Marrying the Captain

by Carla Kelly

  “He’s a Sepoy General, late from India.” Pete shrugged. “One can hope.”

  Indeed one could. Unwilling to just wait for a letter, Nana forced herself to plan with her grandmother to paint the Mulberry when spring came, and refurbish the rooms.

  Then she had something else to concentrate on besides refurbishment. Perhaps she could discuss it with Mrs. Brittle, when she visited soon. She was too shy to mention the issue with Gran.

  She had noticed it the first ten days after her husband returned to sea: a headache that wouldn’t go away, followed by real tenderness in her breasts. They even appeared to be enlarging, though she could easily credit her healthy eating. Maybe I should be cutting back slightly, she thought, the morning she dressed to visit Mrs. Brittle. Oliver may want additional poundage, but I doubt he wants a whale for a wife. Maybe a little less cream in my porridge.

  She had promised Mrs. Brittle a little visit. What better time than now, when she had questions.

  Mrs. Brittle lived in a tidy house overlooking Tor Bay, where several ships were riding at anchor.

  “Sometimes they run in here instead of Plymouth,” she said as she dispensed with the formality of a curtsey and hugged Nana. “The winds, you know. Always the wind.”

  Over tea and excellent ginger cake, Mrs. Brittle shared what news she had of the fleet, most of it from her oldest child, married these four years to a sailing master like her father, and based in Portsmouth. Her son was a Royal Navy surgeon, tending fever cases in the West Indies.

  “My other two are around here somewhere,” she said, as she held out the plate for another slice of cake.

  Nana shook her head. “I think I’m finally starting to put on more weight than even Captain Worthy could want,” she said, wondering how to segue from that harmless comment to what was going on inside her. She decided there was no sense in being missish: a spade, after all, would always be a spade to her, no matter how many years she studied under Miss Pym’s refined tutelage. Hardly able to look at her kind hostess, Nana described her symptoms. “I hope it’s not some malignancy from the fleet, or those soldiers we cared for, Mrs. Brittle,” she concluded.

  Mrs. Brittle smiled. “Well, let me think—has it been two weeks since the captain was in port?”

  “Nearly so.”

  “My dear, let me assure you that what you have probably isn’t a malignancy.” She leaned a little closer and looked around to make sure her children hadn’t wandered into the room. “Any urge to vomit?”

  Nana shook her head.

  “Have you noticed your friend is late in visiting you this month?”

  Nana shook her head again. “Not yet. I have a few more days.” She opened her eyes wide. “Mrs. Brittle, you don’t think…”

  “I do, that is, assuming the captain…er…took advantage of the refreshment generally available only in port.”

  He did indeed, Nana thought. Several times, in fact. I’m surprised I don’t still have the mattress ticking imprinted on my rump. She couldn’t help herself. She laughed and looked her hostess square in the eye.

  “Gran warned me about sailors.”

  “And you didn’t listen!” Mrs. Brittle teased. She held out the ginger cake and Nana took another slice. “If it’s any comfort, I never did, either, dearie. You’re not contagious.”

  They laughed together as the February sleet angled in sideways around the snug house and the wind howled like a banshee, ruffling the surface of Tor Bay.

  She spent the night with the Brittles, then left in good spirits in the morning. She was only a mile or two out of Torquay when she had to beg the coachman to stop. She let the step down herself and hurried to the edge of the road, where she tossed up a marvelous breakfast of porridge, eggs, toast and black pudding.

  The coachman was solicitous, but she assured him she would be fine in a few minutes. More like a few months, she thought, accepting a glass of watered-down wine he had poured for her from a flask. She looked at the liquid, shook her head and handed it back, just in time to turn away and retch a little more.

  She regained her equanimity soon enough and let him hand her back into the chaise. She leaned back and rested her hands gently on her stomach. She wasn’t totally sure how this went—Mrs. Brittle was going to get another visit soon—but she knew it would be several months before anything showed. Still, she had company.

