She opened the peerage and turned its crisp pages. Past Bedingfield of Oxburgh Hall, Dutton of Sherborne Manor, Elliott of Kellynch Hall. Not a baronet, then. Nor a knight, nor a viscount. Her pulse pounded as she flipped to the next, higher-ranking section.
And there it was, among the peerage of Scotland.
Fleming of Cumbernauld House.
Her beloved Alexander was the second son of the eleventh Earl of Wigtown.
And the oldest son, James, married July 15, 1801, to Barbara Hamilton, daughter of James Hamilton, first Duke of Châtellerault, had a single child listed at the time the edition had gone to print.
A daughter, Jane.
A lovely child, surely. And surely there would be more children, including sons, to come in the years ahead. She'd not desire it any other way.
Because that would leave her and Alexander free to take Topaze back to sea for another cruise. And at the same time, Alexander being the heir presumptive to a Scottish earldom would not harm her uncle's opinion of him, not one bit.
He'd never learned of her need for a husband. Never known of her inheritance, hanging by a legal thread. Had never inquired about her portion, her fortune.
Because none of it mattered. Their home would be upon the sea.
Together.
Beside her, a delicate hand shifted the volume into the light, touched the page, froze. Aunt Helen gasped.
"My dear girl…"
Said in an entirely different voice. Clara hid her smile.
"You've certainly changed your views regarding marrying a member of the peerage, Clara."
She shook her head. "That's unfair. I never stated any opposition to such a marriage, provided it was based upon love."
The corners of Aunt Helen's eyes crinkled and her lips curled. "But whatever became of that Frenchman you so ardently admired? With great clarity do I recall your declaration that he was your perfect husband and you'd settle for no one less."
Phillippe. Perhaps now wasn't the best time to acquaint her guardians with that despicable man's dénouement. "Oh, Aunt Helen, surely you can see for yourself this is merely a different sort of perfect?"
Author's Note
As I'm sure all manner of historically-minded readers are waiting to inform me, 1804 was a few years early for crochet in England. Young ladies of the day worked embroidery, knitting, needlepoint, tatting, and a predecessor of crochet called netting, which used a stick plus a netting needle (similar to the sort used for knitting) to create a mesh, in rather the same manner as broomstick lace is made. The netted fabric was popular for reticules, with gold thread especially sought for evening wear.
Another ancestor of crochet was tambour, a form of embroidery, done with a hoop to support the cloth and a hooked needle so fine it required a wooden handle. The hook was used to work a delicate thread through material in a pattern very similar to chain stitching, creating a surface design with a typically crocheted look on gowns and other articles. Commonly used for white-on-white work, where the pattern is all-important, tambour could also be used for fine beading.
Not until 1819 did published crochet patterns begin appearing in a Swedish magazine, but clearly the practice had been around for a few years, as simple crocheted decorations (little flowers and whirligigs) were being produced in Ireland by 1820. By 1840 instruction manuals for crochet were appearing, and Queen Victoria crocheted baby blankets, not only for her nine children and forty-two grandchildren but also for many other babies born amongst her acquaintance. The image of that graceful lady, working up a soft, warm wrapper for an infant during a cabinet meeting, combining the traditional handiwork of a woman with the power previously reserved for a man, is an appealing one for this member of the gentler sex.
But alas, to create the image of Lady Clara as gracefully ungraceful, she could not be permitted to excel at any sort of fine needlework. Surely, no one would believe that a woman capable of whipping a hooked bit of wire in and out of muslin fabric's fine weave (tambour) would be so fumble-fingered as to drop an inkpot? And so was born her interest in shepherd's knitting or tambour-in-the-air, where a single hook creates fabric from yarn sufficiently large for her to hold. This in turn led to her wistful emulation of Irish fancywork, and the subplot of the floral trellis lace was born.
