Chapter 6
Mr. Belvedere’s papers, upon examination, were inconclusive.
Caroline was not to be left out now that they were under public comment, and she took her turn at the dining table with the others.
Only Mrs. Scott seemed to feel it was not fitting for her to take part.
Even Anne, with a gently furrowed brow, sat with the documents spread before her for some minutes.
There were four documents: three letters of introduction, and a letter of bona fides from a professor at Cambridge.
The letters of introduction, ostensibly from Mr. Belvedere’s father, seemed unexceptionable to Caroline.
A few turns of phrase did not sit quite right with her—but then, the older generation could be quite careless of proprieties. Witness Sir Mark.
The letter from Cambridge seemed a little too perfect to her. The professor was, “only too delighted to recommend such an excellent student to your notice. He is not one of the pernicious scholars, only fit to ask questions, but gentlemanly, well-informed, and at ease in company.”
Was this a letter of recommendation from a university or a finishing school?
She knew that, in truth, the professors at Oxford and Cambridge did not prefer the most studious students—as who would?
She had once heard a professor in company complain of the scholarly ones.
No one wanted “to be questioned in their field of expertise or to have their leisure hours used by importunate students who are not satisfied with the course of study!”
And at ease in company was a goal of any education… In short, the letter might be real, but it might not.
The signature also looked a little like his father’s signature, but then, many men wrote in that careless, florid style.
“I am not a graphologist,” Wentworth said.
“So I really cannot say.” They were now alone—the four of them on the deck—and he shook his head in defeat.
“He may be a rascal, but whether he is a traitor is a larger question. If not for the mail business, I would have said to let it go. He may be a neck-or-nothing young blood trying to make a cake of us all—but I would’ve considered him harmless. ”
“Do we think he really is so young?” Caroline asked. “Once or twice I’ve fancied he’s older than he seems.
Richard shrugged and the others didn’t seem to pick up on the idea, so Caroline let it drop. Maybe she was wrong.
“I think he bears watching in Lisbon,” Richard said. “If he seems like he’s going to hie off there instead of continuing on—well, we might have our answer. If anyone were going to intercept an army dispatch, they would have to do it before Lisbon, when the dispatches will be sent on to our forces.”
“How long until Lisbon?” Caroline asked.
“Smythe says with a strong westerly in spring or fall he could do it in less than two weeks, but in summer—depending on the depth of the doldrums—it could be three or four.”
“In the meantime,” Anne gently removed her skirt from the mouth of the goat, patting its head, “I really feel we shouldn’t treat him as a pariah.
Imagine if the poor boy is innocent! And if he is guilty, then we should do our best to put him at ease.
Perhaps he will make a mistake; he does not seem impenetrable. ”
Wentworth brought her hand to his lips. “What you would like is for him to see the error of his ways and repent, and then you will want me to find him a position to keep him from a life of dishonesty.”
Anne smiled, her cheeks pink. “As long as we are making wishes…”
“Well, I think we are agreed,” Richard said. “We shall leave it for now. Heaven knows it won’t be hard to treat the young man as usual—he is almost impossible to dislike despite my effort.”
Caroline played on the harpsichord for several hours while Anne lay down. The instrument grew in her affections, as she grew in skill. The pressure of fingers and rapidity of motion was different with a harpsichord than a pianoforte, and she flattered herself she now had the knack of it.
Sir Mark came out of his room, tiptoeing and looking a little guilty. He glanced around quickly.
“Is everything well, sir?” Caroline asked.
He jumped and put his finger to his lips while he pulled his cabin door shut. “My—er—dear wife has fallen asleep, and I don’t want to wake her.”
“Then perhaps I should not play.”
“No, no! Please do, for it is that which helped her drop off. Perhaps it will lull her to stay asleep.”
Caroline resumed with a small laugh. “A high compliment. Do you make an escape while she rests?”
He grinned. “Indeed, I do! Devilish flat on ship isn’t it? I could use a good card game, but she won’t have it. Now, where have the gents got to? Surely one of them will take pity on me.”
“I believe Captain Wentworth is giving Richard and Mr. Belvedere a lesson in navigation, using the chronometer to determine our longitude.”
He made a face.
