Love Suffers Long and Is Kind, Volume II
(Chapter 5, Part 2)
It was long before Timothy Harville came to bed that Sunday night. His wife had just finished nursing the baby; he was now sleeping peacefully in the crib beside their bed.
"Well, he is leaving us." Harville sat down heavily on his side of the bed. It had been a long day, with the guests and all, and now this. It was as if he had received a blow to the stomach that he had not seen coming.
"What did you say?" Elsa was smoothing an extra wool blanket over the coverlet; it would be a cold night. "Who is leaving?"
"Benwick. That legal business of his great aunt's he's been muttering about ... something about a will. He had a talk with me just now, says he has to go and take care of it himself. He will be leaving for London within the next few days, as soon as he can arrange it."
"Oh." She slid under the bedclothes, shivering a little. "Well! That is a piece of news! That should be good for him ... it will take him out into the world a bit, get him out of himself ... don't you think? He has been too much alone."
"Humph! He will be clearing out his room, Elsa. He says he does not know how long it will take and he knows we need the space in this tiny house."
"Oh. I see." She looked over at her husband as she adjusted her nightcap. "That is very thoughtful. I could use the extra room, even for a few weeks."
"That is not the point, Elsa! His home is here with us now. How can he just leave?"
"Because ... he must."
Harville frowned at her. "Meaning?"
"We ... remind him too much ... of Fanny." Elsa Harville spoke softly, choosing her words carefully. "He has been ... healing. He needs to go on, to make a new life for himself. This is the beginning, the first step, leaving us."
"Oh, that is very nice, I'm sure!"
"He cannot mourn her forever, Timothy. He has been through a long, dark time."
"Only since June ... August, for him!" He sounded disgusted. "It has not been all that long."
"It is not his fault that he did not learn of it right away."
Harville grumbled, "Aye, I suppose." He lay down in the bed beside his wife, pulling the blankets up to his chin. He was nearly exhausted, both physically and emotionally. And now that he was finally alone with Elsa, this was the opportune time to tell her about his orders from Wentworth. But somehow he did not have the heart to do it. And then there was this business with Benwick. Harville found that he was rather put out with his friend James, but the struggle to understand why he should feel so was beyond him on this night. He leaned over to blow out the candle. The room was now lit only by a dark lantern on the floor near the baby's crib, kept as an aid to Elsa should the child require her attentions.
Would you have him mourn her forever, Timothy?" Elsa's voice came out of the darkness beside him.
"Of course not!" Harville grumbled, a little annoyed; his wife apparently was in a talkative frame of mind, and he did not want to talk anymore about Benwick.
"Then what more can he do?" She snuggled close to her husband for warmth and comfort. "He cannot bring Fanny back!"
"But how can he forget her?"
"Timothy, he must!" She turned toward him, speaking earnestly. "He never will, completely, but he must go on! And we must let him! Or ... do you expect him to wait the twelve years until Ellie is grown up?"
"Elsa!" Harville was fully awake now.
"I was afraid for a while that he might actually consider doing it. That sort of thing would appeal to his romantical nature, you know. But she would only see him as her old Uncle Benwick; it would be quite useless."
"Aye, I should think so!" Harville snorted, rather revolted at the thought of James Benwick as his son-in-law. "And what do you know about his romantical nature? It's nothing but pig-swill if he can forget her so soon!"
Elsa Harville gave her husband a reproachful look, faintly visible in the dim light. "You keep saying that! I do not understand what you mean! He could not have loved her more, you know that! Sometimes ... I wonder if he loved her more than we. He certainly knew her better."
"Don't be foolish Elsa! Of course he did not!"
"But ... his letters, Timothy. What he said to her in his letters. I ..." She hesitated.
"And what do you know about his letters?"
There was a rather long silence. He turned to look at his wife, her face was half-hidden in the shadows; what he saw of it held a rather stricken, guilty expression. "I have never told you this, Timothy", she confessed. "I hope you are not offended." She picked at a slub in the woolen blanket as she spoke. "When Fanny knew that she would not be getting well..." she lifted her eyes to meet his, "and she knew it, Timothy, those last days, and she was quite peaceful about it; she asked me to read to her ... from two things. One was the Bible, which you know, for you were often in and out of the room." Elsa Harville smiled a little at the memory. "Those words were her lifeline of hope, dear girl! And the other ..." She took a deep breath. "And the other ... she had me read Benwick's letters to her. All of them. And I did, when we were alone. It was quite a ... revelation."
"I imagine it was!" Harville was grimly amused. "Of all the ...! So you waded through all that soppy lovey-dovey bile, did you?"
"Timothy! Don't be mean! Of course I did, and it brought such pleasure to poor Fanny! And I was quite surprised. I remember thinking that it was very like that first night he came here, the first time he came here alone, that is, to deliver a letter of yours. We made him stay to dinner, poor man. He was very shy and a little afraid to be all by himself with three women, I think! And Fanny made him talk ... and he did! I was never more astonished, for he was not at all the quiet, dull man I had thought he was.
"Humph! No, Benwick is not at all quiet, once he begins talking. Then it becomes hard to shut him up!"
"Well he certainly kept us entertained with stories of your adventures on the Laconia. I recall one in particular which had us in stitches," she smiled. "You never told us about climbing that cliff to steal eggs from the seagulls, but he did!"
"Oh lord, Elsa! He told you about that?"
"Yes, and how you were attacked by the angry gulls and barely made it down safely! He used such funny words to describe what happened! We laughed ourselves silly!"
"Hah! We were quite a sight! Three grown men; able, fighting men! Running from a bunch of flapping, squawking birds!" Harville grinned in spite of himself. "I hate birds! Was pecked by one the other day." His grin widened. "Wentworth hates 'em too. In fact, I tried to ... well, never mind!"
Mrs. Harville smiled with him -- and also at her memories of that dinner conversation three years ago. "Do you know, I can so clearly recall the look on Fanny's face that evening; I think her attachment to him began that very night! I felt that same kind of astonishment when I began to read his letters, for they were not at all prosy or dull!"
Captain Harville rolled his eyes in the darkness and groaned.
"In fact, I think I learnt more of what everyday life is like in the Navy from his letters than anything, for he told her all about his duties, and those of the other officers. He described the different men on the ship (some of them very odd characters!), and told all about each port they visited."
"No lovey-dovey slop, eh?"
"Yes, but he asked her questions, Timothy, about all kinds of things. Even deep theological questions, and you know how she never tired of that subject! He was struggling through some issues about faith, I think. And she answered him. The Laconia was stranded at Liverpool for a month or more, due to repairs and the weather, or some such thing, during the time they were getting to know one another. Their letters flew back and forth across the countryside through the mails; they must have written nearly every day! Benwick was not afraid of Fanny's intelligence, as some were; he was rather pleased by her ability to think. And it seemed to me, by reading what he said, that she asked him some very hard, penetrating questions; you remember how she was."
"Aye, that I do."
"And as I read those letters I kept thinking how surprised she must have been, to find that he was her equal in intellect; more than her equal, really, for he was much better educated. And very romantic, which Fanny was not ... or so I had always thought, but I was very wrong about this, too. He wrote such sweet things to her ... and she hung on every word! If you could have seen how her pale, sickly face would light up, and her eyes would shine, as I read his precious words to her!" Elsa blushed a little. "I remember that he told her how glad he was that her eyes were that particular shade of blue-green, for every morning and all day long the sea would remind him of her."
"Oh no!" Harville grumbled. "Of all the muttonheaded things for Benwick to say! What a mooncalf!"
"Yes, but to have a man write such things, sincerely, I mean! It is very appealing to a woman! My eyes are blue, and I would love to have my lonely sweetheart write from his ship that he thinks of me all the day, each time he notices the sea! I mean, who could resist ... he said that her smile was like the sun breaking out from behind the somber clouds, giving light, and warmth, and cheer, and beauty ... to everything around her! Or something like that, I cannot remember exactly. I was halfway in love with him myself, to read such things! I don't blame Fanny for being overwhelmed by such heartfelt sentiments. No wonder she cherished his letters."
"Elsa!" Timothy was rather revolted. "You like that pap? I ... well, I have thoughts like that about you, while I am away," he muttered, "many times. They seem ... too silly ... to put in a letter."
"You do? You have never told me!" She snuggled against him more closely, laying her head against his shoulder. "I would so like it if you would write them down, so that I may read them again and again, when I am lonely and missing you."
"Yes, well, perhaps," he murmured, rather embarrassed. Elsa was a practical woman, like Fanny. How could she be so romantic as to like the kinds of things someone like Benwick would write?
