Chapter Two
Lyme Regis, February 1809
“M armaduke, Marmaduke. Wherefore art thou, Marmaduke?”
Jane gazed out to sea, flooded with melancholy as the ebb and flow of the tide pummeled the foot of the Cobb—the long pier protecting the quay at Lyme. A gust of wind uplifted her hem, though she paid it no heed. The mild winter the area experienced could not compete with the cold, wild storm raging within her. Like a sentinel, she still waited for her love, her pulse quickening, her riotous thoughts in competition with the powerful breakers that threatened to swamp her just as dangerously as the inhabitants of the rocks—red-variegated fish named conners .
Lyme had always been her home.
Until . . . it wasn’t.
Fisherfolk and preventative men handled their boats nearby, their daily maneuvers hardly registering. Sea gulls circled overhead, mewing with chaotic fervor, an expectant clamor that mocked her torment.
Several miles to the west lay Beer Head, where white Dorset limestone changed to red Devon sandstone. To the east, rose Gold Cap, a six-hundred-twenty-seven-foot hill made of yellow sandstone, sheltering neighboring Charmouth, and lovely exhibitions of rock and forest and orchards. Shifting shale and Blue Lias littered the landscape, exposing a treasure-trove of fossils in the spring, drawing naturalists and their ilk.
What did any of that matter to a woman clawing her way out of the abyss?
She closed her eyes to blot out her sorrow, her body, her life, a mere shell of what it once was after Fate had struck and wounded her.
“It can’t be true.” Her lips trembled. “I refuse to believe it.”
But it was. God help her, Duke must be dead. Neither he nor the rest of his crew, or HMS Argus had been spotted for the last few years. The men who’d arrived on HMS Jupiter after the Battle of San Domingo claimed no knowledge of their fate.
It was too much to be borne.
Dorset had seen its share of shipwrecks. More so the West Indies and anywhere battles took place. The sea, stirred by shifting weather and tides, struck without warning, like a post from the Admiralty destroying her hopes and dreams, and forcing her to carry secrets that bore holes in her heart. Even now, the tight grip on her sanity shrouded regret, preventing the destruction of her body and soul as the sun slowly descended to the indigo depths.
“ ‘Deny thy father and refuse thy name; or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love. And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.’ ”
People lived and died at Fate’s whim.
There was no escaping the inescapable.
Swallowing back her sadness, she knew she must go on even as her father, Cuthbert Botham, the Earl of Kerridge, once more demanded she marry. Oh, yes. The storm raged, battering her defenses. Like a vandal, the burden she carried whooshed and wailed, giving no heed to the damage wrought in its wake.
“The sea has claimed him. I must accept it.”
A spectrum of red and pink blazed on the horizon, a furnace reflecting the direction her life had taken since she’d experienced her love’s last kiss. Blinding tears marred her vision. How could she let Duke go when his kisses, his touch, his voice haunted her every waking moment? He’d only gone to sea to obtain enough prize money to impress her father. And now—
“Lady Jane!” Anne Brome, her lady’s maid, arrived to put an end to her woolgathering. “Milady? What ’as taken ’old of ye? Ye must rally. Come away. Lawd, ye are too close to the edge.”
She glanced down in alarm and clutched her neck, realizing for the first time how close she’d come to the slippery and perilous steppingstone staircase known as “Granny’s Teeth.” If not for Anne’s intervention, she might have lost her bearings and landed lifeless on the pavement below. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“I do,” Anne said softly. “Come. The ’our is late and we must return ’ome before yer father sends out a search party. Ye know ’ow protective ’e is of ye.”
The words ripped from her lips before she could stop them. “I can’t find him.”
“Who?” Anne cupped her elbows and guided her slowly away from the rim of the Cobb.
“He’s gone,” she said mindlessly.
“Tell, Anne, ’o’s gone.”
“The captain.”
“The Cap—” Anne’s huff sounded half-hearted. “Oh, ’im again.”
