Chapter Thirty
D uring the next two weeks, Anna reminded herself that yes, John had given her permission to use the money in the strongbox. The first time she opened it she gasped at the amount, then blinked back tears because he had left her so much, as if anticipating his own death or capture.
The thought stayed with her all that day, prompting her to arrange his pillow next to her body in their bed.
For someone used to sleeping alone for years and years, you are a ninny , she scolded herself as she faced that first night in a solitary bed since their marriage.
There are going to be many such nights, Anna Beattie, thanks to Napoleon, wretched man .
Madame Durand proved to be helpful in diversion.
Anna’s admiration for Admiral Collingwood’s housekeeper grew daily, although Hector was silent and seldom about.
Madame had a ready answer to Anna’s question about a seamstress, which meant a visit soon from a woman with a tape measure around her neck and a determined look on her face.
Her name was Clotilde Gomez, her name illustrating again to Anna the diversity on Menorca, with its French and Spanish inhabitants.
And British, too, Clotilde reminded her, when Anna asked about the Anglican church.
‘Only recently, the Rector agreed to allow a Mr Hal Brown to teach the children of the small English community here. Mr Brown is from England, I believe.’ Madame Gomez thought a moment.
‘Someone did tell me his mother is from Mallorca.’
‘That is the bigger island next to this one,’ Madame Durand said. ‘Clotilde, I doubt he has a mother there.’
‘Well, I…’
‘Rumour and speculation.’
‘Mallorca, Menorca…’ Anna couldn’t help her laugh, and didn’t mind admitting to both women, ‘You are all so interesting here.’
‘We Menorcans are a ragout of this and that,’ Clotilde assured her.
‘Hold still. Let me measure from your waist to your ankles. My husband likes the stern English sermons from the Rector, so we attend St Matthew’s.
That is how we heard of Mr Brown. Your country only returned our islands to Spain two years ago.
’ She shook her head. ‘And now Spain and France are allies? This would confuse anyone except a Menorcan.’
‘I am surprised there is an English teacher,’ Anna said.
‘He has been here for a short time, it is true,’ Clotilde told her, then leaned closer, confidential. ‘He must be persuasive. He convinced the old Rector to let him live at St Matthew’s, since the classroom is there. The Rector is so particular, but he is getting old, and agreed.’
Anna considered her feelings about rectors, grateful that Mr Brown wasn’t one. I have had enough of those , she thought. I could become a heathen . The thought made her, the daughter of a vicar, smile inside.
Once Anna had chosen material for cotton dresses from Clotilde’s supply, the seamstress came with them to Port Mahon in Hector’s new pony cart.
‘Here it is, St Matthew’s,’ the seamstress said, pointing to a church overlooking the inlet, seeming small and dowdy compared to the Catholic church in the more elegant plaza. And was that a mosque with a minaret?
‘I am certainly not in England,’ Anna murmured to Madame Durand, who had accompanied them.
Indeed, the housekeeper liked to come along on errands.
Her husband had little to say, beyond chirruping the pony and humming tunelessly.
Anna had no objections to the Durands. Menorcans seemed to speak an odd conglomeration of French and Spanish—or was it Catalan?
—with the occasional English word. Hector and Hermione, fluent in French, knew the local patois .
Her introduction to Hal Brown was more than she’d expected.
He was a tall man with handsome auburn hair, and a capable air about him.
Such a strange island this is , she thought, as he listed his modest but adequate credentials.
Clotilde is right; Menorca is a ragout of all sorts of people lucky enough to find it .
She felt herself relax. If discovering exotic places and kind people was to be her own lot with the Royal Navy, she pronounced herself fortunate.
‘Indeed, I will be pleased to educate your children,’ Mr Brown told Anna, when Clotilde left them after her introduction. ‘Your husband is based here on Port Mahon? I did notice a French-looking ship but with Royal Navy flags docked here.’
‘Currently,’ Anna said, mindful of John’s admonition not to say too much. ‘You know the Royal Navy: things can always change.’ Like this subject , she reminded herself. ‘You were clever to notice the Swallow as French-built.’
He smiled at her and the children. ‘Life moves slowly here, Mrs Beattie. We take an interest in many things, perhaps out of boredom.’ He opened a ledger, where she noticed English names.