"Well, at any rate, it begins to look like I will be back at sea, so perhaps I may try my hand at ..." he smiled bashfully at his wife, "writing silly letters to my sweetheart." He fingered a stray tendril of her hair which had fallen out of her nightcap, and as he did, he took a deep breath. The conversation had turned toward the very subject he had wanted to put off. There was nothing for it; he must speak.
"I, ah, did tell you that Wentworth has his orders?" he began, reluctantly. It was now his turn to pick at the threads in the blanket.
"Does he? I did not know that, no."
"He received them the day before the wedding, of all things."
"Oh Timothy, his poor bride!
"Aye. And poor Frederick! He asked me which part of the honeymoon would be best to tell such a thing, that he is leaving her! I was never more befuddled in my life! How does one answer a question like that?!"
"Yes, that would be awkward! Whatever did you say?"
"That ... based on my experience ... there is no good time. Ah, Elsa ..." He spoke quietly, soberly. "Elsa, he is still insisting that I go with him, as his First. He needs to be ..." This was even more difficult than he had thought. This time there were no orders involving him; he would be joining the crew by his own choice. "Ah ... he needs to be on the Laconia, ready to weigh anchor ... by the end of April."
"The ... Laconia, Timothy? Again? Why, that is ... amazing!"
"Isn't it. He ... he would like me to ..." Timothy put his free arm over his wife and braced himself for the worst. "Well, you see," he explained, " the Laconia has been sitting idle for months now, and will need quite a bit of refitting work done before she is ready to put to sea. And Frederick has told me ... uh, unless there is an unforeseen change in the plan, that is ... I will need to be in Plymouth ... within ... a week or so." Harville found it difficult to speak. "I'm sorry, Elsa, dear. This is much ... sooner than I had expected."
"I see. Yes, it is that." Elsa whispered, and nothing more.
"I'm ... sorry," he repeated, not knowing what to say to her. "And that's another reason I don't like Benwick leaving us just now. I was hoping he would stay on, to look after things in my absence."
"But Timothy!" she raised her head. "He cannot stay! Surely you must see the hand of Providence working in this! Benwick wants to leave of his own will; we do not have to ask it of him! It would not be at all right for him to continue to live with us while you are away at sea!"
"Nonsense! He is a member of our family now, have we not always said so?"
"Yes, while you were with us, but Timothy, you have not considered! How very improper it would appear! You would not wish to expose me to gossip and speculation, I am sure."
Harville frowned. "Gossip! What gossip? Benwick was engaged to marry Fanny, as everyone knows!"
"Even if he had done so, he would now be a widower, and it would not be at all respectable for us to share a residence! No, I will invite my cousin Solveig to stay with me again, so I shall not be alone. And ... I have been doing some thinking, since Captain Wentworth told you of this possibility. Was it only last week?" She shook her head in disbelief. "Well, as the lease to this house is up in March, what do you say about finding us a house in Plymouth, where we have friends and family nearby? Although I have loved living in Lyme ..." she added, rather wistfully.
"Elsa, I'm sorry," Harville broke in, torn between his love for his family and his profession. "I do not have to go with Wentworth. I am not ordered to do so. Perhaps it would be better to tell him to find someone else."
"Yes, but if we all move to Plymouth, we will have two more months together before you have to leave." Elsa took a deep breath and put on a cheerful face; "Besides, this is a chance to advance your career, a wonderful chance, for what could be better than serving under Captain Wentworth again? I know how much you would enjoy it! Your health is so much improved, and you need occupation, Timothy. And ... although we shall miss you dreadfully, I do believe that this is God's will for us, as everything we need is being provided for. Even poor Benwick is leaving at exactly the right time."
"Aye, I see your point," Harville muttered; "but not quite everything. I was hoping to leave you in better financial condition, Elsa, when I went back to sea. This may not be the right time, for we have very little in reserve."
"It will be enough, Timothy. I have some money put by, so you need not worry." She kissed him on the cheek and turned over in the bed. "Good night, dear. Everything will be fine."
Harville frowned into the darkened room, surprised at her quick dismissal of the subject which would usually be of great concern to her. "What money, Elsa?" There was no answer. "You have never mentioned this before. What money are you talking about?" She kept silent; he tapped her shoulder impatiently. "Elsa? I know you are not asleep! Out with it, now! What money?"
"Oh, very well," she grumbled, goaded into speaking. "You're almost as bad as he is." Elsa turned over to face her husband. "I have not mentioned this to you, either," she began, a little guiltily, "as I had so much trouble about Benwick and the grocery money."
"Humph! The grocery money! Which you were forbidden to take, as I recall ... until that dolt simply went 'round you, and began paying the grocer directly. Aye, I remember very well! What about it?"
"Ah, not the grocery money, exactly, but ..." Elsa took a deep breath and began. "Well, a few months after Benwick had begun this, ah, system of contributing to the household expenses, he came to me with a statement of account from a bank here in Lyme." She put her hand on his arm. "Now hear me out, Timothy. You won't like this but let me tell you how it happened."
Harville crossed his arms across his chest and grunted.
"When he received his promotion, and some of his prize money, he told me that he wrote to Fanny; you remember the letter. It told her the good news: that he was on his way back to England and they could be married. In it he had enclosed his checque made payable to her, to help with any expenses in setting up their household. Having waited so long to marry, they did not want to waste any time once he got here. Poor Benwick." Her voice wavered a little. "I did not realise how ... devastating ... it was for him when we returned his letter, unopened." Elsa began to pick at the blanket again.
"He later cashed the checque, and deposited the money in that bank here in town . He put the account ... in our names, Timothy, for the children ... for their education or for any need we might have in the future. He told me that ..." her eyes welled with tears, "that the money was his gift to Fanny ... and that our children were all he had left of her ... now, and that he wanted them to have it. What could I say, but 'God bless you, dear friend'? You may tell him 'no thank you,' if you like, but I could not."
Harville breathed out a long sigh. "How much?" he asked at last.
"Two hundred pounds."
"Oh, James." Harville found it hard to speak. "Such a gift." He closed his eyes for a moment, working to control his emotions. "Aye, my dear, you did right. To refuse would wound him even more. And I thank him from the bottom of my heart ... and I shall tell him so tomorrow." He slipped his arms around his wife and held her close against his chest for a long while. "Well, Elsa, it appears I am going back to sea." He was relieved to be rid of the burden of the bad news; now he was beginning to feel the impact of the sadness their parting would bring.
"And I am returning to Plymouth, which will be nice, for we will be together until the end of April." She spoke cheerfully and decisively, as she always did after he had received his orders. Elsa was a very practical woman. She knew it would do no good to allow him to see her dismay at the thought of being alone again. There would be plenty of time for tears ... later.
"Aye. And Benwick is going to settle his business." Harville sighed. "Well, I will miss him."
"And I. Oh, and bye the bye, Timothy," Elsa said, turning the conversation in a more light-hearted direction, "here is something which will amuse you." She adjusted her position so that her head rested on the pillow next to his; as much as she enjoyed being held close against him, she now cherished every opportunity to look at him face to face, to talk with him about the little happenings of everyday life. "I have finally found out what it is that Ellie has been saying, about Ella-nor of Aka-tane. She said Uncle Benwick told her she was named after a queen, so I asked him about it today. Ellie was saying, Eleanor of Acquitaine: wife of two kings, mother of two kings. A little history lesson of his."
"Hah! Ellie was not named for a queen!" Harville burst out, highly amused.
"Shhhh! The baby!"
"Sorry. She was not named for a queen," he explained, this time in a whisper. "You remember. She was named after my mother's mother, Eleanor, a fish-fag in Cockerham ... 'Elkie the Heckler,' as she was known in the marketplace!"
"Elkie the Heck ... a fish-fag? Timothy! You never ... " Elsa chuckled. "And you said she was a fine woman!"
"Well, she was ... kind and generous to a fault ... and she could screech like anything!" Harville grinned. "Not unlike our Ellie, eh? Heaven help us! Ellie, a queen! Isn't that just like Benwick to think so? Poor romantical fellow."
"Now Timothy, even queens must screech sometime."
"Aye, but they say, 'Off with his head!' or some such thing!"
"Yes, well, don't give Ellie any ideas, please. I am having enough trouble teaching her to share with Tommy as it is!" she smiled, leaning over to kiss him fondly on the cheek. "Now that I think of it, I myself still struggle with sharing, sometimes."
"Hummm?" he yawned. "Sharing what?"
"You ... with the sea." Elsa playfully stroked his hair. "And I am very fond of having a dashing, adventuresome sea captain for a husband ... so I suppose I wouldn't have it any other way. Goodnight, my dear." She kissed his cheek once again and turned over in the bed, preparing to sleep.
