None But You (Frederick Wentworth, Captain: Book 1)

by Susan Kaye

  Sophia went to the basin and checked the water. “And how do you find the place? Has it changed much?”

  “Changed?”

  “Edward said the summer you stayed with him that you visited here some few times. I wonder if it has changed.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “I would not know. I noticed the place little then.”

  Turning one of the curtains, she looked at the reverse side. “We have noticed quite a lot of wear since moving in. We thought we had looked it over carefully when the Baronet showed us around, but, well, you know it is rather embarrassing to scrutinise anything very closely with the owner standing over you.”

  “Do you think he meant to cheat you?” He wouldn’t put it past the blighter to engage in that sort of trickery.

  “No, no. I just think all the best carpets, curtains, and furnishings were put in the rooms we toured. The family rooms, excluding Sir Walter’s of course, are so worn it is more from pride than not wanting to damage your male sensibilities that I put you up here. Those poor girls put up with quite shabby surroundings for a long time.”

  While he was relieved to know he would not be sleeping in a room once occupied by Anne, he was curious about her reaction to the Baronet giving up the Hall. Perhaps having an establishment of her own had eased the blow.

  Pulling the drapes open wider, Sophia said, “I think I told you that I do not revel in benefiting from the family’s difficulties. We are determined to do what we can, and if in a few years they might return, we will hand Kellynch back in better shape than they left her.” She continued to fuss about the room until Harkness entered with the coat and trousers.

  “I will leave you to freshen up. Dinner is not for an hour, so take your time.”

  As she approached the door, she touched his arm and said, “I am happy you are with us, Frederick.” Not waiting for an answer, she left. He was glad to be alone. Although he hadn’t remembered particulars of the place, he was beginning to feel the tone of the grand house.

  “Sir, ya water’s ready. I set out ya shavin’ gear.”

  He’d forgotten Harkness. “Yes, thank you,” he mumbled as he applied soap to his face. He finished the first stroke and then glanced at Harkness in the mirror. The man’s hands were flexing, and he was a study in disapproval. Taking another stroke, he watched the man’s reflection. It was comical. Obviously, Harkness would have liked nothing better than to snatch the razor away and take matters into his own hands.

  Concentrating on his chin, Wentworth considered that servants could be a double-edged sword. They had a clear, practical purpose at table and there they were quite welcome. It was much more convenient to have them fetch the wine than try to move about the cramped and sometimes heaving cabin. When they were not serving, they stood behind, well out of the way. However, this room was small and he could not help but hear Harkness’s muted sighs of frustration.

  Wiping the blade in preparation to shave his throat, Wentworth decided to divert the man’s attention with conversation.

  “So, Harkness, how long have you been with the Elliot family.”

  “All my life, sir. I was born on the estate.”

  He could not imagine what his life would be like if he had remained in Liverpool for the whole of his thirty-two years. Would he have become bitter and vicious like his father, perhaps, or withdrawn and miserable like his mother?

  “I was being groomed to tend the gardens, but the Baronet liked my looks and brought me into the house.”

  He studied Harkness’ reflection. The man may have been under the thumb of Sir Walter all these years, but he still had a mind of his own. Wentworth determined it was prudent to cultivate such a long-serving and talkative fellow.

  “Then you have seen many changes over the years, I presume.”

  “Oh yes, sir. Especially lately.”

  Nothing more was said while the valet saw him dressed. As he brushed down the Captain’s coat, he said, “I think it safe to say the opinion below stairs is that the new master and his wife are most worthy and a pleasure to serve.” He came around Wentworth’s shoulder, brushing as he went. “There are also several that hold to the opinion that Mrs. Croft is quite like her brothers, very good-natured and a quick wit.” He gave a final smoothing to the lapels and asked, “Will that be all, sir?”

  Wentworth watched the man leave the room. Surely, neither Sophia nor the Admiral had volunteered anything concerning the configuration of the Wentworth family! It would seem the servants possessed an extraordinarily long memory. The question was, how inquisitive were they and precisely what did they remember?

