”Mr Towrey, am I correct in assuming you are here to take me out?”

”Aye, Sir. Cap’n said to make sure you thought you was glidin’ o’r glass the pull was to be so smooth.”

”I’m sure it will be,” he said as he took a seat in the stern. The day had been hot from early in the morning and the sun was still a glorious fury in the sky. There had not been a breath of wind all day; sails not furled hung limp, along with all flags and pennants. It was nearly three; the heat would persist for several hours.  As the small boat slid across the water, he saw little activity on the decks of the ships they passed.

Even at the easy pace set by the coxswain, sweat was dripping from the faces of the men rowing. The dark blue baize of his uniform was absorbing the heat and becoming uncomfortable. The beaver felt of his cocked hat rested heavily on his brow and gripped like an iron band around his head. A drop of sweat escaped and began a slow, torturous roll down the back of his neck. A gusty breeze kicked up and blew across the boat and crew. He focused on the cool of the breeze and the prickling sensation as the bead of sweat moved through the short hairs. He did not allow the luxury of wiping it away. Keeping his back straight and hands on his knees was a discipline he required himself to exercise. To give into his physical discomfort, and ease it, would be sort of betrayal. He must suffer, even in this trivial way, for the suffering he was to inflict.

“There we are, Sir.” The coxswain pointed to a sloop just ahead. He was surprised to see a neat, trim, rather large ship-sloop. Her deck was the exception around the fleet as it was alive with activity. He could see Benwick standing at the waist. He could not help smiling; James was perfect as a picture with his glass to his eye watching them approach. The man had been fastidious as a woman when he was Wentworth’s First and it seemed that nothing was changed. The crew would titivate until the moment he planted a foot on the deck. It was Benwick’s first real command, he could not disdain the pride and the desire to show off his beautiful Grappler.

It was plain to see, as they moved closer, that Grappler was indeed a true ship with three masts. However, it was also clear she had been stripped down and rebuilt several times to arrive at her present configuration. This was no great shock as the term was only a vague notion rather than a precise definition. It was good to see that Grappler, if she was as he suspected, cobbled together, contrived with a deft hands and some elegance of design. Wentworth was glad his friend’s first command was one of which he could be proud.

The small boat gently nudged Grappler’s side and the rope was tossed. It was just a few steps up the accommodation ladder and he was aboard. Unlike a rated ship, a sloop’s deck is flush. This being the case, there is no quarterdeck, that universally acknowledged holy ground on which the captain is high priest and supreme master. Despite this imperfection, Grappler was a fine ship. He counted sixteen twelve-pounders and a fine pair of nine-pounders at both bow and stern. She had pretensions of being a small frigate in her weight and capacity. He estimated her compliment to be between eighty and one hundred men. He quickly counted twelve marines as well. No, unlike his timeworn Asp, Grappler was sleek and sturdy ship that could not be disparaged in the eyes of anyone who understood sailing vessels.

“Captain Wentworth, welcome aboard His Majesty’s sloop, Grappler. The boatswain’s pipe pierced the heat and the assembled men stood taller.

”Mr Furlong, weigh anchor if you please.” Furlong called to the boatswain and another call sounded; this one sending the men to their stations to raise the anchor. Turning to his guest, Benwick smiled and said, “You have brought us good luck, Sir, I watched you as you rowed out, and the wind picked up markedly as you came to us.”

Inwardly Frederick groaned. His hope was for a quiet visit, a private meal, and the unburdening of himself. Obviously, that was not the plan of James Benwick, or Providence above.

A young man, with a fiddle, mounted the capstan and began to play a shanty to set the cadence for the men exerting themselves on the bars. Employment of the canty tunes was falling out of favour with scientific captains, those more attuned to the modus operandi of sailing than giving any place to the romance of her traditions. On this brilliant day, on such an excellent ship, and in the company of his friend, Frederick could see nothing in the world wrong with the practice. Benwick beamed as his men worked, and the familiar tune did much to lighten his own heart.

In just a few moments, he knew the camaraderie of the old days was not lost. In fact, Benwick’s newly awarded parity made Frederick feel their bond more acutely. A man could occupy the position of a ship’s first officer, and even be the particular friend to the captain, but until such a man had first-hand understanding of command, he could not fully comprehend his friend. Understanding only came with knowing the intense joy of authority and its natural partner, the sharp sting of isolation. Benwick might command a ship smaller than his prized Laconia, but the commander was now, in most ways, the captain’s equal.

”We shall haul clear of the shipping lanes and work the guns. The men have fadged up several targets and I am told the wagering is wonderfully heated as to which crew will carry the day.” Taking a second look at Wentworth, he said, “Are you unwell? Let us move out of the sun.”

He was unwell, but heat and sun did not answer for it. However, it was a relief to step into the shade of the canvas stretched over the waist and stern of the ship.

She eased out to open sea. Towery was at the wheel and did as fine a job as any sailing master. Benwick tried mightily to hide his apprehension, but the occasional widening of the eyes and pursing lips smoked him out. Frederick assumed this was his first opportunity to show off his crew, and the fellow dreaded any mistakes. He remained expressionless and ignored the few slight errors.

Once they were in unpopulated water, Benwick evidently felt he could divide his attention, and said, ”As you can see, we are well equipped with twelve-pounders. I would dearly love to trade them, even just a few, for sixteen, or even eighteens, but I am fairly certain her knees would buckle with the first shot.”

Frederick considered this and said, “You may escape the natural consequences of shooting off larger guns, once, perhaps twice, but after that it is highly likely you would find yourself bursting your seams and having to ask your adversary for a tow into port.” They laughed at such foolishness. “No, it is best to exercise with the aim of improving your rate of reload. Sloops in close action, with crack gun crews, are the likeliest to come out the prize-winner.”

This observation began an earnest conversation. When Benwick was the First on the Laconia, he would never have endured, in part or whole, any comment which gave the slightest superiority to a sloop over a frigate. However, as he was now captaining the first and not the second, his opinion was more elastic. He put forth a suggestion that the Navy might be better served increasing emphasis on the smaller, and more manoeuvreable sloops, than the larger gunned, more heavily manned, less responsive frigates.

The good-natured, but deep conversation went on for some time, weighing the merits of each design, positive and negative; bringing to bear every ounce of their own particular prejudice in favor of their opinion. But it was Wentworth who finally settled the issue pointing out that, regardless of the skill or luck of the gun captain, nearly any sloop could be sunk with one good shot. A frigate on the other hand must sustain substantial damage in order for her to sink. Neither was inclined to discuss larger ships and the effect of their weaponry on the structure of a frigate, so the discussion ended amiably.

Grappler sailed well, not as tightly on the bowline as he would like, but she was completely acceptable. Benwick consulted with his deck officers as the bell struck the hour. Every man was employed and all was as it should be on a King’s ship. Despite a creeping headache, for the first time in days, though he had yet to deliver his unfortunate news, he felt at home. The deck was alive under his feet, not merely drifting in Plymouth Sound, and he rode with the wind rather than accept her touch with for purpose.

He could not help but notice the Benwick’s new epaulettes gleaming bright in the sun. Even when he moved back into the shade of the canvas, the boards maintained their pristine radiance. They lacked the crown and anchor, but they communicated influence nonetheless.

The ship was as fine as a man could hope for his first command and Benwick was rightfully proud. If only Grappler were a scandalous ship and her crew unmistakable slow-bellies who deserved none of his respect. Perhaps that would ease his conscience and make telling the news easier. Most likely not. Were the ship a scandal and the crew fit for nothing, he would have felt pity all the more. The situation was impossible and Frederick knew it.

In short order they arrived at the spot where Benwick intended to show off his gun crews. The anchor was dropped and he ordered they beat to quarters. The men jumped into action, anxious to prove themselves to their captain and his guest, and, no doubt, anxious to collect on the “wonderfully heated” wagers.

The targets were towed out and the festivities began.

After several rounds and the sinking of one target, an incongruent tea party was arranged. The heat below deck was too oppressive for human endurance, necessitating the refreshments be brought to the gentlemen at the stern. The beverages consisted of plain grog for those so inclined or a rum shrub, which suffered very little for being warm. For those with an appetite, an assortment of sweet biscuits, including an entire plate of arrack biscuits, was part of the offering. Benwick was a canny host and never drew attention to the fact the biscuits were a favorite of his old master. The lemon in the shrub was refreshing, and after several biscuits, Frederick felt more like himself.

The tournament devised required several rounds be shot off, with the eventual elimination of one gun crew. The competition was keen and those eliminated were adamant in cheering on their favorite crews. Crediting the smell of burning powder and the lively, though ribald calls of the men for lifting his spirits, he fell under the enchantment of the sea, and the men, and the life he was most suited for.

After an hour’s time, keen shooting and aggressive competitive spirit had eliminated all but two gun crews. All the other teams, from their lowly powder monkeys to exalted gun captains, were obliged to rest, drink a round of grog ordered by their captain, and cheer their mates. The excitement was high, but the uniformity of the teams in skill and swagger kept either from taking an advantage.

The men of Iron Death were a spindly lot, but full of skill and purpose. Those manning Bloody Terror were beefy and blustering, and determined to prevail by taking the extra rations of tobacco, and of rum, promised the winners.

”Benwick, I am afraid the equality of these men will empty your magazine if this is allowed to go on much longer.” The competition, while exciting, and acting as a restorative to Frederick’s state of mind, was wearing thin and he wished to see its conclusion.

”And what do you suggest?”

Reaching into his inner coat pocket, he pulled out a hand full of coins and picked out several. “I imagine these are the sort of men who will work double-quick for a sure, and generous, reward.”

Benwick nodded and swept a hand, giving permission for Frederick to address the crews.

The boatswain blew his pipe and the men stopped their cheering, wagering, and murdering of targets to listen. ”Gentlemen,” he called out as he walked to the larboard rail, where the remaining men stood poised.

”I thank you for your exertions on our behalf, we have been greatly entertained by your skill and energy. In gratitude, I offer an inducement.” He raised his hand so that they might see the coins. “In addition to the extra ration of rum and tobacco, I offer a guinea for each man on the winning crew, with a crown bonus for the gun captain.”

Smiles broke out on the dirty, tired faces of the two crews, and the cheers of the others, if possible, became louder still. He returned to his place next to Benwick, and after much conferring between the crewmembers, the competition began again.

Each crew became more conscientious and each shot took longer to load, tamp, aim and fire off. The promise of a monetary reward made each man particularly scrupulous concerning his own job, and more so when it came to advising their mates on theirs.  Frederick mused that it would be the crew who could throw caution to the wind and rest on their natural ability who would take the prize.  In three shots, the competition was concluded. The men of Iron Death pushed their powder monkey, a thin, pale boy named Herman, forward. After making his obedience, he received the coins, made a leg and hared back to his gun captain.

Benwick said, as the applause for the winners died away, “You are a hero now. This will be spoken of for quite some time.”

”Ha! The Greeks would be embarrassed to know they wasted all that blood and life for what I now have at comparatively little cost.” Taking out another coin, he handed it to James and said, “I know that Mr Trent, being a junior officer, should not be accepting what is only a little short of a bribe, but if this were prize money, he would have his share. See that he gets this if you please.” He had noticed the stout, somewhat awkward midshipman, who led the winning gun crew, was all eyes as the guineas were handed round. Frederick could not bear the idea that Young Master Trent’s victory would be overshadowed by a slavish devotion to a well-intentioned principle. By any fair means he would see that this young man marked himself a part of his men, sharing the fruits of their labour, rather than one above who could be spoilt into taking his rewards by lording his position and mean deeds.

”Certainly, Frederick. Trent is a good boy. I hope to keep him on my next commission. And what of the Laconia? Have you gotten orders as of yet?”

”No, no orders. I am assured she will be placed in ordinary. I gave her copper a terrible battering and it all must come off to be replaced. And there are a few other things that have been ignored for some time. The real frustration is how those villainous shipwrights are, when they get their hands on her, they will find a thousand and one other things in need of repair just to justify their jobs. No, I think my dear girl and I are to be separated for good, James.”

The look on James’s face said it all. He was deeply sympathetic that Frederick’s ship should be taken from him, but he was also thankful that he was not the one to endure the loss.

Lieutenant Furlong begged pardon to speak and asked, since the wind had died, did Benwick wish to be underway so as to reach port before dark.

”Aye. Starboard watch to the boats, and dismiss the larboard watch to dinner, then join us in the great cabin when you are finished.”

He was relieved that they would be returning to their anchorage immediately, but it was also clear that there would be no quiet, private dinner, but a full, loud table that was the prerogative of any captain. He clung to the idea that, in but a few hours, he would be free of his burden.

”I know you prefer keeping to the old ways, and the old dinner time of six bells, but I could not resist taking her out and remind you what sailing a sloop was like. She’s not much, but I know you will excuse the excessive pride. Even the parent of a pale and thin child likes to show them off.” He looked at Frederick with an embarrassed half-smile and headed towards the gangway.

Coming into the great cabin, which in a sloop was a term of courtesy and not one of exact description, Wentworth remembered how he struggled to keep the skin on his head while living below on the Asp. Between the beams, he could just stand to his full height, but still he felt the presence of the decking above. He noticed that Benwick had no trouble standing straight, and even seemed to have space above.

