Chapter 18
Anne didn’t share everything that Sophia had told her with Caroline. The poor girl had been overwrought and probably regretted confessing so much to a relative stranger.
It was a shocking story—the sort of thing that was told to girls to frighten them into right behavior. To run off to London, to fall in among thieves or criminals of some kind, to live with a man who was not her husband—it would ruin a young woman completely.
According to societal logic, she was indeed lucky that the man had married her.
That was the only acceptable social solution to her fall, but what a tragic solution!
And although Sophia had glossed over those years of her marriage, it couldn’t have been safe or comfortable.
No wonder she had hoped to reinvent herself upon his death.
A widow was more acceptable to society since death threw a shroud of respectability over even the worst situations.
And Lady Marston—although Anne could not like her—had done well to receive her again.
Lady Marston could well have cut the connection entirely.
Once Sophia had run away from school, many of the ton would say that all Lady Marston’s responsibility was at an end.
She had done more than some in providing a home and education for her illegitimate daughter.
If the girl was so foolish as to throw it away, the critics would say, be it on her own head.
Anne could not imagine thinking in that way about a child of her own, but she had very high principles and strict morals.
The haute ton had very different standards.
Clearly! If the Marston household was any indication, the moral rot was far worse than even Anne’s vicar at Kellynch had indicated.
That Sophia had grown up feeling unwanted and disliked, Anne could well imagine.
Anne’s own family was not perfect, but at least she had treasured memories of her dear mother.
She also had the love and affection of Lady Russell, the tenants of Kellynch, even her sisters, Mary and Elizabeth.
Lacking all of that, Anne wasn’t shocked that Mr. Belvedere’s attention turned Sophia’s head.
He had been witty, friendly, good-humored, and he obviously admired Sophia.
In fact, and this was the worst part, Mr. Belvedere and Sophia had reminded Anne greatly of herself and Captain Wentworth!
Anne had sensed an immediate, lively affinity in her two fellow passengers and had smiled inwardly, remembering how instantly she and her dear Frederick had fallen in love.
She’d wondered if Mr. Belvedere might seek Sophia out again when they were returned to England in a year’s time or so…
Ugh, she was disgusted with him. Sophia had been fooled as well, and Mr. Belvedere deserved to be flayed. If he caused the Marstons to throw off Sophia because of this indiscretion, he could well have ruined her life.
Only a small, deeply expurgated portion of this did she share with the others when they were on deck the following day.
They all now expertly balanced despite the light swoop and sway of the deck under their feet.
It was a cloudy day, rather still and airless, and the ship only made slow progress.
Captain Smythe described it as “a long swelling sea, as high as a flour barrel.”
Anne was glad of the doldrums, for she hoped that Sir and Lady Marston would have time to grow calm before they reached Lisbon and did anything rash about Sophia.
Caroline wrinkled her nose at Anne’s explanation. “I don’t have quite as much compassion for her as you seem to, but I agree that she doesn’t deserve to be ruined for this. Perhaps I could speak to Lady Marston?”
“If you think it would help, but I’m dubious of the outcome. If Lady Marston does show signs of throwing her off, I thought you and I might at least write her recommendations for a future employer.”
“Oh, certainly,” Caroline said. “But hopefully it won’t come to that.”
“I hope not.”
Captain Wentworth twisted his mouth. “I haven’t many acquaintances in Lisbon, or I could put in a word for her. In Cadiz, yes, but in Lisbon…”
“I may be concerned for nothing,” Anne said. “It was only that Lady Marston was so implacable, but—never mind. I may be making a mountain out of a molehill.”
“Hardly a molehill,” Richard said, “catching a counterfeiter for the East India Company is at least a dunghill.”
“True,” said Wentworth. “He is confined to quarters, and his food will be delivered to him. And Anne, I know you will say it is inhumane to keep someone from sunlight and fresh air for so long, but—”
“On the contrary, I have no protest to make.”
Her husband raised his brows. “That might be the least forgiving thing you’ve ever said.”
“Well, he is quite in my black books.”
Since the ship went sluggishly with such little wind, some of the sailors began to toss out fishing lines. They had seen some waterspouts in the distance that morning, and a school of fish now made the water choppy and broken in a large, amorphous oval around them.
It was good fishing. The first large silver fish hit the deck with a strange flop-splat. “Good Atlantic cod,” cried the sailor who’d pulled it in. “That’s a ten pounder, I’d say, maybe twelve.”
They continued to catch, and the fish pile grew to five, then ten.
“We have more poles and lines,” the first mate offered. “Would any of you care to join in?”
Soon there were four poles between them, and even Anne and Caroline took a turn holding one, feeling the slight drag of the water, the tug of the line, and the eventual jerk of a fish. Caroline gave it over to Richard then. “You bring it in, if you please. I’ve no desire to feel it wriggling.”
Sir Mark came up on the deck also, and Lady Marston joined him. He wanted a turn, and Anne easily relinquished her pole.
“I han’t fished before, but I think I’ve got the knack,” Sir Mark said after he landed a particularly large, ugly cod, to his immense satisfaction, “I’ve never fished like this, at any rate!”
“This is a good school, too,” the captain said. “When you’re in the deep—far out at sea—there’s less fish to be had. We’re approaching the continent again after swinging out wide to avoid Boney’s forces. We shall have to eat these fast; they won’t last long.”
