"Surprise" had been heading south-west for nearly a month now and Cicely had resigned herself to a longer parting from Stephen than she had at first thought. A month at sea now, and a week before Christmas; the frigate was to dock at Sao Paolo, in Brazil.

The journey had so far been one of a relative mundane nature, especially compared to the month before, and the crew had grown accustomed to the routine ship-work, with maintenance being carried out as the ship made sea-miles, a happier crew Cicely hadn't remembered in a long time. While enemy ships, were they to be spied, to be engaged, all aboard "Surprise" knew that the chances grew ever slimmer as Europe became further behind by the day.

Cicely had gone to see Jack shortly after they had upped anchor and made sail beyond the England's smallest county and well into the Channel. He had, he had told her, received word that the New World was their destination and Stephen had been delayed on business and intended to meet them in Sao Paolo.

Cicely had made the best impression that she could to her former captain of acceptance of his word, however the thought uppermost in her mind as she had continued with her transcription for her husband was that they were sailing in what amounted to one of the fastest sailing ships on earth, and so, unless he had sailed before them, it was difficult to see how Stephen would meet them in Brazil.

"Unfinished business", she had told herself, following that meeting and also, on each occasion she longed for him, the feeling coming to the fore often without warning. Unfinished business, Cicley told herself now, as she sought sleep that night, the warmer air now permeating every facet of the ship, telling all who could read the latitudes that they were heading to the southern hemisphere where December meant shorter, balmy nights, rather than cold, dark, snow-filled days.

Unfinished business. Like that which had occupied his thoughts when he had departed the "Surprise" shortly after she herself had been sent to stay with Sophie Aubrey. Unfinished business with William Wickham, the slight, unassuming man, with no particular defining features, adept and cunning, perfectly suited to spying who had, ultimately, been in the pay of the French spymaster Fouche, the butcher in the Calais prison, whom Cicely had encountered after being captured with Harris at the doomed Quiberon Bay invasion; Fouche, who had only stayed his hand at his barbarous practice beecause she had been in a unique position for his advantage.

Damn the man, Cicely thought to herself, as the waves, no longer lashing as if hating all floating vessels, as they had done in the days after departing her never-again-to-be acquainted with homeland, licked soothingly at the hull. Joseph Fouche must now, she expected, be mired in self-revulsion at his own catastrophic misjudgment – to allow Nelson to be assassinated, and to keep Wickham where he needed him. William Wickham, in the true sense of the phrase was a loose cannon, unable to be trusted by either side for which he was in receipt of pay. So it was only to be expected that the stakes had risen even more highly at such spectacular failures.

It was funny though. She had come across Wickham before. Cicely knew very little of the man, yet he had been known in social circles by those she used to avoid, when she lived at home under her father's roof; the man had even been a dinner guest at a party her father had arranged when she had been much younger, and before their father had forced a midshipman commision upon Edward, her brother. Just what was that man's motive? He had been at one; his name floating about upon the sea of society, but again, nothing defining him or making him singular in a particular way. He seemed too shrewd for espionage to be just money, or even, just power. Jack, when he had given her the news – and perhaps expected her to fold emotionally - had probably right; she knew Stephen well enough that a mystery unsolved would be subject to his scrutiny.

Perhaps it had been a sign that she had been kept awake with such thoughts on her mind that Cicely felt she could not rest, however no rest was to be had for the remainder of the night her nursing skills were called upon by Commander William Blakeney for four men, two topmen, who climbed the rigging and had been caught by the cross-mast beam coming loose from its stay, and a deckhand who had been clumsy with wooden scrape-broom that was used to remove barnacles from the outside of the hull, and had been caught with the cross-mast as it headed towards the sea, taking several of his fingers with it.

Sao Paolo, Cicely thought, as she pulled her day-dress on – for the sake of decency (decency expected of her by her Captain and his crew, at least) – and followed her friend as he headed across the mid-deck and up the taffrail to the quarterdeck, where she could see in the clear evening light that Higgins was in attendance and her assistance was needed in bandaging and general bedside soothing. Higgins was doing his best, God love him, with Padeen Colman hopping from foot to foot.

