Chapter Seven

One try to heal the breach
Mend a stubborn wound
But she falls out of his reach
To his mother's haunting tune…

Harriet trembled from the cold, her gloved fingers and booted feet feeling numb in the dry, wintry air, and she willed every part of her body to keep from shaking openly. She'd only draw the attention of her companion, and that was the last thing she desired at the moment.

They were riding back from the cemetery, the young lieutenant at last concluding his visit to his father's grave. Although, she could sense that he was still highly dissatisfied with himself. Then again, discontent was a feeling they both happened to share. She, displeased with him, and he, displeased with himself.

But neither had spoken a word to the other as they rode, yet Harriet found herself strangely wanting conversation between them. Her mind had never ceased to wonder what Peter's own head was thinking after the visit. He had told his story to the grave, and she had heard it, but the young woman had no clear indication of how he felt afterwards. The only thing she did notice was that young Mister Calamy was still terribly disappointed.

However, she had never honestly known how to comfort Peter in his rare times of disgruntlement. She allotted the young man his space, even as children. Or in some instances, she'd try to cheer him up with a game, though he usually despised those already. Or she'd find out what he was in conflict with and talk to him about it. And often that attempt would only lead to further argument between the two. But those were instances in their past, when they were still considered foolish children. Their current dilemmas were far from possible resolutions, and their problems had also increased in gravity. No silly game or amount of empty space would heal them. Comfort was necessary.

Distracted from her thoughts, she was unable to direct her horse away from a small stone that jutted from the dirt road and with an abrupt bounce upward, she was pulled from her daydreams just in time to hear her horse whinny from the scratch on the sharp piece of rock. Leaning forward, she stroked the beast's neck in some mode of sympathy, but her horse continued to snort and walk with what appeared to be stinging pain.

"Peter," called Harriet, pulling gently on the reins to halt her steed. The horse and rider ahead of her followed in action and paused, turning back minimally to face her. "I must check the hoof of my mare. Will you hold her reins while I inspect her limb for any injuries?"

With a shallow nod of the head, the boy turned his steed around and dismounted, approaching both woman and mare without a word coming from his pinned lips. "Thank you," said Harriet, sliding off the sidesaddle and landing on the ground. She knelt beside the horse's right hoof and lifted it from behind, her eyes quickly scanning the dirty surface for any cut or blood.

There was an injury to the mare's foot, but judging by the dried blood crusted around the slit, Harriet assumed that the horse had had a previous wound that was in the process of healing, only to reopen again due to her carelessness. "Dear thing," she sighed, setting the hoof down. Her mare seemed to grunt her empathy aside.

"What is it?" asked Peter, still holding onto the reins and casually looking down to meet Harriet's stare.

"She has a deep cut on her foot, Mr. Calamy," replied Harriet, standing up and dusting off her skirt. "Not bleeding very much, but I am sure it must sting. But perhaps she'll manage for a few more miles. I do not think I weigh too much to be a burden to her."

With that, she mounted her steed once again, and with a wave of her hand, indicated to Peter to return to his horse and recommence the ride back to his house. The young man seemed to hesitate to depart, worried that Harriet's decision to continue to ride upon her injured horse was a bit inconsiderate, but he left without uttering a word of disagreement. He did not want to argue with her.

Before long, they were off again, moving at an even slower pace now that Harriet's mare was lagging. Her horse's groans and loud release of breath did not stop, and her worry eventually switched into guilt. "Just a few more miles," she encouraged, patting her horse's mane weakly. But her words did nothing to help the horse.

When her mare's limp became more apparent, Harriet took upon the habit of looking behind her, making sure that her horse's steps did not begin to leave behind bloody prints on the ground. But eventually they did, and Harriet's conscience had engulfed her. "Dear thing," she sighed, pulling back the reins again and hailing Peter to stop as well. She dismounted, and repeated an inspection of the wound and this time observed that the continuous movement she had dragged her horse into had spurred blood flow, and thus, for the gash to bleed.

