The Widow's Fire

by Paul Butler

  “Indeed, Captain, I have a service much more straightforward, and one which will have untold benefits for yourself and for Anne as well as for me.”

  He gazed down at me, pleased and intrigued, smile lines marking a face made ruddy through his years on the ocean. As we had slowed again, I eased him forward. We needed to keep out of Anne’s earshot before I dropped the cannonball on his foot. “You know me as a poor widow, Captain Wentworth.” Walking even more softly in response to my confidential tone, he leaned in to hear my words. “And of course this is the truth, but not the whole truth. Everyone, no matter how humble their situation, no matter how confined their lives, needs an occupation, some way to serve and help their fellow creatures. Mine is to protect those for whom I care.”

  He looked down at me with compassion and concern. “I am certain of this,” he said gently.

  “And there are many forms of safety and of danger,” I said, again stealing a look behind. At her sister’s insistence, Anne had gone with her to greet her cousins. We would be alone for quite a while, it would seem. “You know the dangers of battle, Captain Wentworth, the perils of the sea. And you must be well acquainted with that moment of safety when you put into dock and step onto dry land.” I didn’t look but could tell from the soft pulse of his breathing that he was smiling at my whimsy. “We women know of other dangers. We know the subtle peril of the whispered comment, the furtive look. There are storms of a different nature on land, I assure you Captain, and they are as treacherous to reputation as the storms of the ocean are treacherous to life.” Captain Wentworth slowed again and this time I let him. He seemed to sense the conversation had turned a disquieting corner. “But it is safety from all this that I desire for my dear friends and safety I mean to secure.”

  “Mrs. Smith,” he said haltingly as though it were an effort to find the words, “you surely cannot mean that the slightest … ‘whispered comment’ or ‘furtive look’ could ever be applied to Anne … even in the most mistaken of circumstances.”

  “No, my dear Captain Wentworth,” I protested warmly, almost laughing as I did so. I tugged at his arm slightly as though bewildered by his misapprehension. “Most certainly not!”

  He had stopped now, frowning, first at the floor, then at me. “Then, if not at Anne…”

  “Take me on one more turn of the room, Captain Wentworth, and I promise to explain myself with no more blunders.”

  He took my arm again. I could feel his growing confusion in the movement of his limbs. “I hope you will forgive a woman with too much time on her hands and too few people to spend her goodwill on, Captain Wentworth.” There was a short pause.

  “Of course,” he said, trying — I could tell — to inject his words with the same ease as before.

  “You see, something came to me a few days ago, something that made me fear for the safety of the fine man who I already hoped was destined for my Anne.” I waited; in the growing quiet between us, many footfalls — our own and those of others — seemed to echo with increasing volume under the lofty ceiling.

  “My safety?” he said at last.

  “The feminine kind of safety, Captain Wentworth.”

  His mouth seemed to form words. I could feel them hanging mutely under the high ceiling. Then after a hesitation, he gave them voice: “Safety from whispers and furtive looks?”

  “Wild rumours and odious untruths, Captain Wentworth.” I spoke with some indignation. “I was certain of it even before we met.”

  I knew the next question, but it was telling indeed he took so long to ask it. Without looking, I sensed he was staring ahead at the swirling mass of fans, bonnets, and feathered hats, the luxuriant sea of his hoped-for future. All at once his indecision seemed to solidify into something stronger. He halted and the stiffness of his arm gave me little option but to halt with him and turn.

  “Do you mean there are rumours concerning me, Mrs. Smith? If so, I would ask that you not keep them from me.”

  I looked up into his face. There was indeed a worried kind of defiance there. But those small lines that wavered about the eyes told me something crucial. He was convinced I could not know his secret.

  “My dear Captain Wentworth,” I said gently, trying to radiate compassion and pity. “I will give you a name only, one which will mean nothing at all to you other than it being the name of a friend or colleague, but these hideous rumours concern this gentleman’s name and yours.”

