The café was comprised of several stations—hot food, sandwiches, and of course, the tea and coffee bar. I joined the queue, searching the bottom of my purse for spare change. My fingers closed around the crumpled twenty-pound note. I’d shoved it in my purse on my mad dash out the door that morning. I hadn’t meant to spend it. It was a keepsake.
Who was I trying to fool? There was no Mr. Darcy in real life. I had tuition to scrape together. Rent to pay. If I couldn’t find another part-time job, I’d be walking across London every day because I couldn’t come up with bus fare.
I couldn’t afford to be sentimental anymore. I unfolded the note just as the customer in front of me stepped aside.
I looked across the counter. The tea and coffee guy was tall. Brown hair, brown eyes. His nose was a little hooked, but not as crooked as his smile.
“Earl Grey?” he asked. “Two sugars?”
“But—” I’d stopped here every day for weeks after class. How many times had he handed me a paper cup full of my favorite beverage?
I glanced at his nametag. Ian.
The guy behind me groaned. “C’mon, love. We haven’t got all day.”
Ian grinned. “That will be one pound fifty.”
I held out the twenty-pound note without thinking. He took it, then smoothed it between his fingers. “You haven’t got anything smaller?” he asked.
“No.” I shook my head.
“Shame to break it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins. “Allow me.”
I couldn’t think of what to say, could only watch as he paid for my tea and then slid the twenty-pound note back across the counter toward me.
“You ought to keep that,” he said with a wink.
“But I couldn’t possibly—”
“You’ll need it, when you buy me dinner.” I swear his eyes actually twinkled.
I swallowed and tried to untie my tongue from its myriad knots. “My name really is Elizabeth.” I had no idea where that came from.
He nodded. “I thought so.” He glanced at the line of students behind me. “I’m off in twenty minutes. Maybe by then you’ll be done with your tea?”
I had never known that happiness could feel like that, like the sun exploding inside of you. It should have felt corny and ridiculous, but instead it felt like Christmas, birthdays, and summer vacations all rolled into one.
“I like to walk,” I said with a smile of my own. “Maybe you’d like to join me?”
“I would.” He leaned across the counter to whisper in my ear. “I fancy finding out where we end up.”
I resisted the urge to turn my head oh-so-slightly and kiss his cheek. “Me too,” I whispered conspiratorially.
I stepped back, took one last look at him, smiled because I couldn’t help myself, and turned away from the counter.
What did I know about him, really, my erstwhile Mr. Darcy? He didn’t have much money, but he was generous with what he did have. He was willing to look like a fool to gain my notice. And he had listened to me in a way that no one had in a very long time.
I made my way to a table and settled in with my tea.
My mother had been right after all. Sometimes, only a Darcy will do.
BETH PATTILLO is the author of Jane Austen Ruined My Life and Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart. Her latest book, The Dashwood Sisters Tell All (Guideposts, Spring 2011), continues the popular series featuring The Formidables, a secret society that guards a treasure trove of “lost” Austen-related writings. Beth won the RITA award from the Romance Writers of America for her novel Heavens to Betsy. She is also the author of the popular Sweetgum Knit Lit Society series from WaterBrook Press. Beth lives with her husband and teenage children in Nashville, Tennessee. She enjoys travel (especially to England), reading, and hiking.
www.bethpattillo.com
@bethpattillo on Twitter
A steady spring rain pattered against the drawing-room windows as Sophy poured the tea. Admiral Croft passed Anne a cup with his usual courtly manners—“Tea for the bride”—and settled back with his own cup. “This is right; all of us snug by the fire here at Kellynch. This is how it should be.”
Sophy looked at Anne, as if to say: what must she be feeling, a guest in her father’s house? But Anne was a dutiful daughter, and would not admit to Sophy—nor even to Frederick—the intense happiness she felt at the warm welcome they had received at Kellynch; so much warmer than she could have expected from her father and sister. Kellynch was home again.