With a slight "tsk" sound coming from her mouth, Harriet stood up and stared at her mare's leg with her hands on her hips, wondering what was to be done. "It won't do," she said firmly, her head shaking minimally from left to right.

And if it will not do, she thought, then I am left with just one option to get home, and I certainly am not going to request such a thing.

"Is she unable to bear you?" questioned Peter, bringing his steed closer to where Harriet and her mare stood.

"I find that she is fully capable of bearing me, but I do not wish to cause further damage to her injury," snapped Harriet, her tongue making the "tsk-ing" sound again. "I'd rather her not bleed more for me."

"What will you do then?"

Harriet scowled and turned away, pacing away from her horse and from Peter. The question she wanted to ask him waited anxiously to pop from her lips, but no, she could never request such a thing. For a lady, she bore too much pride to be considered reasonable, (let alone appeasable) and her bitterness towards Peter only kept her closer to that pride.

"I don't know," she burst at last, although she knew exactly what had to be done if both were going to return to their destination without catching cold. She could have very well sent Peter ahead to get a new horse for her, but that was a waste of time. And the only other possible way was something she forbade herself to accept. But she had already accepted it.

Peter watched with strange amusement at her pacing to and fro, a finger to her chin, and her mouth mumbling jumbled words. What could she have been debating over, and more importantly, to her own self?

"Harriet," he said gently, catching her off guard and prompting her quick little feet to rest.

"What?" she answered bitterly, only to have her furrowed brow relax as she realized the impropriety of her action. A good lady of the court kept her tongue dull, not sharp.

"I am sure my horse can bear you along as well. Your mare's instinct will have her follow us."

And although that had been the question she had so long desired to ask him, she acted as if the idea was brilliant and new. That, along with purely false modesty.

"Oh, Peter," she said, mildly scolding him. "You need not do that."

"Harriet," he began, already extending his arm to her. Her defeat and acceptance of his offer were already blatant on her speechless, blank face, and she allowed no more words to come from him, for she had taken his hand with a bowed head.

She stuck her foot in the stirrup and sat her bottom on the saddle behind Peter, both her legs swaying on one side of the horse as she had been taught to ride by sidesaddle. It was always believed that should a woman ride like a man, with one leg on each side of the horse, she'd have a larger possibility of being incapable of bearing children, and of course, it was a woman's job to ensure the continuation of her husband's name and legacy. However, Harriet had come to disbelieve the myth, for she had tried riding normally one time with Red, and not only did she find that it was a lot easier, it was certainly more comfortable. At least, it was for her.

Now delicately seated behind her escort, she whistled lightly for her mare to come alongside them, but the mare appeared to decline, contenting herself with following them from behind.

Peter stole a glance quickly over his shoulder at Harriet to make sure she wasn't about to fall off the horse, and seeing that her head was turned, facing the rider-less steed, he nudged the sides of his own horse gently with his heels and commenced the journey back home.

As it was with the carriage ride to his home, Peter was again reacquainted with Harriet's scowling due to the bumps and jumps on the ride. Stubborn as she was, she refused to hold onto him and so simply sat on the saddle without anything to grasp to keep her from falling. Peter wanted to suggest for her to, frankly, cling to him, for what else did she have to hold onto to steady herself on the rough road home? But he decided it was better for the woman to discover that for herself and confront her obstinacy with an honest heart.

The lady sitting behind him was, in fact, extremely close to just attaching her arms around him for fear of falling off and getting run over by the horse. She had heard often the stories of unfortunate riders who fell off their horses and were trampled over; stories which had contributed to her fear and dislike for horses from the beginning. However, fear or not, Harriet declined adhering herself to Peter, for she found that her previous actions clearly announced that she loathed him. But one jump could send her off the horse.

