Chapter Twenty-One
W ith Pru sleeping soundly beside her, Anna woke to noise on deck. She moved away from Pru carefully, wanting a little space simply because she knew it would be her last waking time without a husband occupying that space.
She listened, dreading the sound of Beat to Quarters, but no drums came this time, only bells, the Navy’s way of telling time.
There is so much I don’t know , she thought: Navy time, sleeping in a hammock, for heaven’s sake, waiting for a husband to appear and, probably the biggest unknown of all, what to do with a man in her bed.
She had some idea. Even now, Anna smiled, remembering. Mama had been her usual forthright self, spelling everything out and offering reassurance, ending with her ringing endorsement of the married state: ‘There now. You’re of amiable disposition and should do quite well as the wife of a sober man.’
A sober man? Anna had been raised in a sober household of a conscientious, God-fearing and trustworthy clergyman, a vicar of rectitude, a man of good example.
‘But Mama, tell me one thing,’ she had asked. ‘Is what you are telling me enjoyable?’
Then came Mama’s never-to-be-forgotten smile. ‘If you are most fortunate, you’ll never regret a minute.’
That was the promise and hope she took with her, thinking of the adventure before her in this watery world of danger—she had seen it—and desperation—she had also seen this when she’d answered her door and her whole life had changed.
‘ Will you trust me…? ’ rang in her ears and suddenly she wavered.
Do I know enough about you, or you about me, for us to trust one another and make this marriage a success?
she wondered. Is this course of action wise when I have already lost so many people I care about?
Only time would tell, and it was past time for having any regrets over agreeing to this course of action.
She had to focus instead on the practicalities of her situation.
Something else touched Anna’s heart. You, sir, have also lost many people you care about: My own brother, a wife you must have loved but rarely saw.
Anna also knew there had to be many more, considering how many men of the sea had died because one man tried to rule the world.
‘What can I possibly mean to you?’ she asked herself quietly. ‘Do you even know? Do I?’
So many questions, but one thing heartened her: She knew Captain Beattie was a good man. Her own dear brother had told her that many times. She couldn’t have explained it to anyone, but there it was. John Beattie was a good man living in hard times.
A practical woman, she needed to focus right now on the events of the day.
She had no wedding dress, only a simple sprigged muslin she had stuck in her trunk because it took up almost no space.
As Pru watched from their shared bed, her eyes lively, Anna shook it out and despaired of the wrinkles.
There was only one thing to do. She dressed in yesterday’s dress, also wrinkled, but at least free from blood.
Sprigged muslin in hand, she opened the door to the main room to a hearty greeting from Admiral Collingwood, already seated at a desk drowning in documents.
Bounce padded over for a pat on the head, quickly administered because she liked the dog with his pointy ears and expression of perpetual interest.
‘Sir, is there anyone aboard who might press my dress?’
The Admiral tinkled a bell, which summoned the steward. ‘Adams, Miss Fontaine could use a press.’ And to her, ‘Miss Fontaine, hand it over. The Swallow should be arriving soon, and I relish a wedding. Haven’t seen one in years.’
Neither have I , she thought, and this one is mine .
‘Papa, do you ever get tired of bobbing up and down?’
His son’s announcement at the usual hurry-up morning meal in the Swallow ’s cramped wardroom brought a general chuckle from the surgeon, the master, John’s first lieutenant, a Royal Marine who was visiting, and the new second luff.
What a rare and wonderful moment it was to take his small son on his lap, feel him settle back as if it was his favourite place and tell him, ‘Allan, there is an old story—maybe it was on Noah’s Ark—that when the bobbing of winds and waves stopped, everyone on board fell over in a heap.’
Allan considered the fact. ‘I thought so,’ he said, which resulted in more laughter from his officers. We haven’t been laughing much , John thought. I like this .
‘Do you like bobbing up and down?’ his son persisted.
‘I believe I do.’
‘Will Missy and Pru?’
‘Hard to say, but they won’t be on the ship often,’ he said, and didn’t like the sudden hollow feeling from such a statement, one that would usually have troubled him not at all, except that he had met Anna Fontaine, and something had happened to him.
Certainly, she would not be on the Swallow , and what a pity.
From the usual clatter of his brain at sea, another thought demanded attention: I wasn’t aboard either, John. Don’t forget me, your own Cathy .
‘I won’t,’ he said softly, so his son could not hear.
‘I like Missy and Pru,’ Allan said.
‘So do I, son,’ he replied, even as Cathy remained in his mind.
He took that thought with him onto the quarterdeck, Allan tagging along, then standing still in imitation, legs wide, with one in front of the other, to the amusement of his crew on deck.
John watched as the Hartford came alongside in early morning.
Through a brass speaking trumpet he hailed Captain Tyler, who informed him in turn that the Jaunty had safely made port in Gibraltar.
