“My manor isn't far from where we are docking,” Bamber replied. “You'd be more than welcome to stay with us, if you'd like.”
“With...us?” He wasn't normally this confused, but the offer shocked him. Bamber was friends with everyone, it seemed, so being singled out for an invitation was surprising.
“Sure. My family and I. Harold's coming, and Matheson and Corrigan,” he named the other two they were close with. Matheson, the Scottish bosun, was the father figure of the ship, while Corrigan was his protégé and the equivalent of the court jester. “And there's room for about 100 more, so you wouldn't be imposing.”
“I...” he knew these big manors well enough; he had grown up in them. However, it had been a long time since he spent any time in one; they were all a reminder of what he left behind.
Hearing the rambunctious sailors behind him celebrating their victory, however, was a reminder of what he had to look forward to if he stayed in a rooming house. There was no family to travel to, no wife to return to, so what difference did it make?
“I would be honored,” he finally managed. “Thank you.”
“Tá fáilte romhat,” Bamber raised his eyes, and Wesley smiled as he turned back to his division. Being an Irish Earl meant that his native tongue was Gaelic, a language that he did miss hearing. English mostly came easy enough to him, half of Ireland spoke it, as did all of Britain, but occasionally, when he was sleep deprived, his words would slip. The fact that Bamber had worked as a translator when he first came to the Navy was helpful, especially in the long midnight hours of the black sea.
It would be nice to be back on land. He loved the sea, if only because it offered him a way of escape. However, being in such close quarters with others was trying on a good day and pure torture on a bad one. He had thought his life would be very different once, a country life with a wife and small children by now. War had a way of changing everything, a way of distinguishing between the things that mattered and the things that didn't.
When they finally docked, there wasn't one sailor who wanted to stay on the ship. The Stallion needed major repairs, some of the men needed medical attention beyond what the ship's doctor could handle, and every one of them longed for a piece of fresh fruit.
Wesley found his way to the Lieutenant's wardroom after he had seen to the anchor, knocking gently on the open door.
He expected to find Bamber and Harper packing up in a generally logical manner. He hadn't expected to find absolute chaos as Bamber raced from one side of the room to the other. Harper sat at the table, watching him quietly with a bemused expression.
“Have a seat,” he said, when he noticed Wesley. “Mr. Bamber will be a moment.” Then he raised his voice. “Mr. Bamber would lose his head if it was not attached to his body.”
Wesley's eyebrows shot up through his hairline at the comment. They were so serious in their duties, in their interactions with each other, that this side of the friendship was something he had not seen yet.
“That is not fair,” Bamber's head shot around the room. “I know you must've borrowed the book and not returned it.”
“Why,” Harper asked, with the patience of a man who had already explained things a hundred times, “Would I borrow a book on theater theory and practice in a language that I do not understand?”
“To watch me run around like a lunatic while I pack. Honestly, Harold, no creativity.”
Harper rolled his eyes.
Wesley spoke up, clearing his throat. “That is an odd book to be looking for, Mr. Bamber, if I do say so myself.”
“It isn't typical sailor fare,” Aaron grinned. “But I have a friend back home; she's a lady of the stage. She sometimes works in Italian, for opera, so when I found the book, I thought she might like to have it.”
“Oh,” he had not expected any one of them to have a friend who was an actor, let alone a well respected Lord. Then, Mr. Bamber was so friendly, he could probably befriend a goat without questions. “A...friend?”
“Not like that,” Aaron replied. “Known each other since we were children. She's made a lot of money on the stage. Her parents bought a big house down the street from me in her childhood, that sort of thing. They don't live there anymore, but she still visits when she can. Lovely girl. Handful, but lovely. Speaking of, is there someone you should be...inviting to stay with me as well?”
“What?” Wesley was caught off hand. “What are you referring to?”
“A sweetheart,” Bamber replied. “In Ireland, perhaps? You will have time to write to her, I promise we will be docked for a month or two at this rate.”
“Oh,” Wesley looked at the table, finding the pattern very interesting. “No. No sweetheart,” he looked around frantically for a distraction. “Why? Is that what everyone else is doing? Mr. Harper?”
Aaron glanced at Harold with a smirk on his face.
“You could say that's why he's coming home with me,” Bamber replied. “His sweetheart comes in the form of my twin sister, Annabelle.”
Now it was Harold's turn to blush.
“That is not---”
“Really?” Aaron grinned. “Those long strolls on the beach with her are simply out of boredom, are they? Never mind, gentlemen, here's the book, let's go.”
Wesley stood up, grateful for the distraction. He didn't want to admit to either of them that there had never been a woman.
He had always accepted romance would not be his life. Inheriting a title meant his father and mother would arrange a marriage for him, with some rich, titled woman whom he felt nothing for.
That was not the case now, but being at sea didn't exactly offer the chance to meet women, rich, titled or penniless.
He tried to focus on the rest of the conversation. He rather enjoyed the theater, if only for the anonymity of it. On stage, they could be anything they wanted, a different person each night. Shy one day and rambunctious the next. One scene a prince, and the next a pauper. Now, that was something to be envied, something to be wishful for.