Padeen, Stephen's servant, by and large, who had accompanied him from Ireland and had boarded the ship with him in Minorca, was now more a member of the "Surprise" crew, helping in almost every capacity imaginable. Together they were second to Stephen in ministering aid to Jack's crew. Second, however, being a position that was relative, for their skills were negligible in comparison. Even Jack Aubrey could not mask his expression of resignation at the lack of ability of those tending his men.

"Harris, help Mrs Maturin, if you please." Jack's voice rang in the clear warm air as Cicely attempted to lift Dai Williams, who had fallen from the rigging, into a better position, but had not stopped to witness more of Higgins' and Padeen's incompetence.

Cicely sighed. It wasn't as if Higgins was bad, more that Stephen was so good. She beamed a smile at Matthew Harris as they lugged poor Williams into a more comfortable position, a pile of sheet from the broken mast used as a temporary pillow. But she couldn't help notice Jack's attention being given to the repair of the coss-mast piece. Just a little too much, as if to block out the thoughts that she too was thinking.

"Fingers look bad for Evans," commented Harris, as they approached the other top-man. "If you see to him, I'll make Simcox more comfortable." Cicely's eye looked across to Daniel Simcox, who had been precariously balanced over the stern de-barnacling, and had concussion from the end of the cross mast. The man was quietly howling every so often.

Colman yelled something at the man in Irish, which of course he couldn't understand, and then Higgins had pushed Cicely in his direction, declaring "the face of a beautiful woman will always put you at your ease."

"Never mind," chuckled Captain Howard, his joviality breaking the stillness of an awkward job, "you'll have to make do with Mrs Maturin." The sarcastic reposte worked, Cicely laughing in feint indignation and the rest of the makeshift medical team and patients joined in.

A week away till Christmas Day, Cicely thought, as she got on with the job in hand, when the birth of the Messiah would be celebrated by all civilised nations. Just one week. Everyone needed their Doctor back.

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Laurent Lebec, the former captain of the Acheron and French royalist, who had borne witness at Jack Aubrey's court-martial, and with as much hatred for William Wickham and Joseph Fouche as ever Stephen Maturin had, boarded a ship that would bear him east.

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The few days had been almost too much for Cicely to bear. Now in their twenties, the dates on December were progressing to the Saviour's day, when her darling would return to her very slowly. However, it felt as I she was like a child waiting for the day, one known to be filled with unparallelled delights and finding that the hours were creeping past tortuously.

Finding it hard to put her mind to anything of her husband's work, Cicely was growing restless, and with no other nursing required of her, she stood on deck when a very excited Blakeney betraying his still tender fourteen years told her that the lights of the city of Sao Paolo could be seen. Ignoring her own mind reminding her that she knew the place so well, she allowed the boy to regale her of the places of interest, and what the crew had done the last time they were in port. Cicely was well aware of the time that he was discussing: this was the time that she had scraped together everything she had to charter a crossing to the wharf where "Surprise" were taking on hands, in the hope that she would be able to get a position and be with her beloved brother.

She had spent the night in a room above an insalubrious bar, gaining unwanted attention from the numerous women of negotiable affection that frequented it, looking for trade from recently paid Jack Tars. Cicely knew a tailor whom she had given more of her money prior to this for seaman's garb, for she had long since worn out those she had acquired in London, money earned in aforementioned bar for menial tasks until too many questions began to be asked.

Many of the drinking houses in Sao Paolo were like this; run-down, decrepit in some places, their main source of income the shipping trade when sailors docked for an evening or two, on leave with money burning a hole in their pockets and a mind to kick back and have fun.

"We will be docked in port tomorrow, Sissy," Blakeney continued, staring out at the city scape, such as it was, of low-built houses and, in the backdrop, the monastery tower that appeared to be looming over the city and its inhabitants, like a watchful moral eye reminding any who needed it that confession was only a few hundred yards away.

"Of course, they're papists," Blakeney had added, pointing out the houses – unnecessarily, of course, for Cicely had spent longer than William Blakeney in said city as she had tried on so may occasions to board "Surprise" to be with her Edward almost two years ago. Cicely, who had made herself attend a Protestant service, at least, wherever she had been at Christmas since absconding from her father's house, had intended to be amongst a congregation the following night. But a Roman Catholic church...that was all that the Brazilian city offered, of course.