The room was obviously James’s. Several crates, doubling as bookshelves, containing many nicely bound volumes, were placed neatly beneath the stern windows. One set was treble-stacked in the far corner. It indicated Benwick’s understanding of the practicalities of life aboard ship. The crates would simply be carried off and stowed in the hold when necessary to clear for action. Though it was not so onboard a sloop, her guns being on the weather deck, it demonstrated he was considering his future commands and was all ready adapting to life aboard a larger vessel. Aside from the books, there was a small chest of drawers, a dining table, laid with serviceable china and pewter, and a small writing desk. Again, the desk reflected its owner. It was tidy and all the writing utensils placed in neat ranks. This cabin was Benwick’s territory all right. His exacting mark was everywhere. Even to the small silhouette of a woman, perched on the open desk.

”I have to say, I was quite shocked when Furlong told me you were at the Crown last night. I’m afraid I was…” he said, a look of embarrassment creeping across his face.

He handed over his hat and said, ”You were sated with the fruits of victory, James. As for not knowing I was present, I was quite late to the party. You had no reason to expect me. However, I could not be in Portsmouth and not wish you joy. And so I do. She looks to be a fine ship.”

The embarrassment disappeared and pure delight took its place. “She is, Frederick, I assure you. No man has had such good fortune in obtaining a command. Oh, there are few situations that are not to my liking, but I shall deal with them as I was shown by a former captain of mine.”

He handed Wentworth a glass of cool water. “I like to think that I learnt at the elbow of a master.”

The compliment was crushing. James’s shy nature made such a passionate admission all the more agonizing to him. What he was charged to do would call into question not only his personal affection for Benwick, but his status as the man’s exemplar as well.

”I thank you for the fine words, James, but at the very best I am a journeyman. I am not sure that, no matter what we may call an officer, any one of us can ever truly be a master where the sea is concerned.”

Benwick smiled at the deferral. The moment of high feelings was interrupted by the arrival of the other guests. Lieutenant Milsome of the Marines looked to be nearly as young as Furlong, but his voice smoked him out as more adult than youngster. There was the ship’s Master, Mr Rodderick. He was a graying man, but, like all masters he had ever known, possessed lively eyes and a ruddy tint to his cheeks. Midshipman Trent was introduced, after Benwick himself had taken the boy aside and given him the guinea. Lieutenant Furlong came in just as the steward was about to close the door.

”The boats are away, Sir.”

”Very good, Lieutenant. Shall we all be seated? Captain, you will of course do me the honour of taking the head of the table.”

For just a moment, all the suppressed pity which had been Frederick’s constant companion for the entirety of his travels, threatened to refuse the seat. However, to do so would go against all tradition and courtesy.  Just as on land, it was an honour to give over one’s rightful place to a superior. Even more so at the Captain’s own table.

”Certainly, Commander. I assure you, the honour is all mine.” He took the seat and the rest of the men followed his lead.

The room was stuffed to bursting with the guests, a steward for each and the men seeing to the removes. That being the case, the room was still insufferably hot, but mercifully, the starboard watch was pulling its heart out and a breath of wind was moving through the open stern windows and the skylight above.

The food was excellent. Benwick had taken care with the menu, and coins from his own purse, to see that the fare was to Wentworth’s liking. He was not sure whether the heat and headache were to blame for his lack of appetite, or his natural dread of things to come. The reason was irrelevant, the news was to be postponed and nothing could be done for it. He would have to put on a good face and do his utmost to uphold his responsibility as a first-rate guest.

The meal was progressing wonderfully. All the faces around the table were red with the heat, and a few with more wine than was good for them. Furlong and Trent were acquitting themselves well by listening raptly to their betters. The indelicate subject of promotions had come to the fore. Benwick had just told of his own step up from Mid to Lieutenant. It was a laughable circumstance, which left all the party saluting the fates and their mysterious ways.

 ”And I must add, Master and Commander Benwick, had I been apprised of the entire incident, I am not certain I would have allowed you on my quarter deck. A man who can manage to sink the captain’s boat, with him in it, is not to be trusted.” Wentworth smiled particularly at Benwick and saluted him.

The men all raised their glasses, laughing and calling, “Hear him. Hear him.”

The bottle was passed and when the glasses were once more full, Mr Trent ventured forth into the fray. “Captain Wentworth, might we know how you came to your rank?”

All around the table stared at the child. Squeakers were invited to dine in the great cabin so that they might learn to be civilized and behave decently when in company.  This training did not include them asking questions of those far superior to them. However, Frederick was in a better frame of mind; the room was not nearly as stifling as it had been earlier and the wine had improved his appetite some, though the headache was still lurking behind his eyes. To be sure, manners went into the making of an officer and a gentleman, but courage must be counted for something.

Smiling at the boy, he began. “I think my promotion to Commander would be more instructive, Mr Trent.”

He was puzzled as to why he said such a thing. The step to captain had been a great adventure; there had been the chase, the first raging storm of the commission, and the sinking of his ship just after delivering a exceptional French frigate into the hands of the Admiralty. It was a story that, at the time, had piqued the interest of more than one high-ranking official in Whitehall. In fact, it was a story he had dined on more than once. Perhaps he looked further into the past because when he made Commander, his love for the sea, and for the navy, was still pure and undiluted by anything, or anyone. To that point, the most attractive thing he had ever seen was a ship at full sail. He had not yet learnt that the wounds of battle were nothing compared to the pain of the human heart rejected by another.

It was dusk before the French finally surrendered to the superior British forces. The now 77-gun Borthwick, (she had lost one over the side during the action), had taken two captures. The Petite Fleur, once the English Rose, was a brig-sloop that had been ferrying munitions between the French ships. Her crew was minimal, but would still put bounty money into the pockets of the Borthwicks.

It was well dark before First Lieutenant Hale saw Rosie, as they were now calling the repatriated boat, secured, manned with prize a crew and ready to sail. Midnight was sounding as Second Lieutenant Wentworth lay on the surgeon’s table, on the orlop deck, he could hear the calls of the men wishing Hale well as he pulled away into the darkness. When first presenting himself to the medico, there had been talk of malingering, as there were few visible wounds. When he had removed his coat, the surgeon had become terribly business-like and nearly torn off his shirt. A deep knife wound near the left kidney was the concern. After probing the wound, none too gently, and finding no broken blade still inside, it was determined that the lieutenant was very lucky indeed, and that he should be saying extra prayers for quite some time to come. After being stitched up, and dosed with a foul tasting tincture, he was sent on his way.

The energy of battle was subsiding as he had a proper wash. His empty stomach was grinding away even as his exhausted body sank into his hammock. He tried to rest as the enormity of the day’s events crashed in on him. Succumbing to the swing of his bed as the ship rolled, he relived every moment, every stroke of the blade, every man who fell before him.

“You know the Captain is all ready writing the letters to the Admiralty. Let me be the first to wish you joy at the promotion I know will come of this.”

He looked up to see his friend, Patrick, holding out cups and a bottle of wine. “I always knew you to be a man of courage. You more than proved it in this engagement, Frederick. And, you will prove yourself even more when the orders for the Jeanette are prepared and you sail away with her tomorrow. I inspected her cargo. Your part of the prize will be sizeable.”

The news he would be taking the Jeannette immediately revived him. “How is this possible? The Jeannette is the larger of the two, and Hale has taken the brig. You, by all rights, should be the one to take her.” He sat up, cursing the wound.

”Yes, by rights I should. Nevertheless, as the first officer I must put the good of the ship above my own personal gain. There are major repairs that need a better hand than yours overseeing them.” He did not smile, there wasn’t any softness about him at all.

”But you sent off Hale, who has time and rank all over me. At best, I should have had Rosie.”

”So, perhaps I misjudged the repairs, and the time needed to facilitate them. Who was to know that Chips would be so deft repairing the damage to her rudder and making fast that crack in those two larboard knees? Can I help it if we have the finest, most talented crew in this part of the world?”

”When I follow him into Plymouth, just a few days behind, he will bellow so loudly you’ll hear him no matter where you are.”

”Lieutenant, do not begin your ascendancy by questioning your superiors.” Patrick’s face was as hard set as he had ever seen it. The situation was of his making, and to his liking, and would stand.

He left the hammock and joined Patrick, leaning at the doorway. “Thank you, McGillvary,” was all that was ever said between them.

”Well, this is an occasion,” he said, taking the bottle, along with one of the proffered cans. “It takes an event of great magnitude to propel Master and Commander, no doubt soon to be Captain, McGillvary, into the bowels of the ship to visit with an inferior.” He poured each of them a bumper of the wine. They drank, and then he said, “As for courage and promotions, I think you exaggerate, Paddy.”  Nothing was said as they threaded their way further aft, to the table in the gunroom.

It was called a room, but was really no more than a clearing behind a set of stairs, with a terribly abused table and two creaking benches. There was no one about, it was the middle watch and little stirred below. The only sounds were assorted snuffings and snortings from various curtained sleeping areas, which served as quarters for the inferior and warrant officers. Occasionally there was  laughter from the duty watch above.

Both men were worn-out and too lazy to slide more than a few inches down the seat. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder, drank their wine and picked at a plate of boiled mutton and potatoes left from that afternoon’s dinner.

McGillvary shoved the scavenged plate aside, and refilled the mugs. Slowly, they drank them away.

“Are you sure about the Captain writing letters, or is this another one of your tricks, Patrick?”

“Me? Tricks? You wound me, Lieutenant Wentworth.” He straightened and placed his hand over his heart. “I swear, on all that is sacred to me, the Old Man is this minute writing a glowing report, much of it about his valiant Second Lieutenant.”

Frederick took a drink. “That is not much comfort for you are practically a pagan, and a blasphemer into the bargain.”

McGillvary’s cup came down hard. “I realize I am not the most pious of men, but friend, believe me, I would not set you up for a fall. I had to endure a long homiletic on several of you lower ranking heroes.” He filled his cup and drank it down. “I think he is wonderfully amazed by his talented gaggle of junior officers.”

Wentworth snatched the bottle before McGillvary and emptied it into his mug. “You sound almost worried, my friend. Might you be contemplating the day I shall outstrip you?”

Patrick laughed, grabbed Frederick’s mug and drained it. Rising from the table, he said, “Lieutenant Wentworth, I will concede that your moral sense is more acute, owing to that religious brother of yours no doubt, but the day you become my superior officer, will never dawn.”  He slammed down the mug and left the room laughing.

The gentlemen of the Grappler also laughed heartily and, again, called for a toast to the latest story. He had not told them the finer details, but with no difficulty, he had thought of it all and the memory was as fresh in his mind as when he last told it.

“There now, Frederick, have a care.” Commander Wentworth had taken up a position next to his brother, bumping his arm in the process.

“Relax Edward, it is only wine. The gloomy uniform of a curate hides a multitude of stains.  No one will ever notice.”

“Yes, how fortunate for you that my uniform stands in such stark contrast to your glittering blue and gold,” he said, as he dabbed a handkerchief at the unseen spots of wine. “But, for all your success, even you cannot change the fact that wine is wet.” Before Frederick could reply, he continued, “You’re cross all of a sudden. Mission fail?”

Before he could answer, they heard the rustle of a gown and a gentle voice asked, “Mr Wentworth, might I importune on you for an introduction?”

Both men turned to the voice. Mr Wentworth was all smiles. “Of course, Miss Anne. Commander Frederick Wentworth, may I present Miss Anne Elliot. Her father is Sir Walter Elliot of Kellynch Hall.”

Frederick stiffened as he bowed and murmured a greeting.

“Commander. It is an honor to meet you. It is not often we have a genuine hero in our midst.  The action was in…”

The slight tilt to her head, as she tried to remember the name of the foreign shore, was breathtaking.

"San Domingo!" she exclaimed, again stifling his reply.

He glanced at his brother. His arrival in the area several weeks earlier had caused little comment. Miss Anne’s acknowledgement was, in fact, the first local recognition of his participation in the action against the French. The King’s reward was a step in rank, but no ship as of yet. Tonight, that was of little matter as the Commander found the admiration of a pretty, country girl far more invigorating.

“I am sure my brother exaggerated my importance in the matter, Miss Anne.”

Anne smiled at the curate. “He has been the picture of brotherly pride.” She glanced around and lowering her voice said, “In fact, there are many who are beginning to avoid his company all together, fearing they will have to endure your exploits for a third, even a fourth time.” She and opened a small lace fan. The bit of air stirred by it disturbed tiny curls at her temple.

Even the memory of the effect made him swallow hard.

Reluctantly, Frederick looked away, raising a brow towards his brother. It seemed odd that Edward would speak so freely with everyone but him. He had not wished to hoist his own flag, however, the efforts had been great, as had the reward and he wished to share it. To hear that the curate was becoming a tiresome braggart, was a surprise. And a pleasure.

Edward gave a little laugh. “Thank you for this bit of news, Miss Anne. I was merely riding the coattails of my brother. A curate’s life has hardly any luxuries. You cannot blame me for trying to muster a few more, and better quality, invitations to dinner. I shall endeavor to be judicious in the use of my brother’s exploits.” He looked into his brother’s eyes, then quickly lowered them and took a drink of his wine.

“Mr Wentworth, I am heartened to see such a humble man as yourself indulging in a few luxuries. I am sure your brother doesn’t feel your weight on his coattails a bit.”

