“Excuse me, sir?”
At the sound of the servant’s interruption and George’s mumbled excuse, the tranquil vista of ordered trees and shrubbery blurred, replaced with the memories of that fateful voyage. Charged with returning soldiers and a few families back to England, he had been dismayed at the sudden change of weather as they rounded the southern tip of Africa. The swift gathering of clouds, ominous in their dark volume. The shrieking wind so hungry it swept stout men from their feet. The creaking then crack as a mast broke. The cruel scrape and splinter of wood on reef, a sound no sailor wanted to hear. The day his career—his world—crashed with an almighty boom.
Silver streaks had split the sky like wicked fingers stretching toward him. Around him screamed the terror of soldiers’ loved ones, their cries gulped up by a voracious gale. The sea—so long his friend—had turned vicious.
The admiral’s daughter, Miss Marianne York, dragged herself to the deck, her usual headstrong insouciance muted in the concern common to all on deck.
“Miss York, I’m afraid I need you to step back down.”
“I have endured storms before, Captain Kemsley. My father—”
“Not on my ship, you haven’t.” Reckless, foolish girl. “Please move below deck now.”
“But—”
“Get below! Now!”
She made a face, flouncing off and disappearing below, freeing him to refocus on the turbulent seas.
God, help us! Fear fired grit within. Straining against the wind, he hefted the wheel with all his might. If she shifted a fraction more, they had a chance—a minute chance—but a chance nonetheless. Still the waves pounded them toward the shore.
“Captain!”
Ben strained to hear his lieutenant’s words, snatched as they were by the wind. “What?”
“The hold!” Burford shouted. “She be filling fast! We need to abandon ship.”
God, what do I do?
He glanced about. His men worked on, faces set hard against the terrible truth. He could bet his last guinea that, like him, none of them had experienced such a wicked night. Lancaster might boast of facing terrible squalls in the Caribbean, but even his face shone with fear.
Ben tightened his lips, struggling to still his own fears to hear the voice of the One who had saved him so many times before. Reassurance came, a measure of peace. “Go.”
Burford nodded before sliding off to warn the men. The flurry of activity on deck took on a new tempo as soldiers joined his men. Ben grimaced. Too many of them appeared underweight, emaciated by a sun and sickness so foreign. And then there were their women and children. He fought a groan. Straightened his shoulders. Addressed the assembled. “We need to put in to shore, but there’s a reef trying to devour our ship. How many of you can swim?”
Half a dozen soldiers raised their hands. He knew his men all could.
“You will need to. The women and children must get in the lifeboat”—thank God they would all fit in one—“and the rest of you will need to grab whatever you can and kick to the shore. There’s coral around here that will scrape and sting like the blazes, but keep going. You do not want to stop.”
Because coral wasn’t the only thing hungry for a man’s body. Off these southern coastlines swam deadly predators.
The lifeboat had just been safely launched when the mast toppled with a final, fatal crack, flinging all still on deck into the raging seas.
He remembered the shock of water, being smacked in the head by a barrel. Blurred vision. The frantic battle to stay afloat amid waves higher than a house, while avoiding the crush of crashing timbers. His moments of terror when his foot got trapped in a length of rope, wrenching his knee into uselessness.
He could hear the panicked cries, above which he could just make out the plash of oars. Until a huge wave dumped him. Choking on seawater, he sputtered, looked up. The storm had abated to steady rain, as storms so often did around this stretch of African coast. Quick to rise, quick to settle. He pulled ahead. Around him a dozen men clutched broken pieces of vessel, bobbing cork-like in the midnight sea.
A fearsome creak made him glance behind. The wreckage of the Ansdruther listed, then with a terrible groan, veered to the opposite side. The cannons below deck must have overbalanced. “Look out!”
His yell alerted Burford, who screamed at the men beside him. They paddled furiously out of the way before the giant mast crashed into the sea, only inches from where they’d been.
The movement sent a new wave, pulling at the lifeboat. Beside it, four sailors towed it toward shore, but it tipped sideways, releasing Miss York into the clutches of the sea.
Ben tugged corpulent old Major Dumfrey to a piece of wood, instructed him to hold tight, then duck-dived under the waves.
Where was she? Panic clawed his chest. He could not let the admiral’s daughter drown. Would not let the admiral’s daughter drown. Lord, help—
There!
Her white gown floated angel-like around her. He reached out a hand, snagging her dress, hoisting her with all his might to the surface.
“I’ve got you,” he managed to sputter, hooking an arm around her chest as he began a desperate crawl to shore. The waves kept pushing him back. Muscles screaming, he gritted his teeth and plowed on. He would do this. He had to!
Coral nipped and stung his legs. Ahead, he could see men collapsing on the sands. Above the relentless hiss of rain and waves, he heard a scrape of wood and saw the ladies and children being plucked from the small boat and carried to shore.
He peered at the woman he held still. Her eyes were open, but she spoke nothing, terror keeping her quiet. A gash trickled blood on her forehead. At least she wasn’t fighting him, not like some panicked people he’d witnessed.
His feet touched bottom, his knee screaming for rest.
“Captain!”
Hands hurried forward, releasing him from his burden.