The admiral continued, his eyes on the dancing fire, “It is about time you brought home a nice little wife to Kellynch, Frederick. I wonder why you were so long about it. Miss Anne was there, waiting for you the entire time.”
Captain Wentworth covered his discomfort with a sip of tea, but he could not help directing a guilty glance at Anne, who was very much inclined to laugh.
“After all,” said the admiral, “you never have been behindhand at making matches for others.”
“What is this?” cried Anne. “Are you a matchmaker, Frederick?”
“Indeed not,” said her husband.
“Indeed he is,” said his sister, “and you know it very well.” She turned to Anne. “It was Frederick who brought Admiral Croft and me together. Did you not know that?”
“No,” said Anne, “and I should very much like to hear all about it.”
“If I had anything to do with it,” said Wentworth, “it was accidental.”
“Now I must beg you to tell me,” said Anne.
The admiral slapped his leg joyfully. “Yes, yes! This is just the kind of night for sea-stories. But this is Frederick’s story, so I will let him tell it.”
Wentworth might have protested further, but looked at his wife’s expectant face and knew he was defeated. “It started when I was a midshipman on the Viper.”
April 1799
His Majesty’s Sloop Viper
At Sea
Harville came into the midshipmen’s mess clutching a handful of letters. “Mail,” he said, dropping it on the table.
The mids fell voraciously upon the scattered bundles; when the table had been picked clean, Wentworth was the proud possessor of two letters, one from his uncle and one from his sister. None of the other mids had more than one letter, and several had none; and as Wentworth had only been aboard the Viper a little more than a month, they were inclined to grumble over it.
Wentworth ignored them and opened the letter from his uncle, who recommended in a strong, slanting hand that Frederick keep his stockings dry and his person clean, obey his captain, attend Sunday services whenever possible, and pay close attention to his studies. All but the last was unnecessary advice, but he still felt a warm rush of affection for his uncle, his guardian since his father had died the previous year. Dr. Wentworth also sent a guinea under the seal, which was appreciated more than the advice.
He opened the letter from Sophy. She knew better than to send advice to a fifteen-year-old midshipman, and instead filled her letter with gossip and amusing stories about the students and the other teachers at the school. Wentworth smiled as he read it, which attracted the attention of Bailey.
Bailey had not lessened the dignity of his position as senior officer of the mess by joining in the frenzy over the letters. There was no point in doing so, as he had no wife, no family, and no friends, and therefore no correspondents. “What have you there, Wentworth?” he asked.
Wentworth was not inclined to share Sophy’s letter with Bailey, so he said, “Letter from my uncle.”
“Full of good advice, no doubt.” He sucked on his pipe and emitted a cloud of malodorous smoke. “Give you tuppence for it.”
“Threepence,” said another mid. Wentworth being new to the Viper, his uncle’s advice would also be new, and therefore worth more. Some spirited bidding followed, which Bailey carried with a bid of one shilling. Wentworth handed over the letter, thinking that if the condition of Bailey’s shirt were evidence, it was likely that the advice about personal
hygiene, at least, would fall upon fallow ground.
“What else have you got?” said Bailey. “Who’s the other from? Your sweetheart?” He leered at Wentworth, and the other mids leaned forward with interest.
“It is from my sister,” he said.
There were groans of disappointment.
“Oh, your sister,” said Harville. “Never mind. I’ve enough sisters of my own to write to me.”
Bailey was still interested. “Is she pretty?” he asked.
Wentworth thought about Sophy, about her bright eyes and curling brown hair and merry laugh. He was not accustomed to thinking of his sister as pretty, so he repeated what his uncle had said of her. “She is handsome enough.”
“Hold,” said Bailey, “is she the trim little piece who brought you to the dock in Portsmouth and waved her hanky as you were rowed out? I’ll give you sixpence for the letter.”
This occasioned surprised murmurs among the midshipmen, as letters from sisters were generally not considered worth more than a penny. Bailey was a noted connoisseur; Wentworth’s sister must be pretty indeed.
“I doubt you have so much money,” said Wentworth, “since you have boasted that you spent your entire leave in Portsmouth drinking wine and keeping company with doxies.”