“No, not a bit,” Frederick said, leaning his shoulder into Edward’s. He thought his brother did not care about his career, or even his safety, but it would seem he was quite mistaken.

After a few awkward looks and smiles, Edward set his glass aside and said, “I hope you will excuse me. I see a neighbour of mine over there, and I need to speak to him about a small matter.” He bowed to Miss Anne and left them.

Wringing her hands through an awkward moment of silence, she finally said, “Commander, while it has been my sincere pleasure to meet you, I have to apologize for my family, and now, for myself.”

”I see no need for you to apologise for anything.”  Apologies were due him, but from quite another quarter. He knew that ice would dam the River Styx before Sir Walter Elliot apologized for his contemptuous behavior. The same was true for his eldest daughter. Frederick would not allow this lovely girl to make amends for their lack of manners.

”You are very kind, but I heard my father.”

He did not remember seeing her anywhere nearby when the introductions to Sir Walter and Miss Elliot were accomplished. Trying not to think how many others might have heard the man’s deprecating remarks, he said, “From his comments, I think your father is not a admirer of the Royal Navy.”

”Well, from his comments, I would say you are correct. I cannot explain them. My father can be…capricious. I have never known him to be unsympathetic to the Navy, but I have not lived long enough to hear his views on every subject.”

”You needn’t worry, Miss Elliot, your father’s remarks were not sharp enough to cut very deeply. This is a very thick hide I wear.” Immediately he regretted his frankness and could not decide whether she coloured on account of the thoughtless comment concerning his person, or because the room’s temperature was rising markedly.

She smiled. “Might we walk and talk? I would not want the gossips having us in a tête-à-tête. Perhaps if we keep moving, we will escape their notice.”

As they began a circuit around the room, she pronounced the musicians to be quite good and he countered with the opinion that the dancing was quite good. She spoke of the lovely, though warm, weather and he remarked on the splendid countryside. After exhausting all topics of conversation suitable for strangers, they walked in silence.

Eventually, the quiet annoyed him more than the idea of another discomfiting remark and he said, “Again, I’m sure my brother exaggerated my part in San Domingo.”

They travelled only a little way before she spoke. “Actually, your brother has been very lavish with his praise of you and your great courage, but when I heard a genuine hero of the Crown was coming to our part of the world, I took it upon myself to learn more about the battle. Our neighbour, Lady Russell, subscribes to The Times and I borrowed her copies until I learnt all I could.”

The embarrassment he felt at her revelation was surprising. Suddenly, the room grew warmer and the small, though loud, country party faded away.

He looked around the room and then at Miss Anne. Her expression was serious; the light, easy manner was gone.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked.

”Captain.”

She turned and smiled at him. “I’m sorry. I can see that either I have put you off with my unrestrained praise, or I have merely bored you silly. For either one, I apologize.”

She began to move away. Reaching out, he touched her arm and she stopped. “No, I am sorry. Now I owe the apology. I allowed myself to be caught up in memories of the day. I’ve been at sea far too long, I’ve obviously forgotten how to behave in polite society.” He bowed. “Can you ever forgive me?”

”Captain,”

She nodded prettily. “All is forgiven, Commander. I am too sensitive. My rattling on tends to bore the family.”

It was no surprise that her blockheaded father and crushingly cold sister would be bored by an intelligent and refined mind. All he could say was, “I am not bored in the least.”

”Frederick,” said the insistent hiss.

He turned to see Benwick, offering him his glass. “The toast, Sir.”

”Ah.” He rose and hoisted his glass along with the rest.

”To the King.”

”To the King,” they cried in unison. They touched glasses, the sound like that of small birds in a tree. They drank the bumpers down and cried their ‘Huzzahs.’

He hesitated. He could not continue. Yet, he must.

”To wives and sweethearts.”

He heard his own voice as he spoke. It never quavered, never faltered in saying the damning words. He raised his glass, knowing Benwick would follow, and forced his friend to toast a dead woman. His eyes fixed on a sconce across the tiny cabin as he raised the glass to his lips. To say the wine was bitter as gall would be excessive. As it hit his stomach, he amended this notion.

The laughter was oppressive and his greatest desire was to be free of his burden, but it would have to wait a few moments more.

The gentlemen crowed up the gangway to a deck alive with men. Those on watch were preparing to drop the anchor, while those not occupied in the business of the ship were chatting, and smoking, and playing a few simple instruments. The eventful day was winding down to her natural conclusion.

The officer of the watch, reported, “We’ve arrived at our position, sir. Permission to haul in the boats.”

”Certainly, Mr Fields. By all means, haul away.”

The Great Room party was melting into the crew and Benwick was speaking with to the men at the wheel. The moment had come. He would do it now.

”Benwick, might I have a word,” he nodded towards the gangway.

”Certainly, Captain.” When they were out of the hearing of the deck, he said, “I know they are not in fighting form yet, but I have my plans…”

They arrived back in the Great Cabin. Benwick poured them each a glass of brandy. Handing it to Frederick, he said, “I hope this is to your liking. At the price, it should be to the liking of everyone.”

He swirled the glass, then took a sip of the amber liquid. There was no flavor.

”As you are here, and heard of my step, I imagine you wasted no time in seeing Timothy when you arrived in Plymouth.” He took a seat at the table. “And you have seen Fanny of course.” His smile at her name was eager and wistful.

”I have seen Harville. He came to call on me just a few days ago.” He took another drink and walked closer to the window.

”Did he say anything concerning Fanny?” Without allowing an answer, he continued, “When I arrived, there was a large packet of mail and in its midst were several letters from her. I just sent off an answer yesterday. I must admit to a great deal of pride in telling her I have enough to feel comfortable in performing the ceremony. I am in great anticipation of her response. She had said once she would like a summer wedding above all things. No worry of rain and grim weather I suppose. And that way if there was to be shift of location, it could be done with little or no trouble. Again, the weather. I have to agree. Bringing her to Portsmouth will be no trouble. That way, whatever happens with the peace, she and I will be together here. So, how is Harville?”

”He is not well to tell the truth. His leg. James…” The moment had come and he still had no notion of what he would say. “James, Timothy came to see me to tell me… it was early in June when Miss Harville took fever. It was very quick and she did not suffer.”

Though red-faced from the wine and the heat, James lost all colour. He stopped mid sip. His eyes were large and staring. They had the same questioning look as Harville’s. Frederick felt as though he had been kicked in the stomach. The room grew close and hot. It was as though a weight were pressing on him, keeping him from moving. Suddenly, Benwick was up and threw himself into a tiny, curtained privy. The sound of retching was all he could hear.

Frederick took a drink then put the glace on the small table nearby. His movements were precise. Perhaps if he did not move too much, the situation would not be aggravated. Looking at his hand, he noticed a splinter he picked up in the boat. Worrying it with his thumb, he was grateful for the sharp pain. Though it was trifling, he deserved it. He deserved much more for inflicting this on his friend.

The retching ceased and there was silence. He wondered if he should go to his friend. Just as he began moving in that direction, there was an explosion of noise from behind the curtain. Pounding of fists or feet or worse was punctuated by a low moan, strengthening to a scream.

His vision became a tunnel and all he could see was the curtain jumping and flapping. Then a pounding at the door distracted him. He turned to see the terrified face of Lieutenant Furlong. Behind him, other faces. Some fearful, others etched with lurid curiosity.

Furlong started to come in the room, but Wentworth stood firm to block him.

”Sir,” was all he could say.

”Everything is all right, Lieutenant. Do you understand?” He said it loudly enough that the others, behind Furlong, faded away.

The man nodded. He was trying to look further into the room, but could not see past the shoulder of the Captain. He was breathing heavily and his expression was doubtful.

”There is nothing here that should concern you, or the crew. Do you understand?” Frederick moved a step closer to the door, pushing Furlong out.

Again, Furlong nodded in reply. Wentworth could see questions in his eyes, but the young officer hadn’t the boldness to ask them.

Nodding to the curtain, he said, “I shall see to him.” To buy them some time, he ordered, “Beat to quarters, Lieutenant.”

Furlong nodded and acknowledgement and began to back out into the gangway.

”Mr Furlong,” Wentworth called. “I shall be conducting the inspection. Do you understand?”

Again, the bob and the frightened look. The young lieutenant turned and hared up the steps.

He knew there was nothing he could do to stop the chattering of the crew. A man would have to be deaf not to have heard the pounding and Benwick’s desperate cry. A threatened inspection, even one conducted by an unfamiliar Post Captain, would not thwart the idle-talk of more hardy gossips aboard, but he hoped it would distract those who feared a severe look and demanding voice.

Slamming the door, Frederick went to the curtain and threw it aside. Benwick was kneeling on the floor, slamming his fist into the front of the privy seat. His hand was a bloody mess.

”Benwick,” Frederick said, firmly, but quietly. It was necessary to gain James’s attention, but not startle him. It was not unheard of for men in the throes of extraordinary rage to turn on their fellows. Such anger, coupled with grief, was a particularly volatile mix. “Benwick let me help you up.” He knelt slowly, his sword scrapping the floor.

The curtain fell back in place and darkened the pathetic scene. He heaved one last grunt, gave the boards an impressive blow, then slumped into the corner. In the dim light, all Frederick could see was Benwick’s sweaty face and a tangle of hair. He was holding the wounded fist close to him.

”James, we need to have this seen by the doctor.” The heat in the stall was oppressive and the smell of the privy overwhelming. He reached out and touched Benwick’s arm.  The man did not move.  The only sound was heavy breathing, punctuated with sobs. “James, please, let me help you.”

As if just waking, and realizing he was not alone, the sobbing stopped. A hand reached out of the putrid gloom and tugged on Wentworth’s arm.

”Beat to quarters,” was the cry from above. Again, an explosion of sound filled the cabin. This time, the thundering was from above.

Helping James to a chair, he could not help but see the man’s hand was a shambles. Blood covered it, and even tinged the cuff of his sleeve. Just a cursory look revealed several splinters in and around the knuckles.  He fleetingly thought of his own. “I think we should call your medico. That hand may be broken.”

James sucked in air through his teeth, and said, “No, he’s little better than a butcher. See, it moves.” He slowly flexed his fingers to prove he needed no aid.

”All right, then do you have something I may use to wrap it. You can’t allow the men to see you’re injured.”

Without moving, he said, “The bottom drawer there’s an few odd things left from Halliwell. There’s a shirt that’s much too long for me.”

He found the shirt and tore off the old-fashioned ruffle to use to bath the wound. “No sense ruining a good towel,” he said, pouring water into the bowl that served for washing up. He carried the bowl to the table and began.

”The man was hopelessly out of fashion.” James said nothing, and when Frederick took his hand, he did not wince or cry out in pain. His expression was fixed in a stare, as if he hadn’t the energy to animate the muscles in his face.

”I am not physician, so you will have to excuse my clumsiness.” He thought it best to just set the hand in the basin and dab at it with the ruff. Still James said nothing.

He wrapped the hand in the sleeves of the shirt, then tore a longer piece from the body to cover and tie them up. “Not bad, if I do say so myself,” he said, tucking the ends under the wrapping.

”You missed your calling perhaps.”

He gathered the remnant of the shirt and the basin of bloodied water to the chest. “No, I think not. Healing the sick is the providence of better souls than I.”

The sound of bare feet running above them and a crash of chains made Frederick check his watch. “I ordered Furlong to beat to quarters.” He snapped the lid closed and tucked the watch away. “I made it clear I would be giving Grappler a very scrupulous going over.”

”I have no wish to go above.”

”Your wishes do not matter at present. Come.”

”No, I shall stay here.” He was a pathetic sight. He sagged against the table. His hand bandaged, his hair was Bedlam, his face red and swollen. There was no expression on his face or in his eyes.

Wentworth was revolted by it all. It was all he could do to check the growing anger in his breast. “You must come above and inspect the men.”

”No.”

He leant on the table and spoke into James’s ear. “You must, Benwick. The men have heard a great ruction and even now, the rumours are spreading like gangrene. You must go above so that may see you are alive and well.”

He didn’t move, but replied, “I am not well.” Benwick leant back and looked him in the eye. “The only reason to go on has been taken from me.”

There was blame in his eyes. Frederick swallowed back his desire to refute his part in the disaster.

“Regardless, James, your crew needs to see you upright.” He couldn’t keep the tinge of anger from his voice.

”You do not understand. When love is gone, there is no reason to continue.”

Frederick leant closer and spoke quietly. “I do understand very well. I know it is painful, but you must allow Grappler to become your new love. She will save you now, when no others can.” His belief in this sentiment was unmistakable.

”I cannot.” The words were barely a whisper.

”You must,” was the equally quiet reply.

They looked at one another for what seemed to be ages. Each man measuring the devastation of his own heart.

James rose of his own accord.

Frederick hurriedly rinsed a towel and tossed it to James. “Wipe your face,” he ordered. Finding their hats, he handed Benwick his and said, “You needn’t speak. I shall put the fear of God in them and no one will dare examine either of us too closely. Just stay behind me.”

A knock at the door startled them.

”That will be your excellent Mr Furlong, telling me the men are ready.” He looked at James. He’d gotten his hat on straight and was examining his bandaged hand.

Pulling his coat and cuffs straight, he reseated his own hat and said, “Let us go up, Benwick,” and walked to the door. 

The inspection had been rigourous and one which the crew would not soon forget. Afterwards, the captain dismissed all those not on watch to their hammocks. The ship was nearly silent as they returned to the Great Cabin.

