The Admiral's Daughter

by Francesca Shaw

  Helena’s partner for the dance had been introduced to her by Portia, who seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of young men at her beck and call, and as the last chords struck he escorted her gallantly back to the cluster of gilt chairs where the party from Sussex sat.

  ‘May I hope for the honour of another dance later this evening, Miss Wyatt?’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Seymour, but I fear my card is full.’ She bestowed a smile of consolation at the tall young man who bowed over her hand and retired with good grace.

  Aunt Breakey began saying, ‘My dear, you are having a success this evening…’ then broke off, stiffening to attention as she saw who had entered. Rapidly opening her fan, she turned to her sister-in-law.

  ‘Sister! See who has just come in! I had no idea he was in town. Of all the ill luck—Helena, you must not—’ She broke off, eyeing her niece’s expressionless face. ‘You knew he was in London!’

  ‘Yes, Aunt, Portia and I encountered Lord Darvell yesterday in Bond Street. He was good enough to give us his escort to Tessier’s.’

  James Rowlett could be heard moaning gently at the thought of his extravagant wife loose in a fashionable silversmith’s. ‘It was only a salver, Mr Rowlett,’ Helena reassured him, although she did not add that the purpose for its purchase was a complete ruse. She refused to respond to her aunt’s agitated whisperings and concentrated on keeping as calm an expression as possible.

  The indulgent husband mopped his brow with his handkerchief and watched his wife, who was being waltzed around the floor by Commodore Breakey, an unexpectedly enthusiastic dancer.

  ‘I do wish one of the Patronesses would approve my dancing the waltz,’ Helena said wistfully.

  ‘Do not seek to change the subject, Helena,’ her mother reproved, low-voiced, one eye firmly on Mr Rowlett to make sure his attention was engaged elsewhere. ‘We must decide what to do if his lordship comes over.’

  Helena unfurled her fan with a defiant flourish. ‘There is no reason why he should do more than make a passing acknowledgment to our party. I intend behaving as if I hardly know his lordship, Mama. He made me an offer and I declined it: as a gentleman he will make no reference to it.’ Thank heavens Mama had no idea what had transpired on the beach at Selsea!

  She swept her fan elegantly, cooling cheeks made suddenly warm by the remembrance of Adam’s lips on hers. She inclined her head graciously to a passing gentleman who had partnered her earlier in the evening and took the opportunity to look for Adam. He was strolling in their direction around the edge of the dance floor, stopping to greet acquaintances and bow over hands. Several parties detained him, but he made no attempt to ask any of the young ladies to dance, to the ill-concealed chagrin of both debutantes and their ambitious mamas.

  Helena looked around the room, in every direction but at Lord Darvell, smiling and nodding at acquaintances, bending to listen to her aunt, her every sense aware of Adam, her skin tingling with his nearness. Her back was straight in her gown of fine cream muslin, but she found her fingers fiddling with the trailing moss-green ribbons which fell from the high waistline and controlled herself with an effort.

  Both the older ladies were very tense under their outward appearance of social ease and Helena could sense their relief when the waltz came to an end and both the Commodore and Portia rejoined the party. Mrs Rowlett arrived back with all her usual verve and, in the ensuing flurry of finding chairs and discussing the dance, Helena hoped that Adam would merely nod and pass by as he reached them.

  It was not to be: Portia, settling down like the Queen of the Night in a gown of dark blue gauze spangled with gold stars, gave a little cry of pleased recognition. ‘My lord! Lord Darvell, please, do join us.’ She managed to sound as though she had only just seen him, but Helena knew her friend had had him in her sights from the moment he walked through the door, and whatever the stage of the dance, would have been back with their party at the moment he reached it.

  Several heads turned at her raised voice and one of the more severe Patronesses, Mrs Drummond Burrell, raised her lorgnette and viewed Mrs Rowlett with air of disapprobation.

  Adam was bowing with great aplomb over Portia’s outstretched hand. ‘Madam, you outshine the night sky.’ He turned to greet Lady Wyatt, who bowed slightly. ‘My lord, may I make known to you Lady Breakey, my brother Commodore Sir Robert Breakey, Mr Rowlett. I believe you are acquainted with my daughter.’ Not by the twitching of a brow did his lordship betray that he was very well acquainted indeed with Miss Helena Wyatt. Bows and curtsies were exchanged all round and his lordship took a seat as a country dance struck up.

