For You Alone (Frederick Wentworth, Captain: Book 2) Page 3

  Harkness opened the door and stood aside. “Well, sir, for some it takes more than a mere visit or two to come to embrace the charms of the country.”

  Wentworth nodded to him as he passed. Blast the man. He was sorely tempted to stop and force him to disclose what he was hinting about. It seemed more reasonable than ever that Harkness—and, perhaps, all the servants—knew about his past relationship with Anne Elliot. While he was sorely tempted to have the truth, he was equally afraid of what he might hear.

  The Captain rode out of the yard at the stroke of noon. As he passed the Lodge, he was unreasonably disappointed that Anne made no appearance. She was either not interested in gaining further intelligence about Louisa’s condition or the source of the information put her off. Either way, he was obliged to return to Lyme by evening. Mrs. Harville had promised that Louisa would be well enough to receive a short visit from him. He was thankful for the seventeen-mile ride in which to work up the proper enthusiasm for such a duty.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  To his relief, he was freed from that particular obligation when it was revealed that Louisa had overdone and was now suffering from a monstrous headache, restricted from having visitors. “She worked too hard in anticipation of your visit no doubt,” Mrs. Musgrove said. Had Wentworth been able to detect the tiniest nut of ill feeling on her part, he might have suffered less, but there was none. Her expression and tone were completely genuine. When she walked away, she patted his arm in commiseration with his assumed disappointment.

  After the luckless mission to Kellynch, the days began to move by quickly. Louisa’s recovery was full of stops and starts. This was in his favour. When she was doing well, he stepped aside and graciously allowed her mother, sister, and brother to take their time with her. When she was genuinely ill or just out of sorts, he stayed back, not wishing to force himself upon her. If anyone noticed the ploy, they said nothing.

  While he was not masquerading as a moral paragon, he was riding and walking through the countryside about Lyme, Charmouth, and Up Lyme. Many adventurers came to Lyme Regis for the views of the sea from the dramatic cliffs west of town. The more studious came to dig for newly discovered remains of what were thought to be ancient sea creatures trapped in the soft earth along the shore. The locals shook their heads at some of the proclivities of the visitors as they went about their daily business. Those who belonged and those who were visiting gave Wentworth plenty to study as he made his rounds of the area.

  As long as he was able to keep himself physically occupied his thoughts bothered him but little. It was in the middle of the second week after the accident that the wind and the rain conspired to keep everyone prisoner. Twice a day, in the short walk from his inn to the Harvilles’ house, Wentworth endured a soaking. The arrival of the Musgroves would soon exhaust the tiny house of places to hang sodden hats, coats, shawls, and even stockings after the puddles filled and overflowed. When the storm passed the three-day mark, he understood why caged animals sometimes did themselves harm trying to escape their confinement.

  “As soon as this squall lets up, we are going back to Uppercross,” Charles Musgrove said one evening to Wentworth, Harville and Benwick.

  “You would go before Miss Louisa is well enough to travel?” Benwick asked. His tone betrayed shock at the proposition.

  “No, not all of us. Father is concerned that things will go awry if there’s no one to watch over the labourers. He and mother will stay for sure, Henrietta most likely as well. Just Mary and I will be heading off.”

  Wentworth looked to Harville to see if he could detect his opinion. His friend seemed satisfied with the situation.

  “Besides, Mary’s not heard from Anne and is anxious to know how things go with her father in Bath.”

  “Were I to give you something for Miss Anne, could you see it delivered to her?” Benwick asked.

  “Certainly! As long as it’s not a love letter or such,” Charles laughed to himself, not noticing that the others grew quiet and avoided looking at one another.

  Benwick coloured at the implications of the jest and hurriedly explained. “It is a book. Miss Anne highly recommended the author as a very insightful man who is himself intimately acquainted with grief. She mentioned this title in particular and said she was very anxious to read it for herself.” He went to a shelf and brought down a black volume. “I found it at the local shop and wish to make her a gift of it.” Wentworth noticed his friend stroking the book’s spine. He wondered if Benwick was loath to part with it, or, perhaps, he was imagining Anne’s delight upon receiving the token of his friendship. The former was definitely a possibility, but it was the possibility of the latter that drove him to make an excuse and abandon the close quarters of the house for some fresh air.