Benwick shed his hat and coat immediately and took up a post at the stern windows. Frederick poured each a glass of brandy. James made no effort to take the glass. Balancing it on the ledge before him, Frederick took a seat at the now cleared table. It was his intention to sit with his friend for a short time and then row back to shore.

He closed his eyes and thanked God for a bit of cool breeze just freshening when Benwick said, “If she took ill in early June, why did Timothy not come to tell me himself? Or at least write.”  He turned to Frederick and continued, “I was to be his brother. At the very least, our friendship would dictate he break the news himself.” Grief was all over Benwick’s swollen face.

Remembering Harville’s wretched expression, Frederick could not allow James to be angry with their good friend who was equally grieved.

”He came and told me just a few days ago, but he is not well. His leg refuses to heal and if you could see him, you would know that Miss Harville’s death has struck him a terrible blow as well.”

Benwick’s look immediately changed from the passive, blank stare to anger. “He was struck a blow! She was his sister. And not all that close until recently as I have been told. Elsa is not dead. His life and future are in her and their children. He will go on through them. But I have lost everything.”

He had taken the wrong tack, he could see that now. The waters of grief were treacherous and singular for each sailing them. Charting a course with Benwick would take much care.

”You are quite right, your loss is by far the greater.

”So why you? Why should he ask you to bear the news?”

”As I said, he came and told me of Fanny. I saw his health was bad and insisted that I be allowed to come.” He would never tell of Harville’s immense relief at being so unburdened. “I knew it would destroy him and could not allow that to happen.”

”Ah, yes, of course you would know this. The captain always knows everything that is best for those beneath him.” Benwick turned away towards the window.

This bitter wind was beginning to blow in a direction Frederick did not like. But why towards him? Had he not done what was his duty by both his friends?

”At all costs, Harville must be protected. Was that what you were thinking when you came aboard today and allowed me to go on like a fool. Prating and preening over my vessel of war? Did I put on a good enough show firing off my trifling eighteen guns?”

”I never thought that—“

Benwick ignore him and continued. “And what of the dinner, Captain? Grand enough for you? I am sorry my table is not nearly as fine as yours. No silver plate awarded for bravery and devoted service to King and Country. No fine crystal or china with gold edges. Perhaps, if we are very diligent, my little crew of boys and old men will one day sacrifice themselves and get my name in the Chronicles.” He turned a half-turn and looked towards, but not at, Frederick. “It must have been quite amusing for you to sit and watch me make an ass of myself, knowing all the while that you would—“

”No.” He pounded the table and made the glass of brandy splash. “It was not like that James.” He rose to his feet and glared. “And I will not allow you to make me out—“ Benwick’s face was all anger and bitterness. It was clear the recriminations were rabid bile flowing out of shock and grief and deep hurt. There was no sanity in the room on either of their parts. To be offended by the agony of his friend was to be without compassion, to protect himself from James’s accusations was ridiculous. There would be time enough to mend this breech, and at present, to be the target and whipping boy was as much a part of the burden as had been giving the evil news.

”I am sorry. This is a task that I am little familiar with. It was ever my intention to deliver the news with as little torment as possible. I swear I did not play you. I had intended to row straight out here last night, but you were at the Crown and…indisposed. When I arrived onboard this afternoon, you offered so many diversions, and I was reluctant to give you such news.” He leant on the back of the chair for support. “To be honest, my friend, I am a coward. You offered me so many ways out, and a coward always runs and hides when given the chance.”

There was only the rocking of the ship as they looked at one another.

”Please forgive me if, in any way, I have made this worse on you.”

Benwick did not reply to this. “As we were returning home, I could feel the miles churning beneath us. I would stand here at night and look at the water. It is as if the sea were black silk.” His face brightened, and he said, “I have heard tell of rich men who sleep on silk sheets. Imagine that. Such decadence.” He turned to the window. “There were nights I could do nothing but think of Fanny. I wanted nothing but to have her here. I craved her and wanted her in every way.” He leant against the frame of the window. “To have her here, in my room where I am the master of everything… I suppose God would not abide my corrupt thoughts.”

”She was to be your wife. You loved her. It was natural to desire her.”

Benwick glanced at him, then back to the water. “It would be wonderful to lay on that silken sea. To rest one’s head and just sink slowly away.”

His voice was undisturbed, as if he’d just made an observation about the freshening breeze or the need for another drink. Benwick was calm, and there was nothing about the comment that should cause the Captain’s stomach to tighten, but it did. It would be a frighteningly simple matter for James to slip out one of the windows, and never be seen again. Only a fool would engage him with such a suspicion, if it was not there all ready, to speak of it would be to plant the idea. There was nothing to be said, only things to do.

He quietly walked to the door. To the marine on watch, he said, ”Send word for Mr Furlong.” He closed the door and studied James. In an instant he was back on the Asp, his first night of his first command. He too had been standing in his shirtsleeves, looking out the stern windows. The difference being, his thoughts were not of self-murder but white-hot with rage from his recent rejection. A small army could not have forced him out the stern windows. It was that night he vowed to make himself rich. At that time, he was convinced that money would open every door that birth and lack of connections held shut.

He could well understand the grievous loss Benwick felt, but he could not for the life of him comprehend the desire to die. If for no other reason James should live so as not to bring shame on his family.

A knock at the door brought him out of his abstraction. “Come,” he called.

”Sir, you sent for me?” The young man was bleary eyed and his coat buttoned crookedly.

”Yes, Furlong. Send down your carpenter and have him place a couple of hooks, then find a hammock and have it slung for me. I shall be sleeping in here tonight.”

He looked surprised and Wentworth could see he ached to question his presence. He had the presence of mind to ask, “The Commander is here, shall I tell Chips to put you over here?” He pointed at the far wall.

”No, place me before the stern windows.”

Again, Furlong looked surprised. “Directly in front of the windows, sir?”

”Yes. I want to be in the way of anything that might make use of them.” He looked closely at the lieutenant. Furlong looked over at his captain. “Such as a breeze,” Frederick said in conclusion.

”Aye, sir. I’ll see that you’re in the way of anything that moves.”

Wentworth felt something of a traitor to his friend, but he needed to enlist an ally in keeping Benwick safe. Betrayal aside, it was time the young man learnt that loyalty to your superiors, at times, required nothing more than silence and obedience.

Furlong touched his forehead and disappeared.

He also called for James’s steward. The room was crowded as the hammock went up and the commander was dressed for bed. He watched carefully, seeing that the crush did not set Benwick off again. When everyone was gone and Benwick tucked in, he finally undressed himself.

Settling into the hammock, he rested his arm over his eyes. All in all it was a horrific day. He had managed to destroy all hope for his close friend’s future. He had demolished his own peace concerning his past. And now, it looked as though the last casualty of the day was a good night’s sleep.

 Chapter Five

The Captain leant against the mast and watched his friend from the sloop’s small fighting top. Benwick did little but stand in the stern and study the water. The crew went out of their way to work around him as they painted, scraped, polished and titivated. He did no more than acknowledge their obediences as they went about their duties. Occasionally an officer would approach, but all conversation looked to be on their side. Wentworth reckoned getting him above deck was the best for which he could hope. The shock over Fanny’s death was still fresh and the grief was settling securely about James’s shoulders. Other than forcing an appearance for the sake of the crew, they did little but sit in the Great Cabin. Benwick would make a show of pretending to read one of his books while the captain would read dated copies of the The Naval Chronicle and lose himself in The Naval Gazetteer, or Seaman’s Complete Guide Containing a Full and Accurate Account, Alphabetically Arranged, of the Several Coasts of All the Countries in the Known World. Reading the name alone occupied a goodly amount of time for which Frederick was grateful.

The daily climb to the tops was his only exercise. Even here, he was little more than a gaoler. Though he carried his glass with him, and opened it, the majority of his time was spent watching James. When Benwick would occasionally glance his way, he hurriedly raised the glass and begin a feigned study of something in another direction, always hoping that James would not realize he was being observed. Perhaps he was wrong thinking Benwick so wickedly vulnerable to grief, but he could neither risk personally losing a good friend, nor a valuable colleague. He knew not when, but one day he would know when James was on the road to recovery.

Turning to look over the sound, he decided to stop fretting and enjoy what little privacy the tops afforded him. The Isle of Wight looked further away than usual through the heat-induced haze. The sound was jammed with ships so that hardly anything moved. Now and then, a mail packet made its way out of the Sound, but the only other traffic was small boats going from ship to ship buying slush from the cooks or selling fresh vegetables, fish or women. It was his wish that if so many were to be thrown ashore it would be done soon. These crowded conditions would accomplish nothing but to breed boredom and discontent and cause tempers to flare in the heat. He rebuked thoughts of his own Laconia in the same condition, under the hand of the relatively green Lieutenant Cranmer.

”It is a scandal,” he breathed. During the war, the average man, and at times the warrior as well, longed for peace. Now that it was here, all he could feel was dread.

Earlier in the day, he cajoled Benwick into accepting an invitation to dine onshore that afternoon.  Though it would be a struggle for James, for selfish reasons he anticipated leaving the tight confinement of the ship. Beating back the objections had taken a great deal of patience and skill.  Nevertheless, it was Frederick’s hope, in the company of others, the Commander might have a respite from his vigil of mourning, and that he might have some news, solid and truthful or rumour, he cared not which. Either would give him a more hopeful outlook for the future. Reluctantly, he ground out the cheroot he smoked and put the butt end in his pocket. His few moments of freedom was over and it was time to go down. Taking one last look over the sound, he saw a small boat making its way through the traffic. The figure in the stern looked familiar. He closed his glass and said, “Well, I’ll be…Mr. Eyerly. You are a sight for these sore, sore eyes.”

His first feelings were joy at seeing his own coxswain. His second was trepidation at the sort of news the man might bear. Carefully securing the glass in his pocket, he went down the shrouds.

Eyerly haloo’d, acknowledged the Officer of the Watch and requested permission to come aboard.

”Ahoy, Captain.”

”Mr. Eyerly. I hope your presence is a harbinger of good news and not ill.”

”That must be for you to decide, Sir.” He tossed up the rope to the boat and in no time was up the accommodation ladder. Taking a brown paper packet from beneath his shirt, he handed it to the captain and said, “Your mail, Sir.”

Turning the packet in his hand, Wentworth said, “There’s not so much to really justify a trip from Plymouth to Portsmouth.”

”No, sir. But Lieutenant Cranmer was a bit itchy about couple of them.”

He broke the seal and pulled out four letters. The smallest was from his prize agent in Plymouth. By his calculations, there should only be three captures making their way through the prize courts. The number was small, but they were substantial in what they would bring him in capital. After those were sold, and the proceeds dispersed, there would be no more prize money coming to him. With Laconia in ordinary even his monthly pay would be reduced by half.

His stomach tightened. Being thrown ashore was expensive and though he was more than solvent now, it did not take long to whittle down a decent sized pile to nearly nothing. He had done it in the past, but age and caution had done their work and he was far less prone to squander the fruits of his difficult labours. However, there was another difference between the present and the past: when coming ashore in the year ’60, he had known without a doubt that he would soon command a ship. Even as the Asp was sinking in Plymouth sound, he knew he would have a better ship and even greater reward. It was a feeling in his gut. It was an absolute conviction, just as sure as he knew his own face in the mirror. There was no such feeling now.

Folding the first letter, he shuffled to the second; a letter from his brother, Edward. It was only one sheet and for this he was grateful. One sheet describing the daily life of a country rector was more than adequate. The third letter was from Sophia. At first blush, one would think it was an official communiqué from her husband, Admiral Croft. The name on the Taunton address was his, as was the seal. However, to Frederick’s knowledge, Croft had not written a personal letter in all of their married life. An officer of the Navy wrote reports, dispatches and the occasional set of orders, letters were a woman’s providence in the Admiral’s opinion and any communications with the Crofts came from the hand of his sister.

The last letter was from the admiral of the Port of Plymouth.  He wondered if this might the written confirmation of the end. 

“A notice went up several days ago they’s convening for Court Martials in a fortnight or so. They figure that as long as they got so many captains kicking their heels, they’ll empty out the brigs and give the sods some justice. That’s most likely what this is about, sir.”

”Ah, a judicious use of time.”

”Aye, sir.”

He filed through the letters again.

”By the way, the Lieutenant was pretty concerned about the letter from Admiral Croft. I didn’t bother tellin’ it probably weren’t urgent. I figure it’s most likely Mrs. Croft usin’ the Admiral’s seal to keep it from goin’ astray when they’ve gotten in country.”

Eyerly’s presence was a comfort. However, his statement led to an interesting notion. “It occurs to me Mr. Eyerly, that you and I have been together so long, that perhaps you are a bit too familiar with my family and their…proclivities, than is proper.”

Without hesitation, Eyerly said, “Undoubtedly, Captain. Too familiar by half.” The man nodded at Wentworth as he spoke. His face was a picture in studied openness.

He hated to think how long Eyerly had been with him, going from being a waister on the Asp to his coxswain on the Laconia. As men, they had seen one another through the best and the worst that life on the sea could offer. For the first time since receiving the news of Laconia’s fate, he was beginning to see the future without his ship, his crew, his purpose in life.

”So, is there any news concerning Laconia? Any word about a date for her to go down?”