Her teeth bit into her lip and Peter glanced at her over his shoulder for a quick moment, only to find that her worried eyes were focused on the ground, the fear of getting thrown off greatly affecting her. The young man almost smiled at her barefaced indecision, and Harriet could have guessed that he was probably laughing inside at her flustered self, which only made her want to abandon her pride all the more. But she wasn't about to let Peter have his laughs either.

"Harriet," sighed Peter at last, noticing a large hill ahead of them. "I do request that you hold onto me."

"Nonsense, Peter," she replied, her voice quivering just slightly. "I'll be fine."

"When we have to go up and down that hill you won't be fine, I promise you that," he returned, with the teasing "sing-song" air intertwined with his words.

"I think I can manage, midshipman," she persisted and he shrugged casually, causing a small whimper to escape her. With a pout, she crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the large hill waiting for them, and again, her teeth dug into her lip as she debated over what to do.

When at last they began going up the hill, Harriet had great difficulty keeping herself from falling backwards and over the horse's rump; a fall which would have her end up on the dirt road and most likely rolling the rest of the way down the hill. And proper Harriet would never want such a dreadful thing to happen to her, yet oddly her arms remained crossed and her bottom lip remained sore from the refusal of her teeth to keep from biting it. And in her head, the same three words began to swarm around with elevating power. What to do? What to do? What to do?

And, since they were riding up the hill, it was required of Peter to push his horse to go a little faster, adding speed to Harriet's list of worries. As the horse ran up, she felt her body begin to slip from the saddle and with a cry, she swung her arms around Peter's abdomen and grimaced as she anticipated finally falling off the horse, the side of her pinched face pressed against Peter's shoulder.

The boy himself almost winced a bit for the girl had embraced him tightly, almost like a trap that had suddenly let loose and squeezed the breathe out of him, and he stopped his horse at the top of the hill and turned his head to check on the frightened girl. "Hattie," he said, trying to move a bit to loosen her hold on him.

"Don't say a word, Peter," she growled, lifting her head and looking at him with a blushing face. "Just ride." He nodded to her, smirking lightly at her embarrassment. And to his surprise and to her mortification, she never let go of him again until they reached his house.

Her eyes scanned every detail of the various ship models carefully set on display in the shelves of the den. The bright flames started in the nearby fireplace sent a warm glow against the gleaming bark of the ships, and a thin, white finger traced along the hull of a brilliantly assembled miniature man-of-war, stopping just at the tip of its bowsprit.

She was there to retire to her embroidery, but was too captivated by the enchanting vessels just sitting across from her place of work to ignore them. And with her embroidery circle hanging loosely in her left hand, she moved her finger from that ship to the next one, the look of awe on her face brightening.

"And that must be…" She paused as she examined the model, her eyes narrowing in on a certain sail that hung in the back. "It's on every other ship I've looked at but what is it called again?" In that moment, she hoped that the senior Mr. Calamy would happen to walk in and see her pondering over the sail and answer it for her, quick and sharp, but alas, the stories of the sea had ended long ago for her.

Peter stepped out of the dining room where his mother was currently directing their servants in the preparations for the evening meal. He had gone in to tell her about his visit to his father's grave and informed her that it went well, and his mother agreed with him with several nods of her head, but she said very few words in response. It became clear to him that his mother did not like to speak of the subject, and neither did he, and he preferred that time to be the last they'd speak of his father's death, although he knew it would never be something he'd forget.

After all, he would forever bear the name of his father: Calamy. And he would never be able to ignore his own identity.

He walked down the dimly lit hallway from the dining hall, his footsteps echoing in solitude, and he quickly passed by room after room, with one room happening to capture his attention.

His feet paused almost instantly at the sight of the warmly lit den and he entered cautiously, hoping not to disrupt the evident concentration of the person in there. To him, the person appeared to be focused on a specific toy vessel, her dark eyes squinting at a particular shape of white. He found her interest in such a simple object as unusually pleasing, making him feel that her admiration for his family had never faltered, although she appeared to show it. Perhaps there was still much of the same adoration and respect in her for them as there were years ago.