‘I have a small class, but I have not been teaching long. Bring your little scholars here on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. I teach from eight until eleven of the clock. Two shillings a month. Their names?’
‘Allan and Pru Beattie,’ Anna said promptly, then reached for her purse. ‘This will do for three months, sir.’
He nodded, put her money on his desk and wrote in their names. As he wrote, Anna felt Pru leaning close. When the teacher rose to put away the money, Anna touched her shoulder. ‘What is the matter, my dear?’
‘I have a last name now and it is yours,’ the child said. ‘Will the Captain mind?’
‘You are ours,’ she whispered back, nearly overcome with a feeling unlike any other.
‘I thought…’ Madame Durand began, when they were seated in the pony trap again. ‘Pru is also yours?’
‘We are an interesting family, madame ,’ Anna hedged, keeping her voice low, unwilling to embarrass Pru. What to tell her? ‘The Captain was a widower with a son. Pru came along, too. She’s Pru. We love her.’ I’ve said enough , Anna thought.
‘She seems poorly dressed, and I wondered what she was doing with you,’ Madame Durand persisted.
‘Clotilde is sewing for her as well, madame ,’ Anna said firmly. ‘She is now family.’
Madame was finally silent, to Anna’s relief. What could it matter to her? She hoped Hermione Durand did not think her impolite. The woman was a wondrous cook, and Anna knew she was not.
Pru stayed close to her that day. After Allan was tucked into bed and sleeping, she sat beside Anna on the balcony in the room Anna shared with the Captain.
It had become their favourite place, perhaps because it overlooked the sea.
Pru looked at her now with a different expression, less solemn, far less wary.
Anna thought she understood and it touched her heart.
‘We will never change our minds, my dear,’ she said quietly. ‘The Captain owes you an enormous debt, and so do I. You and Allan and I all needed each other at Mrs Fillion’s. That was a hard time, wasn’t it?’
Pru nodded. ‘I was afraid.’
‘So was I.’
She looked in surprise at Anna. ‘ You were afraid, too?’
‘My goodness, yes, my dear. I was terrified.’
‘I didn’t know…’ Pru hesitated.
‘Yes?’
‘…that grown-ups feared anything.’
‘We do,’ Anna said simply. Should she? Yes. ‘Even the Captain has confided in me that he is afraid at times. It’s part of being human.’
Pru sighed. Was it disappointment? Was it relief? I know so little about children , Anna thought, then took another chance, since she had been taking chances ever since she’d opened her door to John.
‘Pru, I have never put myself forward, but the times seem to require it now, wouldn’t you agree?
’ To her relief, Pru nodded, giving Anna the courage to continue.
‘I’d say we make a good crew on land, fears and all.
Now we’re in another strange place, but we are together—you, me, Allan—and will remain so. The Captain will join us when he can.’
Pru rested her head against Anna’s shoulder. Anna put her arm around the child grown too old too fast, and kissed her hair, which smelled of Menorcan sunshine. Pru sighed and closed her eyes, and somehow, in some way, grew a little younger. Trust me , Anna thought.
The day when Anna, disgusted with herself, realised that waiting for John and the Swallow to reappear was a senseless waste of time was the day she heard the door open and that longed-for, ‘Ahoy, you lubbers! Give me a kiss!’
Me first, me first! she thought as she hurried to the hall, and she was first. John tossed off his fore and aft hat and grabbed her, pulling her close.
He smelled of brine and a little bay rum.
He could have smelled like a kitchen midden and it wouldn’t have mattered.
He kissed her soundly, held her off and joked, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ and kissed her soundly again before she even had time to laugh and swat him.
When he picked her up to hold her even closer—grateful no one else was in the hall—Anna did see someone over his shoulder, a wide-eyed young woman standing by the door John had flung open.
‘John, put me down,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘Who…who…’
‘My wife, the owl,’ he teased, but set her down. ‘Mrs Beattie, I completely forgot my manners.’
‘Indeed you did,’ she said, happy to have his arms around her, even if her skirt needed adjusting.
By now, Allan had hurled himself down the stairs and into John’s arms, with Pru close behind, to stand there until Anna beckoned her forward.
‘We have a visitor,’ she said. ‘John, mind your manners.’