”No sir. You know how those brutes are, all sixes and sevens. One day it’s one thing, and another day it’s somethin’ else. Then it’s nothin’ at all. We’re back at nothin’. So, we wait and watch all the traffic comin’ in the Sound, but little goin’ out.”

”Same here. The Solent looks like High Street on market day.”

Eyerly looked around Grappler. “She’s a right nice little ship. Though, she’s no frigate, mind you.”

”No, she’s not, but she is a sweet little sailer.”

”Not like poor ol’ Asp.

”No, not like her at all. Speaking of the past, Commander Benwick is just over there, if you’d care to pay your compliments.”

”I think I will, sir.” He walked to the stern, touched his forelock and spoke to Benwick. Frederick was heartened to see a slight smile come to Benwick’s lips. He even extended a hand to Eyerly. It was reasonable that he should make such an effort for someone whose only association was the distant past, not even connected to Fanny.

Breaking the seal on Edward’s letter, Frederick determined to start with the lightest fare and work his way to the more weighty letter from the Port Admiral.

Frederick, I hope this finds you in health. Things here are well. Spring is being coy this year so we are enduring cold and snow even into April. However, that is not so interesting to you, I suppose. I do have a bit of news that might be more so. Because of this I am hoping you will come to Shropshire when next you are ashore. Surely the Laconia, and the war, can be left for a time.

”A new pew for the mayor or some such thing, no doubt.” It was obvious the letter was written before the Peace. Edward had never been much for keeping up on the war. Moreover, being in the country, his disinterest put him even further behind the times. Glancing at Benwick and Eyerly, he noted they were still engaged in what seemed to be a friendly conversation. It struck him odd someone whom he knew only slightly could engage James.  Since his first night on board, they had barely exchanged ten words. Familiarity had bred a certain contempt it would seem.

Normally I would not be so anxious for you to come, but I have done something I never thought I would. I have taken a wife….

”So much for pews,” he said quietly.

Edward married. For himself, marriage was a forgone conclusion. Regardless of his previous failure, he knew he would have a wife one day. But never Edward. The man was nearly fifty, no fortune certainly, hardly an attractive catch for any woman not completely destitute. Perhaps he was marrying for his old age. No one could blame him for taking a young wife, with a strong back, to see him through to the end.

Frederick felt ashamed at the thought. His brother was not the sort of man who would use the vows of marriage as an endenturement. After all, twenty years earlier, Edward had returned to England to care for Sophia and himself. His brother, more than most men, understood the cost of freedom.

Twenty years ago, in this very month of August, Frederick had only been a boy of twelve and so could not remember the date of Edward’s return. However, he would never forget waking to the presence of his older brother, returned from far away, to rescue he and Sophy from the uncertainty left after the death of their mother.

The Wentworth family was not a happy one. His father was a man whose anger killed the delicate feelings of his wife, and found an outlet in his oldest son. Once Sophy told him about Edward's leave taking. It had only come after a brutal thrashing over some work undone in the warehouse his father oversaw. At sixteen, Edward jumped a ship, which was simple to do in Liverpool, and disappeared. This had calmed the old man's tendency to brutalise the nearest person when things did not go his way, but it did nothing to slacken his vicious tongue. The abuse was decidedly aimed at his mother, and occasionally Sophy, but rarely himself. His memories of his father were of indifference, with the rare pat on the head or sitting on his lap. Nothing more.

There was no real constancy in his growing up until Edward returned. Though he was only under his brother's direct care for a couple of years, he thought of Edward in a fatherly way. Distant, but fatherly.

And it was in that way of sons and fathers that eight years previous, on one of the hottest August days in memory, he and Edward had quarreled about his growing interest in Miss Anne Elliot.

Determined to banish thoughts of that summer and Anne Elliot, he folded his brother’s letter, putting off the details of newly married bliss in favor of his sister and the Admiral’s return to the country.

Dear Frederick, We have returned from the Indies and miss it all ready. The farewells were touching and the trip uneventful. We are now back and determined to look for property in the country. George is of the mind that we lease until I am sure I like it. We Wentworths being city bred, he prefers to be cautious and not sink a great deal of money into a place I may grow to despise. I have assured him that I will like the country, but you know how he can be. We are in Taunton for the Quarter Sessions and have made inquiries about properties further south. Somerset is a beautiful place and I am certain…”

”Somerset.” It peeved him that every turn there was mentioned people and places he would rather forget. This letter he too folded and put away.

The letter from the port Admiral was indeed about the Courts Martial. He was being informed that if there were in his brig in need of justice above a flogging or minimal punishment, his clerk was to write up a notice and bring it to the Admiral’s clerk for scheduling. The letter also notified captains, with no one in need of a Court Martial, that they should prepare to be convened in a fortnight. Those with no wrongdoers would be preferable as there would be complete impartiality and no bad blood to be exercised on any of the men brought before them.

He had no desire to return to Plymouth under such circumstances, but he was grateful the official summons would bring a conveniently timed end to his misbegotten errand of mercy. As he folded the letter, he thought how justice was an odd business. He had once sat a Court Martial a few years back. It was a murder of one seaman by the hand of another. To hear tell of a murder was shocking, but could be spoken of in a dispassionate way, almost as a tale told round the fire. However, to hear all the particulars from those who saw the blows and heard the cries was to take the crime out of the comfort of the imagined and plant it squarely in the uncomfortable place of being very real.

All the letters in his pocket, he joined Eyerly and Benwick. They bid one another good-bye and Wentworth walked to the waist with the coxswain.

”Will we be seein’ ya soon, sir?” He stepped down the ladder a step.

”I think it will be soon. I am not needed here as urgently as before.”

Eyerly glanced at Benwick and nodded. “Aye, his spirits seem to be risin.’ There’ll be another lady along soon enough.”

He had told no one on Laconia of Benwick’s loss. “You continue to astonish me, Eyerly.”

”It’s the scuttlebutt, sir. The most notorious source of intelligence known to man.” He touched his forelock and descended into the boat.

Benwick joined him watching the boat become part of the hubbub of the harbour. “I have decided to forgo the dinner tonight.”

Wentworth continued to watch the boats, but said, “I would beg you to go with me. These are perilous times for a captain, James. Like it or not, you must keep your ear to the ground and keep abreast of the news.”

”You can keep me apprised of all the news.”

”I suppose I could, but I will not always be here. Moreover, you must realize there are officers who will speak freely to you who will have nothing to say to me. These epaulettes can be as much of a disadvantage as an advantage.”

"Will Danforth be present?"

"Aye, as far as I know."

"The poor unfortunate fool is usually amusing," was all Benwick said. He could feel him move away. “I shall go down and prepare.” His voice was pure resolve, no anticipation to speak of. Nevertheless, he was moving under his own power, and there had been no having to cajole him to join the dinner party. It was heartening to Wentworth. He would be forced to leave soon and was relieved that Benwick might truly be on the mend.

Six were invited for dinner, but before the meal was begun, several others joined them and the party was moved to a larger private room. It was only a bit larger and therefore cramped, just enough room to allow for the keep to attend to the table but no milling about by the patrons. The forced inactivity allowed Commander Danforth to quicken the usual pace of his drinking. The man was in his cups, and quite amusing, by the fish course.

Wentworth took part in one or two of the conversations, but having taken care to post himself in a corner, he was better able to observe Benwick, who had taken the one opposite.  The meal progressed and at the end of it, he hoisted his glass and drank to the king. It pained him to see his friend’s expression when the glasses were then raised to wives and sweethearts.

The course of general conversation turned Napoleon. As the group divided the tablecloth into various parts of the sea, and fought over saltcellars and the larger crumbs leftover from dinner, they began to refight innumerable battles.

This particular behavior was not unusual for a naval gathering. The keeper of a drinking establishment near a port was accustomed to glasses broken and silver bent in the heat of reenacted or invented battle.  Moreover, in such times as these, it was not so unusual a diversion to ward off the apprehension of being thrown ashore. It was a comfort that with each battle every captain and commander became more skilled, more brilliant and quicker to subdue their foe. Wentworth applied himself to his port and considered how much life and property such imagined speed would have spared. He could not help giving consideration to how much wealth he would not have gained were wars so swiftly ended.

The afternoon became evening and the room grew more crowded as one would leave and another two would enter the snug. Thinking it time to take his friend back to the ship, he studied Benwick, and found the man engaged in conversation with a Lieutenant Moon. If Wentworth was not mistaken, Moon too had recently lost a wife. Perhaps there were words of solace, and experience, passing between the two—

”Wentworth, don’t be coy, only you can adjudicate this matter between Beresford and me.”

Putting Benwick and his troubles aside, and focusing his attention on his tablemates, he looked from one to the other. Both men were bright with wine and good-natured debate. Knowing Captain Beresford well and Commander Paul by reputation, he knew the controversy would involve either dogs or guns, or God forbid the fairer sex.

"We are divided, Wentworth. Paul here says you hate women. I say you are merely afraid of them. Which of us is right?" The two men giggled as he imagined little girls might when they were being deliberately naughty.

For a moment, he contemplated telling them God's truth on the matter. However, they were too drunk and he was feeling too low to revisit the past.

“Gentleman, this is a question that has been debated by finer minds than yours, and still there is no understanding.” The men laughed too loudly and Beresford punched Paul, causing him to totter in his seat. “But I think you would be better served applying to Danforth. Perhaps this is the night you all will solve this perplexing conundrum.”

They laughed again as he rose and left the room.

Watching the fragrant cloud of the cheroot float away, he wondered what there was about his romantic attachments or more precisely the lack of them, which fascinated Beresford. The man was like a dog worrying a bone. He was married, though unhappily if one believed the rumours, so perhaps it was just his wish that everyone would share in his misery. He dropped the cheroot and ground it out. There was no understanding the perplexing nature of humankind, he decided.

This thought brought him to Edward's sudden defection from the unmarried state. He was astonished. And dismayed. Edward's determination to remain unwed was like a rock and was something Frederick had banked on. However, it was no different from his certain knowledge of always having a ship under him. Both were rock solid beliefs, which were crumbling all too quickly.

He moved closer to the lamp outside the doorway of the inn and read the letter fully. The new Mrs. Wentworth was born Catherine Keye, from a large and prosperous family in Glencoe Parish, the next one over. She had taken the liberty of writing a post script which lead him to think she was sensible and good humoured, and her invitation to come to stay with them at the rectory of Crown Hill Parish was warm and genuine. There was little to indicate how old a woman she might be. Not that he should concern himself with such things. Circumstances were working furiously to make their meeting sooner than later a certainty.

He was being petty he knew, feeling nettled that Edward seemed happy. He decided it had more to do with the fact that he had ignored his brother's advice concerning Anne and the engagement, and that he could have been happy years ago rather than alone and –

"Enjoying a word from home?"

He started. Benwick apologized. "You interrupted nothing," he said, folding the paper and tucking it in his pocket. "Just a word from Edward."

"How is the Rector? Still in the country?"

"Yes. Shropshire now." His friend had never met his brother, but Benwick's father was a religious man and he knew something of the life and its ways. "He has married. I am surprised." Just as he said it, it occurred to him that Benwick was not the one to tell about a new marriage.

There was no smile, but he raised his brows, nodded and said a genuine, "I wish him joy." He walked away slowly. Wentworth followed at a distance. They were not heading towards the docks and he wondered if he should leave the man to think his own thoughts.

He rested against a cart loaded with empty barrels. "I spoke at length with Lieutenant Moon this evening. His wife died of a putrid fever early in the spring. There was nothing to be done. It was a terrible suffering for he and his children."

Wentworth chose a short stack of crates and took a seat. "That must have been an agony for them." He did not point out that Fanny had been spared such suffering and that both were spared the agony of having children left motherless.

"It made me grateful that Fanny was spared such a fate." He looked at his folded hands. The admission was painful, but necessary.

Wentworth looked at his friend. There was still something of the morose about him, but there was also an air of normality. As if the real world was beginning to take hold again.

"I hope the conversation was useful to you, that Moon was able to offer you some comfort."

Benwick turned. "Oh he did. His counsel was most welcome. His best bit of advice was that I should, as far as possible, get on with my life. He said I would never forget her, but that I must go on."

"He sounds quite wise. Are you not glad I coerced you into leaving the ship tonight?"

"I am, Frederick. Moreover, I am determined to take Moon's advice." He looked quickly at him, then away. He was resolving something in his mind.

"I have tried to reconcile myself to the fact that Harville was not able to come and bring the news himself." He paused and looked at Wentworth. "I know it is a ridiculous point, that I am meditating on the insignificant, but I cannot get it out of my head that he should have come. Then when I think of your telling me, it all becomes a rush of feelings that I am unable to keep in check."

"That must be terribly difficult." He knew Benwick was not finished, but he was uncertain where the conversation might go.

"This being the case, I think it would be best that you should leave as soon as can be arranged."

He was neither shocked nor saddened by this statement. His only concern was the condition of their friendship.

"The Grappler is so small, and it is impossible for either of us to escape the other." His expression showed he thought himself unkind. "Frederick, it is like being in a storm and falling into the trough of a huge wave every moment. I don't want you to think-"

"Benwick," he said a little sharp. "I understand. Would you rather I stay ashore tonight? I can arrange for my dunnage to be sent."

"No, certainly not."