  His gaze skipped around my face in a kind of panic. I suspected he knew what was coming.

  “The name, Captain Wentworth, is Oliver Mason, Captain Oliver Mason, I believe.”

  At first his demeanour hardly seemed to change. He remained as he was: quite straight, his head unbowed except for a downward tilt towards me, his face an inscrutable map of slight confusions and minor worries. Was Plato wrong, after all? I wondered. Then his Adam’s apple bobbled and his eyes seemed to lose their focus, gaze scattering around the great room like a man who had awoken after a dream to remember where he was. With a gasp, he broke away from me, shoulders suddenly crooked.

  “Dear Captain,” I said, laying my hand upon his wrist, reclaiming him quite successfully. He looked at me again, even gave a rather apologetic smile before he took my arm and, with a quick glance that seemed to take in all directions, began to move once more as part of the great human wheel. I could feel the tremor of rushing blood through his sleeve. “You can be sure, Captain Wentworth, quite sure I will scotch any rumours I happen to come upon.”

  “But where…” he coughed, “but where did you come across any such rumours, Mrs. Smith? I need to know so that I may face them head on.”

  “Oh, friends of friends, Captain Wentworth, people so distant to me I would have to rhyme off a dozen connections for you to follow the strand of acquaintanceship. You see, while you overlook the sea and the waves, I oversee the most intricate, expansive fabric of human communication. A twitch or a tug by someone whose motivations are suspect can ruin a reputation forever. So I make it my business to look after the deservedly good reputations of my friends.” He bowed his head at the words. “I know you to be so entirely innocent of the insinuations that I hardly wonder you have not asked me for the particulars. But it might be wise all the same to be armed with a little knowledge.”

  For the second time, I felt his resolution collapse. He slowed down and his arm became limp. “But surely you have told me,” he said. His lip quivered.

  “Indeed, Captain Wentworth, I have not breathed a word about the nature of the rumour, other than the gentleman’s name.”

  His head moved to the side and he gave a little exhalation, a bewildered half laugh, closing his eyes.

  “I should tell you now…”

  “No!”

  The word was abrupt. Some nearby heads turned. I quickly checked and saw that Anne, her sister, and the Dalrymples were still by the entrance preoccupied in conversation.

  “Please, Captain Wentworth,” I placed my arm over his. Slowly, like a rock come to life, he took it and began to move once more. “It is hardly the greatest of sins, Captain, although it is obviously your extraordinarily high standards that make you think it so.”

  He half laughed, half shivered. “Hardly the greatest of sins!” he whispered.

  “Really, Captain Wentworth,” I said smiling, “which captain at one time or another does not recommend a fellow under his command for promotion because of friendship rather than performance?”

  He slowed again, realizing something. “Recommended for promotion?”

  “Yes, indeed, and despite the scurrilous rumours, Captain Wentworth, I am sure Captain Mason is everything you told the admiralty he was.”

  “What is the rumour, exactly, Mrs. Smith?” He seemed suddenly resolute, as though a bolt had been shot through him. “I must know it.”

  “But, Captain Wentworth,” I said, feigning confusion. “I have
just told you the very substance of the rumour from beginning to end.”

  “That’s it?” he said. “The whole rumour?”

  “Well, yes, Captain.” I returned the smile that had come over his face.

  “But that’s easy to refute! The admiralty would do it for me if it ever becomes necessary.”

  We began walking again. I sensed a great relief in his stride — he had become forgetful of my infirmity and I now had difficulty keeping up while retaining the appearance of sickliness. If he had any sense he had exposed himself unnecessarily, it must have been very slight. He seemed quite ready to forget everything.

  “But Captain,” I asked innocently after a silence, “it seemed as though you were so very much concerned. I’m so afraid I gave you a shock.”

  “Ah,” he said with a rather stiff laugh, “no, no, not really. Please don’t concern yourself.” He sighed happily and a distant smile from Anne confirmed that he had met her eyes. She curtsied to the Dalrymples and seemed likely to join us soon, although her sister seemed determined to stay.