"... dashing, hmmm?" Her husband's voice came out of the darkness beside her. He sounded amused. " I haven't been able to dash anywhere these past two years, my dear."
"Oh, I would say you do very well, Captain," Elsa smiled into the pillow. "Besides ..." she turned back to face him, enjoying the feel of his arms, which were stealing around her, "that wasn't exactly what I meant ... as I believe you know." She smiled as she felt him remove her cap and gently touch her hair. There was no need to share him tonight, with the sea or with anyone else. Tonight they were together, and he was hers alone.
(Chapter 5, Part 3)
Two packets of letters lay on the table beside James Benwick's bed. He had come across them earlier that evening while rummaging through his sea chest to find an old dagger he thought Mrs. Harville's uncle might be interested in seeing -- what he called, in jest, his "piratical memento." He had found the weapon, as expected, but he had also found the letters: Fanny's letters ... and his.
Benwick now reached over and picked them up, holding a bundle in each hand, examining them by the light of the single candle on the table. There is no way to measure the value of these, he thought, as he lay there in bed. Each one was written and received with such delight! He did not need to read hers, he knew every word of them. And his to her, they were similarly worn, also much read and cherished. How we loved one another! We, who each had thought ourselves unable to find love!
He smiled into the darkness as he put them down. It was as if his decision to leave Lyme had opened a door to some hidden place in his heart, for a flood of memories had begun to sweep across his mind; sweet, tender memories; things he had not thought of for a long while.
On impulse, he again took up his letters, tied with a pink ribbon, and carefully slid out the one on the bottom, the oldest one, and began to read what he had written to her. It was formal and brief (when compared to the others); its simple wording had cost him hours of deliberation.
Aboard the H.M.S. Laconia, August __, 1811Miss Harville,
As you have requested, I would like to report on the remarkable recovery of the seaman known as Two-Toed Jack ...
Benwick broke off reading and began to wander the streets of Plymouth in his mind, reliving that wondrous night in August, more than three years ago, that night when he had found himself to be suddenly and overwhelmingly in love. He had walked back to the waterfront, along the pier and down the gangplank with such a feeling in his heart, smiling at nothing, keenly aware of everything: the damp sea air, the gentle lapping of the water against the sides of the ships which were docked there, the groan of the mooring ropes, the 'slap-slap' of the rigging, the small lights from the ships anchored out in the harbour, which bobbed and danced across the dark water. Such a beautiful summer night!
The Laconia had arrived in Plymouth that morning; her stay in port was only to be long enough to reprovision and enable a few much-needed repairs to be made. Benwick had returned from his shore leave that night well within his allotted time, but at a very advanced hour -- an almost unheard-of occurrence for him. He had been quietly making his way below, when he heard a voice in the dark companionway. James closed his eyes as the scene unfolded in his memory ...
"And just where have you been?" It was the Captain, standing in the doorway to his cabin, his tall form silhouetted against the lamplight. "Have you any idea what time it is?"
"Yessir, it's a little after one. Hanson's on the quarter-deck, I'm not on 'til four. However, if you need me to relieve him now, I can."
"No, that will not be necessary. But ... could you spare a few minutes?" The Captain jerked his head toward his cabin. "I think we need to have a little talk."
"Very well, sir." A private talk with Wentworth! It was hard to read the Captain's face in the dim light, and he gave no verbal indication as to what was on his mind. He did, however, make it a point to close the door firmly behind him, and this was not a particularly good sign. Whatever was wrong, it was best to begin well. "And how are you feeling, Captain? You look to be much better." The Captain was recovering from a bout of influenza.
"I am not! My head ... and now, my nose ... gah! I cannot breathe whenever I lay down. So I have been up, stumbling about ... and it is a good thing, hmmm?" This was said with a knowing look. "Sit down." He motioned to the table as he crossed the cabin to pull his appointment book out of its place. "Muker is getting some coffee made. I'll have him bring an extra cup and leave the coffeepot here. I daresay you will need it, as you are to be up all night!"
"Oh, I am fine. I have already had some, as a matter of fact." It was absolutely horrible coffee, but she had served it, and so it was delightful.
"Have you now." The Captain sat down in his chair and leaned back in it. "You seem to have enjoyed yourself this evening." He opened the book. " So, how were the Harvilles? You, ah, did remember to deliver Timothy's letter?"
"Yessir. And they are very well ... and send their kind regards!" There was a knock at the door. The steward brought in the coffee, fetched and placed the extra cup, and left. "And I did enjoy myself this evening. In fact, I had a wonderful time. Mrs. Harville, er, constrained me to stay to dinner."
"Constrained you?"
"Yessir. I did not want impose upon her kindness, but she would not be gainsaid."
The Captain had looked surprised at that, but merely said, "I see."
"You should have been there, sir. It is too bad you were not feeling up to coming with me, for she served the most delicious meal! They were very concerned about you, when I told them you were not feeling well. And they wanted to know all about where we had been and what Timothy was up to when we saw him last. He, ah, writes rather short letters, you know, and the ladies wanted me to fill in the details."
"Which you did."
"Yessir."
"Until one o'clock in the morning." There was a short silence. He tapped on the shining mahogany tabletop. "James, you were engaged to have dinner with me tonight. And although I realise that familiarity does breed contempt, I believe it is still counted as something to dine at the Captain's table, is it not?"
"Tonight sir? Surely you must be mistaken! Wasn't that to be tomorrow? I distinctly remember it as tomorrow!"
The Captain pushed his appointment book across the table. 'Benwick: Dinner' was clearly marked. "This is Wednesday, is it not?"
"Uh, yessir, it certainly is. I am terribly sorry, Frederick! I don't know what came over me! I would have never ...! Indeed, I ..."
"Well, we shall overlook it, this once," he interrupted, "as you have never done such a thing before. And after all, Mrs. Harville did constrain you, as you said, to stay ... until one o'clock." He smiled rather maliciously. "Timothy will have your hide, James! Whatever were you thinking, to stay until such an hour?"
"Uh ... thank you, sir, for understanding ... about the dinner, that is. But I did not stay nearly so late! That is, I left the Harville home shortly before seven."
"Ah! And where, may I ask, did you go?" There was a long silence. "Hang it, James!" He coughed and paused to blow his nose several times. " You come in here, at this hour, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary! What am I to think?" Wentworth took a swallow of coffee and resumed his cross examination. "So, you went someplace else ... after dinner."
"I did."
"Where did you go?"
"I'd rather not say. I mean, you'd think it rather foolish, sir."
"Oh would I? And did you go alone when you went to this place?" The Captain was now openly suspicious.
The hanging lamp above the table swayed slightly with a swell. "I ... did not go alone, sir, no."
"You went with someone."
"I did."
"Did you go with a man? Or with a woman?"
A short silence followed, punctuated only by the ticking of the regulator clock. "With a ... woman, sir."
"And you say you had a wonderful time."
It was hard not to laugh. "Uh, yessir. Absolutely wonderful."
Frederick leaned forward and glared. "James!" he chided sarcastically, "I see I will need to give you my brother Edward's lecture on moral uprightness and the evils of wanton women!"
"Oh, this woman is not wanton, sir! Not at all!"
"Humph!" Frederick cupped his chin in his hand. "If she isn't, why the devil are you sitting there with that stupid grin on your face? Where did you go?"
"Well, if you must know, I went to a prayer meeting."
"A prayer meeting!" Frederick was openly dubious. " Until one in the morning?"
"Well, yes! We prayed, which took a long time, for there must have been at least thirty people crowded into that little house! And then the Rector gave a talk on a passage of scripture ... very well done, most interesting! And after that we sang hymns. One of the women is married to a Norwegian fellow; he and his brothers brought their ... mandolins, I think ... and these people like to sing, apparently, for they went on and on. And when they were finished, to top it off, everybody shared the sweets they had brought. There were pies by the dozen, Frederick, the tables were full! And all kinds of cakes, and puddings, and berry tarts; it was marvelous! And when I checked my watch, it was twelve-thirty. Then I took her home."
"A prayer meeting." He raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Where's your Bible, then, choirboy?"
"Oh, I didn't plan to go! I would never ... my Bible is in the bottom of my locker, Frederick, probably moulded shut! But we got to talking at dinner, and after, and then it was time for her to go ... and we were still talking. Then she invited me to come with her. So I did! I did not need my Bible because ... she let me look on with her."
"James, my boy, I believe you are blushing!" Frederick was grinning now. "She? Now who might She be? I recollect that a cousin of Mrs. Harville's sometimes comes for an extended visit ..." Another cough and a sneeze followed.
"No, no, not Miss Jensen! I must be ten years her junior, at least! It was ... Miss Harville." Even to say her name brought a smile.