"Then I shall make arrangements to leave in the morning." He started to the door of the inn to see about transport.

Benwick hurried to his side and took hold of his arm. "Please know that I am grateful to you for all you have done…staying with me through this. I would not have survived otherwise."

"There is nothing that needs saying about this." His frame of mind was not such that he cared to call up these fears.

"I shall conquer this and everything between us shall be right, Frederick. This is just something I must do alone."

He looked at his friend and knew this conclusion was the correct one. The notion was being forced on him, moment by moment, that all difficulties in life are truly borne alone.

Chapter Six

"Thank you, sir, ever so much for not cuttin' up Jack as much as I'm fearin' you might have liked."

He looked at Mrs. Bale's pallid face in the mirror of his shaving stand. The entire situation was his own damn fault, though he never thought giving her young nephew an opportunity to hone his skills as a manservant would leave him in such an absurd predicament.

She lifted the clubbed tail, worked it back and forth then let it drop to the cloth covering his shoulders. Thank God he insisted the boy cover his uniform before proceeding to dress his hair.

On the few occasions a stay off-ship had been required, Wentworth always was able to find a room with Mrs. Bale. She liked him and without exception complimented his manners and his tidy ways. He was certain she also appreciated the extra shillings he was careful to leave on the dresser when he departed. By way of polite conversation he had come to know her nephew, Jack, a young man of brilliant potential if the lady was to be believed. There had never been an opportunity for them to meet. Until earlier this week. Unclenching his jaw, he made a mental note to forgo the shillings.

"It's good that these sorts of difficulties are worked out before Jack goes out and finds hisself a position with a real gentleman." He turned and looked eye-to-eye with Mrs. Bale. He wished to ask was he not a "real gentleman?" His behaviour to this point was most gentlemanly when considered he desired nothing better than to flog her dear Jack, the aspiring gentleman's gentleman, within an inch of his wicked life. Mrs. Bale's simple brown eyes kept him from launching into the greatly desired tirade.

"I merely said what I felt needed saying under the circumstances. Now, if you will please go downstairs and fetch me some hot water, I will wash this scum out of my hair, dress it and be on my way." He turned and rose, beginning to unbutton his dress coat. I should have known better, he thought, I was practically out the door. What ever possessed me to be manoeuvred into this wretched scheme?

Wentworth was always a soft touch for a young man trying to improve himself so that he might make his way in the world. As a man of experience, part of him was loath to admit his share of crack-brained blunders, but wisdom forced the admission. He had come to know mistakes were only useful in what they taught.  The challenge concerning errors was to only make small ones, which preferably left no one harmed. In his past there were one or two which failed this test, and the other was to learn from them so as not to repeat them. He was certain that Jack hadn't the brain for either of these lessons.

"Well, you see, Captain Wentworth, that is where we might have a bit of a hitch."

Hitch. He wanted to hear nothing of a hitch. He wanted hot water brought, some assistance from the lady, and not her nephew, and to be out the door to the party he was attending that evening. He would countenance no hitches.

Turning, he ceased with the buttons and crossed his arms. Her eyes grew large, her lip began to quiver and she seemed to shrink before him. He tried to keep his face from taking on the severe mask of the outraged captain that chilled every seaman it encountered. She was, after all, a woman and to terrorize her would put him out the door later still. "Mrs. Bale, what might be this "hitch" you speak of?"

"Well, when I went down and spoke to Jack, after you made your opinion quite clear, I ask him what was in that hair balm he used. And I'm thinking there might be a little difficulty in getting' it all out, sir."

 "What exactly is in this preparation of Jack's?"

"Well, you see, sir, he was hoping to find something that would stand up to the fiercest weather. His thought was that wind and rain are devilish hard on a man's hair, even with a hat it can muss things up so badly. So he set about to make a preparation that could," and here she began to quote the ingenious Jack, "withstand a North Seas blow, yet leave a man looking as though he just stepped out of his dressing room." She went on about bee's wax, almond oil, and tinctures of various sweet herbs. There was no time to allow her to describe the process used to mix the various items.

"Mrs. Bale, I have yet to hear an ingredient which is immune to the weather and will withstand hot water and soap."

"Well, you see, sir, Jack knows now that the special ingredient will work, he's just not sure in what amount he must use so's to take advantage of all the favourable properties, but avoid those of a more noxious nature." As she spoke, her hands worked up and down as though she were reciting a poem. No doubt reciting more of Jack's blather. When she finished, she studied his face for a reading of his mood.

"A 'noxious nature'. And what might this noxious ingredient be, Mrs. Bale?"  He prepared himself for the worst of answers.

"Well, you see, sir, he's been workin' with one or two things that he feels will lend strength to the preparation…"

 "Mrs. Bale."

"Well, you see, sir, first he tried pitch—"

"Your nephew put pitch in my hair?" He prayed his voice was not as loud in the room as it was inside his own head.

"No, no, no, sir. He put away the idea of pitch right quick." She bit her lip. It was clear she did not wish to name the new ingredient. He said nothing for fear of frightening her out of the room. The last thing he wished was to have to chase her through the house.

Lowering her eyes, she said quietly, "Tar."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Your nephew put tar in my hair." He had to hear it with his own ears. The most galling aspect of the disaster was that he sat quietly and allowed the misbegotten nitwit to comb the vile the concoction through his hair.

"'Oh, sir, thank ye for the chance to practice on a real head of hair." The young man had said.  'I've used this on dogs and cats alike but find that the hair just ain't enough like that of people.'" He would never again hear the mournful howl of either of these poor beasts without feeling a shade of compassion for them. Had he only questioned the young man more closely…

 "Mrs. Bale, I smelled no tar while Jack was dressing my hair."

 "No, and you wouldn't. You see, sir, the sweet herbs do their work, and there's really not enough tar to be too smelly. No sensible person, takin' a whiff of that, would allow it on them, now would they?"

 Her questioning eyes made him wilt. There was no reasoning with the woman. It was clear that her dear Jack would always be the most clever young man alive, and that any of his victims were mere necessities on his road to success. "Mrs. Bale, are you certain that a good washing will not do?"

 She stepped around him and plucked at the tail. Tsking, she said, "I don't see how, sir. You see," she tugged on his hair, "it's all seized up. It ain't what you'd call hard, but more like a over smoked sausage, like." When it fell from her hand to his back, he despaired that he could actually feel it. There was more than enough weight to be noticeable.

 "What would you recommend I do, Mrs. Bale?" He dreaded hearing her suggestion. It was his fear that Jack had another preparation at hand.

 "Well, you see, sir, my advice would be to cut it off."

 "Cut my hair."

"Yes, sir. But you can take a great deal of comfort, sir. You see, I am noted in the neighbourhood, and several gentlemen come to me so that I can barber them. There is the curate from the chapel down the street. And there's the fellow next door. His mother brings 'im to me cause he's not well in the head and shakes something awful. Then there's the butcher, Mr. Gardener, such a pleasant man…"

She rattled on about those who trusted their barbering to her.  He'd not dared to touch the monstrous thing, but he needed to know if cutting it was his only hope. The preparation was still moist, but indeed, seized up as Mrs. Bale put it. Looking at his fingers, they were streaked with black. He felt as he did when a midshipman under punishment, having to caulk the planking on deck with tar and oakum. No doubt the bees wax and oil kept the liniment soft and manageable. Sniffing his hand, he felt a little better that the smell was not much and that he could not have the abomination taking place. I may well be a fool, he reasoned, but not a complete idiot.

"Please, Mrs. Bale," he interrupted her recitation, "go down and get your barbering tools."

Her face brightened and with a whoosh of skirts she was out of the room.

He sat before the shaving stand, waiting for her return. Determining to put aside his temper, he took a decidedly philosophical turn of mind. As his career was ending, he could see an eerie sort of harmony in this whole bizarre business. His posting to the Laconia had been the event which shifted his youthful ideals concerning himself and love and his career. It was the place in time he could mark that he last seriously gave thought to Anne Elliot and all she had done to him. He had marked the event by rekindling his dedication to becoming successful and very wealthy.  Part of that dedication had been leaving his hair to grow as it would.

Stepping into the command of the Laconia was an accomplishment of which Frederick Wentworth could be rightly proud. The naval proceeding following the sinking of the Asp had cleared him of any carelessness or wrongdoing. He had in fact, been commended for keeping the whole of his crew alive, even when after two days of a hellish blow in Plymouth Sound, he was obliged to order men to risk their lives in order to dismast her. After the Admiral of Plymouth installed him as the captain of HMS Laconia, and he made the momentous shift of the epaulette from the left shoulder to the right, he knew there was only one thing which could make such an accomplishment complete.

He stood and walked away from the mirror. The weather outside his window was dry and a soft breeze blew through the lacy curtains. People were making their way on the streets and sidewalks.

"Where is Mrs. Bale?" he said aloud. Probably comforting dear Jack with the news that I will not flay him tonight, he thought. The laugh of a woman echoed over the street. There were several couples walking and there was no telling which of the ladies was its owner.

Had he but written the letter, his life would be different. Instead, he dove headlong into his pride and he hired a genuine steward, had new uniforms made, began building a reputation as a captain with one of the finest tables in the fleet, and set about keeping he and his crew fully employed by being relentless in his seeking of prize. For six years, there had been no time to consider his appearance much. When an occasion requiring him to be decent presented itself, he put full faith in the capable hands of Michaelson. And, all told, this had worked well, while at sea. But now, everything was changing. Anne Elliot’s ghost seemed to be everywhere he looked, his career was in the doldrums, and it would seem that he was not even capable of keeping himself properly rigged without getting into a ridiculous scrape.

The door opened and Mrs. Bale entered the room, taking care to immediately comfort him with the statement that she rarely bloodied or maimed any of her regular patrons.

Again the evening’s breeze annoyed him by caressing his bare neck. His collar stood high, but did little good and he determined to buy a scarf against the colder months ahead. Wearing a scarf like a little old man would insure that he never forget this day’s events. Approaching the Guild Hall the sound of music grew louder, spilling out of open windows. This meant the place was all ready a crush.

I will do the polite and get out before too late, he thought. The Admiral of the Port was sponsoring the party as a celebration of the ending of the war. And, thought Frederick, when he opened his invitation, the end of so many careers.

Nodding to several fellow officers as he made his way in, he chided himself for being in such a disagreeable frame of mind. After making an inventory of his grievances, he left off and determined to keep himself to himself for as long as he was in a position to inflict his mood upon the others.

Within minutes a man took his coat and another saw that he had a glass of wine. The atmosphere was gay and loud. It seemed there was a tinge of hilarity, almost hysteria that was not generally present at such a gathering. I'm not the only one feeling the changes, he mused.

"Well, it is about time you joined the rest of civilized mankind!" He was startled by a voice from behind and a hand to his shoulder. Turning he faced Gilmore Craig. "You have finally decided that being in fashion is not a sin, eh, Captain?"

He frowned a moment then understood of what his friend spoke.

He evaded. "Ah, yes, well,” he absently felt of his shorn neck and cringed. Craig was rosy with wine and Wentworth had little appetite for derision.

Gilmore leant and looked him over, one side to the other. "Well, I must say, it is a bit short, but that is the miracle of hair is it not?"

“How so?”

“Well, one may groan over a bad haircut, but given a fortnight, there is no reason left, for it is all grown out.” He smiled at his pun and giggled a bit as he took a drink of his wine.

Wentworth forced a smile, as it was to be one of those nights. Craig’s tongue was loose enough to make him think such a play upon words funny, and that meant he would not guard himself in the least. Without thinking, he reached up again and touched his freshly shorn neck. So this is the fashion. His hard feelings towards dear Jack were not moved.

Taking a drink, Craig looked over the crowd. "Everyone seems to be quite lively. The last hurrahs, as it were."

"To be sure. I have no scruple in thinking that most are smiling through the agony."

"Ah, I must ask, how was that last case on the docket settled. Some fellows at the warehouse are interested."

The docket was the Court-martial board and Frederick suspected that Craig and his fellows had monetary interests rather than those of justice. "And why would that be? It was merely a case of self defense."

He frowned. "I thought it was unquestionably murder. Letters from the unfaithful wife to the lover and then the cuckold flattened with a belaying pin. Hardly sounds like self defense." His eyes were wide with certainty as he exchanged his empty glass for full from a passing tray.

The courts-martial had been an endless affair that seemed to create its own set of difficulties rather than solve those presented to it. Just as one affair would be laid to rest and the officers bound to the court would be close to dismissal, another set of unfortunates would be hauled before them and another set of pitiful stories would unfold.

 Of the six officers sitting in judgment, all were acquainted and each was well disposed to liking the others. This was fortunate as they saw more of one another than could have been withstood if they were on bad terms.  In the beginning of the proceedings, the panels had sat for one week only. What ever the number of cases the navy could cram into the week was the number of trials sat. Unfortunately, his panel's luck was to be drawn last. The Admiralty Secretary warned that there might be more cases found as new ships came in port and officers took the opportunity to rid themselves of dead weight in their brigs. This would necessitate lengthening their commitment. They christened the man a prophet when the second week began. By the third week, they cursed him as the Magistrate of The Devil Himself and were more serious than not about jumping ship rather than sit the last round of cases.