“Perhaps you can entice Mr. Belvedere away.”
“I daresay I might. Thank you!”
Caroline continued to play, apparently as the Orpheus to Lady Marston’s Cerberus.
At supper, over pork loin and fried potatoes and preserved carrots and onions, Captain Smythe had more to say of the incident. No one wished to call it theft, for that made it sound far more serious, and of course, no one could be certain anything had been taken.
“And it’s my hope,” Captain Smythe continued, “that no one did take anything. For I have now learnt that Donny—the ship’s boy, y’know, just a lad of fifteen—says as how he got woken up by Gregory cackling and cawing.
Gregory is his parrot, y’see. The others heard the sudden ruckus, but they ignored it because it isn’t their trouble, is it?
Donny got up to quiet him and heard a door slam.
He thinks now as maybe he interrupted someone. ”
“That would make sense,” Richard said. “It does seem strange that they should’ve left the bags in disarray, when they might’ve cinched and buckled them back up with no one the wiser.”
“Did Donny go all the way to the cargo hold?” asked Caroline, who liked to have all the information.
“No, ma’am. He says he got a sip from his tankard and fished around for the dried orange peel he keeps for the bird. He knocked over Jameson’s tin cup for his trouble, which clattered all the way to the door.”
“And he didn’t investigate the sound of someone leaving the hold in a hurry?”
“He’s superstitious—Irish blood, y’know. You can’t blame him too heartily, for his father died of fear on being confronted by a ghost. So, Donny dived back into his hammock, but once he knew that someone had been digging through the mail, he told me it all.”
“Very curious,” Richard said. “Could you spare a man to guard the hold at night? Strange as it is, someone could try again…”
“I’m ahead of you there, Colonel, never fear.
I’ve added it to the watch list. The men aren’t too happy, for it cuts into their sleep, but they knows better than anyone that it’s all our jobs on the line.
If this is not solved, the Mail Service will sweep the lot of us right out.
Barton would get the ship—” Smythe’s gray eyes filled with tears, but he choked it back, “and all my men would be let go without pension or a dime of profit from this trip. They’d never get work on a packet ship again. Probably be pressed within a week.”
“We will do everything we can to help,” Captain Wentworth said. “I would hate to see a good man like yourself ruined in a business like this.”
“Thank you, sir.” Smythe glared at Mr. Belvedere. “I wish to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible.”
Mr. Belvedere dropped his fork to raise his hands. “As do I! If anyone sees me within spitting distance—er, excuse me for the cant metaphor—within ames ace of the mail bags, you may clap me in irons that moment. I’ve no designs on it; I shall protect its virtue as if it were my own sister.”
“Have you a sister?” Lady Marston asked skeptically.
“Not that I’m aware of,” he said cheerfully, “four brothers and no sister, but one never really knows, do they?”
“That is certainly the truth.” Sir Mark laughed between finishing his last fried potatoes with gusto, sopping up the remaining sauce from the pork loin.
Caroline happened to glance at Mrs. Scott just then and saw that lady’s cheeks redden.
Ahh… Perhaps the stories about Sir Mark’s illegitimate children were true.
Perhaps Mrs. Scott was one of them. That would explain her status as a companion, yet one that Lady Marston did not seem particularly happy to have.
Lady Marston certainly required very little of Mrs. Scott’s time, which was odd.
A companion on a trip like this would usually be the amusement and support of the lady of the house.
Caroline looked away to spare Mrs. Scott any further notice.
To be the daughter of a peer on the wrong side of the bed was a most unfortunate thing, especially for a woman.
Mrs. Scott had obviously been educated and reared in somewhat refined circles, so if it was so, Sir Mark had recognized some obligation.
Although, recalling some of Mrs. Scott’s comments, perhaps she was not reared in very refined circles.
Caroline shared her suspicion with Anne, when they took another moonlit walk—the habit was growing on them all—and Anne was thoughtful. “It could very well be.”
“It is a shame,” Caroline said, “for I enjoy her company despite her occasional inappropriate comments. And there are so few fellow travelers already.”
“I do not think that needs to change. She may be illegitimate, but she is not a servant. Some distance must be maintained with servants, I admit, for the comfort of all—but I do not think this is in the same case. Poor woman. How I pity her!”