  “But I feel as though I must, after all, mention something else, Captain Wentworth.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  I glanced up at him. A slight frown of curiosity clouded his otherwise delighted face.

  “You see, Captain, there was another rumour along with the one about the false promotion.”

  The happiness was not gone yet from his expression, though there was a narrowing of the eyes and a pre-emptive shake of the head.

  “It was a rumour I naturally tore up and scattered from my thoughts like so many scraps of paper.” In the corner of my vision I could see Anne had turned and was on her way to us. But, fortunately, an acquaintance, an elderly lady, stopped her. Anne gave a low curtsy and I knew we still had a few moments. “This rumour, Captain Wentworth, was also about you and Oliver Mason. I’m afraid it was far worse than the first.”

  Blotches of pink appeared on Captain Wentworth’s face; it was as though his blood was swimming from one part of his skin to another in search of escape. He turned away from me, staring off towards the exit.

  “The rumour is so bad, in fact, it is quite unsayable.” I leaned in, whispering. “I would never have brought it up before as I would never have believed it.”

  He turned back to me. Crimson lines had appeared around his eyelids. “So why, Madam, do you bring it up now?”

  “Oh my poor, dear Captain Wentworth!” I waited until I was sure he could see that the pity on my face was genuine — and yes, dear reader — it was; the lioness can indeed feel compassion for the deer it fells. “Because, Captain, everything that has happened since I mentioned Oliver Mason’s name has proved that it is true.”

  His mouth opened a little. I turned and smiled at Anne who was finally extricating herself from her companion and about to make her way towards us.

  “Now, Captain, pull yourself together quickly.” I touched his hand and squeezed it. “I am your sincere friend.”

  “Friend?” The word came in a splutter. He seemed like a child whose toy had been taken from him suddenly: bereft, wondering whether to cry.

  “My rooms. One hour past midnight. We will see what can be done.”

  I turned quickly to greet my old school friend, my face a study of optimism and conferred warmth: “Anne!” I took both her hands in mine. “I have been witness to such proofs of enduring affection and regard for the last five minutes, I am afraid…” Tears had come to my eyes almost without bidding. “I am afraid your Captain Wentworth and I are almost quite overcome.”

  I couldn’t at this moment see the captain’s expression but could guess it was unlikely to have become composed in the short time since I had broken away from him. My job now was to give a context that might explain Captain Wentworth’s obvious discomposure. And, if I turned out to be lucky, I might succeed in a way that would create a sense of indebtedness in the seafaring heart, and a profound joy and appreciation in the soul of my old friend.

  Judging from the tears of happiness forming in Anne’s eyes, the whole plan could not have worked better. She looked from me to her intended, a shy compassion taking over her expression. I turned also and tilted my head in sentimental rapport. The captain looked shaken, uncertain, a hand over his mouth, eyes watery. But I saw he had presence of mind enough to take the hand from his face and smile at his bride. What would this man not give to preserve such a picture of happiness on the face of the woman he undoubtedly loved?

  This, in short, was a good day’s work. I looked forward to his call in the small hours of the morrow.

  7. CAPTAIN WENTWORTH

  I AWOKE TO THE CHIME and the port almost spilled onto my waistcoat. The glass had been tilting dangerously in my sleeping hand. I’d been walking with Anne along some tropical shore. Warm breezes had been loosening the tresses held within her white bonnet. We had been laughing, surrendering to the likelihood of the oncoming storm. Palm leaves had swayed over our heads, branches creaking in a forewarning, not of danger, but of excitement. Suddenly she had stopped and looked up at me, her dark eyes intense.

  “It doesn’t matter, Frederick,” she had said, smiling, “none of it.” Her voice carried an echo of Oliver Mason. “I know the effects of loneliness.”

  Her sweet forgiveness had carried both an immediacy and a depth that no waking words ever possessed. There was not the slightest doubt in my mind that in the instant of her speaking the whole incident had been forever washed from my life and hers, and that no reproach would ever come between us, no awkwardness or agitation would exist about those details of a sailor’s life that might puzzle a woman.

