Chapter Fourteen
T he FDV sailed for Plymouth in the morning, after John had writhed all night in his rack, wondering how he could possibly make Anna’s life any worse.
When he emerged on deck that morning, bleary-eyed and feeling every second of his thirty-eight years, Tom handed him what he knew were official orders to Gibraltar or more likely Port Mahon, as conditions warranted, and a private note from Admiral Collingwood.
‘I must say, Captain, you’re keeping rare company,’ the Welshman joked. ‘I am to proceed to Gibraltar and wait there.’
John said something he should have regretted but didn’t, and took the letter.
There wasn’t time to read it now, not with the Fast Dispatch Vessel already waiting beside the flagship.
He stuffed it and the orders in his duffel, daring to hope he might actually have a little time to read them on the FDV, where he wasn’t in command.
There was time.
His orders were an echo of Old Cuddy’s comments yesterday.
They appealed to him, mainly because he wasn’t sentenced to more blockade tedium.
The Swallow was to rove about the Mediterranean Sea.
The orders came in formal Royal Navy diction, but he understood the underlying message: Thrash any French or Spanish vessels that weren’t sufficiently cowed at Trafalgar .
Look about, see what the French might be up to, and keep an occasional eye on the Americans. Fair enough; he could do that.
He worked up his courage to read Collingwood’s letter, and learned something about that great, quiet man, who had willingly lived in the shadow of Horatio Nelson’s genius.
He had paid his own price, the price the entire Royal Navy had paid, from able-bodied seamen to admirals, which was time away from loved ones.
John read, blinking back tears:
I want you to have the chance denied to me. I know you have suffered loss. Find all the joy you can, John Beattie. Bring your boy and a bride back to the Mediterranean, if you can convince her. We’ll think of something. Yours sincerely, Cuthbert .
There they were, official and highly unofficial orders.
Of the two orders, he knew that sailing the Mediterranean with the bliss of unfettered command was a captain’s dream.
The second order, not so much. He doubted even Romeo could have convinced Juliet to get spliced and sail with him in a month or less, and more likely never.
During six days of sailing, Captain Beattie enjoyed the bliss of no command at all. The FDV was someone else’s ship. His worry commenced again about three days out of Plymouth, when another dispatch vessel from Gibraltar hailed them and handed off an additional letter addressed to him.
Oh, no. Something else from Old Cuddy. He took it below deck and sat on his lightly swinging bed. What he read made his head ache:
If you are brave enough to attempt a marriage proposal , go to Portsmouth (not Plymouth) and then Winchester, to save time .
You need a licence for a prompt wedding, something I doubt the Bishop of Exeter will issue, if that miserable worm of a curate has tattled to him .
In Winchester Cathedral, hand Bishop North this note.
I did him a great favour once. He will authorise a common licence, which will cost you two or three pounds.
You can use it anywhere, even in Gibraltar or on my flagship, if you can convince Miss Fontaine to marry you. Godspeed, Cuddy .
Yea or nay? A coin toss sent him to Portsmouth instead of Plymouth, which meant a sleepless ride via post chaise to Winchester, stopping once so he could be sick. Odd how the rocking motion of a chaise set him off, when gale-force winds at sea never did.
Winchester exceeded his greatest dream, or maybe nightmare, since he had no idea what Anna would say.
The Bishop of Winchester spent a moment in fond reminiscence of the favour Cuthbert Collingwood had rendered him, then issued the licence.
The bishop even waved him off from the cathedral.
Done and done and John had the licence to prove it.
He slept to Portsmouth, where another Fast Dispatch Vessel got him to Plymouth in mid-afternoon.
He was no prize. He needed a bath in the worst way, except that he didn’t care to drown in a tub when he fell asleep, despite the coffee.
He reckoned he was a prime candidate for an insane asylum and every woman’s worst nightmare.
He paused a moment before entering the Drake, nodding to a few friends outside, wondering if there was any other way he could ruin Anna’s life. He decided there wasn’t, and opened the door.
There she was at the front desk, smiling at a post captain and his wife, and indicating the ledger for a signature.