“Well—they are taking care of her at all events. Many would write off a by-blow, particularly after she was married.”
Anne grimaced. “Yes, but to be beholden to people—blood relations—who resent your existence, who ignore or belittle you… No, whatever she may or may not be, she has my pity for that.”
“That’s true,” Caroline admitted. It was something of a relief that Anne did not find Mrs. Scott verboten.
Caroline really should be able to predict Anne’s counsels by now, but she still guessed wrong.
It was difficult to know which quality of moral and societal good would be uppermost in Anne’s mind.
Compassion? Duty? Preservation of moral society?
Condescension—in a benevolent and kind way—to those beneath her?
Caroline was still far from a holistic understanding of Anne, even as they spent hours and hours together.
Anne shared Caroline’s suspicion with Wentworth when they were alone in their cabin.
“Ah, do you think so?” he asked. “Mrs. Scott doesn’t have the look of Marston—at least not that I can see—but I’m a dunce at faces.” He dumped his wash-water in a pail and poured about a half-cup for her. They were far more careful of water on the ship than they had ever been on land.
“Yes, but I wonder why they brought her on this trip,” Anne mused. “Surely, if Sir Mark feels she has some claim on his support, he could offer her a pension and not flay Lady Marston’s feelings. Or Sophia’s.”
“Sophia?”
“Mrs. Scott.”
“Oh, yes, that is true. But not every husband is—er—concerned with his wife’s sensibility.” He kissed Anne’s head as he traded places with her deftly so that she might wash.
“Yes, but don’t you think—between the two of them—that Lady Marston is the more decisive character?”
“Now you mention it, yes. She definitely rules the roast, to put it bluntly.”
“Exactly.” Anne’s brow furrowed. “That makes me concerned for Sophia. There are people who enjoy having someone nearby to—heap censure on, if you know what I mean.”
“Hm, a whipping boy of sorts? But there is no one who needs a scapegoat.”
“No, but some people enjoy criticism, the same way some enjoy their own ill-health or misery.” She thought briefly of her sister Mary and said a quick prayer for her future. “Have you noticed how short Lady Marston is with Sophia?”
“Yes, but then I’ve never heard her rake her down. She barely speaks to her.”
“That is true, but I heard raised voices last night when I lay awake. I couldn’t hear the particulars, but it was Lady Marston and Sophia.” She ducked under his arm to get to the small cabinet in the wall. “I know there is little I can do; but I hope to befriend Mrs. Scott, at least.”
“I think you’ve done that already.”
“In a way; but she keeps me at arm’s length. I suppose it is to be expected; she may not wish anyone to commiserate with her.”
“What do you mean commiserate?” he said with mock displeasure, moving around her with precision.
They were quite expert at navigating the tiny room without collision now; it was almost a dance.
He poured out her water now that she was done washing, and she leaned to the side while he stretched out his arms to take off his white, high-collared shirt.
“I hope you have no current misery to commiserate with.”
“Of course not. I meant sympathize—you know.”
“I do.” His nightshirt was waiting in her hand when his shirt was off.
She was—needless to say—still not accustomed to looking at him bare-chested, with only breeches, but in these in-between moments before his knee-length nightshirt went on, her eyes were often drawn to the scar that interrupted the plane of his chest. It was left-over from a bayonet wound; it was “hardly more than a scratch.” Yet it ran from the bone that jutted out near his shoulder toward his navel and disappeared into his breeches.
He paused in pulling on his nightshirt, his eyes warm. “See something you like?”
“Don’t tease,” Anne said, blushing. “It is that terrible scar. I can’t see it except I think how you might have been lost.”
“It still hurts on occasion,” he said.
Her eyes flew to his. “You never told me that.”
He tried to remain grave, but his lips twitched. “Perhaps a kiss would make it all better.”
Anne laughed. She traced it lightly with her fingers. “But does it hurt?”
He seemed a little short of breath. “Twinges at times.”
She pressed a kiss to the top of the scar, then a little lower. “That’s a shame.”
He exhaled shakily. “I don’t deserve you.”
“It’s a good thing none of us must earn love.”
“I love you, Anne Wentworth, and you do deserve it.”