‘For which our Navy thanks you. Will you come with us back to the Queen ?’ John asked. ‘There’s a wedding.’
Captain Tyler must be the cheeky sort. ‘If there is cake.’
Would there be?
‘I… I…do not know that myself,’ he said, embarrassed how little he knew. He even wondered if Anna was having second thoughts. He’d be surprised if she wasn’t. This was war, after all.
‘P’raps I shall be there,’ Tyler told him. ‘I haven’t kissed a bride in ages.’
Neither have I , John thought as more misgivings crowded in. What in the world am I doing to such a kind lady?
‘Come if you wish, Captain Tyler,’ he said and put down the trumpet.
He kept his own counsel on the return to the Queen , after suggesting to his sailing master, a man with children of his own, to find a patient sailor handy with knots, who might occupy Allan.
Between the intricacies of a bowline and a handful of crispy salted potatoes from Cookie, his son was occupied, allowing John to wander below-deck.
He stared at his sleeping platform, wondering how adept his bride would be in such a contraption, which was fine indeed, if a man held still in it.
But holding still wasn’t the usual marriage dance.
‘This won’t do,’ he admitted to Adams, his steward, who handed him a tankard of grog, when he came into his cramped quarters and saw his captain contemplating the bed.
‘Sir, you’ll probably surprise yourself,’ he heard in cheerful reply.
John thought of any number of colourful retorts of his own and discarded them all, preferring to spend time at his desk, contemplating a chart without seeing it.
He couldn’t help remembering Cathy, daughter of the squire on the neighbouring estate—beautiful Cathy, with a mild temper and that bloom of colour in an otherwise pale complexion that had intrigued many would-be suitors, all of whom she’d dismissed in his favour.
‘I loved you, Cathy,’ he whispered as the Swallow made its way back the short distance to Collingwood’s flagship. ‘And you loved me, God only knows why.’
Seriously, what was the matter with women who loved seamen?
He’d never forgotten Cathy’s sad eyes and lovely face as he’d sailed away in a sloop of war, his first command.
There she was at the wharf on his return five months later, softly round with child, her smile as pretty as ever, with one difference: that rosy bloom on her cheeks was permanent now, the deadly bloom of consumption.
Thank God their baby had never contracted that feared ailment.
Two more sailings—one to the blockade for several months and the other to the Battle of Aboukir Bay—with a small son at the first return, and then a three-year-old held by his nanny as Cathy had struggled to appear healthy.
He’d learned of her death while he was on Gibraltar. Her last letter to him had been dictated to her mother. She spoke of love and regret and having failed him somehow, when he knew the failure was his, because he and other men like him were duty-bound with no choice.
I could have run a counting house, or been called to the Bar as a barrister , he told himself after reading that regrettable letter.
I should have been there for her . That was three years ago.
Surely it was time to move on. Logic told him that even had he chosen a landlocked occupation, Cathy would still have died.
Still, there seemed to be no logic to love.
Now he sat in his cabin, rethinking the last few months.
Should he despise himself for dumping his troubles upon his dead lieutenant’s sister?
The answer was a resounding no, because at the time he’d had no idea what else to do.
When she’d opened the door that evening, took in the sight of a desperate father with nowhere else to turn, he’d known something unexpected, right down to the marrow of his bones: this woman was going to be important to him.
Some sense he had either never paid attention to or recently acquired told him so.
He knew he had changed Anna Fontaine’s life and altered everything about her orderly existence. That she bore it with uncommon grace was not lost on him. He knew without a doubt there was a deep well of courage inside this woman he dared to marry in this age of revolution and war.
He took that thought on deck, admiring the knots Allan produced, and nodding his appreciation to the seaman-teacher beside his son. ‘MacNeish, you are an excellent instructor,’ he told his patient deckhand. ‘Thank you for teaching Allan, my little sailor.’
‘Sail ahead. Ahoy to the Queen !’ John heard from the crow’s nest. He became all business then, signalling to his first luff to bring the Swallow alongside.
‘Mr Marsing, the speaking trumpet, if you please.’
‘Aye, sir.’
At the usual distance, John hailed the Queen . ‘Requesting permission to come aboard,’ he shouted into the brass tube.
‘State your business, Captain Beattie,’ he heard, aware of the barely stifled amusement. Trust Captain Thomas’s bosun, a cheeky fellow, to enjoy this hugely. Oh, hell, everyone was grinning down at him. Could a man have no dignity?
‘A wedding is my business, you black dogs,’ he said and laughed, which made his own listening crew grin and look at each other. Had they never heard him laugh before? Maybe it was time to make some changes on the good ship Swallow .
First things first.
I want a wife , John thought as the larger flagship sent down a ladder. I need a wife for Allan and Pru, if not for myself .
He turned to his first luff. ‘Mr Marsing, I will be returning with a wife and we will sail back to Gibraltar, briefly,’ he said. ‘The deck is yours.’