"Harriet?" he asked softly, still approaching her with prudence. He had not yet known this new Harriet well enough to determine when it was safe to speak with her openly.

He received no reply, save for a swift shift of her eyes from the little sail to his face and then back to the ship. She failed to answer for two reasons. One, she really had no wish to speak with him, but two, she wanted him to answer the question she was thinking, just to see if son was truly indeed like father.

"That's the driver," he stated, following the gaze of her eyes to that certain sail on the vessel. The girl smiled both inside and out and turned her head to him, still grinning.

"Ah, I was wondering what it was. It was in the back of my mind. I just couldn't get to it. Now tell me, what type of ship is this?" She tilted her head over at the same boat and presented it as if she were introducing a guest.

His lips curved faintly at her vague attempt to be a bit of her playful self, and he found it safe to continue walking forward towards her.

"It's a topsail schooner; sixth rate, if you are wondering. Although I question whether such knowledge will ever be useful to a future lady of the Court," answered Peter, becoming more of himself as he gradually transferred his mindset back to an ocean atmosphere.

Harriet gave a short release of what appeared to sound like a cross between a snort, a giggle and a scoff before looking back at the discussed boat and tapping its bark again. "Ah, Peter," she said, shaking her head a bit. "I must agree with you there. What on earth will I ever do with such information? Red will be a lawyer and so I shall be surrounded by men of the law instead of by men of the sea. Do you remember Red? I think I mentioned him in some of my earliest letters."

"I believe I do, Miss Neville," said Peter, wondering as to why she had brought up the name so suddenly.

"He is my fiancé," replied Harriet simply, looking up at the ceiling as she said the words. Peter's eyes were pricked to remain open by the same words and he looked at her, trying his best to refrain from becoming mute.

But he suddenly remembered the image of the man who Harriet had kissed goodbye before going to London with him, and of course Harriet would only kiss the man she was engaged to. So how had he missed such a thing? How had he failed to put that kiss and her earlier proclamation of, "I'm engaged," together? He knew then that he shouldn't have been the least bit surprised, but Harriet noticed his wide blue eyes and her smile increased at such an honest act of bewilderment.

"You ought to speak with Mr. O'Cleirigh one day, Peter," suggested Harriet, intending for the phrase to calm her companion's shock. "Despite being an aspiring lawyer, he has a rather good background on nautical affairs, especially those concerning Bonaparte, and without a doubt Captain Aubrey has instilled in you utter hate for the Frenchman. As for me, I'd rather pass on any discussion with naval officers. They intimidate me too much."

She drifted away from the shelf of ships and back to her seat, where she resumed her embroidery and Peter trailed after her, intrigued by her professed fear of the navy.

"Why would you fear us?" he asked, seating himself in a chair adjacent to her and still leaning forward so as to have her full attention.

She looped her needle and thread through the white piece of cloth and snickered lightly, looking up at him briefly before returning her vision to her needlepoint. "I'm not certain as to how to explain it, Peter. Having known your father and having to face all those officers at your house whenever I visited as a girl, well, I just find their presence… frightening." She paused and took a rest from the sewing, dropping the embroidery ring carelessly into her lap.

"How so?" continued Calamy, his eyes remaining fixed on hers as she leaned back in her chair and rested her elbow on the chair's arm.

She wanted to say something about his strong interest in extracting an answer from her, which could have very well been deciphered through the smile perpetually framing her lips, but she decided not to. For once, she believed she'd answer young Mr. Calamy's question before he replied to her own.

"To be honest, I'd rather speak to the king than an officer of his navy. The hardship and situations navy men have endured just seem far more apparent in their physical appearance than in that of any other class of men I have seen, other than that of the army. Whenever I look at an officer's or a sailor's visage, I feel prone to respecting their suffering."