  When word circulated that the younger Musgrove couple was leaving for home, Wentworth determined it to be a prime opportunity for him to withdraw as well. The close family setting and any stray, underlying expectations concerning Louisa and him might be weakened by his departure. Should questions be asked, he would enlist the claims of his brother’s recent marriage, his duty to welcome his new sister to the family, and the unpredictable weather of the northern climes as reasons for his departure. It all sounded well, and he hoped everyone would accept his explanations.

  With his decision made, Wentworth went directly to the elder Mr. Musgrove with his plans. Were he given to self-flattery, the Captain might have credited the possession of an extraordinarily honourable nature and its demand for forthrightness. The truth was much simpler: he was tired of skulking about, endeavouring to avoid the gentleman whenever possible. And when he couldn’t, he had grown weary of his own feigned geniality. Every meeting with Musgrove, he felt, was an opportunity given by Providence to lay the blame for Louisa’s misfortunes squarely on the shoulders of Frederick Wentworth. The interview, though, exceeded all his expectations. Mr. Musgrove listened carefully to his explanations, responding only that he wished the Reverend Wentworth and his new bride happy. Wentworth was astonished.

  No one else pursued the matter. He was assured several times that his absence would be deeply felt. Curiously, no one save Harville asked the length of his intended stay. He supposed no one was interested in the affairs of anyone outside their own circle, or they assumed he was absolutely obliged and would return promptly, not wishing to be too long away from Louisa.

  On Tuesday morning, when he had made his last visit, he was surprised to find James Benwick making plans to travel with the younger Musgrove couple. The normally melancholic face was bright with anticipation of the journey. “I have found and read several of the books Miss Anne recommended. And I am anxious to discuss with her some of the finer points of the various authors’ thinking.” Wentworth was persuaded Benwick hid his true intentions behind talk of books and conversation.

  “And there is also the book you wish to give her,” Wentworth said. Benwick brightened to incandescence, thanked him for reminding him, and hurried off to retrieve it from Musgrove so that he might deliver it himself.

  Wentworth thought that for all the aid he was rendering Benwick, he might just as well offer to stand up with the couple when they exchanged their vows. He was leaving at the best of times. With his friend neatly installed at Uppercross, he knew he would drive himself mad imagining all sorts of interesting and romantic scenarios involving the like-minded pair.

  Benwick returned with the volume. “Thank you for reminding me. I hope she likes it.” After a brief and subtle questioning, it was clear Benwick believed Miss Anne would be on the doorstep of Uppercross Cottage, cheerfully awaiting the arrival of her family and being pleased no end to welcome a visitor. Benwick’s expression changed markedly when Wentworth informed him that Anne Elliot was ensconced three miles away at the residence of Lady Russell, the godmother and chief protector of the young lady in question.

  “The woman is a gorgon to be sure, but she’ll not eat you all in one bite,” was Wentworth’s parting jibe. He was both angered
and amused that quiet, studious, remarkably unconnected Benwick was liable to please Lady Russell no end and that, if Anne was in the least hesitant, her godmother’s power of persuasion could be again called upon to point out Benwick’s qualities in abundance. Approval on the one front, coupled with a fortnight of James’s increasingly irritating talk of “Miss Anne’s elegance, sweetness, and beauty,” forced Wentworth to acknowledge that if he was to hear news of their impending nuptials within the quarter year, he would not be shocked in the least.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  The clamour and confusion of the streets of Plymouth were, paradoxically, a tonic to Wentworth’s exhausted mind. He felt completely at home as he and his horse waded through the fray. Plodding country wagons laden with goods, wives, children, and sometimes angry drivers made their way alongside fine carriages with nervous, high-stepping teams controlled by drivers indifferent to the other traffic. To add to the disorder, Wentworth was one of many solitary riders dashing around the slower moving vehicles. Most made pretence of avoiding those on foot, but it was really a show. Those trying to cross the street were at the mercy of wheels, hooves, and the good will of others. Battling his way up the street was an ordinary, though all too brief, distraction from the dunning thoughts concerning the place he had left earlier in morning.