  She patted her belly. “Baby, I do believe we have something of interest to include in my next letter to your father,” she whispered. “I doubt he’ll be surprised.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nana didn’t say anything to anyone, not even after several days passed and there was no evidence of her monthly flow, generally so reliable. She suddenly had much larger concerns.

  A sloop of war—not Captain Dennison’s—and a battered frigate rode at anchor in the Cattewater at the end of the week. When Pete returned from the harbor after his usual round of news gathering, and he asked her to sit down, she knew the news was bad.

  “Tell me, Pete,” she said quietly.

  Her lips tight together, Gran came into the kitchen. She sat by Nana and grasped her hand.

  Even then, she wasn’t prepared. Is anyone? she wondered, as Pete, looking her directly in the eyes, told her Oliver was missing.

  “It has something to do with going ashore south of Corunna.”

  “He said he was depositing a Spaniard onshore to ferret out troop movements and the like,” she said, when she could speak. I managed that, she thought, surprised at herself. “He was supposed to retrieve him later or at least, the news.”

  Pete nodded, and she saw the relief on his face, which put heart into her body. “That would make sense. Maybe the French captured him.”

  She closed her eyes, unable to bear his scrutiny. “What do we do now?”

  Gran placed her hand firmly on Nana’s shoulder. “We wait.”

  They waited. She didn’t have the heart to say anything about her baby; there was enough to gnaw over. If she looked a little paler than usual, Gran would put it down to the terrible news. She woke early enough—did she even sleep?—to vomit into her waste can and discard the evidence before anyone was up. There was time to cry, early in the morning.

  She derived more comfort than she could have suspected from her unborn child. “We won’t think the worst yet, my love,” she told her baby. “Your father would never want me to do that. Grow, please. We may need each other even more than I imagine now.”

  She found herself watching for Captain Dennison, clinging to the irrational knowledge that he would have news where no one else seemed to. He would never leave me dangling, she thought, as the days passed.

  He didn’t. With no fanfare, Virgil Dennison arrived on her doorstep one morning, just shortly after the poulterer deposited two fat hens and two dozen eggs.

  Nearly overwhelmed by relief at seeing his familiar face, Nana couldn’t help notice how his eyes followed the basket of eggs Sal carried into the pantry.

  “Gran, could you scramble a half dozen of those for the captain, and cook some bacon?”

  “Only if you sit here so I can listen, Captain,” Gran said. When Dennison nodded, she began to slice large slabs of bacon into a pan already on the Rumford.

  Dennison sat down at the table, not even taking off his cloak, until Nana shyly suggested that he make himself at home. Without even glancing outside, she knew there had to be a post chaise waiting.

  “Sal, could you take porridge and toast out to the coachman?” she said, calming herself with mundane conversation. “Ask how he likes his tea.”

  Then she gave Dennison her attention, not even trying to stop the tears that welled up in her eyes. “Please tell me something,” she begged, “even if it’s bad news.”

  He dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “It could be worse, Mrs. Worthy,” he assured her. “Believe me.”

  “Then tell me now! I know something of what he was doing on the coast.”

  After Dennison drank an entire q
uart of water, the story came out. “He had returned with a jolly boat to a beach below Corunna, near a fishing village called Corcubion. Apparently the French were waiting. The sailors said troops opened fire. One of their number was killed, and so was the Spaniard Oliver was to meet.”

  “But not Oliver.”

  “No.” Dennison looked up as Gran set the bacon and eggs in front of him. “Mrs. Massie, you’re a wonder.”

  “Keep talking,” the woman demanded.

  Dennison busied himself with a slice of bacon and a forkful of eggs, speaking around them. “The French took them to the garrison in Corcubion and they were incarcerated for a week. Then the commandant released the sailors with the boat and a letter from Marshal Soult to King George himself.”

  “But not my husband.”

  He shook his head. “I was to take that letter to Admiral Lord Wharton on the Agamemnon. Thank God he read it in my presence.” He gestured with his fork. “What I tell you now must never leave this room.”

