Fair Stands the Wind

by Catherine Lodge

  “You should not have come, ma’am,” he said at length.

  “Did you really think I would care?” she said, prepared for battle.

  “You should care,” he answered harshly. “I care. Every man and woman I meet cares. They cannot look at me, and then they cannot look away. I repulse people, even here in Portsmouth where such sights are common.”

  This was easy. “They may care if they wish, but they do not love you. I love you, Fitzwilliam.” She heard his indrawn breath. “I love you, the gentle man, the generous man, the brave, loving—”

  “I want no pity,” he interrupted fiercely.

  “And for fear of pity you will turn away love?” The words were easy, flowing from somewhere deep inside her. “Oh, you foolish man. I am not a child to worry over appearances. I love you; I think I have loved you for a very long time.” Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness now, and she saw him rise to his feet, silhouetted against the stars filling the window behind him.

  “How can I ask any woman to kiss this mouth?”

  “I shall kiss that mouth a thousand, thousand times,” she said, and in two strides, she was in his arms.

  She could feel the linen of his shirt beneath her cheek and, under that, the pounding of his heart. His face was buried in her hair, and he was murmuring her name over and over again. “Lizzy, Lizzy, Lizzy.” She put her arms about his waist, feeling the hard muscles of his back flex. There were scars here too. He was, she realised, trembling, so she lifted her head for his kiss. Yes, his lips did feel strange, but it was his breath, his tongue in her mouth, and compared to that, what else mattered?

  It was he who broke off first, his breathing ragged. “I did not think…no one has ever…” he began, and she knew he had never been the first consideration for anybody, had never known what it was to be the centre of anyone’s thoughts.

  “You are mine!” she said fiercely. “And I will always be yours, and I am not to be set aside.”

  She heard his breath hitch in a soft chuckle. “No, ma’am.”

  “And we are not going to get an annulment!”

  “Lizzy, have you really thought…”

  “I have spent the last two weeks imagining horrors, nothing you can say or do—” This time he silenced her with a kiss that set her head whirling. “And you do not want me to go, do you?” she added breathlessly.

  “God help me, I know I ought, but no, I do not want you to go, ever.” He was rocking her in his arms, his voice muffled in her hair. The trembling slowly abated until, in the silence, they both heard her stomach rumble and burst out laughing.

  They fumbled around on the floor, found the candle, and called for a light and more supper. They ate at the table, the papers swept aside for the moment, and if he preferred her to sit on his uninjured side, she was not going to be so cruel as to comment upon the fact, especially if it meant that they could hold hands between mouthfuls.

  “Will you tell me what happened?” she asked as they pushed their plates away.

  He shrugged. “It was a slaughter,” he said simply. “I knew it would be, but the prize had we succeeded would have helped end this war so much earlier, so I felt I had to make the attempt. They were waiting for us in force, and we had to fight our way free.” He took a deep draught of his wine. “We did as much as any man can hope to do, and we died in our dozens. I have seen war at sea before; I have seen nothing like this.”

  “And your injuries?” she asked, her heart aching.

  He waved a hand, as though dismissing his wounds. “One of the stern chasers exploded. I was half turned away so it was not as bad as it might have been.” He looked down into his glass. “Hannaside killed himself at Gibraltar; he lost his sight and could not bear it. I have little enough to complain about.”

  She placed a hand over his clenched fist. “And must you go back to sea?”

  “We are at war, my love. I do not see how I can honourably stay ashore.” He placed a hand over hers. “Not an hour ago, I was longing to be gone. Now…” He got to his feet to stride about the room. “This war cannot last much longer. Wellington is at the gates of France, and the Russians and their allies approach from the east. I accepted command of the Vanguard on the assurance that, once the war was over, we would be sent to Africa to help suppress the slave trade.” He turned to look at her. “It is noble work and work I could do well, but now? How can I leave you when I have just found you?” She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could do so, he spoke again.

  “Come with me!” he said. “We shall be based at Freetown in Sierra Leone. I would be at sea most of the time, but we could take a house there, and I would come home as often as I could.”

  She stared at him, eyes wide. “I couldn’t,” she said. “Could I?”

  “Why not?” His enthusiasm was rising. “There is a garrison and an English governor and settlement. And after a few years, when the navy has settled down into a peacetime establishment, and good, trustworthy, zealous men are in want of employment, we can go home to Pemberley.”

  “But…but…what about Georgiana and her mother?”

  He leaned over and rifled through the papers on the table. “I have a letter here from my uncle, offering to give all three of you a London Season. I am sure he would be happy to care for them both; he writes how much my aunt is looking forward to having some ladies about the house. Come with me, Lizzy—come to sea.”

  She met him in the middle of the room, fired by his rising excitement. “And would you have me live on salt horse and Old Weevil’s Wedding Cake?”

  He laughed at that. “Anderssen?”

  “Lieutenant Grace.”

  “We can do a little better than that, my love.” He took her hands in his and kissed them both. “Come and see my world, Lizzy. Life at sea, the good and the bad. Come and see the world, see Africa, flowers and trees with leaves like flames, moths the size of your hand, birds every colour of the rainbow, and at night you can hear the leopards—they don’t roar, you know, they cough.” She was laughing now; he stood in the middle of the room, waving his arms about like a boy. “And the people. They come from all over Africa. People talk a great deal of nonsense about savages—there are dozens of different tribes and races, as many as there are Europeans, all with their different lives. And the music at night—great hollow musical drums and pipes and little harps. Come listen with me.” He kissed her as she laughed, and he was laughing with her.