  But now I was awake. The clock on the mantle ticked its brittle warning and Anne’s soft acceptance fizzled away into the candle glow. Leaning forward and peering at the clock face, I saw it was a quarter to the appointed hour. The ruby liquid rose and clung to the sides of the glass as I moved. Might have been better if the port had spilled its bloody hue, I thought; it seemed appropriate to go abroad tonight with the appearance of a bullet hole close to my heart.

  Mrs. Smith. Who was this woman? And how was I to appraise her claims of friendship? I raised the glass, gulped the burning wine and laid it upon the side table. Smith — the name merged with the horrendous bustle of clothes in the Assembly Rooms, silk upon silk, the murmur of voices. Smith — the word was like a knife.

  But she had promised help. She had looked into my eyes and squeezed my hand. If she had meant to ruin me, she would have done so. I hauled myself up, felt the rhythmic pumping in my chest. How many times had I sailed into battle? How many times had I ordered the cannons prepared? I could surely master this situation. The drumming of my heart began to settle into a more familiar rhythm. Take control, it told me. I will be master of this situation. The resolve helped to calm me.

  This was not a house for unexplained comings and goings. Sailors and their families are so used to cramped quarters they bring the practice onto land. These lodgings were rented by the Crofts and shared by late arrangement with myself and the Harvilles, this last party having stayed in the house on previous occasions. My immediate task was to slink out of the place with nobody noticing, nobody asking questions. I stood in the centre of the room and listened. Not a creak. Even the mice that had sought refuge in walls and under floorboards were sleeping.

  My sister, Sophia, and her husband, whose rooms were immediately below me, had retired some time ago; their habits were regular enough to be relied upon. But the same could not be said for Richard Harville and his wife who occupied the ground floor. I had become quite worried about Richard when I’d stayed at his home in Lyme. One morning I’d come down very early to find he had been downstairs reading through the night, shadows under his eyes, skin pale and ashen. What if it was the same tonight?

  Musket fire in the Atlantic in 1812 had shattered the bone above his knee and the long winter had aggravated the
injury. Though he never complained about it, I knew the pain often made sleep near to impossible. The detail made the kindnesses of Harville and Lydia, his wife, even more admirable. The memory made me shrink and I circled the room. How I longed to be a stranger without friends, without bonds of affection that might be shattered in the most brutal way imaginable.

  I thought of how the Harvilles had cast aside all thought of their own comforts to nurse Louisa Musgrove back to health after she had jumped from the Cobb and crashed her head against the rocks below. It had been my fault. I had encouraged her exuberance but it had never occurred to them to blame me. Instead, Richard had taken her in without question and Lydia had stayed by her bed every night as though Louisa were her own dear child.

  And they had continued to bear both tragedy and a kind of betrayal with the same kind equanimity. It wasn’t just the injury that plagued Richard. I knew well how the memory of Fanny tortured him. His sister’s death last summer had torn through his fond and resolute heart. And now that she had been buried, at her own request, in Bath, her memory could scarcely be closer. Though he had not said so, their residence here had to be partly on account of Fanny; it was their pilgrimage, no doubt made more necessary by the news that her fiancé, Captain Benwick, had all but forgotten her and was to marry Louisa Musgrove, the very same young woman they had been at such unselfish pains to nurture back to health. How the friendship and trust of such good people hung over me like a curse, and how furtive a creature I was, listening for sounds, watching for an opportunity to slip from the house undetected.

  What reasons could I give for taking to the street if I were to find Harville watchful tonight? The navy teaches men neither to lie nor to ask questions that might tempt others to lie. It had done its job with me. I was not a good dissembler and my manner would likely betray any falsehood. And how could I, in any case, lie to such a man? Even in the midst of grief, he and his Lydia had rejoiced so heartily at my impending marriage. It would be like lying to God.