None But You (Frederick Wentworth, Captain: Book 1) Page 11

  “And your daughters are all well I pray, Lady Mary?”

  Her fan closed with a snap, and though it seemed 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, turning to spy out the girl.

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

  Just then a midshipman, too drunk for so early in the evening, hurtled himself in their midst 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, saying, “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 me 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 break it in two. 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 find no 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 marvelled at the lady’s temerity that she would assume a welcome for herself and her gaggle of girls aboard his ship. Custom and duty aside, 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. It began to wave until its wind touched and cooled his brow wonderfully. “Emily,” she called out into the crowd. “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 and then turned suddenly. “It is your hair. You have cut it to be more in style. It is very appealing. Emily will be 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 dining area was generously carved out of a corner using screens and tables. The food was adequate, the wines brackish, and the company only able to converse on topics of past glories or future desperation. The table was emptying of his morbid companions when Wentworth decided that Craig showed a great deal of wisdom in suggesting he visit his sister and his brother before making any decision about the future. He considered his family.

  Edward was emphatic that he should come and meet the new Mrs. Wentworth. As for Sophia and the Admiral, surely they would be settled somewhere in the wilds of Somerset by now. Compared to some of his fellows, his choices began to hold some promise of enjoyment.

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

  He had no sooner raised it to his lips when 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.

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

  Craig took the flask back and drank before he tucked it 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 tapped Wentworth’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 favourite nephew: oh-so polite but just a touch naughty.”

  “True. But the like 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.” When he finished pouring the honey-coloured liquor into Wentworth’s 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 destined to collect other impressive titles aside from that of ‘Captain.’” Normally, he looked on Gil’s pronouncements as mere silliness, but this particular evening, they seemed more ridiculous than usual.

  “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 the striking Wentworth countenance.” Gil smiled, and thumped 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.

  He took a drink of Gil’s tonic and began to laugh.

  “What is so funny?”

  “Nothing that you’ve said intentionally, my friend, but let me assure you that not every father would wish me for a son-in-law.” The burning 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 ago.

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

  He felt embarrassed that he could still feel so wounded by this latent memory. The worst shock had come when Anne began to parrot back the old man’s objection that the match was improper from the outset. Her protestations of love for him rang as hollow in his memory as they had in her presence. Over time he had come to believe she had played him for a fool, that his attentions had been 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 had stopped his ears to her declarations of love. The most galling of her protestations was that their parting 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, Wentworth 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 any father 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 have been travelling b
y post for several weeks and 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?”

  The Captain smiled and rubbed his hands together as he turned to face his friend with feigned enthusiasm. “By all means, I am most anxious to hear your theories.”

  “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 most other men. 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 but be touched by Gil’s expression as he spoke. He had always wondered if Gilmore Craig thought of anything more than his warehouses, contracts with the Navy, and other shipping interests. Now he had his 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, Wentworth now had to force his jaw to slacken. The summation left him nearly breathless. It also left him feeling exposed and raw. He was not inclined to have his weaknesses examined so closely.

  “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, Wentworth 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, “Many 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 was 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,” he said.

  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. Hastily turning, he found himself so close to Miss Hammond that he could smell her scent. It was roses, sweet but not cloying. She laughed, though she 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 when she suddenly found it necessary to go below.

  Being free of company was a relief. He stepped out on an empty terrace, and lit a cheroot off the torch. The noise of the party had left his ears ringing and gave him all the more reason to enjoy the calm and quiet. He ground out the cigar and drew out Edward’s letter. It was, no doubt, another plea
to visit which he thought odd. Edward had never been one to ask for his company. His brother never seemed reluctant to have Frederick visit, but when he was a single man, he seemed to enjoy his privacy. Marriage had evidently changed that.

  Wentworth took a place closer to the light of the brazier, broke the seal and began to read. After just a few lines he stopped and leant against the wall. “Damn my eyes! Surely the devil himself is in this.”

  Chapter Seven

  After a decent rest the night before and a morning of travel, Wentworth stepped out of the inn and looked around Monkford. The only reason for the village’s existence was that it sat at a crossroads. There was neither a moving body of water on which to build a mill nor any natural sheltering geography to keep an enemy at bay. Like so many other places, it had sprung up to suit a need in its time but now had little purpose and resisted the usual withering away to which all created things are prone.

  There was very little he recognised. Since none of the buildings appeared to have been recently built, the fault must have been his youthful oversight. A man of three-and-twenty years had no care for a crumbling village. Now, he wished he’d been more observant. He had only an hour before the coach left in which to find the cottage he had shared with his brother in the summer of ’06.

  The cottage had been nearly on the doorstep of the church. At times, the bell’s tolling sounded as if it was right inside with them. He located the spire and, once more, checked his watch and then began walking in its direction. As he passed through the village, he was surprised that the place was actually rather pretty. He did not recall this from his summer in the area and mused that, no doubt, there were other things he had failed to see back then. Veering from the main street, he took a well-worn path that kept the spire directly before him.

  He had been on land long enough that walking any distance on the hard ground no longer bothered him, and this made it pleasant to walk beneath trees again. Though turning russet and no longer green, their rustling in the breeze and fresh scent cheered him. Had it really been so many years since he listened to bird song? In the past eight years, he’d been no more than a mile or two away from the sea and a change of scene was refreshing. It will be good to be deep in the country again, he thought, now that he had come to a sort of peace concerning Anne Elliot.