He was struck by the fact that, despite their brief and harried acquaintance, he’d remembered so much about her, starting with her beautiful eyes, and moving down to her pleasant bosom and trim waist when she turned to get the keys.
He noticed something else about her that he wasn’t familiar with, a certain animation in her expression when she chatted and smiled.
This was a woman in control of herself, despite all the misery he had heaped on her.
He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders and walked across the lobby, mere locomotion as terrifying as a fleet action.
Anna had turned back to the desk where he knew Mrs Fillion kept the hotel’s strongbox.
He patted the common licence in his pocket, the frugal Scot in his head telling the one in his heart that he had wasted three pounds.
Still, here he was, and he wanted, no, needed, to see Allan.
‘Miss Fontaine?’
She looked around, gasped, and put her hand to her mouth.
He stood there and let his duffel drop from his shoulder.
What should I do? ran through his mind. When Cathy had gasped, it was generally because she saw a mouse in the kitchen.
To his utter astonishment, when he held out his arms to Anna, she ran into them with a velocity that made him take a step back.
The only logical thing to do was to hold her tight, which was so easy.
She was exactly the right size to fit into his arms. He also knew that Anna could definitely do better than to affix herself to a sorry specimen like himself.
And yet… She didn’t seem inclined to release him, and there he was, still hanging onto her like a wet leaf plastered to her face.
‘Miss Fontaine, I owe you an even larger apology for continuing to load my problems onto your shoulders. I…’
She stopped him with a fierce look, holding up her forefinger.
She probably would have shaken it in his face, if she’d had enough room and they weren’t still clinging to each other.
He stepped back and released her, startled, yes, but suddenly energized.
This was a woman to spar with. The mere idea woke up his tired brain and sent his thoughts in half-forgotten directions all at the same time.
‘Don’t you dare apologise again!’ she declared.
‘Well, I…’
She drew herself up, even though, with her small height, there wasn’t much to draw up. ‘Yes, we’ve had a little difficulty, but it’s smoothed out now. We like living at the Drake.’
‘I would call eviction, shame and fright more than a little difficulty.’ He groaned inwardly. Shut up, John . Listen to her, you dolt . He tried something that had always worked when Cathy was in high dudgeon. He touched her cheek, almost a caress.
To his relief, her frown melted and her eyes softened. ‘Until this happened, I never realised how boring my life was,’ she told him frankly. ‘I like being useful.’
He listened for anger, but heard none. After a glance around the lobby, and then at the room with the Perpetual Whist Game, where a grinning, appreciative crowd had gathered, she took his hand and towed him towards the stairs.
‘Down you go, sir,’ she commanded, but kindly. ‘There’s a fellow in the kitchen who will be overjoyed to see you.’
‘Don’t you mean “see your sorry carcass”?’ he teased, because he’d heard that lift to her voice. He hoped it meant the worst was over.
Anna laughed. ‘I admit I’ve thought something like that once or twice, but no, your life is not your own,’ she said simply. ‘If you stop apologising to me, we can possibly be friends, Captain Beattie.’
He plunged ahead. ‘As to that, Admiral Collingwood has something else in mind.’
‘Whatever it is couldn’t possibly involve me,’ Anna said. ‘I’m not in the Royal Navy, and I doubt the Admiral thinks about anything except ships and war.’
He opened his mouth to say…what, he had no idea. Anna must be even more rare than he’d thought, a woman without guile.
She pointed down the corridor. ‘The kitchen is just beyond. Allan and Pru like to help Pierre.’ She nudged his shoulder in a conspiratorial way that somehow touched his heart.
‘He spoils them with all kinds of pastries. Allan is not so thin now. If you were to stay awhile, you’d become a little less gaunt, too, Captain. ’
‘I wish I could,’ he told her longingly.
‘You’re tired,’ she said simply. ‘I wish I could cure that.’
There are ways , he thought, but hadn’t the temerity to say it. Just sharing space with her again told him forcefully that a few nights in Anna’s bed would cure whatever ailed him. He knew that as firmly and solidly in this very moment as he knew anything.