  ‘I believe I must thank you for escorting my wife and Miss Wyatt yesterday, my lord,’ Mr Rowlett remarked.

  ‘A small service, but a great pleasure,’ Adam responded smoothly while Portia threw her friend a meaningful glance and received a sharp tap on the ankle for her pains.

  ‘Helena! You caught my ankle—do be careful, dearest!’ Helena found herself glaring, then caught Adam’s eye and turned her gaze to the dancers. If Portia was set on teasing, the only defence was to feign indifference. She knew there was no malice in it; her friend was matchmaking with her usual unsubtle enthusiasm.

  Adam, a faint smile on his lips, consulted his dance card. ‘Will you do me the honour of the next dance, Miss Wyatt?’

  ‘I fear I cannot, my lord,’ Helena replied demurely, consulting her own card on its silk ribbon. ‘It is a waltz.’ Like all debutantes, she had to secure the approval of one of the Patronesses before participating for the first time in this daring dance, and this had so far not been forthcoming.

  Adam rose gracefully to his feet. ‘In that case, may I fetch refreshment for the ladies?’ Receiving a request from Portia for orgeat and for lemonade from Lady Wyatt, he strolled away in the direction of the refreshment room, leaving four rather thoughtful ladies behind him.

  When he reappeared five minutes later, it was with a waiter in his wake and Lady Jersey on his arm. The Patroness, known by the unkind as Silence, was in typically voluble form, chattering animatedly to her dashing escort.

  ‘Miss Wyatt, may I present Lord Darvell to you as a partner for the next waltz.’

  Helena curtsied gracefully to her ladyship, hoping she was effectively masking her dismay. ‘Lady Jersey, Lord Darvell, how kind! But you put me in a quandary; I had promised my uncle my very first waltz at Almack’s.’ Behind her she heard a little sigh of relief escape the compressed lips of both the older ladies at her quick thinking. But they had all reckoned without the Commodore, gallantly rushing in and completely oblivious to the glares of his wife and sister.

  ‘I would not dream of it, my dear! You do not want to dance with your old uncle when you can have a dashing partner. Besides—’ he placed his hand on his chest theatrically ‘—I am quite exhausted and must rest.’ He broke off, looking at his wife with a puzzled expression. ‘My dear, what is amiss? You are positively frowning at me—do you have a headache?’

  Lady Breakey was thrown into confusion. ‘Sir Robert, I do not know what you can mean! I do not frown at you, nor do I have a headache…Why, it is a little warm, to be sure…’

  Helena, furious with them all, met Adam’s eyes defiantly. They were brimming over with amusement; he could hardly contain his laughter and was perfectly aware of the anxiety he was arousing. The orchestra struck up and Helena put her gloved hand in his and allowed herself to be led out onto the dance floor.

  To be so close to him, to feel the warmth of his hand through the flimsy fabric of her gown, to be swept along to the rhythm of the dance following Adam’s lead, was intoxicating. Unwilling to meet his eyes, fearful of what he would read in hers, Helena fixed her gaze on his shirt button and concentrated on her steps.

  ‘It is normal in these circumstances to make conversation, Miss Wyatt,’ he said, breaking the awkward silence.

  ‘What would you have me discuss, sir?’ Helena riposted, relaxing into the rhythm of the dance despite herself.

&n
bsp; Adam’s hand tightened at her waist: the message of the pressure was unmistakable and Helena felt her colour rise. Since admitting to herself how much she loved him, she had dreamt of a moment like this. Now, in his arms, watched by dozens of pairs of eyes, she realised what a dilemma she found herself in.

  If she betrayed what she felt for him, she was risking cruel rejection again. Yet, if he were disposed to forgive her, she did not want to discourage him by coldness. There was nothing in her experience that equipped her to cope with this, she would have to rely on her instinct.

  Helena looked up and managed a calm, friendly smile. ‘It would be foolish to allow what has passed between us to colour our behaviour. If we are seen to be at odds, it can only cause comment and speculation, which I am sure you are as anxious to avoid as I.’