He followed the lieutenants off the ship, pausing as they were joined by Matheson and Corrigan. Mr. Bamber had them laughing by the time they reached a waiting carriage, and Wesley's spirits lifted. He may not have a sweetheart waiting for him at the end of the journey, but perhaps a night in the theater could help him live another life or two before this docking was out.
CHAPTER TWO
BAMBER MANOR
BAMBER MANOR
Bamber Manor turned out to be about the same size of his old house in Ireland, with sprawling gardens and so many rooms that Wesley was pretty sure a map would be useful. There was the usual array of servants to take their bags, show them to their rooms, and offer to get them anything that they wanted. It was a beautiful luxury compared to the ship. Nevertheless, Wesley could feel the memories flowing back to him right away.
He left his bags in the guest room, choosing not to unpack, as he heard the others in the hallway. Everyone else seemed at ease, as they had been here several times before. He felt a bit of an outsider, shoulders tensed as he joined the group that had known each other for ten years before he even boarded his first ship.
He realized with a shock that he had never seen his shipmates outside of their uniforms before. He instantly felt out of place, but until he could get his bags down to the laundry, there was no way he could walk around in a casual suit like Mr. Bamber was leaning against the wall in.
“I think we should play cards until dinner, and then play more cards after dinner,” Mr. Bamber was saying. “With no one to yell what time the watch changes at.”
“You would play cards during dinner if it was polite,” Harold said, although he was clearly amendable to the situation. “Or perhaps have the butler bring us dinner in the card room.”
“We could do that,” Bamber's eyes lit up.
The mention of a butler doing that brought back flashbacks, and Wesley knew he had to get out, just to clear his head.
“Is the town far from here?” he spoke u
p. “I thought I'd just get some fresh air. The rest of you are welcome to play cards.”
“Not at all,” Bamber replied. “Take the path down to the road, and go the opposite way from where we came in. Or we can have a carriage brought around if you'd like.”
“Walking suits me,” Wesley replied. “I won't be long.”
“Should we think about lunch before dinner?” Harold asked, as Wesley took the stairs two at a time. It was such a jolt to hear those things away from the rigidness of the ship. The outdoor air was cool and crisp, as he walked down the path, his breath forming in front of his face. With this weather, they wouldn't be able to sail for too much longer. The winter always offered obstacles that couldn't be overcome.
Bamber was right, the town was not far. He longed to be among a crowd of people with no uniforms, titles, airs, or routines beyond their next meal.
He shoved his hands deep in his pockets against the cold, closing his eyes for a moment as he weaved through the crowd.
This shore leave was perhaps going to be harder than he thought.
“Can you spare a coin, sir?” came the voice of a beggar on his right. Without thinking, he dropped one into his pile, moving swiftly. Vagabonds saddened him, if only because he felt guilty of the privilege he was born into. Why should he never have to worry about money while they starved on the streets? What privilege did he deserve over them? The idea of nobility, of a lack of equality, was always in the back of his mind. “Spare another? You Navy boys are paid well, aren't you?”
“Well enough,” Wesley replied, considering he felt like he spent half his day doing nothing. In a moment, there was another beggar, and another, then a swarm of them, as if they could smell his money. He wasn't a fan of people invading his personal space, unlike his shipmates. Mr. Bamber seemed to have no problem acting like someone else was an extension of his own body, always happy, always moving. Wesley envied him in ways he couldn't understand, thinking he wouldn't be bothered by the crowd currently around him.
It wasn't long before his coin supply ran out. It was only when he felt one more at the tips of his fingers did he really look up, and realize he had no idea where he was. He stopped moving for a moment, letting people jostle him as he tried to get his bearings. He could figure out position and tactics as if it was breathing, but navigation always bothered him.
It was while he was stopped that he thought he might be hallucinating. His ears picked up on a sound, a voice so pure, so angelic that he wondered if the heavens had opened up.
Just before the entrance to the market stood another beggar, a woman about his age. She stood out from the crowd that he had just passed, first because she wasn't just panhandling. She had a small pile of coins in front of her, but no container or hat to collect it, no guarding hand to protect it. Instead, she was focused on the song she was singing, a beautiful melody that brought a smile out of nearly everyone who passed her.
Her face was that of an angel. She was in a dress that seemed just a bit better than the rest on the street around her, finger-less gloves, with her hair simply styled. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Her lips were soft and full, her skin gleaming and clear. When she opened her eyes, he could see they were a beautiful hazel color, not quite brown, not quite green. She was thin, but not too thin, not like the skeletal figures that he had passed before. Her entire body sang as the pure notes drifted out of her mouth, smiling at passersby.
He realized he was staring when she caught his eye. Most of the other beggars would hold their hand out, but she simply sang towards him, as if he were an audience of one.
He felt his heart skip a beat as he advanced forward.
“I only have one left, I'm sorry,” he said, as he placed his last remaining coin in her pile. Her eyes glinted and she simply smiled, nodding her head in thanks. It didn't stop her tune, and he found that he couldn't bring himself to move as he listened. The tension that he had held in his neck, the weight on his shoulders, completely dissipated as she sang.
