Uncharted Waters
Three days after Edward’s birth, the Sir Richard continued her laborious progress toward England.
The February winds grew colder and fickler, sometimes driving them forward with promising speed, other times dropping to frustrating calm that left them wallowing in the swells.
Much like Wentworth’s own state of mind, that alternated between moments of purpose and periods of uncertain drift.
He had established a routine of sorts with mornings devoted to ship’s business, overseeing Lieutenant Small’s fumbling attempts at maintaining discipline among the crew, consulting with Eyerly about their course and the vessel’s many deficiencies.
Afternoons found him dividing his time between Anne’s bedside and meeting with his few warrant officers capable of working the urgent repairs needed to keep Sir Richard seaworthy. His evenings were spent with his son.
Anne was struggling to nurse the child, and in the meantime, Edward was thriving with the milk of the one goat they shipped. It was all bewildering and profound to him.
Today, as Wentworth made his way below decks for his midday visit to Anne, he found her sitting up for the first time since the birth.
She was still pale, but her eyes were bright, and she had managed to have Llewellyn help her into a loose gown rather than the nightdress she had worn these past days.
“This is progress indeed,” he said, unable to keep the relief from his voice as he took a seat on the small stool beside her cot.
“Llewellyn says I am healing well,” Anne replied. “Though she forbids my attempting to stand just yet.”
“And you will obey her in this,” Wentworth said, his tone making it more command than request. “We are still at least five days from Plymouth, assuming the wind cooperates.”
Anne smiled. “I have little choice but to cooperate myself. I find I am weaker than I expected to be.”
He took her hand, noting that though still cool to the touch, it had more strength than during those frightening hours after Edward’s birth. “You lost a great deal of blood. Hannigan says it will take time to recover your strength.”
“And where is our son? With Llewellyn?”
“With Eyerly, actually,” Wentworth replied, still somewhat surprised by this development himself. “The man has revealed a talent for taking care of babies. He claims to have helped raise several younger brothers and sisters.”
This drew a genuine laugh from Anne. “I cannot picture your fearsome bosun cradling our tiny Edward.”
“Nor could I until I witnessed it. The sight of Eyerly’s weathered hands holding Edward makes the boy appear even smaller than he is.” Wentworth paused, then added, “The crew finds it highly amusing, though none dare say so within Eyerly’s hearing.”
“And how fares Sir Richard? Have you managed to restore order after your birthday celebrations?”
Wentworth grimaced. “The vessel itself remains a concern. We’ve sprung a leak in the forward hold that must be pumped out every three hours, but is holding at that, and the foremast shows signs of rot that I dislike.
As for the crew—” He broke off, unwilling to burden Anne with the full extent of his concerns.
“Tell me.” Her weakness did not diminish her perception. “I am not so fragile that I cannot hear the truth of our situation.”
He sighed, relenting. “They are a poor excuse for a naval crew. Small has neither the experience nor the temperament to maintain discipline, and several of the men have begun to test his limitations. Of which there are several. There have been two fights since Edward’s birth, and I suspect someone has smuggled additional spirits aboard. ”
“Is there danger?” Anne asked directly.
“Not of mutiny, if that is your concern. They are more indolent than rebellious. But their carelessness could become dangerous if we encounter difficult weather.” He squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Do not trouble yourself. Eyerly and I have sailed with worse.”
Anne nodded, though Wentworth could see she was not entirely convinced. She shifted slightly; her face pinched at the movement.
“You should rest,” he said, rising to help her lie back down.
“In a moment,” she replied. “First, I wish to know what awaits us in England. Have you received any communication about your future assignment?”
“None,” Wentworth admitted, settling back onto the stool. “Our departure from Minorca was so abrupt, and the admiral was so uncooperative.” He thought for a moment. “It still stands that I am to deliver the Sir Richard to Plymouth. They will decommission her, I expect.”
“And then?”
“And then we wait for the Admiralty to remember I even exist.” He lamented the edge in his voice. “It is the way of the navy in peacetime, Anne. Men who were indispensable during war find themselves superfluous.”
“You are hardly superfluous, Frederick. Your record speaks for itself.” Her grasp was the firmest he’d felt in days.
“Records gather dust in Admiralty offices while younger men with influential connexions advance.” The old bitterness was generally kept better concealed. “Forgive me. This is not a concern you need to bear at present.”
Anne’s gaze was steady. “If it concerns you, it concerns me. I chose this life as surely as you.”
“That you did,” he agreed. “Though I never intended the vows to include childbirth aboard a decrepit vessel bound for an uncertain future.”
“Life rarely conforms to our intentions,” she mumbled. “As you often tell me, time and tide wait for no man, Frederick. We shall adapt to circumstances as they arise.”
When they had become gradually acquainted, he was drawn to a beautiful young well-born girl.
Upon meeting again several years later, he found she had acquired a wisdom that he found appealing in its own way.