"Fanny Harville. Timothy's sister." He was astonished. "You went to a prayer meeting with Fanny Harville?"
"I did, yes."
"At her express invitation." His eyebrow went up again. "And she sat right beside you the entire evening, in order to share her Bible? And ... did she hang on your arm while she took you around to introduce you to all of her friends?" He made a comical face. "Have a care, James! Or you'll find yourself known as Lieutenant Benwick, Miss Harville's Fellow. And you know what that means!"
"Actually, they were calling me Miss Fanny's Sailor Friend."
"No!" He grinned. "You are in the suds! Miss Fanny's Sailor Friend! Hah! And ... this being a prayer meeting, I take it you prayed?"
"Yes indeed! Most earnestly! Although ... I don't think Timothy would like what I prayed about, uh, silently, that is."
"James, you scoundrel!"
"She's a wonderful girl, Frederick! Not at all like Timothy. I mean, she reads!"
"Timothy reads, James!"
"No, no, not the newspaper! I mean books! And tonight she had a notebook with her. She listened very carefully to Reverend Shroyer's talk and wrote down the references to study later. She thinks about things, important things. She's not like ordinary girls at all!"
"And she is pretty, as I recall." He took another sip of coffee. "And rather tall for a woman. That does not bother you?"
"Of course not! She is only a little taller than I ... we see 'eye to eye,' you might say. And she does have the most beautiful eyes, Frederick! They are the same colour as Timothy's, but ... how is it that those eyes are so much prettier in her face than his?"
"Mmmm. Odd, that."
"She ... asked me ... to write to her, Frederick, to let her know about Two-Toed Jack. I, ah, had them pray for him, as he is so bad off."
"And not your poor Captain, who is hobbled with the grippe?"
"Uh, no. Sorry. I thought I'd better stick to the hopeless cases. But ... do you think I should write to her? I mean, do you think Harville would mind if I did?"
"No," he smiled. "I do not think he would mind, James."
"Oh. Good! Then I shall certainly do so."
"Well, Miss Fanny's Sailor Friend, you'd best turn in and catch what little sleep you can."
"Oh, I can never sleep, sir, not tonight! I, uh, am sorry about our dinner, Frederick! I don't know what came over me."
"I quite understand," he smiled kindly. " 'The way of a man with a maid,' James. Proverbs, I believe. Good night."
James smiled as slid his letter back under the pink ribbon. What a very precious time of my life. 'The way of a man with a maid,' indeed. Good night, my dear Fanny. He leaned over to snuff the candle. Except that where you are, there is no night ... no pain ... no weeping ... no sadness. He lay back on his pillow and sighed deeply, contentedly. I am glad. Yes, I am glad to know that you are happy ... and well.
He closed his eyes and yawned. And tomorrow, I book passage for London. Yes. Tomorrow.
Chapter 6
Despite her finding that Etta was now in possession of the chest, when Louisa returned the Hall, she had been in high spirits. She took comfort in knowing that her sister was to be cared for in so loving a manner as Charles Hayter had shown. And while she had been anticipating their journeying to Shropshire, and meeting more of the Captain's family and friends, all thoughts of their journey and new relations had been put aside with thoughts and ideas for a home that she and her husband would one day share.
After dismounting the gig and waving Etta and Charles away, she had bounded into the entryway. Louisa slowed herself while she attended to her bonnet strings. Looking around, she thought it odd that there had been no one at the door. Seeing the entryway deserted, she slowly walked into the sitting room, hoping to find the Captain.
Entering the room, she saw him standing by the mantelshelf. He seemed to be examining the portrait which hung over the fireplace, or perhaps he was studying the Chinese figurines that graced the shelf. It was difficult to say as his back was to her.
"Hello! Did you and Father have a good ride?"Louisa asked brightly.
She saw him start at her words. He turned and looked coldly at her. "Wher haf you bendt? I returned oned hour-and-a-quarter ago to fhind dthat ndoe ond ind dthe house dknew your whereboudts! You seembd to be quite poindted id tellig mbe dthat I shouldt dot be about bacause of dthe raind ad yet, you allowed yourself dnot ondy to be out, but out wid ndoe obligation to tell andyone where you had godt off to."
As he spoke, he had begun to cross the room. His face had been flushed and his jaw tight. In crossing, he had drawn closer to her, but having stopped midway, he took the same stance she imagined he might when dressing down one of his inferiors aboard ship. Part of her had wished to laugh, his speech being so inarticulate because of the cold, but more of her was hurt and angered by his treatment.
As he spoke, she had removed her bonnet and smoothed her hair. Remembering her cap, she had pulled off her gloves and then felt in her pocket and brought it out. Having no way to settle it straight on her head, she held it. To make matters worse, in the midst of her being scolded, Harkness, (or was it Crayshaw? she was having difficulty telling the difference), had come to fetch her pelisse and bonnet. As he took them from her, she had to endure a sharp look from him as well.
At that point, she had stood without even her cloak to hide behind. She felt as though she were an arrant child before a cross parent. When the Captain had begun, she had felt as though she must truly have done something to deserve such a reproving, but she quickly came to herself and determined to reason with him and explain what had transpired.
"I am sorry if you were worried, sir. I can see that I have given you grief by not leaving word of my whereabouts, and I have no excuse . . . other than forgetting I am now beholden to inform you of my activities." She had begun with eyes lowered, but as she had gone on she had lifted them to see his reaction. Speaking slowly, she came further into the room; the Captain's natural civility had forced him to set his anger aside long enough to see her seated. "Thank you," she murmured. "Firstly, I was worried for your health, you already have a cold and were only wearing an oilskin and hat while riding. I have no cold and was to be in a gig with the top up and we had an umbrella."
The expression on her husband's face had changed, but only very little. He was not so red in the face and his jaw relaxed somewhat. She thought that if she told him what she had been about that perhaps he would not feel so ill-treated.
"I had not given any thought that I should tell someone my sister had come and that I was off to Winthrop. At home . . . at Uppercross, we scatter to the four winds with great regularity and Mama has no notion of where we might be. I don't suppose that is very prudent, now that I think on it. I'm sorry . . . I shall be more mindful of common courtesy in the future." Her voice had lowered as she had gone on, for though she did not appreciate his manner in this, she could do his point justice, and was well aware that she might not be in the right speaking back to her husband in such forthright way.
Her circumspect answer had seemed to take the wind from Frederick's sails. His face had lightened and the angry furrow of his brows had relaxed considerably. Having taken the seat next to hers, he leaned forward and said, "I'b tsorry dthat I stnapped at you. It is just dthat I wus . . . I wus worriedt about you. You hafe beed knownd to stumble dnow and againd." At saying this, he had taken on a teazing look that she could not become angry with.
Even now, lying next to him as she remembered it, she could not feel anything but relief that he had no longer been angry with her. And it was freeing to know that he was not frightened of what happened in Lyme; he evidently did not fear that she would fall to pieces at its mention as were her mother and father. She supposed that, to some, the stuff of his humour would be considered too close to impertinence, too alarming or distasteful. To her, this had been a private joke, just between the two of them and she found it to be a comfort.
"So . . . what dit you do at Whindthrup? I ca't imbagine there would be buch to occupy ond odther dthan to rest yourself for a quarter of an hour or so." Louisa remembered Charles saying that very thing to Mary the day that all had walked to Winthrop and back.
"Oh, much more than just a rest," and she began to tell him of the cottage and all the work that her cousin was doing to bring it to a liveable condition. It had been hard to remember all the things he had done and all the sweet creations of Etta's that would make it a lovely home for them. She had longed to tell him about the chest, but had thought better of it, afraid that he might see her as silly creature for feeling so maudlin over an old and battered piece of unfashionable furniture.
" . . . and so as they brought me home, I was rather preoccupied thinking that perhaps on our return from Shropshire, we could begin to look for a place to make a home and settle ourselves. I am sure you have given some thought to it. It does not need to be here of course . . . but if you would like to live in Somersetshire . . .or perhaps near the sea? . . . well, no matter where it is, it will be our home and we shall be able to furnish it as we please. While you would not wish to have castoffs from Uppercross. . . your position would require so much better . . . I want you to know that your comfort is more on my mind than fashion. Papa says if a man cannot be comfortable in his home, he is poor indeed." After saying this, Louisa had felt so happy. She could not remember having said so much to him at one time and he had smiled as she had spoken, he had attended to all she had said. It had gratified her to know that he cared about how she thought on this matter.
After she had finished talking about her eagerness for a home, he had leant back in the chair and had seemed to make a great show of brushing his trouser leg; she could tell that he was thinking. She wondered if he was perhaps thinking about a home for them, perhaps he would describe to her his preferences in styles and colours and such. Louisa knew something of making a home, but he being a man of the world, he would surely know more of his own mind and what he liked than she. He sat forward in the chair again, clasping his hands together. He began to speak in a low tone.