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  Dinner was enjoyable and plenteous. Wentworth wondered if his sister was stuffing him with his favourite foods and wines to prove her ability as a hostess or to show off her competent staff. The meal more than accomplished both.

  “Unless you and the Admiral wish to be formal, I thought we could spend the rest of the evening upstairs.”

  Looking at Croft, he saw there was really no choice. “I think adjourning upstairs would be perfect.”

  As they ascended the steps, the Crofts pointed out several of the Elliot family treasures. The little sitting rooms, ballrooms, dining rooms and libraries provided the space in which to stuff all the objects d’art, pretentious furniture, and hanging monstrosities they imagined showed off their rank to best advantage.

  “There is a large tree outside the window,” Sophia explained. “It gives one the feeling of being perched on the limbs of it.” The footman opened the door, and they stepped into a smallish, but exceedingly comfortable room. Sophia directed him to a chair. “Would you prefer sherry or something stronger, perhaps?”

  “I think he would enjoy a glass of that whiskey Musgrove sent over.”

  “Thank you, sir. I believe I will stay with sherry.”

  Sophia said, “We have come to enjoy this little room a great deal. Unless we have a visitor, we generally use this room rather than the sitting room downstairs.”

  As soon as the chair accepted his body, Wentworth was reminded of two days worth of hard seats and ill-used springs. It was not long before he had found the perfect spot against the pillow-like headrest and the perfect angle from which to watch the cosy, warming fire. It was easy to understand why this room would attract his sister and brother. Unlike much of the rest of Kellynch Hall, this room was restrained, restful both in style and colours. The muted green walls and brown patterned rugs were very much in keeping with the notion of being surrounded by the boughs of the tree outside. The furniture was just a little worn, enough to allow one to relax and find peace and respite when the remainder of the house proved too busy.

  Another footman brought him the sherry and a plate of assorted sweets. This would round out the meal nicely, and after a bit of polite conversation, it was his intention to heap loads of praise on his sister, thank the Admiral again for his invitation, and then excuse himself for the evening. Leaning back, he closed his eyes and thought of a comfortable bed.

  “Now, don’t go to sleep, Captain. I’ve been looking forward to playing chess. Your sister is an excellent player, but she lacks your killer instinct.”

  Wentworth opened his eyes to look at Sophia’s reaction to this pronouncement. “Admiral, you know I play a strategic game. I like to win based on skill and cunning, not on thuggish tactics as you employ.” She smiled at him over the rim of her glass.

  He wasn’t really feeling up to chess, but he knew there would be no putting off the Admiral. He stood. A jarring clank at the fireplace drew his attention. Harkness apologized for his clumsiness as Frederick’s eyes followed the flame up to the mantle then to the portrait hanging above it.

  At first he noticed nothing more than a typical portrait of a young woman at her sweet and beguiling best. Further study proved a stunner. The face was indeed sweet and beguiling, and to his shock, it belonged to Anne Elliot.

  Chapter Nine

  Well, what do you think of her?” Sophia asked.
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  What did he think? He stood looking into her tender brown eyes, and his mind was at sea with no lists or manoeuvres to save him. Months ago, he would have laughed and said something to the effect that he thought nothing of her. But here, now, with the heat of the fire rising oppressively, Harkness standing silently by, and his sister awaiting an answer, he could only feign composure and ask where the portrait had come from.

  “I found it in the attic. There was a mirror above the fireplace, but—”

  “There are so blasted many of them in this house, I begged her to find something to replace it,” the Admiral said, tapping his king on the board.

  “The housekeeper said I should look in the attic, that the Baronet had stored several pictures up there. She is Elizabeth Stevenson. Just a few months after this was finished, she married the Baronet and became Lady Elliot. That is her father standing behind her.”