The fishers as a group decided that once over thirty fish had been caught that they had better stop. “It’s a shame for we could get more!” sighed the second mate. “But there’s no point pulling up fish to rot.”
Dinner was quite delicious, the cook having set the boy to cutting filets, and himself to searing them for the passengers and officers alike. Even the sailors were getting good fat steaks tonight.
The meal, however, while it was deliciously fresh, was rather subdued.
The two empty chairs, one for Mr. Belvedere who was confined to his cabin, and the other for Mrs. Scott, who was voluntarily keeping to her room today, were a visible check on their spirits.
Whether Mrs. Scott kept to her room from shame, weakness, or a combination, no one was quite sure, but it did leave them rather depleted.
Nor did the others know exactly how Sir Mark and Lady Marston had taken the news or what they had said to her.
Everyone was thinking of the situation, but no one was bold enough to broach it.
Richard, however, was used to being tactful among difficult people.
His aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, was a tartar, and even his cousin Darcy could be difficult.
He came around to it so nimbly, no one quite realized when they began discussing the advertisement that had pointed them toward Mr. Belvedere.
“I wonder if they put a notice in every London paper that day, or did we get lucky in the one we ended up with?” Caroline said. “It could have gone quite differently if Richard had grabbed a different paper as the bundle fell. Or if they all had been lost to us!”
“I suspect they did put it in every paper,” Wentworth put in. “Most likely they will do so intermittently for several weeks, or even months.”
“Wouldn’t that get expensive?” Anne asked. “I understand they are committed to punishing fraud, but really?”
“I’m not sure how much an advertisement is, although I did hear the tax on it was raised.”
Lady Marston sipped her wine, halfway through her fish steak. “The tax is now three shilling six pence for a London paper, in addition to whatever the paper charges for their own sake. It depends on the length, of course. For that advertisement, I would guess about six or seven shillings.”
“I suppose that is not so much for the East India Company,” Anne admitted. “But that would be a week’s earning for a working man.”
“That is the point of the tax,” Richard put in.
“It keeps troublemakers with radical ideas from using the papers to disseminate their ideas. But even if the EIC put the notice in every major London paper, say ten of them—that would be oh, seventy shillings? Which would only be three and half pounds. They would have to do that for a very long time to equal a thousand pounds, and the notice says they suspect counterfeit bonds equaling three to five thousand pounds.”
“It is definitely worth it to them,” Captain Smythe agreed.
“Although one thing has me puzzled. Where’s he put it?
If he still has the forged bonds or bills of exchange, we certainly haven’t seen any of it here despite our looking.
And if he has the money in notes, or even a bank draft—same problem. ”
“True,” Richard said. “But perhaps he grew afraid when he was nearly apprehended and left it behind. Or left it to someone to keep in trust for him. They will certainly investigate and prosecute once he is extradited back to England.”
“I knew it from the beginning,” Captain Smythe said, smacking his lips no less than Sir Mark over the tasty dinner. “I knew he would bring trouble down on us. Now if we could get one more breeze, we will be in Lisbon in no time at all. I’d even take a gale!”
“No more gales, please,” Caroline protested.
“I’m sure I don’t want you to feel poorly, ma’am, but unless it was dead straight against us, I’d take any wind the good Lord does send.”
In the event, they were both granted their wish, for Caroline woke in the night and realized the wind had picked up. The ship moved differently under a light, steady wind. The rise and fall grew swifter, but also more rhythmic—a little more linear and less random.
She felt Richard move in the blackness and their stiff mattress moved under her as he shifted. His voice was nearer when he spoke. “Awake, my dear?”
“Yes, the movement woke me, I think.”
“Yes, I felt it, too.” They lay there in the silence, absorbing the steady dip and sway of their bed. Richard searched for her hand under the covers. “We did well. We uncovered the plot—you were right to push me to do something.”
“Thank you.”
But then Richard rolled a little closer to her. His other hand skimmed across her stomach and lightly up her arm to her neck. His thumb stroked her jaw. “Caroline…”
Caroline loved her husband, she truly did, but she was inexplicably annoyed by this.
With time she could have parsed out the reasons.
Perhaps she was less satisfied with the resolution to their small mystery than she had expected, and the disappointment made her irritable.
Or perhaps it was that she usually felt when she and Richard were together, and the more she closed herself off, the less she wanted to feel.
But she only turned her head away. His hand stilled, then slid away. “That’s fine, but—is something wrong?”
“No—yes. I don’t know.” Unable to explain her frustration, she fell back on an oft-repeated excuse. “I suppose I still find it so unutterably plebian to share a bed! To begin such a thing in the middle of the night—it wouldn’t happen this way in a proper household.”
There was a brief silence, and Caroline already regretted the harshness of what she’d said.
Richard shifted onto his back. “I know it’s bad form—er—de trop for a married lady to admit to love or affection for her husband.
But those are mostly London manners, you know.
” She heard the attempt at a smile in his voice.
“I’d hoped you and I could ignore such foolishness. We started off differently.”
“It’s not that, Richard.”
“Then what is it? I rather like how we started off.” When she didn’t answer, he rolled to his other side, away from her. “Goodnight, my dear.”