"Louisa, I mbust tell you sombdthing. There is a readson dthat I wished to speak width your father today. Judst before the weddig . . . I recieved orders to returnd to sea and I wished to mbake certaind that you would be welcobe back at Uppercross to live while I amb away."
Just thinking about the scene, she felt the same dizziness that had passed over her as when hearing the news for the first time. Grateful to be seated, she had stared at him and listened as the words bounced about in her mind. She had kept blinking for her eyes stung with the tears that threatened the womanly attitude she had been endeavoring to maintain. He had said something about staying in her old room and that since he would, of course, leave her provided for, she would be able to furnish it how she chose--if that was to her liking. He had gone on to say that everything would be as though nothing had changed, there would be little inconvenience to her at all.
'As though nothing had changed'. . . 'little inconvenience,' . . . she had come back to herself gazing at her wedding ring. It was still so new that it shown brightly without the aid of polishing. Yes, things were as though there had been no change the day before; she wore his ring . . . she bore his name . . . and that was all. There was certainly no substantial difference in her.
He had gone on to say that they would be dining that evening at Uppercross and that she should go and dress. She had held her countenance as she left him in the sitting room. Making her way up the stairs had been a struggle. It was not until she closed the door to her room that she had allowed herself to cry. And even at that, only a little cry.
After indulging herself with the tears, while the girl had come to help her change, Louisa thought over what the Captain had told her earlier. His manner in telling her, she thought, was somewhat cold and rigid. He had not seemed disappointed in having to leave her. For a moment she had wondered why, when he had seen her open shock and bewilderment, he had not attempted to comfort her and tell her he would miss her. That was when she realised at the time he had asked for her hand in marriage, and all through the wedding festivities, he had been formal and reserved. His manner was the same now that he was to leave her. After some consideration, she determined that he must be a man who did not openly admit to his feelings, even in private; and, while he may well be deeply pained by his orders coming at such an inopportune time, his grief now was as masked as his earlier joy had been.
"Whater! Bmichaelson ! . . . whater, dnow! the Captain loudly yelled. Louisa sat straight up, startled by his outburst. Her heart pounded and her breath came quickly, but she soon realised that it was only her husband . . . again.
Without opening his eyes, Frederick sat up. He was obviously worn by the cold, all his movements were heavy and sluggish. After heaving himself to sitting, he slouched against the pillows with a great sigh. Laying his head back, he again called for Michaelson. "Bmicha . . .! Whoa, I'm sorry, Louisa. I forgot where I was." Running his hand over his hair and then his face, he tried to bring himself fully awake. He said groggily, "Couldt you please fetch bme somb whater? I amb partched."
"Certainly, dear." Louisa rose and fetched the pitcher from the table along with a glass. Standing alongside the bed, she poured his water and handed it to him. "Here, sir. Your water. How are you feeling?" she asked as he took a long drink. She felt of his brow and his cheek. Her hand again was soft and cool. "You are a bit warm, but not much. Not enough to say you are fevered." Taking the glass after he had finished, she stood awaiting an answer.
"What? . . . oh yes, how do I feel? Tired . . . and achy. I mbust tell you, you were right about ridig . . . I shouldt have stayed to a chair whend talkig with your father. Satisfied?" he gave her a look of concession.
Looking into his cold reddened eyes, it was difficult to take pleasure in his surrender. "Yes, but not nearly as I will be when I have beaten this cold of yours. Are you hungry? I believe you are to feed a cold."
"Doe . . . but . . ."
"Yes? What would you like?"
"Perhaps andother brandy . . . just a swallow, doe more." His look of innocence was endearing and so she went immediately to fetch the drink for him.
Handing him the glass, he looked at it and muttered, "Took mbe at mby word, ay?" Handing her the glass he said, "You could have bid a bit mbore gedarus, George won't feel the pintch."
Taking the glass from him, Louisa sighed and her lips twitched, "You said a swallow, no more!"
"That's mberely a phrase . . . I would have thought you kndew that." The Captain smoothed the sheet over the edge of the coverlet. He turned to Louisa and cocked his head.
"And why might I know that? What do you think I know of brandy?" her eyes widened and she cocked her head in exasperation. She had told Harkness to be patient as the Captain was peevish, now she must do likewise. "Would you like me to bring you more?"
"Please, if it would ndot be too mbuch trouble." The look of innocence was now not so endearing.
Returning with a half glass, she handed it to him. "Thank you. I'mb sorry to be such a bother. As soond as I fidish, I'll lay down, close mby eyes and sleep like an andgelic child." Taking a large swallow, he closed his eyes and rested his head on the pillow.
Bringing a small chair to the side of the bed, Louisa sat and waited for him to finish and become 'andgelic.' It was soon apparent that he had fallen asleep. She took the glass from his hand and while she fussed with the blankets, he laid down nearly crosswise on the bed. With some exasperation, she covered him. As she tucked the blankets around him and pushed the pillows more comfortably around his back, she thought, It's best I sit up, I'd most likely fall asleep as drowsy as I am. Before settling herself in the chair, she went to the blanket chest and found another coverlet to wrap herself in. As she returned to the chair, she spied Frederick's robe laying on the foot of the bed. Just a casual look proved it to be faded and threadbare. Well . . . bless you Mama, the man is certainly in desperate need, she thought. Laying it back down, she returned to the chair and wrapping herself in the coverlet, she took up her post.
Louisa started as the clock sounded. Rubbing her eyes, she realised that she had dozed and so was not certain whether the hour be two or three. Straightening in the chair, she looked at Frederick. He still had all the bed, but remained covered. Again she felt a wave of feeling. Perhaps this was what her mother had told her about.
Years before, her youngest brother, Harry had taken a dreadful fever. Though Mrs. Musgrove knew that she was no nurse, she had sat by his bedside every night. There was not a glass of water she did not hold to his lips nor a cool cloth that she did not herself apply to his forehead in those long hours of the night.
After a week, it was clear that Mrs. Musgrove was feeling the lack of sleep acutely and Louisa had asked her why Sarah the nurserymaid was not watching with Harry through the night so that her mother could rest.
Mrs. Musgove in uncharacteristic tenderness had sat her daughter down and told her that while a particular kind of love for a child comes at its birth, there is a better, stronger love that is forged in the late night hours when tending to that child's needs.
"Sarah is quite an accomplished hand when it comes to nursing, but I am Harry's mother. That can be a medicine all its own sometimes." They had talked a while longer and Louisa had finally understood a little song that her mother often sang while rocking the children.
"Mothers hold their babes at night,
And in the morning see,
What sleeplessness has give to them,
What loving truly be."
For the first time, Louisa not only understood the song and its meaning, but now when applied to her husband, she could feel it acutely.
" . . . What sleeplessness has give to them,
What loving truly be."
Though the Captain was a grown man and not a child, and certainly capable of taking care of his own colds, Louisa now understood her desire to keep a watch. She had a particular kind of love for her new husband, but sacrifice was required for a stronger and better kind, and if losing sleep was the price . . . she was quite willing to pay.
Frederick opened his eyes and seeing it was still quite dark, he closed them again. Rather than raise up and look at the bedside clock he chose to await the sounding of the regulator to tell him the exact hour. As he lay enjoying the warmth of the bed, he noticed a weight on his left foot. Moving, he found that there was something laying clear across the foot of the bed. Sitting up, he looked and found that he was lying athwart and that what he had thought was something at the foot of the bed was actually Louisa, resting herself on the side.
It gradually came to him about his cold and that the times he could remember waking, she had been there. Foolish thing to do! . . . she knew we needed to be away early! was the first thought that came to him. But looking at her he realised that she had not only stayed up with him, but had given over the entire bed to him.
Selfish lout! he rebuked himself as he rose and went to her side. "Louisa . . . Louisa!" he whispered. "Come on . . . get into bed, you must be half frozen." She didn't stir. Well, Captain . . . no manoeuvers, go straight at it, he thought as he pushed back the bedclothes, and lifting her out of the coverlet that had fallen from her shoulders, he laid her in the bed. She never did awaken, and when he covered her, she sighed and nestled into the warm sheets he had just left..
Watching her for a moment, he murmured to himself, "So we're a bit late . . . delays with any voyage are to be expected." Turning, he went to dress.
The Captain came out of the dressing room at the same time that Harkness was entering the sitting room to awaken him.
"Ah, Sir. You are up early. I hope that your cold did not disrupt your sleep." He had brought a tray with fresh pot of coffee and a rack of buttered toast. Laying it on the morning table, he arranged the cups and plates just so. "May I, sir?"
