by Susan Kaye
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
The following day began slowly and continued at a snail’s pace through the morning. It occurred to Wentworth that he had no proper attire for even a casual dinner with his friend. It could not be helped. When he had packed his things at Kellynch Hall, he had made no contingency for any sort of society besides that of the Harvilles’ and the Musgroves. His trunks had not even arrived when he had decided to flee. His only thought to his belongings had been to request Harville send them on to Plymouth. It would take several days for his trunks to catch up to him, but he did not feel like putting off the invitation until he could make a better show.
As he again brushed his undress uniform coat, he hoped Mrs. Craig was not the sort of woman who would take offence when he arrived looking more like a common swab than a gentleman. Noticing a button missing from the faded waistcoat, he called for a needle and thread and moved a button from the bottom to the empty place. Carefully, he worked his neck cloth into an acceptable knot that would hide a hurried darn, muttering, “Vanity, vanity, thy rank is captain.”
He made his way through the busy streets, again taking comfort in the bustle and hubbub. So much activity all around kept the ghosts at bay very nicely. Immediately before he was to turn off the high street to the Craig residence, the doors of a respectable-looking establishment flew open and out poured a large group of ordinary sailors. The keep was obviously tired of their shenanigans. He waved a white cloth, loudly and crudely informing them of his annoyance. Passing slowly through the crowd, he recognised a great many of the men. Nearly all had sailed with him on Laconia’s last voyage.
“To Captain Tanner!” one shouted, and the others haloo’d.
Captain Tanner, Wentworth surmised from the exuberant pack, had no doubt just been made into a new command. Lucky bugger, he thought.
“Captain Wentworth, sir!” Turning in the direction of the voice, he saw a small man with a wide grin, an unruly beard, and a filthy jersey coming towards him. Wentworth stopped. “Captain Wentworth,” the man repeated, making his obedience.
“And you—Greer!’ he said, suddenly remembering the man. “You look to be celebrating.”
“Aye, sir, we is. I know this sail won’t be the same without ya, but I hope ya don’t begrudge us poor swabs our chance at a bit of fortune.” The man’s eyes were a brilliant sparkling green. Wentworth wondered if it was wine or anticipation of a windfall fuelling such a look.
“No, Greer, I would never begrudge a man a bit of fortune. I wish you and the other lads well.” He made to continue on, but Greer was not finished.
“That’s very good, sir, cuz I don’t mind tellin’ ya, I think your ill-will could bring us greater misfortune above any man’s.”
What Greer said made no sense until his attention was drawn to the door of the pub again. Obviously Captain Tanner was leaving the establishment, and his new crew was anxious to draw as much attention to themselves and their new master as their recent refreshment could muster.
Tanner looked Wentworth’s way. Though he did not recognise him, Wentworth nodded and it was returned.
“All Laconias this way,” Tanner roared with a huge sweep of his arm.
At the call, Greer hared off to join him. What seemed to be hordes of men separated from the gathered throng of spectators and followed the man heading towards the docks. Wentworth could do nothing but stare at the single straight, blue-clad back leading the way. Another man was now at the helm of his beloved Laconia.
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
Dinner with Gilmore Craig and his new wife seemed even less appealing than when he’d accepted the invitation. But, it would only last a few hours and then he could return to his room and continue punishing himself for all his ignorant misjudgements. He’d been told once the imposing house had always been in the possession of the Craig family. The story went that it was built to its present magnificence from a lean-to where the first occupants kept sheep. Over the years, the Craig men and, when necessary, the odd woman had learnt the ways of trading which led to the family’s present prosperous state. Gilmore Craig was an only child who now commanded the family holdings. Wentworth surmised that the newly minted couple would begin producing heirs as soon as possible so the house could finally be filled with little Craigs, ensuring that the family line would not quietly die out. As he stepped up to the door, he thought how common it was becoming these days to allow things to die away without much notice
The door opened and a fine, liveried footman ushered him inside and then took his hat and coat. When his less-than-elegant undress uniform was noticed, the fellow reminded Wentworth of sour old Longwell of The Lodge.