While other women in these conditions might have complained bitterly, Anne simply accepted reality and set her mind on the forward path.
“What would you have us do?”
She considered this for a moment. “We have means enough to live comfortably for many years without the navy. We have been careful and are not in the sort of position Father found himself in when you came back to stay with Sophy and the Admiral in the year fourteen.”
“Twenty-five thousand pounds is a substantial sum,” Wentworth acknowledged. “But money alone does not provide purpose.”
“No. But it provides time to find purpose.” Anne paused, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. He could see the fatigue. “Have you considered that this unexpected return to England might be fortuitous? We can give Edward a home he will not have to leave suddenly as we did.”
“I had not thought of it in those terms. My concern has been primarily for your comfort and safety.”
“And I appreciate that. But now we must think of Edward’s future as well as our own.”
As if summoned by his name, a knock at the door preceded Eyerly’s entrance, the small bundle that was Edward Wentworth cradled carefully in his arms.
“Begging your pardon, Mrs Wentworth, Captain,” the bosun said, “but the little gentleman has awakened and seems disinclined to return to sleep without seeing his mother.”
Anne’s face transformed at the sight of her son, a radiance overcoming her pallor. The Captain took the bundle from Eyerly, transferring the infant to his mother.
“Thank you, Mr Eyerly,” she said warmly. “You are very good to care for him.”
“It’s no trouble, ma’am,” the bosun replied, with a softness in his gruff voice that Wentworth had rarely heard. “He’s a good lad. Hardly cries unless he has cause.”
“A true sailor already,” Wentworth commented. “Pragmatic in his complaints.”
Eyerly’s weathered face creased in what might have been a smile. “If you’ve no further need of me, Captain, I should return to the deck. Small is attempting to have the men exercise the forward pump, and I mistrust his approach.”
“Go.” Wentworth nodded. “I shall remain here for a time.”
When the bosun had gone, Wentworth turned to find Anne gazing at Edward with an expression of such tenderness that he felt a knot in his throat.
The boy was awake. It was a lively matter of discussion that the boy had his father’s eyes.
Those eyes, as they should be, were focused on his mother’s face.
“He knows you,” Wentworth observed quietly.
“Perhaps,” Anne replied. “Or perhaps he simply knows that I am the source of his sustenance.” She adjusted her gown to allow the child to nurse.
Wentworth watched the two of them, struck again by the strange miracle of it all. Three days ago, this child had not existed in the world, yet now it seemed impossible to imagine life without him.
“We met a packet yesterday,” he said suddenly, reminded of correspondence he had not yet shared with Anne. “From Patrick. Your sister sends her best wishes.”
Anne looked up from Edward. “And what have the McGillvarys to say? Is everything up to scratch in Bath?”
What would be more shocking to the baronet? That Anne would use such terms or that the sisters were now on good terms after Elizabeth’s marriage to his friend?
“He has again made an offer for me to come into business with him. He says he is in need of a partner with judgement and experience of the wider world.”
“And you would like to be a man of business instead of an officer in the navy?” Anne asked, her voice neutral.
Wentworth shrugged. “I suspect his position at the Admiralty, though retired, makes him privy to information about me and my lack of orders. The offer is a kindness and nothing more. I have not given it serious thought.”
“Perhaps you should,” Anne said quietly. “Not as an immediate course of action, but as a possibility to consider should your next naval assignment prove… less than satisfactory.”
Wentworth frowned. “You would have me leave the service? Become a man of business?”
“I would have you be happy,” she replied. “Whether that is at sea or on land matters less to me than your contentment.” She looked down at Edward again. “Though I confess there would be certain advantages to a more settled life now that we have a child.”
The thought of leaving the navy created a hollow sensation in Wentworth’s chest. He’d left home at fourteen and had no permanent home since.
He had not counted Minorca as a permanent home.
True wisdom on his part. There was no denying the appeal of constancy for Anne and Edward, particularly after the precarious circumstances of the past weeks.
“It need not be decided now.” Her voice was soft. “We have time and means to consider our options carefully.”
“Yes.” Wentworth agreed, though the uncertainty of their future still weighed upon him. “Once we reach Plymouth, we shall have a clearer sense of what the Admiralty intends.”
A sudden commotion of shouts and running feet drew Wentworth’s attention. He rose.
“A crisis to be quelled,” he said, already at the door. “Continue your rest. I shall return when I can.”
“Frederick,” Anne called after him, her voice stronger than it had been since before the birth. “Remember that whatever awaits us in England, we face it together. All three of us.”
He paused at the door, looking back at his little family. A tableau that seemed strangely incongruous aboard a naval vessel yet was now the centre of his existence.
“The three of us.” The words were sweet to his ear. He turned to address whatever fresh disaster awaited him.
As he climbed the companionway, Wentworth reflected that command of a ship, even one as troublesome as the Sir Richard, was familiar territory. Fatherhood was a chart he had never studied. They were sailing into waters with no understanding of depth or the shoals that might await them.