  Wentworth settled himself in a modest, clean room at the Main and Mizzen. He ordered dinner be brought to him, along with two bottles of a decent Spanish wine. Once he was renewed by the second-rate meal, he spent the rest of the night silencing his inner turmoil by losing himself in the noisy and oddly musical clatter of life in Plymouth.

  The next day, he walked out just as a pitcher of hot water was brought to his room. “But you asked for it last night, sir,” the boy said. He looked at the dour, skinny lad and wished for the likes of the affable Mr. George Tuggins from Portsmouth. “Take it to someone else with my compliments,” he said, heading down the stairs. At the stables, he summoned his horse and rode out of town to admire the views of the ocean in quiet solitude.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  Pulling a short glass from his pocket, he looked out to the lighthouse. He envied it its place in the middle of the channel. It stood alone and was responsible for nothing more than shining its light. It was the responsibility of those piloting the incoming ships to be warned and show some skill as they headed inland. It was the light’s good fortune to be insensible; it cared nothing when a captain or master was dashed on the rocks and his ship destroyed.

  He sat for some time watching jealously as the rough sea pounded and tossed the ships struggling to make their way into port. With even more envy, he watched those pushing out to open sea. When he was afloat, life was very simple: he did whatever he must to keep his crew happy and occupied. When enemies came within range, he did whatever he must to subdue them and take them as prizes. When disturbing thoughts would begin to trouble him, he subdued them by turning his mind back to the first two.

  Urging his horse to a walk, he let her pick her own way down the hill. This left his mind to wander, as it would, into dangerous paths. For instance, his reunion with Anne had reawakened those latent desires of the heart and flesh with a vengeance. It was lamentable, he reflected, that even if he were able to put to sea this very minute, those needs would not quiet easily. Short of being sent into the heat of raging war, he would most likely find only a cold sort of comfort in the simplicity of his former existence.

  His second meal at the Main and Mizzen made him regret leaving Elsa Harville’s excellent cooking. Still, he would not exchange the peace he found being left to his own thoughts for a decent bit of beef and a tender, generously fruited pudding. As he contemplated alternate uses for a runny plum duff, he heard a familiar laugh. Through the haze of the snug, he caught sight of his old friend, Gilmore Craig, sitting with a table full of older men. Most of the fellows were outfitted in dated frock coats and cheap scratch wigs while Gil was his usual jaunty self. He looked to have a fashionable trim to his hair and a new coat, cut in what was most certainly the latest style and colour. Wentworth rubbed his unshaven cheeks and considered whether he should even draw Craig’s attention. His shabby and tired appearance would get him no sympathy, a great deal of ribbing, and a host of questions. But, he was coming out of his brown mood and the thought of some cheerful company was surprisingly attractive.

  When the serving woman came to collect his tableware, he asked that she take a drink to his friend. She cast an eye to the table. “The youngest one. In the grey coat?” A seductive smile came over her face.

  “A good brandy, nothing more,” Wentworth added.

  Barely a shadow passed over her expression. She nodded at him with the same look and took care to leave him with a fair prospect of the showy sway of her hips as she disappeared into the back room. In due course, she returned with Gil’s drink and put it before him, pointing towards Wentworth’s table. Craig smiled wide upon seeing him and signalled that he would join the Captain soon. After three-quarters of an hour, Wentworth was finishing a brandy of his own and Craig was still signalling his soon arrival. Finally, he rose, shook the hand of each of the gentlemen and approached Wentworth.

  “What are you doing here?” Craig asked, taking a seat. “I thought you were rusticating in the wilds of Somersetshire.” The serving woman came back around, and Gil ordered a good bottle. Settling in for the evening, he said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t join you sooner, but those are the business fellows I was telling you about this summer. We were lamenting our losses to rats...both the two and four-legged varieties.”