He was in no mood to endure the sneering disapproval of a man who, if they were onboard a ship, would be subject to his absolute authority. The thought reminded him of the sight on the street. While he was greatly relieved that his dear Laconia—for dear to him she would always be—was not broken up into scrap, she was still under another man’s hand. As with Anne, another man would now enjoy the place he once occupied.
Wentworth’s mood improved as he was shown into a small drawing room where Mrs. Craig welcomed him. “Captain, it is good to see you again and that you are free to dine with us.” She dropped a proper curtsey, evidently not minding his casual attire. A glass of a very fine brandy was soon warming in his hand as Mrs. Craig explained that Gilmore would be a little late. “There has been some sort of crisis at the warehouse. It seems that some hoaxing jobber is trying to pass off a few casks of bad cod.” Their laughter was thin and forced. “That is what his note said,” she added hesitantly. There was nothing else to laugh about, so both made a study of their refreshments.
“Congratulations on your marriage.” He wished to acknowledge the couple’s quickness once Admiral Hammond left the area, but doing so seemed in poor taste. “It was accomplished not long after I left town, I think.” This seemed tasteful enough.
“No, no, not long. A fortnight is all. It happened so quickly after you left.” Her look was odd, as was the repetition. He wondered if Craig had taken his advice too much to heart and had pressured the lady with too much vigour. Remembering the mutual state of their feelings, he thought that to be impossible.
“You have returned to Plymouth on business?” Again she was hesitant, her voice insipid, having only enough vitality to carry it to his hearing and no further.
“No, not business.” Unless dodging responsibility could be considered a business.
“H-has your time in the country been enjoyable?” She finished her sherry.
“Uh, no. Others seem to find a great deal of enjoyment in the country, but I found little.” Surely he should have stretched a little and told a convenient lie for the sake of sociability.
“I am sorry to hear that—” Mrs. Craig placed her glass on the small table beside her chair, knocking it off as she withdrew her hand. It did not break—the delicate crystal remained unharmed thanks to the thick rugs—and the footman cleared it way immediately. As the man moved off, she touched a handkerchief to her lips. Wentworth wondered if she was ill. Before he could inquire, she said, “So, you returned to Plymouth hoping to find...”
He found the question extremely intimate, and it angered him for a moment. His normal confident temperament was taking a remarkable beating lately. Perhaps the anger was because the question of why he had come to Plymouth was one for which he had no credible answer. While he had all the reason in the world to put as much distance as possible between himself and Louisa Musgrove, he could have gone directly to his brother’s to accomplish that. Why had he chosen to sequester himself in the place where all that was seemingly successful in his life had begun that summer to go sour?
“I suppose, I hoped to find things here unchanged.” Now he hesitated. “I wanted things to be just as they were the night of the Farewell Ball.” That night he was still, though just barely, Laconia’s captain, he was still in active service and he was not a man facing his most regrettable past mistakes or an un
certain future.
Mrs. Craig rose and went to the window, wringing the kerchief as she went. She stood for a few moments, saying nothing, but managing to mangle a perfectly nice arrangement of red flowers. The silence was beginning to be awkward. He was casting about for something intelligent to say when she jammed a bloom back into the vase, nearly knocking it over. Turning, she gaped at him, pink and panicked. “Gilmore is coming up the walk. Things are not as they seemed the night of the Farewell Ball. Anything you may have thought about me...about us...is not how I genuinely feel or ever felt.” She swept by him, and out the door.
“God, he murmured, why did you make women completely inscrutable?” He downed the last of his brandy and stood to greet Craig.
Chapter Three
Voices echoed in the entryway as she greeted her husband. They came into the room arm-in-arm. If possible, she looked more ill and he wore an inscrutable expression.
For a moment they all stood looking from one to the other. Finally, Craig bowed and said, “Captain, good to see you don’t stand on ceremony, though I must play host and present a good front. You will excuse me while I go up and change.” He looked again at Mrs. Craig. “I am sure the two of you will continue amusing yourselves.” He nodded to his wife and left them quickly.