"We cannot all repair to a church," he continued, "but Captain Aubrey will read aloud to the crew from the bible and conduct an ecumenical service on Christmas Day." Cicely found herself nodding, hoping that she was doing a good enough job of looking as if she was listening, when in fact she was thinking about what she had been doing the year before. Aboard a merchant ship working the lines, she remembered, with only a word or two in deference to the season. Church could wait when a ship sailed under the constraint of time with shareholders' profits in the balance. Stopping to worship the Lord, even on the occasion of his birth was no excuse. The Royal Navy, at least, respected religious worship and tradition.

As Blakeney went to instruct the midshipmen with the tasks that the tars would be doing in preparation for landing Cicely made to Stephen's cabin, looked hopelessly at the next stage of transcription before her eye catching the pile of stitching of which several tunics and breeches were in desperate need. She sighed, having no stomach for either. The latter, she considered, at least was something which needed to be done immediately; Jack had asked her to do in order to free up time of his men who were needed for ship repair.

At the time, Cicely had stifled the urge to remark that she would prefer the latter repair rather than the former but now, digging as she was the needle into a shoulder seam and pulling the two edges of fabric together, the mind-numbing monotony of the task was somehow soothing, so much so that she didn't hear Jack Aubrey knock on Stephen's open cabin door.

He coughed, and out of her own thoughts Cicely brought her mind to the present, noticing now Jack's genial smile, the tiniest of little smirks playing at the corners of his mouth as she discarded the uniform.

"You did ask, and it was long overdue." Cicely began her justification for the sewing in a convincing manner, but was saved what was to be the embarrasing pause when the old joke between them would have broken. Cicely hated sewing and had openly told Jack this, to the extent that it was a running joke between them.

But Jack was not about to rib her over sewing now; a more serious look had taken hold of his features and he stepped in.

"May I close the door, Cicely, or would you prefer to attend above, in my cabin?"

"Here is fine," replied Cicely hurriedly, pushing the work into the corner next to Stephen's desk. "Jack – what is it? You can tell me in the head, for all I care!"

"No, Cicely, calm yourself, " Jack cautioned her, laughing a little as he spoke, for he knew the graveness in his voice had immediately brought forth the memory of the last time she had been compelled to stitch for the Service, and the news that had preceded it. "Dr. Maturin is quite well, as far as I am to understand. He sends word - " Jack held aloft a letter, folded in three, with a wax seal, "and prays you forgive him another day, until Christmas Day, when he will be able to rejoin us."

"Christmas Day?" Cicely swallowed. She was sure Jack had told her Christmas Eve, for she had hoped that she might convince Stephen that their souls would benefit by visiting a house of worship – even if it was Papist – for she had a lot to be thankful to God for.

She was aware that she might have been staring a little too long, and Jack had stopped talking, looking back at her with concern before gesturing to Stephen's chair, in which Cicely had so often seen her him sit, examining dead examples of nature, sketching them, or writing, having so often mounted a covert spying operation, so to speak, in the guise of Robert Young. She sat, expectantly.

"The doctor prays you forgive his asking that I bear the news to you." Jack looked back from Cicely to the letter, as if having never seen the words before, and feeling compelled to read them carefully to her. Cicely forced herself not to make wild speculations aloud – or even in her mind. This was a serious matter for Jack to have sought her out almost immediately that mail had been delivered to "Surprise".

And serious it was. The letter from Stephen, which he held out for Cicely to read, consisted of the words that Jack had paraphrased, asking him to tell her that Christmas Day was when he was due to be back on board. Inside was a second letter, from a solicitor from Hammond Gardens, detailing to Stephen, as the next of kin to the estate of Richard Hollum, the death of the aforementioned, with the money with respect to the estate passing to him, as husband of his only living relative.

"Me?"

"Quite so, Cicely." Jack folded the letter in his large hands before passing it over to her. Cicely opened it as if it were on fire, and read it again herself. She looked at Jack, mouth trembling.