Should your interest in crochet extend beyond this brief and poorly detailed history lesson to actual practice, do please note that Lady Clara's sedge stitch wrap and various other crochet patterns and stitches can be found on my blog, Take Two… on Romance (www.TakeTwoOnRomance.Weebly.com).
* * * *
Any story dealing with the Royal Navy and tall ships of the Napoleonic Wars could easily become mired in technical explanations of the many nautical terms necessary for the telling. I chose not to burden the story with such explanations, and found the story itself did not suffer from the lack. For readers who wish to differentiate the mizzenmast from the fore and main, or who wish to better understand stu'nsails, a good starting point can be found in Wikipedia's Glossary of Nautical Terms (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_nautical_terms).
A more thorough grounding can be gleaned from the multitude of wonderful sea stories written by those with true knowledge in the field. Everyone knows of Horatio Hornblower's adventures, given to us by the late C.S. Forester. But Napoleonic War sea stories extend far beyond Hornblower, and it is with delight that I can direct interested readers to the life's work of Patrick O'Brian, author of the Aubrey-Maturin series of novels, brought to the silver screen as Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World. The historical details and the sheer raw knowledge conveyed by O'Brian are breathless in their scope and fascinating even for lay readers such as this poor Authoress.
Regency readers, if twenty volumes of Aubrey and Maturin seem rather much, don't despair. Perhaps the most accessible of these stories for the average reader, and certainly the most delightful for those more interested in the romance than the nautical knowledge, is the second in the series, Post Captain. Do at least download the sample chapters of this story and give O'Brian a fair trial; his delightful characters deserve far more attention than they receive.
Finally, those readers already knowledgeable regarding the naval adventures of the Napoleonic Wars have doubtless noted that I dared not create ships of my own, but rather borrowed them from real history without allowing myself to be bounden by history's constraints. HMS Topaze was built in 1791 as a French Magicienne-class 32-gun frigate, captured by the Royal Navy in 1793 off the coast near Toulon. She served with distinction and flair throughout the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars, was laid up in ordinary in 1812 as the wars drew toward peace, and was broken into scrap in 1814, a fate which this Authoress hopes saddens more than myself.
Armide had the honor of being the lead ship of her class, a 40-gun frigate launched in 1804 at Rochefort shortly before our story begins. Like many another beautifully-built French frigate, she was captured by the Royal Navy in 1806 and served with honor as HMS Armide during the remainder of the Napoleonic Wars and the War of 1812, before being scrapped in 1815.
Only two of the little 14-gun brig-sloops were built in 1782, HMS Speedy as the lead ship of her class, and the delightfully named HMS Flirt. Brig-sloops were built for speed and like the larger frigates, they were too small to serve in the line, and so Speedy and Flirt occupied themselves for the most part with carrying dispatches and running errands. However, when faced with bigger jobs these little ships proved their worth, and in 1793 during the French Revolution, Speedy once found herself maintaining the blockade of Genoa during a massive winter storm — alone. All the larger ships of the blockading fleet were forced to shelter in Hyères Bay, leaving Speedy and her fourteen little cannons to prevent French warships from exiting the neutral port. She succeeded, perhaps because none tried to leave; but that fact does not negate the honor of her service.
About the Author
Vivian Roycroft is a pseudonym for historical fiction and adventure writer J. Gunnar G
rey. And if she's not careful, her pseudonymous pseudonym will have its own pseudonym soon, too. Along with an e-reader stuffed with Jane Austen and Patrick O'Brian, a yarn stash, and a turtle sundae at Culver's.
You can find Vivian and her writing compadre, J.L. Salter, at their shared blog, http://taketwoonromance.weebly.com/, or follow her on Twitter as @VivianRoycroft. And start looking for the second book in the series Love in Napoleon's War in 2013!