  Of course, this was not Anne. What an idiot he was! He could now see that nearly everything about the picture argued against it being her. The eyes had played him a trick. They were the same warm, intelligent brown that first attracted him. And they were surrounded by the same fresh, pink complexion, but the chin was a bit more angular and less pleasing to him. The woman’s hair also should have hinted at the difference. This young woman sported a mass of tiny curls that created a cloud of deep chestnut about her face and shoulders. While the colour was the same as Anne’s, he’d never seen her with her hair down. And the clothes were another clue that, had he been more observant, might have saved him from diving headlong into a panic. The dress was not at all in the style of ’06. It was more like something his mother wore, though finer in cut and quality. And the man, while having fully the air of Sir Walter, was balding and not very handsome. Moreover, his frock coat and breeches were of an era long past. It was now easy to see this was a portrait accomplished years earlier than Anne’s time. Nevertheless, the eyes would not release him.

  “Well, now that we’ve introduced Frederick to the late Lady Elliot, might we get on with this game?” The Admiral rose and took the opposite chair. This left Wentworth squarely facing the portrait. “That corner is a bit dark, and your eyes are younger than mine. Besides, it’s only polite that I give you the first move before I blast you out of the water.” He laughed and Sophia scolded.

  After making his first move, Wentworth downed the last of the sherry. Sitting in the presence of the disquieting picture required fortification. “I’ve changed my mind, sir. I think I will try your much-touted whiskey, if you don’t mind.”

  “Certainly. A man needs a good few drinks to be set right after a day or two on the road,” he said with glee. The Admiral was generous and enjoyed having a drinking companion. “Harkness,” he called over his shoulder, “don’t be mean with that now. There’s plenty more to be had.” He turned back and made his first move.

  The footman offered the drink. Though he gazed placidly only at the salver and glass, Wentworth could swear the man watched him. Had Harkness seen the expression of shock when he first viewed the painting? How much might he remember of his previous visit? That his old and personal business might be known by anyone connected with Kellynch was unsettling, but that a servant might bandy it about below-stairs was particularly repellent.

  Though the corner was dark, the cut crystal tumbler spread the liquid into an amber rainbow. The heat of the drink traced a path from his lips straight to his gut. He could not help but appreciate the distiller’s art. This was the smoothest, most mellow fire he’d ever swallowed. “Thank you, sir. That has, indeed, set me right.” The statement was a lie. All his careful avoidance of thoughts, memories, feelings, and truth concerning Anne was blasted apart the minute he looked up into the face of the portrait.

  With his next move, he left his knight vulnerable. The Admiral would certainly see this and capitalise on it, but Wentworth could not lose the game and get out of this room fast enough. He could tell the Admiral was growing impatient with drawing his attention back to the board to accomplish another move, but he was powerless to keep his eyes from drifting. The woman’s gaze had followed him to his new seat. In no time, Croft was claiming victory and demanding, with a hint of disappointment, that Sophia should take her brother’s place.

  “Have another drink, Captain. I think you need it.”

  To his dismay and despite all reason, he took the drink and returned to his first seat. The desire to leave the room was indeed strong but not nearly as strong as his unwilling fascination with the portrait.

  “You said this is Lady Elliot.” It was a disjointed statement, said less for response than to assure him it was not Anne.

  Sophia looked up. “Yes. I believe the housekeeper said it was painted in early ’84.”

  “Is there a family resemblance? You said there are daughters.”

  “Certainly with the eldest; she was here when we toured the place. Miss Elizabeth Elliot is very much like her mother, but has traces of him as well.” She and her husband exchanged looks. “If Miss Elliot is the image of her mother in other ways, this was not the happiest of homes,” she continued. “Of the remaining two, one very much has her mother’s looks and the other her father’s, and that’s all that should be said on that subject. We don’t want to be accused of gossiping.” They laughed together, as a sailor’s major source of sustenance was the hearty fare of gossip.

  To his relief, the chess match was heating up and each one’s attention was on besting the other. He was free to examine the portrait at his leisure. Scrutinising the canvas, he realised the painting drew him because his memories of Anne had faded. Now, to see even a close approximation of her youth and beauty was at once disconcerting and a lovely and enjoyable study.