  The look his lordship returned was enigmatic and it was probably as well for Helena’s pride that she did not know the thoughts that were passing through his mind. Without undue arrogance, Adam Darvell was well aware that almost any young woman in the room would jump at an offer from him. He was also quite aware that many of the married ones would happily take him to their bed if the opportunity arose. So why did he find himself dancing with Miss Wyatt, who had made it all too plain that she would not have him, however much she appeared to want him?

  ‘Avoiding comment and speculation has never been one of my talents,’ he said with irony. ‘However, I agree it would be better to forget the past. As to the future…’

  The promise of this phrase went unfulfilled as the music ceased. They applauded politely, then Adam began to escort her back, not to her friends, but towards an unoccupied alcove. Helena’s heart began to beat faster, then with disconcerting abruptness he changed direction and she found herself back with her party. Adam bowed and turned on his heel, striding swiftly to the door.

  Helena sat down, feeling humiliated. She had anticipated a tête à tête and instead found herself deposited with the barest civility. Once again he had toyed with her emotions and let her down painfully. Her uncomfortable thoughts were interrupted by Portia exclaiming, ‘Mr Rowlett, do look—is that not that nice Lieutenant Brookes we met at Lady Oxford’s rout party last week?’

  ‘So it is.’ Mr Rowlett was making welcoming gestures to the tall man who had just emerged from the card room. If Helena had been disconcerted to see Adam Darvell, that was as nothing to the sensation which filled her now. Walking towards her was the man she had last seen wearing the uniform of a first lieutenant and ruthlessly searching the galley of the Moonspinner—for contraband, or worse.

  Her first instinct, swiftly suppressed, was to run. Her first thought was, how could Adam have abandoned her in the face of this danger, leaving her to the mercies of the one man who could ensure her utter ruin? If this man with his sharp, observing eyes recognised her as the ‘cook’ from Adam’s yacht, then she was quite undone.

  With a huge effort Helena pulled herself together to find James Rowlett was making introductions round the small circle. ‘Lady Wyatt, Lady Breakey, Miss Wyatt: may I present Lieutenant Brookes, of His Majesty’s navy. Sir Robert, Lieutenant Brookes; Lieutenant, Commodore Sir Robert Breakey.’

  Bows were exchanged, and the Lieutenant greeted his superior officer with considerable deference, inwardly delighted at the introduction to such a well-connected naval family. Reflecting fleetingly that it was a pity that the uncommonly handsome daughter was such a shy debutante, he turned to Lady Wyatt. ‘May I ask, madam, if I have the honour of addressing the widow of Rear Admiral Sir Gresley Wyatt?’

  ‘Yes, sir, Sir Gresley was my husband.’

  ‘A great loss to the country, madam, and a true hero,’ Mr Brookes opined sincerely. Lady Wyatt nodded gravely, but Helena knew she was pleased by the tribute to her late husband, lost at Trafalgar.

  Helena began to edge her chair further back, hoping to escape the further attention of Mr Brookes. She tried to tell herself that he had only seen her in the gloom between decks, and in the character of a brazen hussy covered in soot and flour, but none the less she had no intention of putting herself forward in any way.

  Aunt Breakey, observing her niece’s uncharacteristic shyness, drew the wrong conclusions. If the sight of the handsome Lieutenant Brookes had rendered Helena so bashful, then this was a hopeful sign. Lady Breakey did not hold with her sister-in-law’s advanced views: she believed young girls should be married, and married well. Helena had seemed politely attentive but indifferent to the half-dozen or so young men she had thrown in her way. Well, whatever had prompted Helena’s wilful behaviour over Lord Darvell, this man could be a very acceptable substitute. What other purpose could a debutante have in pursuing the Season but to catch herself a good husband?

  She pounced. ‘Helena dear, pass me my reticule.’ Having thus ensured Lieutenant Brookes’s attention was on her niece, she asked, ‘May I enquire, sir, if you are related to Lord Brookes of Eaton Bray?’

  ‘Why, yes, madam, he is my uncle,’ Daniel supplied easily. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘He is my second cousin twice removed on his mother’s side. You recall, Helena, they once paid a visit when you were staying with me at Chichester.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Helena replied colourlessly, eyes fixed on her gloved hands which rested demurely in her lap.