  “You know it won’t,” Nana said.

  “Soult wants to exchange your husband for a French general who was captured a year ago at Benevente. Plus twenty-thousand pounds.”

  Nana gasped at the enormity of the sum. “Will Whitehall even consider such a huge amount in exchange?”

  “I don’t know,” Dennison said honestly. “The government has always been reluctant to stoop to extortion, and exchanges are few and far between. Lord Wharton has great faith in your husband’s resourcefulness and endorsed the request. I have that letter, also. The action onshore went fast, but the sailors in the jolly boat think Oliver was able to retrieve some information from Rodriguez before he died on the beach.” Dennison leaned forward. “Never repeat this—whether England commits more soldiers to the peninsula might depend on that message. That may carry the matter with Horse Guards.”

  Nana sat back and let Dennison wolf down his breakfast. After another quart of water, he rose to take his leave. Nana walked him to the post chaise, gathering strength from his arm around her.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked, as he prepared to step inside the chaise.

  He shook his head. “I won’t tell you not to worry. He’s been taken to La Estrella del Mar, a former convent south of Corunna, where some stragglers from the army who didn’t escape a month ago have been gathered. That much we know. You know how resourceful he is.” He couldn’t help but smile at her. “He has every reason to want to return to you with a whole skin. Mrs. Worthy, you’re far and away the best thing that has ever happened to a most deserving man.”

  He left before she could feel embarrassed. Nana stood at the gate and watched the post chaise until it disappeared from sight, and then turned her attention to the ships in the harbor. Almost without thinking, she turned until she was facing Spain, far distant, and stood there a long time, thinking.

  By the time she entered the Mulberry again, she had made up her mind. Pete and Gran were still in the kitchen. Nana clasped her hands behind her back so they would not betray her with their trembling. “I am going to London tomorrow,” she announced, not looking at either of the two people so dear to her. “I intend to speak to my father, Lord Ratliffe, and I intend to be on the Goldfinch when it sails. Thanks to my husband, I have the means to encourage my…uh…father to agree to the admiral’s endorsement. Money talks with him.” She held up her hand when Pete opened his mouth. “I will not be dissuaded.” She turned on her heel and left the room.

  Nana had ample time to change her mind, but she did not, despite Pete’s protestations and Gran’s tears. She grew more resolute as the hours passed, even though Pete assured her she would never be allowed on the sloop, and besides, what good could she do?

  “I will be on that ship,” she told him calmly.

  She packed for the journey. When Pete stubbornly refused to make arrangements for the post chaise, she went to the harbor herself, asked around and accomplished the matter herself. A visit to her husband’s solicitors secured a bank draft of sufficient proportions to grease any wheels with her father, if such was needed. She had no illusions about what fueled his interest.

  “We’ll stop for exchanges and food only,” she told the coachman early the next morning, staring down his protests. If my darling can do it, I can, too, she thought. After a quick kiss and embrace with Gran, who had offered surprisingly little objection, she let the coachman help her into the chaise. She had hoped to see Pete before she left, and felt scorched by his disapproval. “I suppose it can’t be helped,” she murmured under her breath.

  Suddenly there he was in the yard, his old navy ditty bag slung over his shoulder. “Wait,” she told the coachman. “Let down the step, please.”

  Tears came to her eyes as she watched his rolling gait, knowing what pain his arthritis gave him, and humbled by his devotion to her. Relieved, too. She couldn’t pretend to know what lay ahead in London.

  “I haven’t been to London in years” was all he said. “Seems like a good time for a visit.”

  She wisely made no comment.

  Exhausted, but with even greater appreciation for the efforts of the men who also not only endured the blockade, but who carried messages to and from London, Nana arrived there forty hours later. She asked to be taken directly to Admiralty House.

  Admission to the chambers of the naval administrators proved to be simplicity, partly because Dennison had kindly left her with a letter of recommendation, and partly because her father was curious to know who Mrs. Captain Oliver Worthy might be.