Also from Vivian Roycroft:
Chapter One
Tuesday, December 8, 1812
The Fleet Street crowd thinned ahead, beside the windowed front of the linen draper's shop, and there stood sweet Dorcas, one of the most delectable morsels he'd ever chewed. A stray beam of unexpected winter sunlight flashed off her golden curls, and the sudden blaze reflected, sharp and multiplied, in the many little diamond panes of the window beyond. Her gaze meshed with his through the crowd, that split-second, undeniable flash of recognition as bright as her hair in the sunshine. Her equally brilliant smile flashed a moment later.
An indiscreet moment later, to judge by the scowl of her new husband beside her.
And of course their swift, smiling recognition had been spotted. Dear Lady Gower's hawk-like eyes, glittering beneath an admittedly outré bonnet, glanced back and forth between them from her perch aboard her high-flyer phaeton. When her glance swiveled his way once more, he kissed his hand to her and gave the twice-widowed and adorable predator his most seductive smile. The matched greys smacked the phaeton's front wheel against the sidewalk's edge before she returned to her own affairs.
And of course, by then the new husband had whisked sweet Dorcas beyond the Temple Bar. She might be a merchant's wife now — since March, that was, and her new husband was no longer all that new — but as a former Wentworth-Gower, she was too well-bred to glance over her shoulder at another man while leaning on her husband's arm, and her fading presence plunged the street again into a dull winter's day. Ernst Anton Oldenburg, His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland sighed, but didn't bother to hide his satisfied smile. Dorcas, now Mrs. Robinson, looked lovelier than ever, with her hand resting unconsciously on her almost-done belly, her complexion positively glowing, and Mr. Robinson glowering over her shoulder.
Well, he'd done what he'd intended for her. His Grace could honestly say, he'd made sweet Dorcas' dream come true.
Leaving him free for a new adventure.
Who sat with her mother in the coffee house across the way.
In the table behind the window, the Honorable Anne Elizabeth Henrietta Kirkhoven, youngest daughter of Baron Wotton of Boughton Malherbe, Kent, sat straight as a sword blade over her cup. Her deliciously delicate face wore the most perfect rose-hued flesh and her eyes were downcast, but her Cupid's-bow mouth curved in a smile both demure and knowing. Beside her, Lady Wotton chattered away in the superior manner some still-beautiful matrons claimed as a birthright. As well they should, of course, as much as their daughters' mischievous innocence allowed.
And yes, there in the deepest shadows of the room's corner, lurking out of Lady Wotton's sight, sat the young solicitor the daughter admired and the mother scorned.
Time to play.
His Grace slipped across Fleet Street between carriages — none would dare strike him, of course — and before he could reach for the latch, a footman appeared out of nowhere, bowed, and opened the door for him.
Neither the largest nor fanciest coffee house in the vicinity, this one retained its popularity amongst a certain set less from the quality of the conversation and more from the strength of the brew, as it was invariably provided. Certainly the frilly yellow curtains and unexceptional furniture contributed little to that popularity. But perhaps the owners' lovely daughters had sewn those curtains; for that reason alone, His Grace would be the last man on Fleet Street to criticize the décor.
As he stepped inside, a hush fell over the clientele, conversational voices fading away to silence before the usual murmuring whispers rustled all around. When he'd first arrived in London, such whispers had disturbed his equanimity; now he accepted them as very much his due. He'd worked hard for his reputation, and with it finally, properly conferred, he intended to enjoy it.
And let the mothers hide their daughters if they didn't.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Trent," he said.
Behind the counter, the coffee shop's owner beamed, his face round and pink as ever. At his side, his equally rounded eldest daughter barely breathed, her bosom unmoving and still appealing, her naturally large and gorgeous eyes now better described as enormous. The heavenly smell of roasting beans permeating the shop's most distant alcoves could have woken the dead. And kept them that way.
Trent cleared his throat, his eyes cutting aside toward his daughter, then sharply back. "Your grace, what a delightful surprise."