"Yes, please. As for the cold, I feel amazingly well. The headcold is completely gone." He inhaled deeply through his nose to demonstrate. Taking the steaming cup offered by Harkness, he savoured the aroma and took a gulp of the coffee. "My mother-in-law dosed me with some peculiar concoction last evening and while I would not recommend it for after dinner, I would say it is a near miracle cure! Has Trimble come up from that barn yet? I think there is another trunk in my rooms that must go down. Oh, could you arrange a cup and toast on the tray for Mrs. Wentworth, please?"
"Certainly, sir." Harkness poured out a cup and began to sugar it very liberally.
Frederick watched from the window where he was apprising himself of the weather. "Does Mrs. Wentworth always take her coffee that sweet?" he asked in a doubtful tone.
Harkness replied, "I have only seen her take coffee once, after dinner yesterday and I do believe that I counted three spoons of sugar. I assume that is how she prefers it." The man continued placing things on the tray. Glancing at the roses sitting on the table, Harkness chose what looked to be the freshest one and with a flourish took an extra napkin and wrapped the flower and placed it on the tray. "Shall I take this to Mrs. Wentworth, or might you prefer to, sir?"
The Captain had watched with interest as Harkness had made up the tray. "Oh . . . I shall. Thank you. You may go." The man left and the Captain was left to serve his wife. Coming to the table and putting down the coffee, he took up the tray and went into the bedchamber. A rose with her breakfast, I would never have thought of such a thing. As he approached the bed, he said, a little above normal, "Louisa, it's time to be up. Louisa."
She didn't respond at all and he juggled the tray and touched her shoulder. Shaking her gently, he repeated, "Louisa, time to be up, girl."
Turning to his voice, Louisa looked up at him with her blank stare.
"It's Frederick, we're at Kellynch. Time to be up and away."
The stare changed to a tired smile. Seeing the tray, she sat up and took it from him. The rose was the first thing she noticed. Taking it up, she brought it to her face and touched her cheek with it. She took pleasure in what little scent there was left. "The tray is so thoughtful . . . and a rose. Thank you. And . . . thank you for allowing me to sleep a bit later, I did not mean to fall asleep in the chair." Laying down the flower, she looked at the rest of the tray. "Toast and . . . coffee," she said slowly. "I am not . . ."
"Harkness doctored it for you. Three spoons of sugar. I think it will be to your taste."
"You like coffee, don't you?" She looked up at him, awaiting the answer she already knew.
"Yes, I do. But you needn't drink it if you'd rather not. I can ring for some tea."
"No . . .I think I should accustom myself to it, if that is what you prefer. In some circles, it is becoming the fashion you know," she said as she brought the steaming cup to her lips. Taking a drink, she held it a moment in her mouth and then swallowed. The sweet, bitter drink had a curious appeal, perhaps it would not be too difficult to accustom herself. Setting the cup back in its saucer, she smiled up at him, "Thank you for bringing this to me. And I must say that you sound very much better! I hear no stuffiness."
Taking another deep breath in demonstration, he opened his hands and said, "Voil…! A clear head courtesy of The Evil Elixir of Uppercross. I am glad that your mother gave you some extra; we may have need of it as the season proceeds." He proceeded to the outer room, but turned to tell her that all the trunks had gone down, including his from the other rooms.
Louisa frowned. I rid myself of that vile stuff and it turns out that this batch works! Well, it cannot be unburnt. Then remembering the robe, she asked, "There is a parcel on the table that must be packed, can it go into the small case we shall take into the inn with us?"
As Frederick walked away, he called over his shoulder, "I'll do my utmost to make it fit. Now, show a leg and be dressed, we have no time for larking."
'Show a leg?' Heaven knows what that means! I must see the robe is packed, that rag he wears now must replaced. Setting aside the tray, Louisa rose to see to the packing.
"What? I'm sorry, I dozed off. What were you saying about Trimble?" Louisa asked. Much of the morning had passed without much conversation between them. Truth be known, there was not much to converse upon; the state of the roads--very bad, the weather--dull. Louisa had fallen asleep almost as much from boredom as tiredness, but now the Captain had said something, and she wished to know what it had been.
Tilting his head towards her, he replied, "I said . . . Trimble is quite skilled in hitting every rut just so that we receive the utmost jolt, I think!" He smiled. The joke had been weak and not one which would hold much amusement for a young girl, but he was tired of his own company and there was still much more travelling to do that day. "Sorry if I woke you. I wish you had taken the opportunity to sleep last night. Any sleep in this machine will not be restful."
"I know. But I was worried about your cold. Besides, how tired can one truly become just sitting all day? I shall be fine." She looked back out the window.
Frederick sighed inwardly. As a man who had, by necessity travelled a great deal, he knew precisely how tired one can become from just sitting all day. "I think you have not travelled much?"
"Oh, some. To and from Exeter . . . school and back. Once to Bath. And there was a trip long ago to Clifton, but I remember little of it. You met Mama and Papa then . . . when you had Richard. To think, we might have caught sight of one another at that time . . . and now we are married. That is odd . . . don't you think?" She had never thought of the coincidence, but now it seemed almost as if their union was fated.
Frederick hadn't heard the short catalog of Louisa's travels, he had stopped listening when she had mentioned Bath. He thought about Anne and wondered what she might be about on this solitary grey day. A hand on his arm pulled him back from his reverie.
"Don't you think it odd?" Louisa reiterated.
Not knowing what she was speaking of and wanting to leave his own thoughts, he changed the subject. "I have been meaning to ask you something. As we were saying good bye to your family, Arabella kept calling you, 'Loua' . . . what is it? What does 'Loua' mean? . . . a foreign tongue for 'sister' or some such?" He looked at her with puzzlement.
She gave him a crooked grin, "That is my nursery name. Etta called me that when we were babies together. She is only ten months older than I and so 'Loua' is all she could manage. We still call one another by those name, mostly when we are alone, but Arabella heard us one day and decided that Etta and Loua are simpler to pronounce than our Christian names . . . so now, she uses them too. Childish, I know."
The Wentworth children, not being from a genteel family had no nursery names. Frederick knew of them, but was generally disdainful. This derision was owing mostly to the more gently bred of his brother officers. Some of the insipid names grown men called one another was more than he could bear at times. But 'Loua' had a certain appeal to it. It was not nearly as grating as some he had heard tell of. And it was actually rather nicer than Louisa.
"So . . . do you think my name silly?" Louisa asked.
Frederick laughed a bit, "No, it is certainly no worse than being called 'Freddy.' I despise that name . . . always have."
Louisa had to agree, but knowing there were times people may disparage something themselves, they didn't care for it done by others, she said, "Freddy is not so bad. Why do you dislike it so?"
The Captain grimaced, "I haven't an idea, all I know is my neck goes stiff and my jaw tightens alarmingly when I hear it. Edward called me that when he wished to plague me as a child. But I took care of that when I was about six."
He had her interest now, she wished to know what had happened when he was six. She tried to imagine what he looked like when he was a little boy. She couldn't and so awaited his reply.
"Well, I remember Edward calling me Freddy one day . . . he was just leaving to go back to his ship, a merchantman headed to Java. He had stopped for a short visit and it was time for him to be off. As he was bidding me good bye, he called me that and I clapped on to a toy and bashed him in the eye. I remember that part, but what he told me when I was last in Shropshire is that he got a thumping black eye out of it and when he went back to his ship, he was too mortified to tell anyone what truly happened and so let all his messmates think it from a brawl somewhere. He finally told a close mate of his, but the friend got drunk one night and told all their mess mates that Wentworth was bested by a six-year-old! It took nearly the entire commission to live it down." Frederick smiled thinking about Edward's telling of the story. He welcomed going back to be with his brother, though the circumstances were so changed and, by necessity, their time would be short.
Chapter 7
"Mary! Mary!" Mrs. Junkins called as she removed her pelisse to the rack near the rear door. Hanging her bonnet and taking down her apron, Beatrice awaited an answer to her call. Mary was a good girl, but much too divertable. She was most likely with Joshua. Once the girl had grown accustomed to his appearance and had learnt to understand his mumbly speech, she had become his shadow.
"I'm here, Ma'am. I'm a comin'" Mary called. She ran into the kitchen, stopping herself just short of bowling her mistress over. Straightening her cap and smoothing her apron, she began, "I was with the Master . . . he is making the whitewash for the walls of my bedchamber . . . he let me pound some of the lime . . . and the wash must be stirred ever so long . . . I shall very much like my sweet little room, I know I will, Ma'am." The girl stood before Beatrice, breathless after her run to the kitchen and such a rattling discourse
Beatrice smiled, glad that the girl would be pleased. Though she thought she might mention to her husband that he take more care in helping Mary keep to her duties, "I am happy that you are pleased, but now it is time to prepare dinner and I need you in the kitchen. The potatoes need tending and did you begin the chine as I asked?" She was afraid for the answer she expected.