When she finished, she took a tiny bow and he couldn't help but clap.
“Bravo,” he said. “Bravo!”
“Thank you,” even her voice was sweet. “You enjoyed it?”
He paused. Speaking to women had never been his strong suit, nor had he had much chance to do so recently.
“Yes,” he said.
“And would you enjoy it, do you think, on a stage?” she said, making no move to bend down and pick up the money, like most other beggars would.
“Of course,” he said, standing there awkwardly. She was so beautiful, so confident, and it made him feel out of place. She glanced to his uniform, a smile still on her face.
“Are you with the Stallion? It just came in, didn't it?”
“Yes,” he answered. “You have a good memory for ships.”
“Ah, well,” she said, bending down to sweep up the coins at last. “One does, when working here. Nice to meet you, Mr...?”
“Just uh...Wesley,” he said, making no indication of rank or title.
“Wesley,” she said, with a smile. Then she was gone, leaving him standing there in the open space she left behind.
He felt like he floated back to Bamber Manor, a goofy grin on his face. He didn't even know her name and yet, suddenly, he had no issues walking back to the grand house, her smile in his mind's eyes.
Maybe he would go back tomorrow, and she would be there. Maybe she would sing for him again, or maybe he could work up the courage to have a half decent conversation. A conversation, he knew very well, would have never occurred if he had taken his father's title. Earls could not speak to beggar women, even if they were angels in disguise. Midshipmen, however, even midshipmen on a track to admiral, certainly could.
His stomach growled as he approached the house, and he realized his appetite had been at bay until now. He had been dreading docking, and then dreading a grand manor, but everything was falling into place now.
It didn't even bother him to be let in the front door by the butler, who half bowed to him. His head was in the clouds, his eyes glazed at her memory as he was pointed towards the card room.
“I'm back,” he said, as he pushed opened the door. Four heads turned towards him, and he could see a curious question form on Mr. Bamber's lips. He stood to greet Wesley, and then his face changed.
The color swept from Bamber's face, and Harold’s voice came in a half growl.
“Aaron,” he said with a warning, his hand going out. Corrigan and Matthew put down their cards and everything happened in slow motion for a moment.
Bamber's eyes rolled back, and Wesley's mouth opened in shock. Then time sped up as his friend collapsed to the floor, convulsions wracking his body.
Wesley's brain noted that while it startled the other three, they didn't looked as frightened as he felt. His chest tensed up, and his heart nearly stopped as he stood there in shock.
“Aaron, I told you to sit down,” Harold half growled as he dropped to the floor beside him, grabbing the convulsing body. “Matheson, grab that pillow. Corrigan, move that table now, before he bashes his head. Wesley, give me your neck tie.”
“What?” Wesley asked, and Harold had to raise his voice to be heard over Aaron's chattering teeth.
“Give me your neck tie,” he said, as he pushed Aaron onto his side. Wesley moved forward, his hand half shaking as he pulled it off. Harold balled it up and shoved it in Aaron's mouth without hesitation.
“What is happening?” Wesley asked, kneeling to the ground beside them. No one answered him.
“Matheson?” Harold asked, as Matheson put his hand to Aaron's neck. The father figure of the bunch, he seemed calm under the pressure.
“Eh,” Matheson shrugged. “He's a bit fast, Sir, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Ow,” Corrigan had a grip on Aaron from the other side, and looked down, as if Aaron could hear him. “Bugger.”
“Sir?” Wesley said, in a louder voice. His heart was nearly beating out of his chest, and he
couldn't comprehend how they could be so calm when Aaron was dying in front of them. “Sir?”
“It's alright,” Harold glanced at him, half annoyed to be taken out of his focus. “This has happened before.”
“Always,” Matheson replied, trying to give Wesley a smile. “Since he was a powder monkey on the ship. Usually happens a bit more often when he doesn't eat or sleep properly, but sometimes there's no rhyme or reason. And nothing you can do but wait.”
“I've never---seen---”
“He usually knows,” Corrigan put in. “Comes running to find one of us, and keeps out of the Captain's gaze.”
“But---” Wesley said, as the convulsions died down. He had a thousand words on his mind, but they all died on his lips when Bamber went quiet.
“There now,” Matheson said, having known him since he was twelve. “Much better.”
A silence fell over the room, and then Harold's sudden panic made them all tense up again.
“He's not breathing.”
CHAPTER THREE
UNFIT
UNFIT
As soon as Harold said that, Aaron took a giant breath, as if he had been holding it, and rolled further on to his side, coughing.
Everyone sank back on their seats, relief showing on their faces. For a moment, the only sound in the room was Aaron's coughing and heavy breathing.
“What did you get up to in town, Wesley?” Matheson asked, a smile on his face as he tried to break the tension and give Aaron a moment to breathe. Wesley looked up, startled.
“I—walked,” he said, desperate to make the situation better. “There was a woman, on the streets. A beggar but she was singing for her supper. Like nothing I ever encountered.”
Matheson smiled kindly.
The Earl’s New Identity (The Regency Renegades - Beauty and Titles) (A Regency Romance Story) Page 2