He gave her a kindly smile. ‘You’re a good woman, Mrs Beattie,’ he said. ‘Let me introduce you to a princess, or something like that.’
She came closer most regally, in Anna’s eyes, but when had she ever seen a real princess before? There was a superior expression on her face, as if the last place she ever wanted to be was on Menorca, or in a house with an obvious commoner who kissed a man so brazenly.
She came a few steps closer and no more, as if it were the commoners’ turn to do the honours.
‘She’s a little particular,’ John whispered. ‘I didn’t bow to her on our first encounter and she still holds that against me.’
‘You plebian,’ Anna whispered back and moved towards her, because she saw something else in the young lady’s eyes. Maybe it was the weariness of someone out of her depth and desperate not to show it, or someone tossed about by the fortunes of war, even as they were.
‘I am Mrs Beattie, wife of Captain Beattie,’ Anna said, hesitant to extend her hand, which she suspected would receive a rebuff. At the same time, she didn’t feel inclined to curtsy. ‘Do you…do you speak any English?’
‘I should hope so,’ the young lady replied most properly. ‘I am Sofia Callona, daughter of the Count of Callona. My mother is Lady Cynthia Pruitt of the Kent Pruitts. Surely you have heard of them .’
Well, no, she had not. Still, this was a guest.
‘We’re delighted to have you here,’ Anna said. ‘This is Allan Beattie and Pru Beattie. We are houseguests of Admiral Collingwood. You are our guest, and you are welcome.’
There was a long pause, and Anna wondered if she had said something wrong. ‘Princess?’ she asked.
For the first time, the young lady seemed less assured. She waved her hand. ‘As I said, my father is Conte de Callona, near Modena. You may call me Signorina Sofia.’
‘So we shall, signorina ,’ Anna said.
That’s not quite so grand as a princess , she thought. At least I needn’t genuflect .
‘I am so tired,’ la signorina said simply, then seemed to visibly rally. She held out a folded page. ‘These are my needs. See to them. Show me to your sitting room and I will wait there.’
John rolled his eyes, but thank goodness Signorina Sofia was looking at her, and not him.
‘Come with me and make yourself comfortable. I will inform our housekeeper that you are here.’ She took the paper and led her into the sitting room, with its huge windows overlooking the back lawn and its slope to their own inlet.
When the signorina was seated and studiously ignoring them, John took Anna’s arm as she started towards the Durands’ kitchen domain.
‘Admiral Collingwood sent her to me via Fast Dispatch Vessel. Someone will meet her here in a few days and escort her by private yacht to England. Let’s see her list of demands. ’
He looked over his shoulder. ‘Allan and Pru, please take my hat and duffel upstairs to my room. Thank you, dears.’
When they were out of sight, he sank into a hall chair and pulled Anna onto his lap. ‘I confess to growling at my crew and looking all squinty-eyed until Mr Marsing—imagine this—told me to stop acting like a surly idiot.’
‘He couldn’t possibly have said that.’
‘It was more like, “Sir, we’ll tie up in Port Mahon as soon as possible”.’
‘Serves you right,’ she teased, then unfolded the paper as he read over her shoulder.
She read it again, amazed at its contents.
‘John, according to this…this missive, she must have an airy bed chamber that overlooks the sea, sheets changed daily, a bath every morning, absolute quiet until eleven of the clock each morning, and a maid to brush her hair and dress her. And she must approve of the daily menu.’
‘P’raps no one told her there is a war on?’ He sighed. ‘Let’s break the bad news to the Durands.’
Madame took the news with a sigh probably heard on neighbouring Mallorca. ‘Please assure me this is only a short stay.’
‘That is what the Admiral’s note said,’ John assured her. ‘Three days, maybe four.’
Madame thawed enough to tease, ‘And the bedchamber? I trust you will be giving up yours, as it is the only one that overlooks the sea?’
He chuckled. ‘Alas, Mrs Beattie and I had other plans…’
Anna felt her face grow warm, but Madame laughed. ‘Captain Beattie, I suspect that men are the same the world over.’
‘We must be.’ He had the continued good grace to give the housekeeper a courtly bow. ‘Anna and I will find a bed in a closet if we must!’
‘A closet?’ Madame Durand scoffed, then smiled. ‘I have a better idea. Come with me.’