shrugged and placed an elbow on the mantle, finding the small puddle he had left earlier. “Such is the state of my career, Robert, that a refusal will see it ended. So I am for the Themis. I see no other course. Perhaps a few successful actions will place me in better circumstances.”
But Robert did not even make an effort to agree with this.
“She never retires to her chamber, no matter the hour, but wanders about
the house with a pack of dogs in train, and sleeps for two hours, now and again, upon a sofa or ottoman; any place it might please her. The consternation of the servants, who come to clean the rooms in the small hours, cannot be hidden. When they find the countess asleep amid her pack, they must tiptoe out and leave the room ashamble.” Miss Henrietta Carthew laughed; a charming tinkling, Hayden thought, like water in a raceway. “I have come upon her myself, at two of a morning, amid a swarm of candles, her face buried in a book, her feet propped up on a sleeping hound she has christened Boswell.” They all laughed at this.
Mrs Hertle glanced Hayden’s way and he hastily withdrew his gaze from the fair speaker. They were seated around the table in the Hertles’ dining room, the sound of horses’ hooves, like dripping water, passing by on the comparatively quiet street outside. The bustle of London was a distant hum, not even remarked by anyone at table—as unnoticed as one’s own heartbeat.
Hayden had heard many stories about the charms of Miss Henrietta Carthew, but had never expected to respond to her presence as he did. She should not be called beautiful, if the truth were to be admitted. Or perhaps it would be more true to say he had never met a woman in whom the line between “beautiful” and “peculiar-looking” was so fine. Considered individually, the features of her face were all beyond criticism, but taken as a whole there was something amiss, as though the elements were disparate, dissonant. Her nose, though straight and finely formed, appeared to have been made for a different face. The eyes, brown, bottomless, and flecked with amber, were just slightly too wide apart. But then she would smile, and all that appeared disharmonious would be swept away and he would understand why she was thought so handsome. The overall effect was utterly unknown to Hayden—he struggled not to stare.
“I don’t know why you visit that madhouse,” Robert observed, breaking into Hayden’s reverie.
Henrietta appeared surprised. “There is no place like it. The beauty of the countryside is unrivalled, and you are left to your own devices from morning until dinner, Lady Endsmere arranging no amusements during the day. It is near to Heaven in that alone …”
Her voice drew Hayden’s eyes back again: pearl-smooth skin, hair the colour of new-sawn mahogany: auburn, chestnut, copper, bronze.
“… at night, the same disregard for convention is apparent. The conversation around the dinner table is of politics and art, natural philosophy and poetry. All the ladies take their cue from Lady Endsmere and freely offer their opinions upon any subject. There is no other house like it in all of England, I think. Only the most substantive gentlemen and ladies visit. The table is not decorated with those frivolous ‘wits’ so valued in London—”
“There is very little wit at our table,” Mrs Hertle interrupted. “Are we fashionable?”
“You are quite the thing, my dear,” Henrietta assured her, a smile like a cresting wave on a sunny day.
Another glance Hayden’s way from Mrs Hertle, making him wonder if she realized how Henrietta’s voice pierced right to his core. But how could it not? musical, nuanced, assured, able to subtly colour the meaning of words, reveal shades of feeling, or hide them utterly.
In her presence he felt as though he stood upon a cliff edge. The height stole his breath away, his head spun. But even so, he could not will himself to step away from the edge. Some unseen force drew him nearer.
Henrietta lifted a fork to her lovely mouth. “This is exquisite. Have you a new cook?”
“Did I not tell you? Charles found us a French cook who had served a noble family before all the troubles began in that country.”
“I approve of your taste, Lieutenant Hayden,” Henrietta pronounced.
“Charles has many such areas of specialized knowledge,” Robert interjected. “Tell me what you think of the claret, Charles? From Spain, I was assured …”
“It is not from Spain, as you well know,” Hayden stated, seeing his friend suppress a smile.
“Where is it from, pray?” Robert asked innocently.
“It is a finely smuggled wine from the French Pyrenees,” Hayden said. He turned to the other guest. “Do your family keep a house in London, Miss Henrietta?”
“No longer, though my father did for many years. We are so close to town, it is hardly worth all the trouble and expense. Forgive me for changing the subject, Mr Hayden, but how do you know this claret is from the French Pyrenees and not Spain? Surely the two nations are but a border apart in that region.”
Robert’s partly suppressed smile blossomed fully. He took a malicious plea sure in making his friend perform.