  She had to reluctantly give Lord Ratliffe points for swallowing his astonishment to see her. He had changed but little in the five years since she had run from his London house, mortified at his suggestion that she was his chattel to dispose of to the highest bidder. He was fleshier around the face, but so were the other administrators. She was used to the always-hungry look of actual men at sea. These well-fleshed men surprised her, at first. She wondered if men like her father had any idea of the privations experienced by those who labored tirelessly to keep England safe from Napoleon.

  Never mind. She would deal with her father, no matter how it revolted her. “I am Captain Worthy’s wife, my lord,” she said formally. The porter who had shown her and Pete into the office was still standing there, and she had no intention of admitting Lord Ratliffe was her father.

  Lord Ratliffe dismissed the porter. When the door closed, he came around his desk toward her. She stepped out of his way and sat down in the chair.

  “Sir, I insist upon knowing what is happening.”

  He could have refused her, but he didn’t. She glanced at Pete and the look of pride on his face, and then she understood. Could it be that I am in charge here? she thought. “Well?” she asked, keeping her voice level.

  His eyes on her, Lord Ratliffe sat down again. He told her substantially what Captain Dennison had said earlier. Nana schooled her impatience not to tell him she had already heard this, knowing such an admission would hang Dennison.

  After exhibiting what she hoped was surprise and dismay, she allowed a decent interval to pass then asked, “Will the government pay the ransom?”

  Lord Ratliffe looked everywhere but at her face. “The issue is money. Soult is demanding a ransom of thirty thousand pounds for his return, plus the release of a French officer here. Surely I needn’t tell you how tight the treasury is right now, with the war on.”

  She had seen Soult’s demand for £20,000. Father, you play a deep game, she thought in disgust. You know how rich my husband is, and you are going to extort the extra from me, for your own purposes. Considering how badly you think I failed you before, so be it.

  She reached into her reticule. “I have a bank draft for ten thousand pounds. Inform Sir Spencer Perceval, please, and plead with the other lords of the Admiralty to add this to the ransom so Captain Worthy can be brought home safely.”

  As sure as she knew his character, she knew that £10,000 was headed directly into her father’s own pockets.
I would pay ten times that for Oliver’s release, she thought, but you will not hear that from me.

  “Who is to make the deal?” she demanded.

  “I am,” her father replied. “I will take the money and a letter from King George himself, since Soult’s letter was addressed to him.”

  He hesitated, and a faint bell began to clang inside her head. He wasn’t telling her something. She could not dampen the disquiet that began to spread over her, and involuntarily settled her hand against her belly to protect her child against so much evil.

  Lord Ratliffe continued. “Captain Worthy will be released. When he returns to England, I will then escort the French general back to Spain.”

  “I will come with you for the first exchange,” she said, her voice quiet, but allowing no room for argument.

  He surprised her then. She expected an outright refusal and got none. After a momentary pause, as though he were factoring some new detail into the equation, he nodded. “I would have it no other way, Eleanor. You deserve the opportunity.” He smiled at her, which only made her shiver. “In fact, when I arrive at La Estrella with the captain’s young wife, the French will certainly know we are serious. Good of you to think of this, Eleanor.”

  The bells clanged louder, but she ignored them. “There are no lengths I would not go, to help my husband,” she told him, meaning every word.

  “We are agreed, then,” Lord Ratliffe said. He finally returned his gaze to her face, where it remained only a second before darting off, as though he had not the courage for her scrutiny.

  He stood. “I will be in Plymouth aboard the Goldfinch in five days. Captain Dennison will take us to the Tireless, which is standing off the coast of Corunna.”

  “I will be there, my lord,” she said, standing and handing him the bank draft. He bowed; she curtseyed.

  “Eleanor, am I correct that you have told no one I am your father?” he asked as she and Pete crossed the room.

  “No one,” she said, biting off the words. “Not ever.”

  “That’s a relief,” he replied.