  As he reflected, it irritated him that all his pretensions of safety were now vanished. It was a fool’s notion that her wounds to his heart were no longer open and that her marriage to another freed him of her influence. It would be impossible to remain unconcerned and indifferent while standing in her presence. He saw clearly that he was a damned fool if he thought they would be introduced and he could quietly go about his business.

  Tapping the glass, he signalled for another whiskey. It was excellent stuff, and he could feel the effects of it acutely. Partaking of a third was to indulge perhaps to embarrassment. Harkness filled the glass and retook his post near the fire. What did it really matter? His new valet was there to attend to his needs and, if required, his mortifications. Glancing back at the painting, he wondered how large the portion of his future mortification. He looked deeply into the bright brown eyes, so like those he was coming to remember, and he cursed his weakness and the fact that he was now at the mercy of this scrap of painted canvas.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  The next morning, Wentworth woke early—even the fires were not yet started. It was too early to be active, and he was in a decidedly brown frame of mind. He’d done nothing to embarrass himself the night before. The obligatory sherry and a fourth whiskey had given him the perfect excuse. He’d plead fatigue after the day’s travel and fallen asleep quickly, but awoke often throughout the night. With every bout of sleeplessness came a desire to walk the few steps down the hall and look at the painting. If the temptations grew worse, he mused, perhaps it would be necessary to lash himself to the bed as Odysseus was lashed to his mast.

  Turning from his stomach to his back, he closed his eyes and found her face before him. With each review, the features became more alive. All the thoughts that naturally followed came alive as well. Aggravated beyond endurance, he threw back the bedclothes and stalked to the washstand. As he poured, water sloshed over the edge of the bowl, wetting the tops of his feet. The first splash took his breath away and drove all thoughts of brown eyes and achingly sweet lips out of his head. He wondered if it might be better to await Harkness and hot water.

  Wiping drops from the mirror, he looked at his smeared likeness. In seconds the water beaded and his reflection became somewhat clear again. He watched a drop
of water appear on his chin and drip to the basin below.

  “It’s not even Anne,” he lectured. “The woman in that picture has been dead and mouldering in the ground for years.” Towelling his face and chest, he laid last night’s bout of sentimentalism to fatigue and surprise…and too much drink. While he dressed, he reproached himself. “You spent a most unpleasant week closeted away with a man who threw himself headlong into his grief and depression. You shall not allow yourself the luxury of pity. Those eyes overwhelmed you, but only for last evening.”

  Suddenly, a new energy filled him. The maudlin thoughts and memories were a sort of traveller’s hangover, the product of bad food and endless pounding of the body. Now that he was well rested and clear-eyed, he would see things plainly. Pulling on his boots, he predicted, “In the cold light of day, this portrait will not be half so seductive.”

  Walking down the hallway, he reminded himself that, while it had taken some time, he’d grown quite used to the sight of blood on the deck of the ship and that he’d become hardened to the cries of pain from his own men. His life’s experience proved that constant exposure and repetition wore away natural fear and loathing. Therefore, he would confront the painting at every opportunity. Its repeated presence would deaden this reanimated attachment to its subject.

  He opened the door, purposely avoided looking over the fireplace, and went straight to the window. Grasping the curtain, he swept it open so that sunlight flooded the room. Stepping back, he looked up and said quietly, “Do your worst, Lady Elliot.”

  There was no sense of anything of significance occurring—neither did he turn to stone nor the portrait burst into flame. The room remained cool and quiet. The only sound was the whisper of his boots on the carpet as he went from chair to sofa to table, her eyes fixed on him. Her gaze was fully as warm and inviting in the early morning light as it had been the night before. To his dismay, it did not matter that this was not the woman he had loved, and it did not matter that the portrait was not an exact copy of Anne. It had given her substance and returned her to prominence in his mind. Though it was not she, the eyes mocked him with their quiet assurance that he was a lost man.