He stumbled onto sand, gasping. He wasn’t the young man he’d once been, but at nine-and-twenty he was still one of the youngest post captains His Majesty’s Navy had ever seen.
He pushed to his feet, staggering a little as his knee buckled, to see the shore filled with the wet and bedraggled. “How many of us?”
Lancaster performed a head count. “All present and accounted for.”
“Thank God.” After issuing further instructions, he noticed his second lieutenant look behind him. Ben turned to see another desperate cause. The ship’s surgeon looked up from Miss York’s still form and shook his head. “I’m very sorry, sir.”
Only then had the hollowness of his miracle begun to bite.
“I’m very sorry, sir.”
The servant’s apology followed George’s return to the room. The scenes of distress faded; the garden reemerged. Ben swallowed. Shook his head. If only he could shake free of these memories.
He forced his thoughts back to the present and turned to his brother, his brother who had never understood him, who he feared never would. “Back to Tessa. Have you any thought for our sister’s future?”
“I admit it has not been on my mind.”
No surprise there. “Well, I would like you to give her some thought. I intend on visiting London again soon, then returning to Brighton, and I do not think Mattie needs her house filled with us anymore.”
“McPherson too clutch-fisted is he?”
Ben clenched his fingers. Breathed to control his voice. “He’s not clutch-fisted at all. Unlike some.” He eyed his brother evenly.
George flushed. “I don’t know what you imagine I can do with the girl.”
“She is your sister. Get Aunt Adeline to come stay. But Tessa is your responsibility, now you are head of the family.”
“But why can’t you—”
“Because I do not think trying to launch our sister into a good marriage will be possible if she lives in a bachelor’s establishment in such accommodations as I can afford.”
George’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean? Did y
ou not receive a vast sum for your heroics?”
“The Prince Regent might have promised so, but I’ve yet to see a penny.” He fought the rising tide of frustration. He did not want to depend upon a royal promise, but the money would come in very handy. He’d spent much of his previous prize money helping the widows of Smith and Anderson, who had survived the wreck only to succumb to malaria three weeks later. It did not seem right to him to have funds when his two crewmen had families in far greater need.
He forced his attention back to the issue at hand. “Besides, whatever I might have earned pales in comparison to your competency as baronet.”
His older brother’s eyes narrowed.
Ben restrained a sigh. Perhaps it was time to resort to emotional extortion. “Don’t you love our sister, George?”
“Of course I do!”
“Then perhaps it’s time to show it.”
“But, but—”
“Oh, for goodness sake! Fine. Give me enough funds and I’ll set up a house for her.”
“You have nothing?” George’s eyes goggled.
“I have but a few thousand,” he corrected.
“But I thought—”
“I know what you thought! And I can see what you currently think, too.”
“George doesn’t want me?”
The small voice snapped his attention to the doorway. “Tessa!”
George’s face mottled even more. “Tessa, my dear, of course I would be very happy to have you stay.”
“I don’t believe you.” Her lips flattened, and she sent Ben an imploring look. “Please don’t make me stay.”
He dragged in a long breath. “I wish I had more to offer you. Perhaps once I am properly settled—”
“When will that be?” George said, his tone suggesting a sneer. “I imagine there are plenty of rich young ladies wishing to meet a hero.”
If there were, he’d yet to meet any that caught his eye. An image of a pretty brunette flickered before him.
“Why do you always speak to him that way, George?” Tessa asked, looking between them. “It makes you sound not a little envious.”
Ben shot his sister a grateful glance before smoothing his features into blandness as George glanced his way.
“I could not be envious of such an ill-dressed man even if my life depended on it.”
Ben smothered a wry chuckle. “Let us hope it need never come to that.”
His brother’s forehead creased, and Ben used his momentary confusion to sweep Tessa from the room. A few minutes of hurried explanation and she was reconciled to staying for a week or two, at least. For all his hesitation, George still possessed a strong sense of family duty. Ben hoped.
“And I promise to take you to London soon.”
“But not back to Brighton?”
He gave her an affectionate squeeze. “We should not wish to crowd poor Mattie and David, would we? They are but newly married.”
She slowly nodded. “I hope I was not too troublesome.”
“Troublesome? You? Never.”
Tessa chuckled, and the tension abated, leaving him with a strange mix of assurance and unease. For much as he wished his sister to come live with him, she could not do so without a female companion to lend the chaperon-age society considered proper. And he wasn’t likely to find a lady prepared to overlook his limp and lack of fortune or title, as well as the inconvenience of a younger sister, beloved though she may be.
Such a lady would prove impossible to find.
His lips curved wryly. Unless his sisters begged God for yet another miracle for their poor brother, after all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brighton
One week later
CLARA HURRIED ALONG Marine Parade, the morning breeze tousling her hair, as the earlier argument continued harrying her spirits. She had thought helping Matilda with her request would prove beneficial, just had not anticipated her mother’s response to be quite so hostile.
An hour ago, the footman had entered with the post on a silver salver, both footman and the formal presentation of mail two traditions her parents had yet to forego despite straitened circumstances. Mother had scanned the letters, her face lighting. “Oh! Richard writes at last.”