"It seems we have a reason for Stephen's absence these last weeks, Mrs Maturin," he chuckled, smiling warmly at her. "I am so very sorry to hear of your loss."

"I'm...not!" whispered Cicely, shaking away the feeling of shame that came with insulting the dead, and instead bounced out of the mahogany chair, gripping Jack Aubrey in an embrace so tightly that his sharp intake of breath might have been as a result of this, rather than the hug itself. And then she dampened his shirt ever so slightly with salty tears, relief of years leaving her body, as an antagonistic spirit might from a possessed body. Jack just held his friend's wife close, letting the emotion run its course.

"I am sorry," he said at length, when Cicely felt she could pull away. "You have often told me he was never the father he could have been for you and your brother. But...may I postulate a positive angle on all of this?" Cicely looked up, her eyes stinging with salt as she waited expectantly, and the words came from Jack's mouth as if rehearsed.

"Now, at least, Cicely, you may return freely to England if you wish, unbound to any possible legal obligation to the matrimony you opposed."

Yes, thought Cicely, as Benjamin Wigg crossed her mind. At liberty to return to be free.

"Stephen says that, while he is legally the benefactor of the wealth of your father's estate, it is yours to do as you wish," Jack added, as Cicely took up the letter again. "The funds," Jack continued, as Cicely sought to make sense of her husband's so-familiar hand, "though not a trifle are, nevertheless, not altogether plentiful, either."

"He says that it is mine," Cicely echoed.

"Yours." Jack reiterated.

"But, I have no need for it, Jack. And Stephen needs all that he can for his commission." And then another thought occurred to Cicely, one more important than money. Her eyes shone, as if she had just discovered the secrets of the universe.

"It's Stephen's! Of course it is, Jack!" He looked at her, confused, but Cicely pressed on, animated as thoughts bombarded her brain. "Because...because...don't you see? Lord Nelson...we are married, Jack, don't you see?"

Jack's face crumpled a little. He didn't see. He hoped he looked expectant for a more clear explanation, and that Cicely would give him one. She did not disappoint.

"The law of England...it has declared in this letter..." she paused, trying to consolidate the words that were cascading in her mind like a turbulent waterfall, "...if Stephen has been declared benefactor, then it follows that he must be my husband in the eyes of the law of Great Britain, as it stands. Lord Nelson's gift in witnessing our marriage...it's legally been recognised. And our legitimacy cannot now be called into question!"

Jack reached for her hand, and held it tenderly, but said nothing. It was the happiness that she had always sought, and it seemed no money could replace this peace of mind. Of course she was happy to forego money when all she wanted was a legitimate marriage to his friend.

"You have no need to worry about this now, Cicely," said Jack, reassuringly. "It seems the talented doctor has this in hand. Will you join me for dinner this evening with the officers? Mowett has procured some of the local produce, so he has told me; Killick was busy shouting and banging in the galley as I came down. Cicely nodded, gripping tightly Stephen's letter.

He needn't have written, Jack thought, as he ascended to the main deck. He could have told Cicely in person. But then, perhaps even he didn't know what he was doing between England and Sao Paolo.

Looking across the short water to the shore of the city of Sao Paolo, Jack wondered again why he was concerned with business of a marital type not concerning him. And yet...

...lights flickered ashore as dusk prompted more households to light candles in deference to the season...

...he had long considered Cicely in a sisterly manner and, as such, wished to protect her from harm.

Perhaps there was nothing in it, he sighed, breathing heavily on his pipe, tobacco smoke coiling into the still night sky. And yet, the manner, rather than the words of his wife's letter were still on his mind, as he attempted once again to force mental distance from himself and the Maturins.

When Stephen returned he would discuss the matter. There would, Jack told himself, watching as a rowing boat neared, bearing three marines back from patrolling the city streets in the wake of the crew, be a simple explanation, of that he was certain. Especially as the boat bearing post for nearly all of the crew, most of it good news, and good cheer, had brought he himself news of a similar vein.

Something to share at Christmas dinner, thought Jack, as he met briefly with his former Lieutenants. Especially with the guests who were to be joining them.

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