“Always,” she said remembering with clarity the moment Jennings, their butler, had transported the silver salver laden with letters and invitations into the parlor. As her mother always did, she’d retrieved each correspondence and—giving Jane a disinterested glance—read one, in particular, aloud for all to hear.
Lady Jane
It is with deep sympathy that I am tasked with informing you that HMS Argus , Captain Gregory Marmaduke, and most of his crew, were last seen leaving the Battle of San Domingo. Regrettably, all are feared lost in heavy seas. Per Marmaduke’s wishes, his effects will be sent to you.
Every effort is being made to locate Argus and Captain Marmaduke. If you are ever in need, contact the Admiralty, or myself.
I am respectfully,
Captain Pulteney Malcom
HMS Donegal
Spasms of alarm shot through her as the vivid recollection coiled around her throat and stole her breath.
Her face burned as she remembered her father’s hand closing over hers with tender affection. “A sad situation, indeed. Perhaps now you will agree to marry Pembroke.”
Mama’s voice had drifted in on a hushed whisper, reeling her momentarily away from inconceivable agony. “Listen to your father, my dear. Viscount Pembroke will make you very happy, I am sure. He is rich, older, wiser, and he has promised to do anything —”
“Milady.” Anne grabbed her hand, dragging her back to the present. “Ye must let ’im go.”
“What if—” Her gaze locked with Anne’s. “I cannot. What if that day never comes?”
How could it when he lived on through the eyes of his son?
*
A fortnight later, Duke and Norby entered Lyme and traveled down Broad Street, lined with boarding houses and private homes. The path led directly to the Assembly Rooms, the Walk, the Cobb, and a spectacle of fiery oranges, reds, and pinks that dipped below the horizon, the last rays of daylight dancing over the waves in a shimmering brilliance.
“I need a drink,” Norby protested after their lengthy journey from Whitehall. “Let’s stop at the Royal Standard for a dram. Without signal flags or spies at our disposal, the inn will be a good place to help us get the lay of the land.”
Much could be learned over a tankard of pale ale. Particularly, how their parents had fared since their departure for the West Indies. And more importantly, perhaps he could find out what had happened to Jane.
The pull to go directly to her house flayed him to the bone. Had she waited for him as she’d promised or given him up for dead and married someone else? Could he blame her? Three years was a very long time.
He removed his hat and thread his fingers through his hair, unable to bear thinking of the latter.
“All will be well,” Norby assured him. “But, right now, my lips are parched. I’m half-starved and covered in dust. I implore you to improve your own comfort before pursuing the one you love.”
He placed his hat back on his head and glanced down at the filth covering his clothes, realizing Norby was right. His intention had always been to impress the Earl of Kerridge. Arriving unannounced and in this condition would not earn him any favors, as much as he yearned to see her right away.
Handing the reins to a waiting stable hand, they ordered a good rub down for the horses, then set off for the tavern.
“ ‘No poet wept him; but the page of narrative sincere; that tells his name, his worth, his age, is wet with Anson’s tear. And tears by bards or heroes shed alike immortalize the dead.’”
Norby turned to look at him, his mouth easing into a smile. “Cowper?”
“Fitting, isn’t it?”
Reciting poetry was a game they’d devised to dispatch boredom at sea. It also helped to keep their faculties spry on Castaway Cay. A seafarer’s life brought to bear few diversions. The endless watches and mundane duties made or broke men.
Norby swatted the dirt off his cloak. “As long as it will take your mind off of her .”
“Nothing can do that.”
“ ‘I therefore purpose not, or dream, descanting on his fate, t o give the melancholy theme a more enduring date: but misery still delights to trace its semblance in another’s case.’”
“You’re wretched.”
“You and Cowper started this,” Norby said with a wave of his arm. “‘No voice divine the storm allay’d, no light propitious shone; when, snatch’d from all effectual aid, we perish’d, each alone: but I beneath a rougher sea, and whelm’d in deeper gulfs than he.’ ”
“But we didn’t perish.” He reached for the door at the entrance of the inn. “We made it to Lyme.”
“Our arrival, sublime.”
