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

by Susan Kaye

  “It is because I have desired to marry for quite some time, but the proper partner has…” he searched for the correct phrase, “…eluded me.”

  Anne may have dismissed him all those years ago, but the damage had been done. The warm attachment he felt for her had never been equalled. He saw no one to equal her now, but he was tired of being alone. If she could not be in his life, another amiable woman would do.

  Chapter Twelve

  “May I?” he asked, reaching for the Navy List.

  A gracious invitation to accompany the Crofts and dine again at Uppercross had been issued to Wentworth that morning. Dinner was now over but the gentlemen amongst the large number of Musgrove relatives and guests were reluctant to leave the ladies, and the conversation had taken a most welcome shift to things of the Navy.

  “Certainly.” Louisa closed it and offered it with a smile. As he took the slim volume, the tips of her fingers met with his. The pleasant tingle made him return her appealing smile with one of his own. Turning his attention to the task at hand, he cleared his throat, fully expecting to read the ship’s listing as it had stood for nearly six years:

  HMS Laconia; Fifth Rate, 32-guns, At Sea, Frederick Wentworth, Captain.

  Previous lists would have included a brief history of his career and a listing of his officers and warrants, but this was a new list published quarterly by the Navy. It was not Steele’s Navy List, but it was very new, and very up-to-date. For once, the normal creeping nature of the Navy’s inner workings had been put aside and the most current information for the quarterly printing was used. He read the listing as it now stood, “HMS Laconia, Fifth Rate, 32-guns, Ordinary, Plymouth.” There was no hint he was ever connected to her.

  “She was the dearest friend a man could ask for.” As he looked down at the volume, he thought how good it was that he need not look up. He could keep his expression in check, but he was certain his eyes would give him away. There was no use in being miserable; she was gone from him forever. He did have his memories and those would suffice for the evening. He launched into a short summary of his first cruises with her: the Western Islands with Harville as his First Officer and then his next summer in the Mediterranean.

  “And I am sure, sir, it was a lucky day for us, when you were put captain into that ship. We shall never forget what you did,” the elder Mrs. Musgrove said.

  She had, at various times, been speaking to Anne and to her son as Wentworth praised his Laconia, but now it was clear she was speaking directly to the Captain.

  “My brother,” Henrietta said, leaning close. “Mamma is thinking of poor Richard.”

  “Poor dear fellow, he was grown so sturdy and such an excellent correspondent while under your care! Ah, it would have been a happy thing if he had never left you. I assure you, Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you.”

  For a moment, he wondered if Mrs. Musgrove would be so lavish with her praise if she knew all of his dealings concerning her son. He recalled one day coming on the quarterdeck and finding the Officer of the Watch missing. When he’d enquired as to who was standing the duty, his coxswain, Eyerly, had said, “That would be Mr. Musgrove, sir,” as he pointed to the mainmast tops. Climbing up the mast, he found the young man writing a letter—to his parents, he claimed.

  Wentworth had encouraged the young men to write home with some regularity. It was out of no sense of domestic care, but early on he’d discovered that well-connected mothers felt slighted by their sons if they did not receive regular correspondence. These injured feelings could cause a world of trouble for a captain, and he had determined that, as far as possible, he would impress upon his young men the value of letter-writing. All his inferior officers who had dealings with the midshipmen were forever making clear his personal wish—each of Laconia’s mids would write home quarterly.

  Seeing that Musgrove was actually cooperating, the Captain was inclined to allow him a certain amount of latitude this one time. Out of curiosity, he demanded to read the letter. When he found it to be no more than a slipshod, mewling plea for money, his inclination changed. After that it was a test of wills as to whether Mr. Musgrove could be forced to write a single letter to his family that did not cry poor. In six months, Wentworth managed to force two disinterested letters from the thick-headed laggard.

  Though it revolted him that anyone should mourn poor Richard or have any tenderness concerning the blighter at all, he could not deny the woman her motherly feelings. However infuriating Musgrove might have been to him and to every other member of the crew, he was still the woman’s son; and by the look of her, she missed him greatly.

  Wishing to speak privately with Mrs. Musgrove, Wentworth made his way to the sofa where she sat. He’d not noticed her, but Anne sat the other side of the sofa. Their eyes met for an instant. Though he’d looked her way numerous times, he’d never caught her looking at him.

  Years before, he would have made his way to the sofa, not to console a grieving mother, but at the enticement of her soft brown eyes and sweet smile. Soon after their initial introduction, her very presence invited him to surround himself in their warmth. Now, with only the formidable frame of Mrs. Musgrove between them, they were as far apart as a man and woman could be.

  Taking his seat, he spoke as plainly and sincerely as he could. “Mrs. Musgrove, as the captain of two ships, it has been my grim duty to order men into battle. Part of my penance has been to write the letters informing the families when they are lost.”

  It was clear that, while Mrs. Musgrove was generally attentive, she was merely waiting for particulars of her son. “I have come to the realization that in war the most arduous task is for those at home.”

  Mrs. Musgrove began to apprehend his speech. “Those who serve the Crown have their daily duties and the constant preparation for battle. We fight for our lives and then bury our dead. But you at home have no occupation but that of waiting for news. I do not envy you that. Please know that your family’s sacrifice is understood and appreciated by your country.”