Mrs. Craig was still pale, but now wore a dash of scarlet on her cheeks. She went back to her chair and sat down. The handkerchief she had mangled earlier was getting another round of punishment. She was closer to tears than Wentworth cared to see.
He chose to stand near the window, well out of her sight. Were the floodgates to burst, taking all her dignity in the torrent, she would have an illusion of privacy if nothing else. But even after a few minutes, there were no sniffles or sobs. He glanced back at her. She sat straight and still as a statue. Before Craig rejoined them, though it was none of his affair and inquiring was impertinent, he wished to know how things stood. Would she tell him?
“Craig looks as if the jobbers may have gotten the better of him.” A small group of people passed by the house, and he was made acutely aware that he was completely adrift and alone with his particular friend’s wife.
“I know not; he said nothing about them.” She moved in the chair. “Captain, I must be honest with you.” She had left her chair, her voice was much closer to him now. “My behaviour the evening of the Farewell Ball was inexcusable...and all an act”
He turned to see her earnestly addressing him. The pause was to orchestrate her next statement. “I stood close to you and pretended to be so...amiable to make Mr. Craig jealous. If you thought—”
“I thought nothing, Miss Ham—Mrs. Craig.” So this was it. He had thought her a bit intoxicated, but she had merely been baiting Craig into making his move. He should resent being used as a pawn in her silly game, but he could not fail to see the humour in it. “I assure you I have always held you in the highest regard, but...” Tact dictated that he go cautiously. To say he was not in the least interested in her as a woman might open a Pandora’s Box which would never be closed, on top of the ridiculousness already afoot. “...I have known Craig’s feelings concerning you from the beginning. I would never in good conscience have done anything to betray him.”
Mrs. Craig relaxed visibly. She even managed a feeble smile. “I must say I am glad. I played a part, and while it worked—Gilmore came around almost immediately to speak with my aunt—I never thought it would have such repercussions. I assured him of my feelings before we wed, but when he came home last night his jealousy was palpable.” Perhaps this explained Gil’s quizzical looks and close examination of the previous evening. Wentworth’s brown mood had at long last worked for him. No sane person could look on his dishevelled person and melancholic demeanour and mistake it for interest of any kind, much less interest in a married woman.
“Would it help you if I left?”
Her smile was wide but brief. “If you leave there will be no chance to set things aright with him. I hate to think I have ruined such a deep and abiding friendship.”
The smile on his face was genuine and the relief he felt, liberating. He moved towards the doorway with her alongside. “Mrs. Craig, blacken me as dark as you must. Make him know what a reprobate dog I am in accepting an invitation I never intended to keep.” He stopped and faced her. “Play another part—a woman completely disgusted with my poor sense of style, lack of social acumen, and utter disregard for people’s feelings. Make him understand you never want me in your house again.” He headed to the door, hoping she could pull off this new role.
She called to him. “I regret that you must sacrifice your friendship with my husband because of my silly gamesmanship.” Her expression was utterly guilty.
“You needn’t worry, Mrs. Craig. I shall return to Plymouth one day—after your affection is thoroughly established in his mind. We shall have a few drinks, I will do the polite and apologise profusely for upsetting you, and all will be well.”
Now there were tears. “I am so sorry for this.”
“Don’t be. You’ve helped to remind me how dangerous it is to play a part. Especially one you don’t particularly feel.” He took his hat and coat as he thought about the near calamity to which he’d been party. Leaving the house, he determined it was time to move on.
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
The stable attached to the Main and Mizzen was crowded. The warm, stinking air surrounded him closely and reverberated with the voice of the hostler bawling orders. One poor soul seemed to be the particular object of his wrath to the exclusion of all others. While Wentworth was in a restored frame of mind, it was not so much repaired that he would tolerate being ignored and forced to witness the brutal display.