  Recklessness seized her; a broader, more vivid life exploded before her startled mind’s eye. “Yes,” she said beneath his kisses. “Yes, I’ll come with you.”

  He heaved her off her feet and spun her round in the air with a triumphant “Yes!” and then they were kissing again. There was joy and a burning in her heart, and suddenly there was no more room for laughter. He held her head between his hands. “Will you stay with me tonight?” he whispered and felt her try to nod.

  His bed was next door, his nightshirt laid out, only to be swept onto the floor. She had to tell him how to loosen her clothes, both of them giggling breathlessly as he complained that surely so many layers were not necessary, and if this were a fair-weather rig, he would hate to unwrap her from her storm canvas.

  Skin on skin stopped the laughter again. There was no candle burning, but the curtains were drawn apart, and she could see his awed face in the moonlight as he touched and discovered her with gentle, eager hands. He tried to say something of his gratitude, his love, but she stopped his mouth with hers and then neither of them spoke for a very long time. She had completely forgotten her mother and Mrs. Gardiner, and expecting no pain, she felt none, only a gathering excitement, a building heat and a sudden, strange, wondrous, unexpected rush of something she decided was love, which shook them both and left them breathless and whispering on the same pillow.

  “So much for the annulment,” she sa
id with satisfaction and heard him groan and laugh into the pillow. “And I have wasted twelve guineas on a most unladylike nightgown which I see I shall never need.”

  Her hand was on his face, and she felt him raise his untouched eyebrow. “I think I should still be allowed to see it worn, if only to see how unladylike a nightgown it could be.” He looked at her more closely. “Are you blushing, my dear? Now, I really want to see it.” He overcame her attempt to hit him with the pillow by the simple expedient of taking her in his arms and kissing her thoroughly.

  It was, he was forced to agree the following night, a most unladylike article indeed and, in his opinion, twelve guineas very well spent.

  The Epilogue

  The Commodore’s House

  Freetown, Sierra Leone

  The news had reached her long before the ship dropped anchor, so that when he arrived, he found her sitting on the veranda in a simple white dress. A stout infant of three summers was playing nearby with her particular friend, the cook’s son, who, despite having two perfectly good names of his own (one African, one European), was universally known as Heckle, having been so christened by the commodore’s daughter, the undisputed monarch of the house.

  He was in his shirtsleeves, his uniform coat slung over his shoulder, to be instantly discarded as soon as his womenfolk saw him.

  “Pampam!”

  “Fitzwilliam.”

  He swung his daughter round his head, smiling as she screamed in delight, and then balanced her on one hip so he could kiss his wife. He was burnt a deep brown by the sun and, in the gloom, one hardly noticed the scars or the still-closed eye. There was certainly no lack of ardour in his kiss. The suggestion of dinner was scornfully rejected, and the commodore carried his wife up to their room for an immediate reunion, leaving little Jane and Heckle to run and greet Starkey, who could usually be relied upon to have something interesting or tasty about him.

  It was several hours and a very belated supper later before they had occasion for much conversation, beyond those protestations somewhat unusual between man and wife married for very nearly five years. They were still lying in their great bed, surrounded by netting against the many insects that came out at night, watching an enormous tropical moon rise over the trees.

  “Is there any news from home?” he asked lazily.

  “Heavens, yes, the packet came in two weeks ago. Let me see. Georgie writes from Alfreston to say that she does not want to marry Sir Richard after all…”

  “I knew it!”

  “And that Uncle Alfred is plotting to undermine the government…”

  He raised his head to look at her, mildly interested. “Again?” he asked.

  “Again.” He dropped down to lie on his back, stretching luxuriously in a bed so much larger than any he could count on at sea. “Oh, and her mother is being courted by someone she says is called Mr. Scrape, although that hardly seems likely.”

  “There used to be a family in the neighbourhood called Scrope; perhaps it’s one of them.”

  “Scrope, much more likely. What else? Um…Jane and Charles are thinking of giving up Netherfield, as Mama will insist on visiting. Mama still thinks we ought to go home before we are eaten by cannibals and Papa is threatening to let Longbourn and go back to Malta. He says she and Kitty can go and live with Mary and Mr. Hilliard in Hatfield—although I cannot imagine Mr. Hilliard agreeing to that. Oh, and Lydia says can you lend her husband a thousand pounds—I wrote back no, by the way.”

  A long, heavy arm pulled her into his side. “Quite right too. What on earth does he want a thousand pounds for?”

  “I imagine it’s one of his silly schemes, probably a perpetual motion machine or a device for extracting sunbeams from cucumbers or something equally foolish. I always wondered what sort of man would marry Lydia, and now I know.” She rested her head on his chest and watched her finger wandering down his stomach to his navel. “I hope you remembered to bring your linen ashore to be washed this time.”

  He pulled her finger up and kissed the end. “This time I am bringing more than my linen ashore,” he said and grunted as she sat up with the aid of an elbow in his chest. “The Holdfast met the squadron two days out with new orders. Colbourne is here to take over as commodore, and we can go home. So, my love, shall we take the next packet or would you rather wait for a month or two and take passage on a nice commodious Indiaman?”

  “Oh, the Indiaman, I think. I should be over the nausea by then and—”

  “Lizzy?”

  “Well, it will be much more suitable for your son to be born at Pemberley, don’t you think?”

  THE END