Laughing at Norby’s clumsy effort, they entered the Royal Standard. Immediately, their senses were swamped by the familiar smoky air, the stale ale and sweat infused forever in the rough floorboards and worn oak tables. Large beams hewn from the timber of wrecked ships crossed overhead. Barrels were situated in the exact locations they’d been the day Duke sailed for Portsmouth.
A group of sailors singing a sea shanty in the dark, dingy corner, stopped and stared. Barmaids scuttled back and forth delivering pitchers of ale, paying them no heed. The landlord dried tankards with a cloth behind the counter, eyeing them closely.
The scene was just as he’d pictured it. “Perfection.”
“Aye.” Norby cracked his neck. “At least some things never change.”
All the tables were full, except one, and they made their way to it, removing their cloaks and sitting down in their stiff, itchy, soiled clothes.
The sailors resumed their tune, several obviously very deep into their cups singing off key.
Norby loosened his cravat as one of the barmaids leaned across the table providing a view of her voluptuous breasts. “Navy men, by the looks of ye, I wager. Sorted out, eh? We don’t get many tars these days. What’ll ye ’ave?”
“Two pints of your best.” Norby winked. “And whatever else you’re serving.”
“Belay that,” Duke said, frowning. “Ale and food will suffice.”
“For you, perhaps, but—”
“As ye wish.” The girl pouted and sauntered away, swaying her hips and piloting around customers on her way to the bar.
Norby didn’t try to hide his disappointment.
“I would not deny you, my friend. Do as you please. I find no enjoyment in this.” He motioned to the room, meaning no offense. “Except for your company, of course.”
“Capital.” Norby nodded and crossed his arms. “And duly noted.”
“Hang me.” Jacob Tapps, the landlord of the Royal Standard hollered as he rounded the bar. The inn quieted again as the barkeep approached, his dark brows firmly entrenched above his nose. “I thought they were lyin’, that it couldn’t be—Yer bones be tightly fitted, but I see ’tis true.” A grin overtook his features. “It’s Marmaduke and Norby, me lads! They’ve come home. Aye, and they’re as alive as ye and me.”
Cheers erupted and chairs screeched as they were thrown backwards. Soon well-wishers surrounded them.
Would Jane be as overjoyed to see him?
‘Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on. The dashing rocks thy seasick weary bark!’
Why settle for quoting Shakespeare? He should heave ho. Go to her. Declare his undying love no matter what condition he was in.
Aye, before she wonders why I postponed such a reunion.
“Here’s to Duke and Norby!” Jacob toasted, raising his tankard high.
“Here’s to my love,” Duke said, swallowing his ale in one gulp.
“To Lyme!” Norby supplied.
“Hear! Hear!” came a shout. “To Lyme Regis!”
Several tankards of ale and toasts later, a pickled old tar stood beside them and took a long draw from his carved pipe. “We thought ye were deep in the locker.”
The parroting sounds of Argus splitting apart amid the pleas of drowning men assailed Duke. “There was a time we thought the same.”
Norby wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Two-thirds of us didn’t make it.”
“As bad as that, eh?” the shriveled fisherman asked.
“Aye.” Determination transformed Norby’s face. “But the third of us that live owe our lives to this captain.”
What state had his motley crew found their families in when they returned home?
The Admiralty had successfully secured their futures. Captain Malcom led everyone to believe Donegal had claimed the prize money for Jupiter . When, in fact, Malcom paid the surviving members of Argus for their silence and invested the rest to be distributed to Duke, Norby, and the rest of his men when they returned. If they did not appear after seven years or were declared dead, the money reverted to the original crewmembers.
As it happened, Duke had a great deal to thank Malcom for. The captain’s investments had made Duke, Norby, and his men rich. Not to be outdone, King George III created a barony for Duke and promoted Norby to post captain, rather than sending them home on half-pay.
He had much to offer Jane now, in addition to his undying love and devotion. But would that be enough? Or would the animosity that existed between their fathers still be a deterrent?
“The news that ye sank in the West Indies hit Lyme hard,” Jacob said garnering Duke’s attention as the old man quietly wandered off. “Where have ye been?”