  Lady Breakey was not to be deterred. ‘My dear niece is often with me. The Commodore and I having no children of our own, she is almost like a daughter to us.’ Helena groaned inwardly: her aunt had as good as advertised the fact that she was her uncle’s heiress.

  Mr Brookes’s attention being thus forcefully drawn to Miss Wyatt, he attempted to engage her in conversation. ‘Do you live in Chichester, Miss Wyatt? A most congenial city, is it not?’

  ‘Indeed, yes sir, I have always found it to be so, but I do not live in the city.’ She spoke so quietly, her face still downturned, that he had to lean close to hear her over the hum of chatter in the room.

  ‘But you live near by,’ he prompted.

  Helena, realising she would have to take a more active part in this conversation, looked up and found herself gazing into a pair of dark eyes set in a skin taut and tanned by time at sea. She realised with a jolt of alarm that she was piquing his interest: the expression in those eyes was sharp and interested, but not, thank heaven, touched by any recognition.

  ‘On the coast sir, with my mother and young brother.’ She was prepared to parry his questions with willing, but anodyne, replies until he lost interest, but once again her uncle was the unwitting instrument of her discomfiture.

  ‘What say we move to the refreshment room?’ he enquired of the party at large. ‘You would welcome a cup of tea, would you not, my dear? Will you not join us Lieutenant?’

  They moved off as a group, the Lieutenant offering his arm to Helena as far as the buffet before bowing himself out. ‘I hope I may be permitted to call upon you, Lady Breakey?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Brookes. We are much out and about, as you may imagine with a debutante in the house, but we would be delighted to see you.’ As the Lieutenant vanished back towards the card room, she remarked complacently to her sister-in-law, ‘There is no harm in letting that young man know how much in demand Helena is.’

  ‘Are you sure you will not accompany us to Lady Fanshawe’s, Helena?’ Lady Wyatt enquired as she pulled on her gloves the following afternoon. ‘You are not sickening for anything, are you, dear? You look a little pale.’

  Her ladyship regarded her daughter as she sat on the sofa, her embroidery neglected beside her. Helena was curiously lacklustre, but then perhaps it was not to be wondered at after her tribulations of the past weeks and the excitements of coming up to town.

  Helena smiled. ‘Merely a little tired, Mama, I will soon be used to town hours.’

  ‘In that case I will send John out to Green Park with his nurse—you will not want him racketing about the house. Meanwhile, do not strain over your needlework. Your aunt and I will return about five: we will make an early dinn
er as we do not expect your uncle to join us this evening.’

  The house seemed very quiet when they had all gone and the salon felt stuffy. The day had been unpromising when she had dressed—an overcast and chilly morning for late spring so she had donned a walking dress in pale dove grey wool. But now she felt overwarm. Helena crossed to throw open the doors into the conservatory and was immediately attracted by the thought of sitting for a while in its cool and fragrant freshness.

  Her sketchbook was lying on the pianoforte in the salon and she took it and found a seat amongst the burgeoning greenery. It seemed a long time since she had picked up her pencil. She recalled the last occasion when she had planned a sketch, sitting on the quayside at Siddlesham Mill, trying to fix the image of the man on the deck of the yacht in her memory. The man who had come to mean so much to her…

  With a flick of the page she abandoned the outline of a fern she had just begun and paused for a moment, nibbling the end of her pencil. Then, as if with a will of its own, her hand moved over the paper and the shape of a pair of strong bare feet began to appear.

  Her memory gave her every detail of Adam’s feet, the taut tendons, the curve of his toes as they flexed against the deck to give him balance, the arch of the foot, the sharpness of the ankle bone, the suggestion of the strong legs on the verge of movement. The sketch grew rapidly and she realised with delight that it was perhaps the best thing she had ever done.

  Helena knew it was so good because she was putting all her emotion, all the love she could not express out loud, into the drawing. Her art had always been admired, and she knew she had talent for an amateur; but it had always been academic, never from the heart…until now. She laid in a few more details, then put aside her pencil and held the sketchpad tight against her breast, as if by doing so she could hold Adam himself.