Hayden took up his glass in resignation. “The style, largely; the French and the Spanish have different ideas about wine. And then each variety of grape has its own distinctive palette.” Hayden tasted the wine. “This is a skilful blend of Carignane … Teret noir, with perhaps a hint of the Picpoule. But I am no authority. My uncles could tell you who made the wine and precisely where the grapes were grown. They would go on at length regarding the terrier, then shake their heads at the backward methods of the rustic wine-makers.” He held the glass up to the light. “Where this wine is made the soil is often so thin over the rock that the vineyard owner must use a dibble, an iron bar, to break a depression in the stone into which the vine is planted. Then the vine is allowed to grow over the ground, wherever it will, rather than upon echalas—properly constructed wooden frames. They persist in crushing by foot, and refuse to use the press. Scientific methods have not reached them.”
Henrietta glanced at her cousin, the look impenetrable to Hayden.
“When this foolish war is over,” Mrs Hertle said, “Charles has promised to take us on a tour of France. Until then, I suppose, we must be content with seeing the parts of England we do not know, though I can’t imagine when we will manage even that, with Dame Duty always knocking at our door.”
“You must come to visit Lady Endsmere with me this summer, Eliza,” Henrietta urged, returning to their earlier subject. “Captain Hertle shall be upon his ship, and you will not be disappointed in the countryside.”
“Yes,” Robert said, “you must not miss this chance. I want to hear the stories.”
“You see,” Henrietta said, “you will join ‘the menagerie,’ as every one names it, for there are monkeys and exotic birds and who knows what all around the grounds. Lord Uffington said the only difference between the animals and the humans was that the animals only dressed for supper if they were of a mind to … because a monkey once spent most of a meal sitting in Lady Endsmere’s lap, like a favoured child, eating whatever it fancied from her plate.”
“Now we know you are exaggerating, Henri!” Mrs Hertle laughed.
“You will come with me this summer and see for yourself. Enough stories can be gathered in a fortnight to dine out on the rest of the year.”
The smile suddenly disappeared from Mrs Hertle’s face. “But I shall worry so for Captain Hertle,” she responded softly.
Henrietta reached out and patted her cousin’s hand. “We will pray the war will be over, the radicals all suffering the fate they so readily prescribe others.”
“What do you think, Charles?” Mrs Hertle asked, lines appearing at the corners of her eyes. “You know more of France than anyone in our circle. Certainly this war cannot be as long as the last?”
Charles took a sip of claret. As his glass returned to the table the footman leaned silently forward and recharged it. “So we might hope, but it is my experience that wars often defy predictions of their brevity.”
“But so many of the officers of both the French Army and Navy have resigned their commissions,” Mrs Hertle said. “How will they fight without officers?”
“Recent evidence would indicate quite well,” Hayden said, “in the case of the Army, at least. The Navy has yet to be tested.”
Robert waved a hand. “Charles, you let your sympathies blind you, I think. Surely an entire officer corps cannot be replaced by ill-trained tailors and farm boys and success then expecte
d.”
Charles felt suddenly defensive. “But imagine a navy where promotion was by merit rather than interest. Would not our own service be the better for it?”
“Certainly it would, but if we destroyed the officer class and promoted from the foremast hands, what kind of navy would we have?”
Hayden did not have an answer for that, and when he did not speak, Mrs Hertle said softly, “Then it will be a short war …”
“Certainly it must be,” Hayden offered, trying to sound reassuring.
“I should be allowed nothing but milk or water,” Hayden said passionately. “Wine makes me too forthright. I do apologize, Robert, I didn’t mean to frighten Mrs Hertle.”
Robert poured two glasses from a decanter. They had retired to the library for after-supper port and conversation. A brief interlude of male association before joining the ladies in the drawing room.
“Don’t apologize. Mrs Hertle is accustomed to hearing the truth, however distasteful. And you know I should rather have a harsh truth than a sweet lie.” Robert pressed a glass into his friend’s hand. Taking up a poker, he crouched and thrust it into the embers, tumbling a small hill of coal in a clatter. “You don’t believe that this conflict will be brief, I collect?”
“I have no special knowledge of the future, Robert, but such pronouncements have often proved frightfully optimistic in the past.”
Robert raked out the coals, then, satisfied with the effect, he stood, leaning a shoulder against the mantle. “What do you think of the situation across the Channel, now?”
Charles walked three paces, and turned, regarding his friend, propped against the mantle, a soft sadness come over him. “It grows more frightening by the day. That is what I think. The Girondins were the voice of moderation, and with them gone … I fear what might occur next. You read reports of the prison massacres last autumn. The resentments of the Paris mob are too easily inflamed; they have not done their worst yet, even without Marat to provoke them. I will own this, Robert: thank God for my English common sense or I might be among the mob even now.”
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