“It’s a long story.” Norby picked up his tankard and downed the contents. Candlelight enhanced his glassy-eyed stare. “One that would take hours to explain.”
Jacob Tapps seated himself at the table and motioned to his serving wench. “Bring the pitcher and another tankard, Flora.”
The door swung open and Charles Botham, Jane’s cousin, entered the inn. Duke had always despised the man for conspiring against him. A lump formed in his throat and regret filled him. He should have explained himself to Jane, first, for as surely as he breathed, her cousin would not hesitate to share the news that he had returned to spite him.
He raised his tankard and gazed at Botham over the rim.
Staggering slightly, Jane’s cousin headed directly for the bar. He leaned against the counter and Flora spoke to him. In response, Botham quickly turned to search the room, his stare widening as it came to rest on Duke.
Flora thrust a mug into Botham’s hand and he cast off toward their table. “You’re alive.”
“So they tell me,” he answered.
Botham smirked then took a long swig of his ale. “Come back for her, have you?”
Duke rose, shoving his chair behind him. “A gentleman does not speak of a lady in a tavern.”
“She’ll not have you.”
Norby joined him. “Are you deaf, you cur? Captain Duke—”
“Captain Duke?”
“Lord Marmaduke to ye, Botham. Aye,” Tapps said when Jane’s cousin failed to hide his surprise. “The king himself bestowed the honors.”
“Impossible!” Botham spat. “Why would King George—I don’t care what rank you have now or what you call yourself.” He slammed his tankard on the table. “The earl will not allow you anywhere near my cousin.”
“He did it again.”
“Did what?” Norby asked Duke too late.
Duke grabbed Botham by the cravat, tightening his grip around the man’s neck. “I told you not to speak of her in a place like this.”
Botham recoiled. Duke was bigger, taller, stronger, trained in hand-to-hand combat, experienced at handling the maddest of men in the worst sort of circumstances. A master and commander ready for anything, anticipating the worst and plotting the outcome like Nelson and Cochrane, tactical geniuses.
Except Duke was not prepared for what Botham said next. “She’s a married woman.”
Startled, he ground his teeth. “Do you hate me so much that you’re willing to lie—”
“’Tis no lie. Ask anyone here,” Botham spat.
A voice inside begged him not to look around, but he did without thinking to see heads bobbing in agreement.
His blood ran cold. He released Botham and stepped back, thunderstruck. Jane, married? It was his worst fear. She’d promised to wait a lifetime for him, no matter how long it took for him to return.
Norby tried to console him. “There must be an explanation.”
“Who?” The question tore from his mouth to no one in particular.
“Let’s go.” Norby picked up his cloak and hat. “I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.”
He wanted to leave, but his feet refused to budge as annoyance filled him. “Who?”
“Why torture yourself?” Norby asked.
Getting under Duke’s skin made Botham smile. “Viscount Pembroke.”
“Pembroke?” Duke frowned. The viscount was the man Jane’s father had chosen for her to marry three years ago.
“That’s right.” A wicked gleam lit Botham’s eyes. “And she’s born him an heir.”
An heir? Duke raised his fist and planted a facer on Botham’s face.
Norby stepped between them, preventing further injury than a bloody nose. “He’s not worth it.”
“No.” He felt like a fool. “He isn’t worth it.”
Turning, he made his way to the door.
A local he remembered named Pratt stopped him. “He’s dead, milord.”
He heard the words, but confusion settled in. “Who’s dead?”
“Pembroke. Two years now.” The man puffed his pipe as if this was the most natural way to state someone’s demise. “Landslide.”
Duke took out several shillings and closed the man’s fingers around the coins. “Thank you for the information.”
“No, milord,” Pratt said returning the coin. “Puttin’ Botham in ’is place is payment enough.”
Duke wasn’t so sure. Animosity ran deep between the Marmadukes and Bothams. And now, Jane’s cousin would undoubtedly weave a tale in his own favor to Kerridge.
Would the scoundrel’s lies ruin everything?