  Wentworth hesitated. There was nothing to say that would not be open to comment and question. He deemed it best to push the conversation along in another direction.

  “So nothing has changed in the wilds of Plymouth then.” Aside from the keep and the girl earlier, he’d spoken to no one for nearly two days. His own voice sounded foreign.

  “Of course nothing changes. Men have ever been liars, both in business and in love.”

  “My brother would chalk it up to original sin.”

  “What? Business or love?” Craig laughed and took a drink.

  “Both, I imagine.” Wentworth tipped his glass in a little toast. His own behaviour in the business of war was, he believed, exemplary. Recently, in love, it was stained and littered with the marks of a repentant sinner. The drink was a sort of baptism into this disquieting realisation.

  Craig topped each of their glasses, raised his and said, “Here is to me, chief of sinners, but redeemed, and out of the business of love.”

  Wentworth raised his glass but was a bit hazy as to what they toasted. “You have taken a monk’s vow then?” he asked.

  Craig laughed again and touched his glass to Wentworth’s. “Hardly! I am married.”

  The news was a shock. The last time they met Gilmore Craig was still grinding his teeth over the lovely, but unobtainable, Miss Hammond. She was a beauty, smitten with Craig, but also the niece of an India-bound admiral with no good opinion of any man not in service to the King. Either his friend had won over the girl or his affections had migrated to another with the speed of summer lightening. He chose the first of the propositions.

  “So, Miss Hammond is now Mrs. Craig?”

  The man’s smile widened. “You are correct! See, you are a romantic. You do hope for tender happiness even in the most dreadful circumstance.”

  There again was that blasted accusation! He stood firm in his mind. He was not a romantic. Neither Sophia nor the Admiral had accused him of being a starry-eyed, poetry-spouting simpleton. Even Benwick had not done so.

  “I believe there was a trusted auntie left to stand watch over Miss Hammond. Did I not say you had the power to sway the old girl in your favour?”

  Craig studied him for a moment, took a drink, and studied him some more.

  “I know I look a bit rugged. I’ve not shaved for a day or so, but your examination makes me nervous, Gil.” In the past, his slightly sodden friend had shown an
annoying propensity for speaking the precise truth concerning Wentworth’s feelings, and the Captain was not eager for it to manifest itself again this evening. “When did the happy event occur?” he asked, hoping to steer clear of any conversation relating to him.

  Gil roused himself and took a drink. “Not many days after you left Plymouth. I think Anne is very happy with her choice.” He continued to study Wentworth and then leaned forward. “You look dreadful, old man. Things not going well?”

  Wentworth was shaken by his words. He’d forgotten that Miss Hammond’s Christian name was Anne, so Gil’s familiar use of it had startled him. Then there was the sympathetic question, which was so broad and inviting that he feared he might take his friend up on the offer to share his woes. “Everything is well enough. I am just allowing myself to be reenergized by the sea.” It was true he hoped for a revival of sorts, but he was already certain there was none to be had. These bits of truth and lies, along with Craig’s silent study, made him suddenly drain his glass, set it precisely on the table, and stand to leave. Craig stood as well.

  “It has been a pleasure, Gil. I hope to see you again before I leave.” This was pure palaver as Wentworth intended to leave Plymouth without so much as a nod to anyone if he could help it.

  “Come to dinner tomorrow night.” Gil’s expression was of old and not the intense scrutiny of minutes earlier. There was genuine desire for his company in the invitation.

  “I am not certain—”

  “Please, Wentworth. Come break bread with us and see what a happy home looks like.” He extended his hand; Wentworth accepted. “I shall send the carriage for you. You are staying here?” Craig pushed in the chair and stepped aside as the serving girl came round.

  “Yes, I’m here, but no need to trouble with a carriage. I shall walk.”

  “Good. Anne will look forward to seeing you again, I am sure.” He nodded and left Wentworth standing in the middle of the snug feeling tired and put out that he had accepted the invitation.