Peter almost immediately discarded her reasoning behind such a thing. Did she always look upon a naval profession in a depressing perspective? For truly, if the career was as awful as she made it out to be, then how come so many men were enlisted? Then again, many were forced into the service, but it eventually became a part of them. And, there were the few brave souls who wanted to risk their lives for King and country, and he was no exception.

"For a woman who knows so much of nautical life, I'd presume your opinion of us would be more positive," was all Peter could really say to her. He wanted to be bold and defend his profession with, "Must you speak so lowly of the Service, Miss Neville?" but he knew well that such words would ignite a spark of anger in her, and he could picture her standing up with a huff and glare at him.

"I never said that, Peter," she snapped, reaching for her embroidery again. "I said I respected you and your fellow navy men." She yanked the needle and thread through the cloth as her upper lip stiffened considerably.

"But you think our lives are occupied with pain and discontent, Harriet," Peter retorted sharply. "They are not. You pity us because we live to defend our country."

"I respect you, Peter. I do not pity you or your men, for rather you be saved from pity than exposed to it. You misinterpret my meanings and your failure in asking me to clarify leaves you putting words in my mouth."

She tossed her needle and thread aside and averted her fuming face to the dreary view of the countryside waiting outside a window in the room. Again, she had put herself in a battle of wits with Peter; to see who could argue better, who could convince the other with faster acceptance. And she knew she would lose. She argued her side to the best of her limits, but she knew her opinions were never intelligent or reasonable. They were selfish and biased; unsupported and childish, and such observations were never the ones society wanted to discuss.

"You put words in my mouth, Hattie; in every naval officer's and sailor's mouth by assuming the truth in our lives when you knew naught of it." His reply was intended to be gentle; to calm her by putting some sense into her head without being too constraining, but Harriet would never accept his reason peacefully, and Peter noticed his mistake far too late to stop her from doing what she did next.

"I'm going home," she stated, almost yelling it as she abandoned her seat and stormed for the exit to the den. And don't follow me.

Her internal wish was granted, for Peter remained in his seat, his eyes glancing at the path her feet took to the exit and then veering back to the flames weakening in the fireplace. He wanted to apologize, for his tongue had grown so accustomed to apologizing to her when they were children. If he made one small error to send Harriet into a fit or into tears, he couldn't help but say, "I'm sorry." But he forced the words down his tightened throat. Harriet believed that things were not as they once were between them, and for once, he agreed with her.

The frown on her face was already deeply set as she made her way up to the guestroom which the Calamys had so kindly granted to her. But she could not stand being in the house a moment longer. As much as she didn't want to go home, she knew she had to. She'd rather face her mother than argue more with Peter. And perhaps while she packed her things with angry little steps and agitated little sighs, she realized her true rationale for fearing naval officers.

Their experience made them thoroughly acquainted with knowledge and current events, and she didn't want to make herself look stupid in front of them with her lack of sophisticated conversation. She'd make her point, and they'd most likely disagree, and they wouldn't leave the matter alone until she surrendered to their logic.

No wonder she loathed a profound tête-à-tête with Peter, even as a child. She'd always lose. And she remembered looking at the cheerfully grim faces of officers at the Calamys' residence when they were little. Even then she was afraid of them. To them, and to them only, she had the oddest fear of appearing dim-witted.

With her frustration at a pause, she sat on the edge of her bed and looked at the trunk that was half-packed. Across the room, directly ahead of her sat a vanity, and she stared at the mirror from her place on the bed, the flicker of an old memory reflecting in the silver glass. She saw the face of a girl who glared back at the face of a boy who had just proved her wrong in some stupid and babyish sense. And now she knew why she feared them—the officers. He established her timidity by always coming out triumphant in any argument. Because of his brilliant, bright mind, she became familiar with defeat. His ally was the navy. His life was the navy. And no matter what she'd say, she knew he'd never change his mind.

There was rain the next morning, but nonetheless she carried on with her desire to get away from Peter, and so had her things packed and ready and sitting neatly together in the foyer. Tightening the bonnet ribbon beneath her chin, she pivoted on her heel to confront the countenances of her hosts.