In years past, a lady not inexperienced in the games of love had described His Grace's manner of meeting her gaze as an "unsealed invitation." Their resulting conversation remained one of his fondest and most life-changing memories. Now, he met Miss Trent's gaze in exactly that manner and allowed his lips to curl into a rogue's smile. "Miss Trent, you're in such splendid looks, I can only imagine the holiday season before you promises the best of blessings. Come, what gentleman seeks to hold your heart?" His smile deepened. "Besides myself, of course."
Her eyes widened, her color intensified, her lower lip vanished between kitten's teeth, and she hung her head. But not before he saw the rapture she sought to hide.
She'd not complain, even if gifted with a baby from the wrong side of the blanket.
And judging from Trent's predatory, monetary gleam, neither would he.
A full page from every society rag in town, that would be. Should he ever need one, of course.
"A pot of your excellent tea, Mr. Trent." Satisfied with his sally, he turned away.
Much of the coffee house, with its polished wood paneling and discreetly attentive patrons, separated the Kirkhoven ladies from the hidden solicitor. The most advantageous table, at the halfway point of their playing field, was already occupied by a passing acquaintance. His Grace flashed a welcoming smile and wove amongst the tables, advertising his intention to butt in on the man's privacy. He'd ignore the equally open scowl being aimed his way.
"Mr. Culver, what a delightful surprise."
If Culver shared the delight, he kept it well hidden. He rose, bowed, and without lifting his gaze again, gathered his gloves and umbrella.
"A pleasure indeed, your grace, albeit unfortunately a brief one."
Ah. Naming no names, but it seemed someone else had had the same plan and target.
Well, Culver had never been able to stand competition.
Nor could he compete.
As Culver exited, abandoning his half-finished coffee and target, young Miss Trent bobbed up in his place, carrying a tray and rag. She cleared and wiped down the table, flashed him a coy smile from beneath her adorable mob cap, set a blue and white flowered teapot and cup before him, and whisked away with perhaps a bit more sashaying than was precisely necessary.
Indeed no, that one wouldn't mind at all.
His Grace poured a cup — only lesser men doctored Trent's pure, bracing, potent brew — and leaned back in his chair.
Staring at Anne.
Oh, discreetly, of course. Or pseudo-discreetly, at least. Never blatant ogling nor shabby gaping. Just an intermittent, attentive eye watching beyond the rim of his cup, focus shifting between painted blue flowers and elegant female. Merely displaying his not-quite-open admiration for her breathtaking complexion, the sweet curves of her cheek and ear, the sunlight glinting off her golden hair, the mortified blush spreading from her neck to her forehead and then fading, leaving her pale as death.
The whispers amongst the patrons sank into subdued, horrified fascination. Which was entirely proper; as obvious as he'd made his actions, surely they'd had no trouble tracing his stare.
Finally she glanced at him.
; He smiled that smile, dipped his chin, and lifted his cup.
And she promptly showed him her shoulder, a smooth curve of touchable white cambric. Well, it was lovely, too.
But her attention refused her imposed self-discipline and she glanced back his way a moment later. Of course, his smile and gaze hadn't shifted. Her focus lifted higher, over his shoulder, and paused, her eyes wider than ever. That delicate, swan's-neck throat rippled as she swallowed, with her own cup down on the table and nowhere near her sweet lips.
Tempting, to glance over his own shoulder and assess the young solicitor's expression, hidden with him in his dark corner. Such curiosity was always difficult to suppress. But the game would progress in a more advantageous manner if His Grace didn't surrender to that whim. Instead, he allowed his imagination to conjure the helpless, horrified fury of a middle-class professional man, watching a titled one far above his station admiring the woman upon whom he'd set his heart.
Or at least, that's what he should imagine if the rumor mill was correct. And it always was in such sad, lovelorn situations.
The volume eased back to normal conversational levels around them. But the undertone of surging excitement, egged on by the onlookers' flashing eyes and breathless sniggers, gave more the feel of an audience around a cockfighting ring than a genteel coffee shop. Doubtless they were watching the solicitor, and their reaction provided His Grace all the background information required.
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