The mess erupted in a chorus of “Ooohs” and laughter, quickly choked off.
Bailey said, “Keep your letter, then,” and Wentworth knew he would avenge himself in some sneaking way: a foot placed to trip him on the quarterdeck, his hammock strings cut, his shirts slashed. That was the sort of petty retribution exacted by a man like Bailey. Wentworth tucked Sophy’s letter into his pocket and thought the punishment well worth it; and looking around at the admiring glances of his messmates, realized they thought it, too.
Wentworth sighted the horizon through the eyepiece of his sextant. The midshipmen of the Viper were taking the noon angle of the sun as practice for calculating latitude. After five years at sea, Wentworth could take a sextant reading without thinking very much about it. Bailey, with a decade more experience, needed the practice, but instead he whispered a steady stream of abuse at the other mids.
Bailey was still angry with Wentworth for refusing to sell him Sophy’s letter, and had broken into Wentworth’s sea-chest and tumbled the contents looking for it. He no longer wished to read the letter, but like a small child thwarted in his desire for a toy, wanted it because it had been denied him; and he wanted to get it by cunning, so that he could taunt Wentworth with it. Wentworth kept the letter carefully in his coat pocket, and even tucked it into his shirt while he was sleeping. Bailey was universally disliked among the midshipmen, and they were inclined to help Wentworth keep his property. The more Bailey was thwarted, the more abusive he became.
“You know I will get that letter,” he said now. “And when I do, I will make you all pay, by God. See if I don’t.”
Wentworth noted down the angle of the sun in his logbook. Bailey, irritated at being ignored, snatched at the logbook, Wentworth fought to keep it, and a struggle ensued.
“What are you about there?” cried the first lieutenant, Mr. O’Brien. “Belay that, or I will have you both at the mast-head; yes, you, too, Mr. Bailey. If you cannot behave as gentlemen on the quarterdeck, perhaps you can aloft.”
Bailey would not release the logbook, and Wentworth was not about to give it up; the struggle continued, and Lieutenant O’Brien crossed the deck and said, “Give that to me.”
There was no choice now, and they surrendered it. Mr. O’Brien opened the book and saw “M’man F. Wentworth, R.N.” written neatly on the first leaf. “Mr. Bailey, as you are so eager to acquire what belongs to Mr. Wentworth, you may stand his watch tonight. If I see or hear of you trying to take another officer’s property, there will be further consequences.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bailey, sending a murderous look at Wentworth as soon as the lieutenant’s back was turned. Wentworth tucked his logbook back in his pocket and bent to pick up his pencil, which had been dropped in the struggle. He straightened up and touched the brim of his hat when he saw Captain Croft walking towards him.
The captain touched his own brim and nodded in response. “Good morning, Mr. Wentworth.”
“Good morning, Captain,” Wentworth murmured.
“A fine day for sailing, is not it? And if we are lucky, the French will stop skulking about and come out boldly to meet us, and then we shall have a fine battle.”
Some of the other midshipmen, overhearing, joined in Wentworth’s reply of “Aye aye, sir!” The Viper was part of the blockade of Brest; a week before, the admiral, Lord Bridport, had spread out the fleet off the coast of Ushant, having received intelligence that French troopships were trying to break through the blockade and invade Ireland. The Viper ranged back and forth along the blockade, ferrying men and information among the fleet, but the promised Frenchmen had not appeared.
Captain Croft beamed at their enthusiasm. “Ha, yes! That is right, gentlemen! That is what I like to hear. We will get our chance. In the meantime, be attentive to your duty. Remember your friends back home, for whom we fight. I hope you are writing to them regularly, and telling them of your adventures.”
“Mr. Wentworth writes to his sister, Captain,” said Bailey. “He gets letters from her all the time.”
“Your sister!” cried the captain, turning a kindly gaze upon Wentworth. “That is right; that is well. We men come to sea to protect England, and the ladies keep our homes warm for us until we return. I am glad to hear that you are attentive to your sister, Mr. Wentworth.”