"Yes, Ma'am. The Master reminded me just after you left for the Rectory. He said you wished it done directly and I did it." Mary brought a bowl with potatoes and carrots, both to be readied. Seating herself at the table, she began to scrape. "Is Mrs. Wentworth much improved? I was awful worried when word came that she needed you . . . and with the Rector away . . . well . . ."
"Mrs. Wentworth is quite well. And I do not wish to hear any of the gossip as I did on my way out of Church on Sunday morning. It is not our place to judge the Rector and his decisions to do with his household. Mrs. Wentworth was a bit tired and became faint. The midwife has pronounced that all is well today. The lady is to her bed and shall stay there for a short time. Now, Mary, the potatoes and carrots . . . nothing else until you have done them . . . please." Having prepared the gratin of onions and cabbage, Beatrice wiped her hands and left the kitchen to find her husband.
"Mr. Junkins! Are you up there?" She called up the stairs, thinking he must be there since Mary had mentioned whitewash and her bedchamber.
The Junkins had been married just a month, but when they had begun to look for a woman to help in the house, it was clear that there were none willing. The people of Crown Hill were suspicious of Mrs. Beatrice Junkins, she being an American and very beautiful into the bargain, and then there was Mr. Junkins himself.
Mr. Joshua Junkins had been horribly burned when he was thirteen-years-old and by the time he was eighteen, his mother had died and all his brothers and sisters had moved away from Shropshire, leaving Joshua quite alone. He had been injured quite seriously and his body still bore the deep scars of that fire. Miraculously, he had managed to keep himself alive and even prosper by his land. It was not much to look at, but there was a different kind of wealth in the mind of Joshua Junkins. He had used knowledge gleaned from acquaintances he had made through the writing of letters, and with investing small amounts of money here and there was now quite well off. He had met his wife by way of letters also and, for the first time, was experiencing life as God had intended . . . in the company of fellow beings. But there were those in the community that felt he had overreached himself in marrying at all, much less a pretty woman and no amount of looking had brought anyone willing to work for them.
Mary's coming to them had been Providence and both sides were grateful for it. While the Junkins's had looked for a woman to take the job, Reverend Wentworth had thought that a girl might suit. Mary's father was a poor tenant of Bramford Hall who had died during the autumn leaving her and her mother alone. The mother had expected a child at Christmas, but the child came too early, and both had died of fever. Since then, Mary had been shifted from home to home, but no one wished to permanently take an awkward twelve-year-old girl.
The Rector had sat with the Junkins two weeks earlier and asked that they consider Mary. She was young and strong, she could be taught everything just to their liking and they could take satisfaction in knowing that they were giving Mary a place. He explained that the Church could not long keep her, that she would have to go to the orphanage in Shrewsbury. They had excused themselves and talked. Joshua was hesitant, he was not yet accustomed to having a wife with him every moment, the thought of another person in the house was disconcerting. Beatrice was willing and assured Joshua that she would keep the girl so occupied that he would not know she was about.
Upon their word, Reverend Wentworth had fetched Mary and introduced them all. He reminded her of her place and that she would be expected to work very hard and be courteous to her betters. With wide eyes the girl had stared at the disfigured Mr. Junkins and at the beautiful Mrs. Junkins. After one day of near silence, Mary's more friendly nature had come forward and she had chattered with Mrs. Junkins about a variety things. The next day, Mrs. Junkins had left instructions for the girl and had gone to visit the Rector and his wife. That had left Mary alone at the house with the Master.
Joshua had not felt well on that day and so had stayed to a chair before the fire in the front room. As he played at reading, (he knew Mary to be peering occasionally at him through the door), he could hear her footsteps advance and retreat. Deciding that she must be allowed to look closely at him and see that he was not a monster, (as surely she must have heard); he went to the kitchen and began to make himself tea.
The making of tea, in Joshua's mind, was rather like art and he had a particular way he liked it done. Motioning for Mary to watch, he began to show her how he wished for the task to be performed in the Junkins' household. As he worked, he would point to various things and say them for her, almost as though he were teaching her another language, for in all actuality, he was. The fire had left a large scar that encompassed much of the right side of the man's face and had damaged his voice, making it very soft and scratchy. So he could be understood by Mary, he began teaching her his own butchered manner of speaking. Mary, being a bright girl, caught his meanings quickly and within a day or two, the pair could converse quite easily.
After their quiet beginning, Mary and the Master became especially good friends. This was a bother to the Missus as Mary was developing a tendency to neglect the more menial duties put before her. Her excuses always seemed to involve helping the Master do thus or the Master showing her this. Beatrice was of two minds. Mary was a girl they had taken on to help with the household chores, but she had also to take into account that this silly little creature was one of the few people with whom Joshua was comfortable. To forbid their large portions of time together would be terribly cruel. As her husband was just beginning to find his way out of the hermit's lair that had been his life, Beatrice decided it would be best to wait and pray, hoping for Divine inspiration in the matter.
"I am up here, in the Mary's room," Joshua called.
"Before I come up, is there anything I can bring to you, sir?"
"No. Bring yourself and see what I have accomplished this morning." He came to the head of the hallway and beckoned her to come up.
"All right. I expect a great deal . . . since you had much help, I am told," she said as she began up the stairs. Giving him a knowing look, she reached the head of the stairs and together they went down the hall.
A small room off the kitchen would normally have been reserved for Mary, but as the room was full of unpacked barrels and crates brought from America, it was determined that she would have a tiny room at the end of the upstairs hall. While the work on the room was being accomplished, the girl was sleeping on a pallet laid out by the kitchen fire. It was not that the Junkins felt the need to remind Mary of her place, it was that Joshua wanted her to be warm and the kitchen was the warmest room in the house on the cold, late winter nights.
After clearing the spare room of mouse nests and spider webs, and the plaster having been patched, it was now ready for a fresh coat of whitewash. "It should be quite snug with the tiny hearth, though we will have to remind her to be very careful, lest she forget and burn us out. And there is that small rug in the storage room, we can put that down later, before the bed goes up. She has said she is certain to be happy here." Beatrice looked at her husband. He was smiling at the thought of the girl being happy. Mary had had too much unhappiness for someone so young. And too, there had been more than enough unhappiness in this house. Long ago unhappiness, and for too long, silence. Joshua liked the idea of a happy and somewhat noisy little family living under his roof.
For it was a family he thought them to be. He did not view Mary as a serving girl, he had come to see her as . . . he was not certain he could say what place she held, but it was a place he wished her happy.
"I am glad. If it is left to me, I shall do everything I am able to make her so." He stirred the whitewash as he continued to think about Mary.
"Really, sir. You are much too concerned with her," Beatrice said as she took a rag to the sill of the small window looking out over the side yard. "And you are becoming too familiar! She is a serving girl, not family." The perturbed look her comment drew made her know that he still felt differently about the matter. Beatrice knew that her view was not shared by her husband and she elected to not try and change his mind. It might be best to let him coddle her, he has never had anyone care for, certainly never anyone who adores him in the way she does. I love him, but not unabashedly as Mary. "I am sorry, dear. I understand that we are at odds in this." Turning from his bucket of wash as he waited for her to continue while she gently shook out the rag and put it in the pocket of her apron. "I have no objections to her, it is just that I need her mind more to her work. Perhaps if we were to share her . . . I have her mind in the morning and you have it in the afternoon."
Rising, he gave her his usual lopsided grin and catching her hand as she passed by him, he kissed it. This was quite a lot for Joshua, as he was still rather shy about showing her affection. It was still a little startling each morning when he awoke and she was laying next to him! There was the expectation that, as with any dream, when the morning came, she would be gone. But Beatrice was not a phantasm, she was a woman who loved Joshua very much, more than she expected was possible from a woman such as herself.
Mrs. Beatrice Lowell Junkins was a practical woman who, despite a beautiful face, had struggled much in her life. She had spitefully married beneath herself and her family. And to her horror, her family broke with her over the match. When the man proved to be quite cruel to her, there had been no refuge for her anywhere, and so, she had been forced to stay with him.
Mr. Lowell had been a clever man though ill-educated and unable to read. He had invented several mechanical devices which had brought him a modest living. His primary occupation though had been lighthouse tending and so, together they had always maintained a very solitary existence. That had satisfied Mr. Lowell, but Beatrice had been raised in Boston, the daughter of reasonably successful businessman. She had had advantages and society that Mr. Lowell neither cared about or aspired to.