Clara had fought back the prickle of irritation as her mother scanned the letter.
“He says he wishes to come for a visit.”
“How wonderful,” Clara said flatly, when it became clear Mother expected a response.
“It will be wonderful to see your brother again, so there is no need to take that tone, my dear.”
On the contrary, there was every need. As if Clara’s own humiliation was not enough, Richard’s actions had proved the final straw, his misguided attempt to help resulting in a shame so deep even her parents’ self-righteous anger could scarce explain it away.
She managed to maintain a polite facade as Mother murmured some more about poor Richard—conveniently forgetting, it seemed, that Richard was the reason their circumstances had been reduced so drastically in the past eighteen months.
When she had finally finished on the sad state of Richard and moved on to the next letter, Clara had managed to murmur something about needing to go into town again.
Mother had looked up from the letter she was reading. “My dear, surely you do not mean to return to that woman and her dreadful people again.”
“Mother, Mrs. McPherson and her husband are simply trying to help those who are less fortunate. The men they help are not dreadful, but poor—”
“Yes, but they are men, my dear. Unfortunate, to be sure, but they are men! It cannot do your reputation any good to be known to be consorting with such as they.”
Heat shot through her chest. “I am hardly consorting, Mother,” she said stiffly.
“You misunderstand me, my dear.”
Clara raised her brows. “Do I?”
Her mother sniffed. “I am simply concerned for you. What should happen if one should suddenly develop an interest with you? I will not stand for your reputation to be maligned.”
“Mother, there is no chance of my reputation being sullied further. And to be honest, I quite enjoyed the opportunity to contribute my skills where they are appreciated.”
“Well, I am sure that is so. How can they not? You are so skilled at the pianoforte.” Mother tapped the letter. “But you are not to be thinking only of them. Dear Lady Asquith requests the pleasure of your company next month.”
“I’m to go to London so soon?”
“Yes. Your godmother is having one of her musical evenings and particularly wishes you to be in attendance. I suppose your friend won’t object if you’re unable to assist for a few weeks?”
“I imagine not,” Clara murmured.
“Very good. I shall write and tell Penelope we shall endeavor to arrive in the next fortnight or so. I imagine you will be needing new gowns and all.” Mother had given a faint sigh. “We shall contrive something, I suppose.”
Clara hurried along the path, across to the Steyne, mulling over her mother’s words. A trip to London would involve more expense—futile expense, some would say. But this might be her last chance to find a man willing to make her an offer of marriage. Had her absence been prolonged enough for the whispers to abate? Surely people would be talking more about Napoleon’s latest escapade. She smiled at herself. How self-absorbed was she to think people would think about her?
She turned the corner, up towards the small church hall where the McPhersons had begun holding weekly meetings for returned servicemen in a bid to boost the spirits of those who had fought and now were disabled or receiving the pittance of a pension Clara had never realized was so inadequate. How could a man—let alone a husband or father trying to provide for a family—possibly survive on less than ten pounds a year? Matilda’s soberly shared information had made Clara’s own problems seem very petty indeed.
When she’d questioned Matilda about her reasons for helping, her friend had looked at her with no small m
easure of surprise. “Well, I suppose I am motivated by my brother.”
The rich one? She must have looked her confusion, as Matilda had given a half smile. “I forget not everyone would be aware of my brother’s efforts during the war. But it was particularly brought home when he returned and was made to realize the dire circumstances of those left behind. He was blessed in having funds enough to support himself, but not many were in that happy circumstance, so he has spent nearly all he has in helping those less fortunate. And more than that, is it not our duty, our responsibility as members of the church, to help those who are poor and struggling?” She’d nodded her head, saying adamantly, “We must do something.”
How could Clara argue with that?
Truth be told, focusing on something other than herself and her own troubles was quite releasing. The sadness did not weigh so heavily. The dreams did not torment as much.
She pushed open the door to be greeted by the smell of cabbage soup and unwashed bodies. Thank goodness Mother was not here to be assailed by something so unrefined.
“Oh, good! You are here.” Matilda hurried toward her. “We seem to have grown in numbers since you played for us last week.”
She smiled. Thankfully Mother could not see the twinkle in the eyes of the vicar’s wife.
Clara nodded to the ladies who were helping in the little makeshift kitchen area, moving to her position behind the battered pianoforte Matilda had convinced her husband to shift from their house to the hall. She positioned her music, peeked at the men, restrained a shudder, and began to play.
Slowly the scent of pain and grime faded as the intricate melodies possessed her attention. Music had always proved a panacea, a way of losing herself through the discipline and creativity such performance demanded. Much might be wrong in her world, but making music meant a little corner was as it should be. And while she might provide a measure of relief and distraction for those in attendance, the very songs she played soothed her own soul as well.
She glanced up from the pianoforte, pleasure stealing through her at the sight of bandaged men and those missing limbs closing their eyes and smiling. Each time she played, the men seemed to forget their worries for a moment. And yes, some might smile at her, but she took little notice. She was glad to smile back, even if Matilda said she best not encourage them to get too far above themselves. “For it is obvious you are a lady.”
The Dishonorable Miss DeLancey Page 6