The very final case was one of the worst. A carpenter on the sloop, Reliant, and the ship's purser hailed from the same town in Manchester. They were mates from previous cruises and on good terms. Until it was discovered that the purser, on his leave ashore, had returned to Manchester and broken fellowship with the carpenter by meeting with the man’s wife and offering her an elevation in her situation. Unbeknownst to the carpenter, him not being much of a husband, the lovers exchanged letters and tokens as they merrily laughed behind his back. A sloop’s society being so small, there was no way the affair could remain secret. When the evidence was presented, the purser was portrayed as a vicious man, bent on ridding himself and his married lover of their mutual impediment. But witnesses to the fatal fight told a story of the carpenter enraged and embarrassed and bent on changing the purser's situation permanently. The fight took place outside the purser's locker and a lucky blow with a prying tool, used to open the casks of beef, felled the carpenter.

After much discussion, the purser was judged to be not guilty of murder and acquitted of all charges; but all knew him to be guilty of another sort of crime.

After explaining the finer points to Craig, he said, "So the purser will not swing. How much did you lose on it?"

Looking disappointed, Craig said, "Enough. I should have known better. I just returned from London and had not enough time to cast about for good intelligence concerning the matter."

Wentworth emptied his glass. "All I can say is I am happy the thing is over. The Captain of the Fleet discharged us and that is that."

"So when did Laconia go into ordinary?"

"Nearly a month ago. The wrights sat on their haunches and dragged us pillar to post as to when they would take her. I finally knew when the Admiral’s clerk appeared with the money for the pay-off."

"That's cutting it fine."

"It surely was. They were paying off one watch while the other was rowing their dunnage ashore." Paying off after a fine cruise was a bittersweet event, and this was even more so for all involved.

"So what of that giant Bedlam case? I still have a place for him if he's not being used as bear bait somewhere."

"No, no need. But I thank you." Taking a glass from another passing tray, he took a drink and continued, "Those are the ones I hate seeing off; the mind of a child in a giant body. Alone in the world to be abused by God knows who, only God knows how."

"There's only so much you can do for the world Wentworth. You are a captain of the navy, not a reformer. That's your brother's line, is it not?"

He smiled. "Yes, it is."

"Well, then, leave it to the likes of him. Or join him." Craig raised a brow in jest.

Wentworth shook his head and laughed quietly. Frederick Wentworth, a parson. Such a thing would shock even the Archangels.

Craig took another glass as a footman passed. “Look, we both know you will not be joining any religious communities any time soon, but I do wish that you would give more thought to my proposal.”

At their first dinner after the peace was declared, Craig had asked that he take command of his few lumbering merchantmen making their regular run to Ireland and Scotland. It was sailing at it’s most boring, only piloting a mail packet could be worse. The ships were inelegant barges, the men were infinitely worse, though the peace would put decent hands within reach. It was still a sop and though he knew he should be grateful for it, he was not.

 “In fact,” Craig continued, “I think I might be able to make the offer a little more tempting.”

 “How so?”

“While I am as patriotic as the next man, and I am glad to see that pox-ridden despot put away for good, my war has always been much larger than just dealing with the French. My bigger fights have always been with jumped up yokels who have a boat big enough and friends sober enough to take to the water with sufficient guns to scare my not-so-gallant captains. A few of my colleagues and I have talked about creating our own little cartel that would include the beginnings of a little private navy.”

This idea intrigued him and he encouraged Craig to continue.

“The word is that the Navy will be selling out of service several very nice little ships. It is our hope to buy a brig, perhaps even a sloop, and outfit her to shepherd our ships up north and back. With the peace, all of us are feeling the pinch and we have to turn attentions to markets farther from home. Guns and shot and powder take up space better dedicated to cargo, but it would leave us too vulnerable to privateers that will still be sailing, regardless of the state Napoleon, and the usual pirates hoping for easy pickings.”

 “A sloop.”

 “Perhaps, if we can find one for a bargain and in good enough shape.”

“Shepherding, eh?”

“Yes, I’m afraid that is all we could offer you. No letters of marque. No prize to be had, five pounds per head of prisoner. Taking off on a chase would leave our wares vulnerable and defeat the purpose of the entire affair. Though, when last I talked with the gentlemen, I laid down a hint or two that it might be a fine idea if, rather than a straight commission per trip, pay the captain according to a percentage of the cargo. They are mulling it over. But if I can convince them, you could pay out a bonus, using that convoluted mess of a formula the Navy favours.”

It was not very tempting. He had risen above commanding a sloop. But there were no opportunities on the horizon that were in any way superior.

“Besides, you might then be able to take a few of your more deserving mates and give them employment.”

“So you are taking the Bear ashore, Eyerly,”

“Aye, sir, that I am. But not just ashore. Me aunt’s got a place outside Dunhoe and she could use the strong back for plowin’ and such. She’s got a tidy barn he can sleep in and there’ll be plenty for ‘im to eat.”

“That is very kind of you, Mr. Eyerly.”

 “Well, don’ tell anyone. Bear’s big and dumb and lumberin’ and too many fellas has talked of sellin him off to a circus or somthin’ worse.”

With that, Eyerly had given him a final salute and lead the Bear away. Perhaps a private ship would not be the worst of circumstances.

"Listen, there is no hurrying on this. Beezel and Hedridge are out of country until after Christmas and I doubt anything will be done before the end of January. You'll take a few months and make the rounds of the family. Then, when you all are thoroughly sick of one another, you can come back here and make a decision.”

The idea of being a private captain had some appeal, but not enough that he would take any less than the next few months to contemplate matters. He decided to turn the conversation from himself to his friend. "Perhaps I will return and find you married."

A dark look came over Craig. He took a drink of his wine and stood silent as he studied the crowd.

For the past weeks, his friend had been away to Bristol and London and all Wentworth knew of the romantic intrigues concerning Miss Hammond was that her uncle, the Admiral, was still reluctant to have her marry a man in trade. He preferred a man of the navy for his niece. The effect of his quip on Craig's countenance was not good, and though he was not precisely in the mood to enquire further, he felt obliged to offer up a sympathetic ear.

"The Admiral has been gone for over a fortnight. Did he find a fitting situation for his niece?"

"Yes, it was the very situation he took her from when he brought her to live in his house. She is back with an aunt just outside of town."

"Then you are able to see her frequently."

"No, the old man was pointed that I should stay away from her." He nodded to someone across the room.

Looking, he saw Miss Hammond return the acknowledgement.

He turned to Craig. “She seems not to be abiding at all by her uncle’s wishes.”

“No. No she is not. But I do not wish to bring her any grief concerning her family.”

“So, how does her aunt feel?”

He frowned. “What does it matter what the aunt feels? It’s the Admiral who has laid down the law.”

“True, but it is not unusual for men and women to feel quite differently about matters of the heart. And, the admiral is on the other side of the world. There is little for him to do if his wishes go unheeded.”

Craig turned from watching Miss Hammond. “I am shocked, Wentworth. Here you are, a man who depends upon strict loyalty and discipline to maintain order in life, advising me to boldly disobey. Again, I must say I am shocked.”

Taking a drink, he covered his own shock. He had not realized that Gilmore Craig’s affections for Miss Hammond concerned him enough that he would give any sort of opinion, much less the advice to disregard the old man. But, as he found another glass, he determined that Craig had nothing to lose, not being beholden to the admiral for his career or anything but an occasional dinner, and that Miss Hammond was probably not all that happy sitting with her aunt, waiting for a man her far-off uncle approved. Let them be together and happy was his only thought on the matter.

“Normally, I would agree that discipline to authority is vital, but genuine love is difficult to come by. Admiral Hammond is an admirable seaman, but I think that you are far better suited to make her happy than he suspects.” His heart was pounding and he could feel his short hair prickling with sweat. The room was growing hot and the women’s voices were suddenly sharp and grating like the close-quartered hens kept in coops on the quarterdeck. Again he noticed the crowd and how tightly the room was packed.

He was about to say they should step out onto one of the terraces when Craig grimaced and he pardoned himself in a hurry. “Sorry, old man, but I must fly!”

“Captain Wentworth!”

The falsetto voice penetrated the noise of the crowd and several nearby turned for a look. To the retreating back of Gilmore Craig he said, “Damned coward.” He smoothed his lapels and tugged at his cuffs to make himself presentable. “She can’t eat you alive, captain,” he said quietly. “Her presence merely stops the passage of time.” Smiling, he turned to make his bow.

“Lady Grierson. You honour me.”

Her curtsey dipped a bit too low and he offered her a hand. “Sir, the pleasure is all mine.” An ivory fan snapped open and she stood back a little, eyeing him closely. With no pretense to gracious conversation, she said, “Something has changed about your person, but I am at a loss to say precisely what it is.”

Her observation was surprising, as he never thought her terribly perceptive. A cursory study of the lady showed that nothing had changed about Lady Mary. She was still a small, rosy dumpling of a woman, cinched and tucked and still threatening to burst any number of her seams. The dress tonight was Turkey red and the turban, extraordinary. The edifice was comprised of yards of silk as a foundation, with the several feathers sprouting ‘round about, and a moderately sized, stuffed robin perched on the left side of her head. While the elaborate headgear was highly entertaining, it was a small gold tassel, hanging just near her right eye, which truly captured his attention.

Forcing himself to look at her face, rather than either side of her headdress, he answered, “Any perceived change is not for the worst, I hope.” Considering his harrowing afternoon, he would admit to nothing and he would attempt to steer the conversation away from anything having to do with his appearance.

“No, no never with you, sir.” She continued to study him, but did, indeed, move to another topic. “I am endeavouring to recall when last we were in company. Surely you have not forgotten how you and our fifth daughter, Emily, got on so famously.” The motherly glow in her eyes made Wentworth’s stomach churn.

 “That would have been in February, ma’am. In Mahon,” he answered. The muscles in his face settling into the pleasant smile necessary to give the impression of interest. As for Emily Grierson, it had been strictly duty, and nothing resembling affection that put him in the way of Lady Mary’s notice in the first place.

Admiral Sir Henry Grierson’s ship was taking on water and victuals one dirty night in Mahon. The captain suspected it was the convergence of her husband finally coming into port and her daughters having new dresses that was reason enough for Lady Mary to arrange an exclusive supper aboard the Admiral’s man-of-war. Between the wind and rain, every surface was glistening wet and treacherous. As they were proceeding up the gangway, the girl slipped and it was Wentworth’s hand that kept her from sliding into the drink. When later harassed for his gallantry, by fellows just as near the clumsy girl, he battled back by saying it was either keep her dry or wet his sleeves fishing her out.

 “It is so crowded this evening. I would have thought the Admiralty would be more select. It would seem that every man with a board on his shoulder is here eating and drinking his fill.”

 “I suspect that many are taking the opportunity to pay homage one last time before returning to life on land.” It was a lie, he knew many were eating and drinking as much as they could hold in hopes of bankrupting the Crown.

Lifting a brow, she said, “Well, that is honourable. If true.” The stipulation was insightful and took him aback. Everything to do with Lady Mary was ordinarily fixed on procuring officers to serve as husbands for her seven marriageable daughters. What else was there for her to do? She had the mischance of giving birth to seven girl children, and this drove the speculation that Sir Henry kept to sea out of self-preservation. The only decent thing to do was to see them all married and continuing in the occupation of naval wife. She had been heard to say, “I see my girls as the tenders that spread out all over the ports, caring for the needs of the ships that come in to be refreshed and renewed.”

When he’d heard it, he’d thought that in a broad, poetic sense that might be admirable, but in a practical comparison to boats filled with likes of slovenly jobbers, whores and chandlers, it seemed to him to fall short of a compliment.

The tassel and feathers were bobbing wildly with the beating of her fan.

The room was warming and he wanted nothing more than to wipe his brow. But appearing in uniform, he refused to be seen daubing at his face as if he were a swooning old woman. It did not keep him from fingering his sword knot.

“And your daughters are all well I pray, Lady Mary?” Gad, nothing like jumping into the thick of it, Wentworth, he thought.

Her fan closed with a snap and, though seeming impossible, her complexion brightened even more. “They are all very well. Emily is here somewhere and would certainly accept an invitation to dance.” She craned her neck and turned around looking for the girl.

Feigning to look over the crowd, he remembered Miss Emily Grierson. The unfortunate girl was reed-thin, with a horse-face, and not much for conversation. His usually amusing anecdotes about life aboard a man-of-war left her unsmiling and he had not thought of her since February.

Just then a midshipman, much too drunk for so early in the evening, hurtled himself in the midst of them and fell laughing at their feet. In seconds another mid broke through the crowd and grabbed him up and away.

Lady Grierson fanned herself more briskly and said, “I am sure you were not so ill-behaved as a young man.”

He thought to disabuse her of such a misbegotten notion, but decided it best to keep her good opinion. “And how does Sir Henry? He has returned to the country?”

She cocked her head. “No as a matter of fact, he is not. And now that you bring him into matters, I must say that I am quite put out with you.” She lightly tapped his snowy white lapel and continued. “His Lordship was to bring us home from Gibraltar this spring, but was ordered west, leaving my daughters and I at the mercy of a terribly graceless merchantman who offered us passage. I was very disappointed to find that you and Laconia had preceded us by little more than a week.” She tapped him one last time. The ringing of the fan hitting a button emphasized her point. He was sorely tempted to take it from her, and hurtle it across the room. Instead, he traced the seams of his glove with his thumb and continued to smile.