Their solitary life had suited him. He took an unnatural pleasure in having her beauty to himself as he was a jealous and suspicious man. Much of his cruelty had been spawned by her looks and so it was always good for Beatrice when he was gainfully employed at a lighthouse.
Mr. Lowell had died of pneumonia early in the previous year and inasmuch as he and Mr. Junkins had held a long term correspondence, Beatrice had dutifully informed him of her husband's passing, as it was she who had read the letters to Mr. Lowell and wrote the responses to Joshua. When left to themselves, the pair had found much to 'converse' upon and over time, fallen in love. But that was not to say that love had immediately healed all their wounds or that it hadn't brought its own difficulties to the newly married couple.
Mrs. Junkins would be loath to admit that she was forever scarred by her first husband, and to her shame she had been comforted by seeing that Mr. Junkins would be physically unable to harm her, either strength wise or in following after, was she ever to flee him. The scars of her mind she could keep hidden from her husband, and most of those on her body were the same, though with the approach of warmer weather, she feared some that would be impossible to conceal.
Mr. Junkins's difficulties were of a nature that he had not considered until he took a woman to be his wife.
She kept hold of his hand for a moment and raised it to her cheek. They were still quite awkward with one another and any show of affection on his part was greatly welcomed by her. Beatrice was determined to be patient and until he was more comfortable, she would be cheerful and show him all the care she might were they completely ordinary. "I love you, sir," she murmured, feeling the roughness of his hand against her cheek. He had worked hard all of his life just to stay alive, now he worked hard out of habit.
Joshua was uneasy with her expressions of love for him, and her beauty was still intimidating to him but he wanted her to know what he felt. Moving closer to her, he turned his hand and cupped her face in it. Feeling her hair with the tips of his fingers, he brushed the lobe of her ear with his thumb. Still holding his hand, she closed her eyes and he heard her sigh. Looking at her face, he saw the look come over her. He was always amazed that she would desire him, a man so damaged that he could not even love her without difficulty. Had he known what he was condemning her to he would never have married her, but when they had realised the truth, she chose to stay. No matter how mortifying that part of their life, he prayed she would never change her mind.
Drawing her close, he tilted his head to bring her lovely, normal lips to his misshapen ones. From their first kiss beneath an umbrella in a field, there had never been reason to suspect that she was put off by his physicality. Every kiss they had shared left him feeling loved and whole. As he kissed her and sensed her respond to him, Joshua felt the amazement and frustration which always accompanied one another.
Drawing back after their kiss, he looked in her eyes and said, "I love you, too." Just the saying of this and the kiss caused him to feel shy and awkward. Pulling his hand back, he turned from her to the bucket of whitewash. Bending to pick up the brush, he said, "I know that Mary is not family, but she may be the nearest to a daughter we are able to have, let us not lose such an opportunity." Without looking to his wife, he began to whitewash the walls of Mary's room.
Watching him carefully apply the wash, she thought for a moment what a wonderful father he would be. Since her arrival in Crown Hill, they had been unpacking crates and barrels of her possessions that she had sent on from Boston. Most women would have been prudent and left such things behind, but Beatrice took comfort in her belongings and the idea of coming to marry a stranger and leave everything she owned behind had been more than she could countenance. Joshua's small cottage was brimming to the rafters with so many things now that the thought of one more barrel to unpack was near comic.
She had walked by the barrel for weeks now and so she felt it time to open it and at least take an account of what it contained. "Mr. Junkins, will you be so kind as to open this for me?"
Peering around the door frame, he saw what she needed and putting down the brush, he brought a small bar and pried opened the barrel. "So . . . how is Mrs. Wentworth? Better?"
"Yes. She was overtired from setting the house in order, she is expecting that the Rector will bring Captain Wentworth and his new wife when he returns from . . . Somerset? She did not say, though it sounded as if the Rector was rather upset about the marriage, but Catherine is quite looking forward to meeting the girl . . . Louisa I believe she said is her name." Beatrice began to lift the cover from the barrel.
Joshua frowned. He and Frederick had talked of the girl, but . . . "Are you certain that you heard right? I thought her name was Anne. That was what he had called her . . . Anne," he said with assurance.
Replacing the cover, she pursed her lips, thinking. "No . . . no, Mrs. Wentworth called her Louisa. Perhaps Anne is a pet name they have, some couples do that you know. Or it may be her second name, Louisa Anne, and he prefers to use that." Again lifting the cover of the barrel, she began to poke through the contents. "I know that if my name were Louisa, I would surely find something else to go by . . . I had a frightful cousin named Louisa . . . she gave no credit to the name at all!"
Joshua shrugged and went back to the room. Taking up the brush, he thought back to a conversation that he had had with Captain Wentworth shortly after they had been introduced in December. They had spoken of Frederick's love of "Anne," he had told that he had been angry with her and had no idea what she felt about him. Perhaps he had declared himself and had been rebuffed; perhaps Anne had not felt as the Captain had hoped. Were that the case, Joshua mused that Wentworth had been quick in salving his heart.
Poking through things and moving the packing away, she exclaimed, "Well, there you went! I thought I had quite lost you." Reaching into the barrel, she brought out an odd shaped blue baize-cloth bag. Laying it across the barrel, she opened it to reveal a violin.
Plucking the strings, she began to tune. After she was satisfied that they were as near pitch as they could be, she reached into the bag and brought out the bow. "I have not played in ever so long, not since Mr. Lowell died."
"Please . . . play something." There was something odd about the way Joshua spoke.
"All right. I do not play very well, nor anything very special. Mostly little airs and a few simple hymns. Though . . ." Thinking as she rosined the bow, she decided to play the most complicated piece she had taught herself. It was a poignant Irish air that had been favoured by her father. Putting the bow to the strings, she began.
Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the melody and becoming familiar with the instrument again. A short way into the piece, she heard a sound she couldn't readily name. She opened her eyes to find her husband daubing his eyes with a kerchief. Worried that she had done something wrong, she stopped and rushed to him. "What have I done? I am sorry to have made you . . . weep? . . . have I made you weep?" The tune was haunting, but she did not fathom why it would make him cry.
As he nodded vigourously, she turned to lay the violin back on the barrel, but he stayed her hand and nearly shouted, "No! Continue. . . please!"
"A . . all right. Shall I play the same piece or something more to your liking?" Beatrice was still very puzzled as to why he would be so upset by the tune.
"Whatever you would like. I have had no music for . . . years! . . . anything will be very welcome." He had settled himself on the top stair, anxiously awaiting her choice.
As she readied to start again, what he had said penetrated her mind. He had lived all these years without music of any kind. He had not left his farm for over thirty years. This ill-played violin would be the first music he had heard in his adult life. She prepared to play with a new energy. Resuming the tune, she watched his reactions.
Very soon, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the bannister. A smile came to his crooked lips and she thought how peaceful he looked. He would occasionally bring the kerchief to his eyes or take a dab at his nose. She realised that he was humming as she could see his Adam's apple move up and down. He made no responses when she would bow a bad note and he had no ideas that there were times she left out complete runs that she did not know well enough. He just sat, enraptured with the sound of her violin.
After a time, neither knew how long, Beatrice stopped for she had gone through all the pieces that she remembered well. Her fingers had begun to tire and she dreaded the pain she knew would be hers on the morrow, but then and there, she decided that she would put herself to really learning more tunes and not depend on a talented ear to help her along. When Joshua realized that she had finished, he began to applaud as he stood. Both turned to another set of hands clapping. Looking down the stairs they saw Mary, half way down. She had been drawn from the kitchen and had settled in for the impromptu concert. "That was wonderful, Mrs. Junkins. I have rarely heard playing as good." Mary had not heard much playing in her short life, but the Compliment was taken in the spirit which it was given.
"Thank you, Mary. Have you finished with the roots?"
"Yes, Ma'am. They are finished and in with the chine." She stood quietly, awaiting any other instructions.
"Good." Beatrice looked to Joshua and said, "Then I think it best that you would help Mr. Junkins with the whitewashing of your room. Be quick about it now!" Both looked like children given leave to Bartholomew's Fair. Mary came clamouring up the stairs and Mr. Junkins stepped close to his wife and took her hand.
Looking into her eyes, he said, "You are a good woman. Quickly kissing her hand, he went with Mary into the little room.
Taking the corner of her apron to her eyes, she murmured, "A good woman who is very easily persuaded." Beatrice left them to their whitewashing and went down the stairs to finish with dinner.
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Continued in Part 3
Author's Note: The characters of Beatrice and Joshua Junkins were introduced in the fan fiction story, "A Brother is Born For Adversity."
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