This was obviously not the place for an intimate conversation, not with Mrs Fillion opening the kitchen door then exclaiming how good it was to see him. She turned her cheek for the traditional kiss.
‘I’m going back to the desk,’ Anna said. ‘You’re in for such a surprise when you see Allan.’
Don’t go , he wanted to tell her, and nearly did, but Mrs Fillion was giving him the practised eye that she always fixed on lodgers at the Drake, assessing him in her discerning way.
He didn’t think she could read his thoughts, but felt his face grow warm at the possibility. Good Lord, when had he last blushed?
Allan saved him, turning around to see who had opened the door. ‘Papa!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look what I can do!’
He knelt to hug his son, who was a far cry from the thin child with haunted eyes cowering behind Pru, who’d brandished a poker. And there was Pru, she of the thoughtful look, who still kept her eye on Allan. John hugged them both, admired the carrots chopped so fine, and nodded to Pierre.
‘I put these little cherubs to work,’ Mrs Fillion said simply. ‘It’s hard to dwell on terrible things with a carrot peeler in hand.’
He expected Allan to cling to him, but his boy had returned to chopping carrots, giving him a glance now and then, but busy with duties, and laughing with Pru.
‘I almost feel abandoned,’ he admitted to Mrs Fillion as she poured him a cup of coffee. ‘He cried when I left.’
‘He cried here, too,’ she said. ‘He was such a sad little boy. He clutched Anna’s dress, but she was his solace. God bless her for turning to me.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘Quiet she may be, but she is far from helpless.’
‘Her brother was cut from the same cloth. I never had a lieutenant so committed to duty.’ He touched her hand. ‘I will be forever grateful that you took them in.’
‘It’s been a blessing for all of us. How long are you here?’
‘Admiral Collingwood told me I had a month, and that was two weeks ago. No time, as usual.’ He told her of his trip to Winchester Cathedral and his admiral’s near-order that he bring a wife to the Mediterranean.
He let that sink in. ‘Does Anna have any idea about this?’ Mrs Fillion asked.
‘Not yet. I don’t quite know how I feel about it,’ he admitted. Might as well air all his dirty linen.
‘I recall a sad widower for several years, who rarely said more than the barest minimum of words.’ She took his hand. ‘Everything changes, Captain Beattie.’
‘I had a lovely wife I have never had time to mourn. I know I like and admire Anna. Who wouldn’t?’ He looked down. ‘But will that be enough?’
‘Look at me, Captain,’ Grace Fillion commanded. He did. ‘I think the person you need to trust is yourself.’
He thought about that as he watched his son.
To his infinite delight, Allan left the prep table, curled up in his arms without a word and closed his eyes.
John motioned Pru over, shifted Allan, and whispered, ‘I have two knees, Pru.’ The workhouse child sat on the unoccupied one and rested her head against his chest. He bowed his head over his dear ones, knowing full well there would be no Allan if Pru hadn’t been there.
When he opened his eyes, Anna sat in the chair Mrs Fillion had vacated. He remained silent, watching her and thinking that everyone he wanted was within arm’s reach. How to convince Anna, though? He shoved to the back of his brain the notion that he still needed to convince himself, too.
She spoke so softly. ‘When that horrible man gave me six hours to leave, I knew Grace would take us in. Do you remember when you introduced me to her, she said to call on her if I ever needed anything?’
‘Aye, but people say things like that all the time,’ he countered, as he wondered what this quiet woman was thinking.
‘I never doubted her for a moment.’ He watched as she took a deep breath and another. ‘It was the same when you came to my door and asked if I could trust you.’
He didn’t expect that. ‘You can,’ he managed.
‘I knew that.’
‘Will you trust me again?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
‘Why? Your life was regular and orderly before I bumbled into it.’
Her expression changed, becoming thoughtful, as though weighing him in a balance. ‘My brother trusted you, Captain.’
He suddenly longed to hold her as close as he held the two children in his lap.
‘If Will did, I can,’ she said softly. ‘What do you want from me now?’