“Sir,” he called out. All eyes turned towards him, including those of the hostler. “No doubt the boy needs a good thrashing, but I have a horse that must be tended.” The hostler continued to leer at Wentworth, and tossed aside the boy.
He approached the Captain, pushing up his filthy sleeves. “You mean to be tellin’ me my business?” His face was inches from Wentworth’s. The man’s foul breath reeked of his last meal and burned the Captain’s eyes.
“No, merely pointing out that I am in need of your service. Surely you realise that while beating that squeaker may be amusing for a short time, it will put nothing in your pocket. Tending my horse will.” Ignorant bluster met with natural authority and took a beating of its own.
The man thought for a moment, took the few steps necessary to grab the boy and dragged him along as he came to the Captain. Shoving the child at Wentworth, he said, “Here. I know enough to say that brat ain’t worth my time and trouble. Since you’s so concerned, you take him.”
The vicious shove caused the boy to slam into Wentworth’s legs and fall with a grunt at his feet.
The boy wisely stayed on the ground but looked up into the Captain’s face. A nod of recognition passed between them.
“Well, as I live and breathe, we meet again, Mr. Tuggins.”
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
George Tuggins wolfed down his second bowl of stew, pausing between bites only long enough to sop gravy with hunks of bread. Wentworth motioned for another glass of small beer for the boy and a pint of ale for himself. For such a small thing, Tuggins could certainly put away the victuals. As soon as he was finished with his meal, Wentworth would take him to his room and see to the cut over his right eye. It hadn’t bled much, but it needed cleaning...along with the rest of Mr. Tuggins.
“So how do you come to be in Plymouth, Tuggins?”
“Well, sir, you said if I was ever in Plymouth, I should look you up. I weren’t going to make a fortune at the Crown, so I come here.”
“And found I was gone.”
“Aye, sir. I asked around before leavin’ Portsmouth, found your ship’s name was Laconia. When I got here, I asked around again and found she was in ordinary and that you was gone.” He looked down to his bowl and with great precision wiped every bit of gravy from the bottom.
Went
worth marvelled how there was no complaint in the lad’s voice. When they had spoken earlier in the year, he meant only to leave the boy with an understanding that he was inclined to help him were they to find themselves meeting again. It was obvious George had taken his words as an explicit invitation. To find Wentworth departed would have stopped other boys cold, but not so Mr. Tuggins.
“I knew I would have to start over, so I went lookin’. There’s always a job shovelling sh—” He hesitated as there was a young serving girl passing the table. George looked over his shoulder as she walked away. “There’s always something somewhere that needs shovelling, sir.”
Wentworth liked the boy’s polite consideration and powers of observation. His feeling that Tuggins was a rarity was strengthened. “When you finish that glass, I shall order water sent up to my room, and we’ll see you cleaned up.”
Like most young boys, Tuggins took on an air of reluctance at the mention of hygiene.
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
The cut was deeper than Wentworth had thought, and for a moment, he wondered if a doctor should be called for stitches. Examining it more closely, he saw that it was now only weeping a bit and already beginning to close of its own accord. “Hold this on it,” he said and handed the boy a clean cloth.
Pouring the bloody water into a slops pail, Wentworth said, “You’ll have a scar, but it shouldn’t be too bad. It’ll come in handy when you’re older.”
“Sir?” Tuggins looked at him from under the cloth.
Wentworth turned, wiped out the bowl, gathered the rags, and placed them all on the dresser. “The ladies, boy. The ladies like scars...so long as they are few and well placed.”
George got up and looked at the cut in the mirror. “I didn’t know that ladies like such things, sir.”
“Oh yes. Above the eye is good, as well as along the cheek. Just here.” He moved his finger along his own cheekbone. “I was mates with a fellow who had a nasty scar across both lips. Got bashed in the mouth with a belaying pin, somehow. Anywise, poor devil couldn’t pucker up his lips properly. To hear him tell it, the ladies were inconsolable.” He smiled, wondering what wisdom Mr. Tuggins would have to impart upon hearing of the loss of such a vital skill.