“Any man would be attentive to Mr. Wentworth’s sister, Captain,” said Bailey. “A trim little ketch, sir; prominent in the bow, if you follow me,” the last accompanied by a suggestive hand motion.
Captain Croft turned a look upon Bailey as if he were observing a curious animal in a zoo. “Mr. Bailey, I do not like to hear ladies spoken of disrespectfully, particularly a lady belonging to a brother officer. I hope I will hear no talk of that sort from you in future.”
Bailey knew he had gone too far; there was nothing for him to do but touch the brim of his hat and murmur, “Yes, sir; I apologize, sir.”
The captain nodded. “Very well, very well. Carry on, young gentlemen, carry on,” and he walked to the wheel to consult with the sailing master.
HM Sloop Viper
At sea
My dearest Sophy,
I have written to my uncle, and thanked him for his kindness, and for the guinea. I write that first so that you will approve of me right off.
We continue on blockade duty, which is very much the same thing day in and day out. The captain talks of battle, but it is unlikely that a sloop will have much of a part; but we have been engaged in daily gun and sail drill, and if the French try to break the blockade, the Viper will not be caught napping.
You have asked about the captain. I like him very much. He is an old-fashioned kind of officer. By that I do not mean that he is behindhand in his knowledge. He is a good officer, kind and fair. His manners are old-fashioned; I suspect not the kind of manners that would be admired in high society, the kind of manners that I often have noticed hide an unpleasant nature; but he is a true gentleman, and I think, if he were a post-captain and had a frigate or a ship of the line, would distinguish himself in battle; and I do not think he would behave differently if he became as famous as Nelson.
Harville and I, along with Lieutenant O’Brien, have been invited to dine with the captain tonight. He has been inviting all the officers in turn, and has yet to invite Bailey. It is yet another excuse for Bailey to tease me, but I hear the captain keeps a fine table; so if Bailey teases me, I can tease him back with chicken pie and ham. I dare say there will be no ragouts or French kickshaws at Captain Croft’s table, but one does tire of boiled beef and burgoo, and I dare say there will be good wine. Better than that sickly stuff Bailey obliged the mess to lay in before we sailed. My uncle says it is all very well to buy inexpensive wine, but one sho
uld never buy cheap wine, and he is right, as usual. I would rather drink bilge-water than Bailey’s stuff. I hope to see you soon, and believe me,
Yours affectionately,
F. Wentworth
Miss Wentworth
Miss Burns’ Select Seminary for Young Ladies
Portsmouth
The captain welcomed Wentworth and Harville to his cabin with his usual courtly manners. Seeing that the midshipmen were nervous and inclined to remain standing, he invited them to sit down in the kindest way, and his steward—no superior valet, but a sailor dressed in clean slops, a gold earring in one ear and a thick queue hanging down his back, an indication of long service—brought in the steaming dishes of food.
The midshipmen sniffed at the savory scents rising from the covered dishes, and Harville’s stomach rumbled audibly. The captain’s eyes twinkled. “I asked Brown to make a special dish for you young gentlemen tonight; a dish I remember was very popular in the midshipmen’s mess when I was a younker. Did you make the millers, Brown?”
The midshipmen exchanged a look; Wentworth could see the horror in Harville’s eyes that no doubt reflected his own.
“Aye, Captain,” said Brown cheerfully. “Found some good fat ones feasting in the bread-room, and caught and dressed them in a trice. Nothing like a miller fattened on ship’s biscuit, I always say.”
Wentworth was no stranger to the occasional roasted miller, which is what the sailors called rats; midshipmen long at sea often resorted to catching rats and cooking them, sometimes their only chance at something like fresh meat on a long voyage; but it was not what one expected to get at the captain’s table.
“You roasted them?” the captain asked Brown.
“Aye, sir, with taters and onions. They’ll have cooked up tender and juicy, no doubt. I made a nice thick gravy, too, Captain, that you can pour over your taters.”
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