But she didn't manage to get one word out when Mrs. Calamy spoke for her.

"It was a pleasure having you here, my dear," she said. "Must you really return home so soon?"

"I feel inclined to, Mrs. Calamy," replied Harriet tonelessly, her dark eyes glimpsing at Peter for less than a second.

She was brave to have made such a deliberate sign of repulsion openly before Mrs. Calamy, but she did not feel so obliged to be proper amongst familiar faces. Although, that one action did not go unnoticed by the senior woman, and she made a note in her head to speak to her son about it after the young lady had left.

"Well, do be careful down the road. By all means, if I did not trust you so well, I would have had Peter escort you to your home," remarked Mrs. Calamy, and Harriet unknowingly grinned out of annoyance at the comment.

"I assure you, I can manage, Missus. My residence is, after all, but a few streets down the road, but I thank you for your consideration." She curtsied for both mother and son before she nodded at Mr. Henney, who picked up her belongings and transferred them to the carriage waiting in the rain for her.

"I shall send someone over in a few days to see how you are doing, Harriet," said Mrs. Calamy, and Harriet instantly came to the conclusion that she'd send Peter to her, but she showed no objection nor mouthed any hint of rebuttal at the statement. Instead, she curtsied again.

"I shall be fine, Mrs. Calamy. My parents, after all, will be there."

"Tell them I send my greetings then, child." The older woman came forth and kissed both sides of Harriet's thin face before letting her pass through the doors and out into the rain.

The girl did not hesitate to run to her carriage to escape from being soaked, and she hopped into the black box on wheels without the aid of her footman. Mr. Henney took his position at the front of the coach, reins and whip in hand, and with a flick of his wrist, the leather rope cracked amidst the pitter-patter of the rain and off the carriage went, rolling down the muddy street.

As the servants closed the doors, Peter could already sense that his mother wanted to speak to him, and he clearly wanted to avoid the matter, especially if the subject would be Miss Neville. But mother knew son too well, and spoke before he could even turn around and take a step away from her.

"She is a sweet girl, is she not, my son?" inquired Mrs. Calamy, bending her head to meet her son's sure-to-be stunned expression, and when he did not answer, for fear of putting his disagreement in distinguishable words, she continued on with what she wanted to say.

"Without a doubt she has grown into a fine lady. Right, my son?" And at the less daunting question, he was able to utter some words, although greatly murmured.

"R-Right, Mother."

"Not much has changed, I suppose," she added further, almost dully, and the simplicity of her observations caused Peter to wonder if she was hinting at something, though he wasn't quite sure. His mother was not the one to do such a thing; to set him up, that is. His father was always the source of jest.

"What do you mean, Mother?" asked Peter, and mother's eyes looked at son's, and she had come to find that the same childlike innocence still gleamed brightly in the blue orbs. For a second, she was proud of herself for having given him those calming eyes; eyes appearing so tranquil that they were capable of concealing most other emotion.

"She has set up a chase for you, my son. And I know you will follow her."

"I will not," returned Peter stridently. "And if that is what she expects, she will not get the expected."

"Oh, my dear son," chuckled his mother, looking at him with her motherly, omniscient stare. "She did not say goodbye to you, and therefore she expects to see you again." She patted his shoulder, which was just another indication of her understanding of him, and then left the foyer, singing as she went farther and farther away.

How many types of sweet flowers grow
in an English country garden?
I'll tell you now of some that I know,
those I miss you'll surely pardon...

The song triggered a lost memory in the boy's head, and without even knowing it, he walked towards a window in a neighboring room and stared out of it, seeing nothing but the curtain of raindrops draped over the countryside. Further down a muddy, obscure roadway sat a woman in a carriage, constantly looking out the window in the back of the coach, with no real reason as to why her eyes had grown fond of looking over her shoulder.