Finally, he said, “Ah, well, Ma’am, I must plead that time and tide are strict taskmasters and none of us in service to the King is any better than a slave to them.”

Lady Grierson thought for a moment and seemed to decide that she could not find fault with his philosophical answer. “I assure you, Captain, our hearts were broken after learning that we would be deprived of your Laconia’s most excellent accommodations.”

Wentworth clapped an even wider smile on his lips and marveled at the lady’s temerity that she would assume a welcome for herself, and her gaggle of girl children aboard Laconia. Though, in the end, it would have been a matter of wills and cunning.  He surmised she was of strong will, but with so many daughters to see to, her cunning might have out stripped his own. Regardless, his absence had allowed him to avoid any such contest.

“It was undoubtedly our loss, ma’am.”

The fan snapped open again and he was annoyed to see it begin to wave, until its wind touched and cooled his brow wonderfully. “Emily,” she called out. To him, “I see my Emily. I shall just fetch her so that you may have that dance you desire.”

The red, round figure began to sweep away, then turned suddenly. “It is your hair. You have cut it to be more in style. It is very appealing, Emily will be so pleased.”

Well, it would seem that dear Jack had landed him in the current of fashion. But he had no intention of hearing Miss Emily’s opinion on the matter. Turning in the opposite direction, Wentworth made a determined trek to the supper-room.

The supper-room was generously carved out of a corner using screens and tables. The food was adequate, the wines sharp or brackish, and the company unable to converse on topics other than past glories or future desperation. The table was emptying of his morbid companions when Wentworth determined that Craig showed a great deal of wisdom in saying Frederick should visit his sister and his brother and only then make decisions concerning the future. His last tablemate left him and he was free to consider his family.

Edward was emphatic that he should come and meet the new Mrs. Wentworth. As for Sophie and the Admiral, surely they would be settled somewhere in the wilds of Somerset by now. Compared to some of his fellows, the choices that had looked so grim earlier were beginning to hold out some promise of enjoyment.

Scrutinising the room, he saw nothing of Lady Grierson and so signaled for another glass of wine.

Just as he raised the glass to his lips, a lumpish form crashed into the seat next to him. This new seatmate stayed his arm and said, “That swill is too vile, better to have some of this.” A generous silver flask was offered in the wine’s place.

Frederick recognized the flask, took it and drank. “So what have you been up to while I dined?”

Craig took it back and drank before he capped it and tucked the flask in his pocket. “Oh, not much. I am thinking that perhaps you are right about Miss Hammond. So I introduced myself to her aunt.” He patted Frederick’s arm. “She is a good sturdy, sensible woman. I think she likes me.” He smiled like an earnest schoolboy.

“All old ladies like you, Gil. You remind them of their favorite nephew; oh-so polite, but just a touch naughty.”

“True. But the likes of Lady Mary prizes you for the oh-so upstanding fellow you are.”

Wentworth sighed. Taking a used glass, he began to wipe it clean with a napkin. “I wish the woman would find her daughters another objective. I will have no peace now that they all are back in the country.” He held out the glass awaiting the flask to be withdrawn from his friend’s pocket.

“No, I suppose not. But face it, Captain, you are every Marrying Mama’s dream.” Finishing pouring the honey-coloured liquour in the glass, he took a drink himself. “I hear that, viewed through the female eye, you are a very pleasing sight. Add to that the fact that you are rich, and are destined collect many impressive titles aside from that of ‘Captain.’” Normally, Gil’s silliness would cause him to swell immodestly with pride, but this evening it seemed ridiculous and, indeed, silly.

“There is also the fact that you are the Royal Navy’s model of chastity. There are no hints of false wives in foreign ports, or rumours of little boys and girls, tucked up in far-away places, that bear that striking Wentworth countenance.” Gil smiled and patted him hard on the back. “Face it, old thing, you are precisely the sort of fellow every father wishes his daughter to marry.”

His friend’s face was open and smiling. The whole rant was meant to be a wry tribute to his uprightness. Instead, the words mocked him and he felt the weight of his dinner and the sour wine acutely.

As he took a drink of Gil’s tonic, he began to snigger.

“What is so funny?”

 “Nothing that you’ve said intentionally, but let me assure you that  not every father would wish me for a son-in-law.” The burn in his throat was pleasant and he put the glass down, wishing to savour the rest.

The crowded, noisy room, reeking of perfume and food and bodies faded and he might just as well be that overexcited and lovesick lieutenant standing face-to-face with Sir Walter Elliot so many years in the past.

“I would find an alliance between the Elliots and … your people to be a degradation intolerable for my part.”

 The Baronet had said many other things, all of them disparaging, and when the interview was finished, Frederick’s only desire was to find Anne.

He felt embarrassed that he could still feel so wounded by this latent memory.

Finding her pacing in the garden, confidently awaiting the news that they had her father’s blessing, he told her the details.

There had been little need for the embellishments he’d added. In the end, it mattered little. Sir Walter’s refusal angered her, and she vehemently declared she would talk with him and make him see his error.

“Don’t worry, I will make him see the rightness of our being together.”

In the few months of their acquaintance, she had deftly fended off his growing affections. Now it was she soothed him with a touch to his livid brow and sweetly touched his lips with hers. Her behaviour assured him of her love and devotion to him.

When they had parted, he returned to Edward’s, confident that when next he met Anne, everything would be set right.

When next they met, she broke off the engagement.

The worst shock came when she began to parrot back the old man’s objections; the match was improper from the beginning and deserved nothing but failure. Her protestations of love for him rang as hollow in his memory as they had in her presence. Over time he came to believe she had played him for a fool. His attentions were merely a diversion in the course of the boring summer and that her family’s objections were a convenient excuse to be rid of him. When he walked away from her that day, dejected and angry, he stopped his ears to her declarations of love. The most galling of her protestations was that the break up was for his good as much as for her own.

Reluctantly, he struggled his way back to the noise of the present. Fixing his attention on Gilmore Craig and his inanity, he forced the memories of her fatigued, tear-stained face out of his mind. 

“…and certainly there are men who are no better than jackasses! But considering what you have to offer a woman, I cannot imagine that fathers would be that much of a problem.”

“Perhaps. But I am curious. Why have you put so much thought to my private affairs?”

“That is simple enough. I got the crack-brained notion to move amongst the masses and have been riding by post the length and breadth of this country for several weeks. I have found that after speaking about the weather and the roads, all interesting conversation with fellow passengers is exhausted. There has been little choice but to sleep or put my mind to any number of diverse, and amusing topics.”

Wentworth downed the rest of the drink and again appreciated the gentle burning. “Gil, you amaze me. Even I do not contemplate my own life so closely.”

“I have known you for many years now, and have seen an interesting paradox which prompted my musings. Shall I tell you my theories?”

Frederick smiled and rubbed his hands together as he turned to face his friend. “By all means, I am anxious to hear your theories.” This should be perfectly ridiculous, he thought.

“Well, I have noticed you are not in the least repelled by females; your eyes brighten when you are put in their company. In that, you are no different than any other healthy male. But, I have also noticed that you admire, but do not pursue them. I asked myself why that might be. Normally, a man who appreciates women does everything in his power to be noticed, but not Frederick Wentworth. And why might that be?” He cocked his head and gestured as though awaiting an answer.

“Oh, no, Gil, you are the philosopher. I sit at your feet awaiting your wisdom.”

“I have come to the conclusion that truly, in your heart, you are a Romantic.” He pointed his finger at Wentworth and then folded his hands. A self-satisfied look spread across his face.

At the word “Romantic,” the captain bristled and could only picture Benwick’s forlorn countenance.

“So, at the core of my being you think I am one of those wretched, dismal fellows who goes about badly dressed and long-faced, spouting turgid poetry? Thank you so much.”

“No, no, not that sort of man, but one who believes there can be true and equal love between men and women.” He could not help be touched by Gil’s expression as he spoke. He had always wondered if Gilmore Craig thought of anything more than his warehouse, contracts with the navy and shipping interests. Now he knew the answer.

“I think you will not settle for a sham marriage of convenience, or even companionship because you know there is something far superior. I believe you have been deeply and completely in love.”The statement was jarring in its perceptiveness. Realising he’d been listening with particular attention, he now had to force his jaw to slacken. The summation left him nearly breathless, so to the point was it. It also left him feeling exposed and raw. He was not inclined to have his weaknesses examined so closely.

“And so, if I have been, as you say, ‘deeply and completely in love,’ why am I not enjoying the fruits of such a love?” He struggled to make his voice and manner as unconcerned as possible.

“I thought on that for some time. As I have observed, you are not a man who will let anything stand between you and whatever you desire. That is why I think the woman is for some reason unobtainable.” The expression on Gil’s face testified to his sympathy. “I believe that she has died.”

Were his feelings on gaudy display for everyone to see? Or was Gil exceptional? He did not care; all he wished was an end to the conversation. “So you think I have been mooning over a dead woman all these years?”

“Yes, because, as I said, you are the sort of man who would move heaven and earth to make her your wife -- if she were obtainable.”

This observation felt like an indictment. But there was nothing to obtain. Anne Elliot had wanted nothing to do with him and had made that clear at their last meeting.

Clearing his throat, Frederick said, “I have to say, my friend—“

Craig leant down and hissed, “Two points on your stern. It’s Lady Grierson and not one, but two daughters. You’d best fly.”

He didn’t even look, but stood immediately. Bowing slightly to Gil, he said, “Thanks for the warning.” He walked slowly out of the supper-room, hoping the lady’s attention would not be drawn by a leisurely exit.

Manoeuvring behind Lady Mary had been easy enough. As long as he trailed in her wake, he could simply keep out of her sight. He’d followed her to an upper gallery and watched her go back down when she found no trace of him. The gallery was full, but not quite to bursting as the rest of the hall and he took the opportunity to take up a post beside a column, near the railing. It was here Miss Hammond joined him.

She nodded in acknowledgement, but said nothing as she too watched the crowd below. Perhaps he could do Gil some good by striking up a conversation with her.

“Your uncle got off without a hitch, I take it?”

“Yes he did. He was very glad to be going. He has longed for a foreign station.”

“Then he should like India exceedingly.”

“You have been there?”

“No, I have been to the West Indies and sailed extensively in the Western Islands.”

To that point, Miss Hammond had been dividing her looks between him and the crowd below. Now she looked strictly at him, puzzled.

“The Azores.” Miss Hammond’s knowledge of things concerning the navy and sailing made it unusual that she would not have known the more familiar term for the islands.

“Ah yes, the Azores. I am sorry. I thought I saw someone I know downstairs.”

He glanced over. “Yes, there I see Mr. Craig. He is just coming out of the supper-room.”

She stepped closer and followed his pointing finger. “Yes, I see him.” There was no attempt to acknowledge his friend.

Just then, Lady Mary stepped into view and he hastily turned away. Miss Hammond was so close he could smell her scent. It was sweet, but not cloying. She laughed, though continued to watch the floor below. Turning her attention to Wentworth, she asked, “Will you be going back to sea soon, Captain?”

He backed away a step but met with the wretched column. “Uh, no. My ship has been laid up in ordinary and I am planning to visit my brother and sister for a time.”

“Well, that is probably best.” She again glanced over the railing. “The weather has been a bit cool, has it not?” Flipping open her fan, she continued to smile while dividing her attentions.

“The weather has been good. But September is usually mild along the coast.”

Without a word, Miss Hammond turned away from him and made a very pointed acknowledgement to someone downstairs. He leant over and saw Craig waving at them.

Quickly she turned back and laughed a bit loudly as she asked where he was to travel when visiting his mother. He began to think Miss Hammond had drunk too much wine. Her bright pink complexion and inattention to the conversation was worrisome. He was about to suggest they go down, collect Craig and find some coffee when someone pecked at his shoulder.

He’d forgotten to look out for Lady Mary and feared he was found out. He set his face in a tight smile and turned. He was pleasantly surprised and said a little prayer of thanks.

“Jack.”

 “Captain Wentworth.” He touched his forehead in a salute to him and then bowed to Miss Hammond.

“How did you get in here?”

Drawing a letter from his breast pocket, he offered it to Wentworth. “Aunt thought this might be important and so sent me to fetch it to you. I just told the footman I had a message of the uttermost importance. He figured it was official, and I didn’t set him straight.”

Taking the letter he glanced at the return address. It was from Edward and so hardly an official message. “Thank you, Jack.” Digging in his pocket, he hoped to find a shilling, but all he found was a five-shilling piece. Far more than the scamp deserved. He gave it over nonetheless.

Stuffing the letter into his pocket, he spoke only a few moments longer with Miss Hammond. She suddenly found it necessary to go below.

Being free of company was a relief. Finding an empty terrace, he stepped out and lit a cheroot off the torch. The noise of the party had left his ears ringing, giving him reason the to enjoy the calm and quiet all the more. Finishing the cigar, he remembered the letter and drew it out. He hesitated for a moment, it could only be another loving, though insistent plea to visit. Which he thought odd. Edward had never been one to ask for his company. He was not stinting in having Frederick visit, but when he was a single man, he seemed to enjoy his privacy. Marriage had certainly changed that. Regardless, he decided to read it.

Stepping to the brazier, he broke the seal and began to read. After just a few lines he stopped and leant against the wall. “D*mn my eyes! Surely the devil himself is in this.”

Chapter Seven

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