  Mrs. Musgrove began to cluck and thank him for his kindness. Anne’s expression was troubled. They were all beginning to feel the awkwardness of the close moment, and he was relieved to hear the voice behind him.

  “If you had been a week later at Lisbon last spring, Frederick, you would have been asked to give passage to Lady Mary Grierson and her daughters.” The Admiral stood over them, hands clasped behind his back. His smile was a challenge to the Captain’s long-standing opinion concerning women aboard ships. A picture of her ladyship’s fantastic turban came to his mind, and he said, “Should I? I am glad I was not a week later then.”

  “Why, Captain, I think that to be glad to leave a lady and her daughters stranded is not very gentlemanly of you.” Wentworth noticed the expression on his face and the wink at his sister. When the Admiral felt things turning dull, he always seemed to know precisely how to liven up an evening.

  “Sir, I was on a commission for the Crown. I must be prepared for any and all possibilities. To have supernumeraries, particularly of the female persuasion, on board, would have complicated matters excessively. Lady Grierson, the wife of a seagoing admiral, would more than understand my feelings. And while I do not mind allowing women, in limited numbers, with limited freedom, aboard for balls or short visits, I stand by my opinion that the best place for them is dry land.”

  The tone of the exchange, though completely honest, was light and amiable. Those listening raised a good-natured commotion. He smiled and rose. Motioning for quiet, he continued.

  “But I know myself, that this is from no gallantry towards them. It is from feeling how impossible it is, with all one’s efforts and all one’s sacrifices, to make accommodations on board such as women ought to have. There can be no want of gallantry, Admiral, in rating the claims of women to every personal comfort high—and this is what I do. I hate to hear of women aboard, or see them on board; and no ship under my command shall ever convey a family of ladies anywhere,
if I can help it.”

  With just a few lines, his sister’s countenance was becoming rosy and he knew she was preparing to rise to the defence of all women he would so cruelly snub.

  “Oh Frederick! I cannot believe you. All idle refinement! Women may be as comfortable on board as in the best house in England. I believe I have lived as much on board as most women, and I know nothing superior to the accommodations of a man-of-war. I declare I have not had a comfort or indulgence about me, even at Kellynch Hall…”

  Comparing the Hall to even a First Rate ship was a gross exaggeration, and when she nodded to Anne, he knew she realised her blunder. Even at this, he knew she would not give up the fight.

  “… beyond what I always had in most of the ships I have lived in; and they have been five altogether.”

  “Nothing to the purpose,” he replied. “You were living with your husband and you were the only woman on board.”

  What one woman would endure for love of her husband he knew a tribe of them would not countenance for a fortnight. And besides that, one woman uses only a mildly alarming amount of water. In groups, they have no conscience wasting the stuff barrels at a time. She was overreaching, and he could see victory.

  “But you, yourself, brought Mrs. Harville, her sister, her cousin, and the three children around from Portsmouth to Plymouth. Where was that superfine, extraordinary sort of gallantry of yours then?”

  His sister’s exacting intelligence concerning the precise numbers of the Harville party surprised him. The accuracy of the scuttlebutt could never be underestimated. With the winds of the argument backing against him, a hasty change of tack was required.

  “All merged in my friendship, Sophia. I would assist any brother officer’s wife that I could, and I would bring anything of Harville’s from the world’s end, if he wanted it. But do not imagine that I did not feel it an evil itself.”

  “Depend upon it, they were all perfectly comfortable.”

  And that was true. Because of time and tide, sleeping arrangements for the ladies had to be worked out. Mrs. Harville and Miss Fanny Harville were quite understanding of the less-than-spacious accommodations, and, from what intelligence had made its way back to him, the land-loving cousin was made to understand as well. They all behaved themselves perfectly; none expected that anytime they were above deck they were welcome to wander at will. He suspected Harville had reminded his wife that the quarterdeck was sacrosanct, and that it was his soul that would be in jeopardy if they dared to tread its sacred boards without an invitation from the captain.

  “I might not like them the better for that, perhaps. Such a number of women and children have no right to be comfortable on board.”

  “My dear Frederick, you are talking quite idly. Pray, what would become of us poor sailors’ wives, who often want to be conveyed to one port or another, after our husbands, if everybody had your feelings?”

  Curious to know her opinion, he glanced towards Anne, but her expression gave no hint that she favoured one side of the dispute over the other. He returned to his sister’s question. “My feelings, you see, did not prevent my taking Mrs. Harville and all her family to Plymouth.” She had him and he knew it; though, looking at the expressions around the room, he saw that the assembly was less interested in the logic and rationality of their contest than in his abundant confidence and eloquent speech-making.

  He would never admit it, but his feelings had not prevented him from having a boson’s chair rigged and arranging for all the children, even the little girl, to be taken into the tops. Their childish wonder of viewing the horizon was a feeling he had yet to forget. It was of the same pure and unblighted quality as his own. Their questions were mostly silly but occasionally insightful. After he brought them down, he understood a little better why Harville’s voice softened when he spoke of his children. When he had offered the boys the use of his second-best telescope, they had gone a little wild. Crouching next to Harville’s daughter, he held the scope to her eye; since it was too heavy for her to lift. However, Wentworth’s sentimentality was tempered a bit when it took him an hour of polishing to remove the mass of tiny fingerprints.

  “But I hate to hear you talking so, as if women were all fine ladies, instead of rational creatures. We, none of us, expect to be in smooth water all our days.”

  He glanced at Anne. There was no smooth water for anyone. None of us sails precisely as we wish.

  “Ah! My dear,” said the Admiral, “when he has got a wife, he will sing a different tune. When he is married—if we have the good luck to live to another war—we shall see him do as you and I and a great many others have done. We shall have him very thankful to anybody that will bring him his wife.”

  “Aye, that we shall.”

  “Now I have done,” Wentworth cried. At this jab, the expressions of the spectators turned to him with great anticipation. “When once married people begin to attack me with—‘Oh! you will think very differently, when you are married’—I can only say, ‘No, I shall not;’ and then they say again, ‘Yes, you will,’ and there is an end of it.” It was best to leave the field with his perceived victory and wait another day to win the war. He got up and moved away, excusing himself to a little terrace he had discovered earlier in the week. It was the perfect place to escape the din of Uppercross.

  The evening had started well and was continuing so. The arrival of the Hayters after dinner had made things a bit wild. The parents and the older girls were civil enough, but the younger children were just barely civilized. One of the little barbarians had asked how many pirates he had beheaded. The question itself was not nearly as disturbing to him as the cold-blooded gleam in the youngster’s eyes as he anticipated the Captain’s answer. When he’d replied that the number was not nearly as many as one might think, there had been a general groan of disappointment from more than just the boy.

  Looking through the smoke from his cheroot as it curled and dissipated in the clear, cold air, Frederick watched the servants clearing the now-empty dining room. He would have to finish his smoke soon, for when the servants departed, the lights would be put out. He’d also found earlier in the week that this particular side of the house was confoundedly dark.

  The last serving girl left the tidied room, leaving a lighted branch of candles on the table. He relaxed against the railing of the steps, confident there would be light enough for him to find his way back. As he enjoyed the quiet, he stared at the dining room and recalled bits of the meal and conversation. It was disconcerting to find his eyes always straying to one particular chair. Anne had been seated with the Admiral to her right and Charles Musgrove to her left. Their eyes had met only briefly during the introductions. The more dangerous moment had been when Mrs. Charles made mention of his previous acquaintance with Anne. Like a terrier, Sophia had come alive at this bit of news, and he could see there would be questions later about why she was just now learning of it.

  During the fish course, the topic of cold-water sailing had come up, and he was quite relieved to bow to his brother-in-law’s superior knowledge on the subject. With the Admiral the centre of the conversation, there was no reason he should not freely look to the far end of the table. If his eyes occasionally strayed to her, so be it.

  Through dinner, Anne had said little to anyone not immediately near. She was only listening with half an ear to the descriptions of icebergs and seals and snow-covered decks. Her mind was elsewhere, though she put on a good show of listening. What gave her away was the necklace.

  It was a simple piece, a few blue stones in silver, and when she was deep in thought, she fingered it. The necklace had nothing to do with him, of course, for he had left her with only memories. He had thought to buy her a token that summer, but he had landed in Monkford with just a shilling or two above ten pounds to last him until he was called back into service. As he listened to the footsteps of someone approaching, he wondered if Anne’s memories of that summer left her as dry and empty as those he kept.

  �
��I thought you might be here.” Louisa’s voice interrupted his thoughts. She joined him, taking the steps two at a time.

  He tossed down the cheroot and ground it out. “I find that some ladies, like my sister, do not care for the smell of cigars.” As with his excuses concerning women on ships, he thought the truth was better kept to himself.

  Pulling her cape close, she joined him leaning against the stairway. “Well, with deference to your sister, I like the smell of cigars. It is quite different than the scent of ladies and, therefore, more interesting.”

  He laughed. “My sister finds the scent alarmingly close to that of burning dung—excuse me. She does not like it at all.” He was certain Louisa was not offended by such a candid observance, being country bred, but he did not like assuming. Now she laughed. “I respect your sister, but I cannot disagree more strongly. It is quite manly, and I like it.” Her tone and demeanour finished the case. They were quiet together for a time. It was pleasant to find another woman who was not compelled to fill every silence with idle chatter.

  As if to refute his growing good opinion, Louisa moved closer to him and said, “Captain.”

  He had no time to answer before another voice called from the darkness.

  “Captain? Louisa?”

  He scanned the shadows and Louisa sighed. Seeing Henrietta emerge from the dark, coatless and stumbling over unseen obstacles was an inexplicable relief. Coming into the little halo of light from the dining room, she joined them on the steps and said, “Mama missed you, Captain. I was determined I would find you.”

  “Are you certain it was Mama who missed him?” Louisa asked. The sisters looked at one another for a moment. They were remarkably good-tempered with one another, and even now, though some tension was passing between them, they were not obviously angry.