… and so, dear Harville, I have written up for a leave of absence for not only myself but also our friend. He is not fit to command in his grief and nor is it expected of him to do so by the Navy. I wait only for the return of Lt. Butler and Ens. Ferrars from their day leave and then we will strike a course directly to you in Portsmouth. You may expect us within the course of the following day.
Until then, I leave you in the best of care,
F.W.
Frederick Wentworth sealed his hastily written letter and called for a cabin boy to send it for post. He expected that it would arrive before he and James made it to Portsmouth, but he hoped only by the merest of margins. No good would come from delaying their journey and he worried over Harville. He had left John in less than stellar condition. Though the Dr remained positive of Harville's eventual recovery, owing to the immediacy with which he received medical attention; Wentworth could not help but worry for his friend. Unable to walk, his friend bore the pain of his wounds admirably. It was a blow indeed, to be wounded in such a fashion and then to be told of the loss of a dearly loved sister…
Recalling the sight of Margaret Harville standing on the Portsmouth docks, flame coloured hair alit on the wind like a beacon , Frederick had thought it was some uncanny sense that called to her, telling her of the calamity with which her husband had met. To discover that she had been waiting to share the terrible news of the loss of Miss Harville had been a shock indeed. Fanny Harville had been a singular woman, his thoughts were immediately drawn to his two friends.
In true Harville fashion, upon hearing the bad tidings John's first thoughts had been of James. Unable to bear the news himself to his friend and brother, he entreated Frederick to go in his place, needing some one to break it to him- unable to fathom writing the terrible words in a letter. Frederick could not refuse, nor did he want to. And after saying so to his friend, he watched as the waves of grief, of heartfelt emotion, washed over Harville. Turning to his wife, his face crumpled under the weight of the loss. Frederick had left them to this moment, written up for a leave of absence- charged his second Lieutenant with submitting it along with their reports and left immediately for the Grappler.
Looking to his friend, hunched over in a chair by the small fire the cabin offered, Frederick could not regret his decision. James Benwick was a shell of the man he had grown fond of. In the day and a half since his arrival, Benwick had not touched a morsel of food, alternating between tea and rum for sustenance. He had not observed the quiet command with which Frederick organised his crew. Had not heard the condolences as one by one officers and sailors alike had paused their day to pay respect to their commander. This was a surprise to Frederick (and then upon reflection, not so much), that James had gained the respect and loyalty of his men in a matter of weeks. Serious, honest, hard working Benwick. Heartbroken Benwick.
Frederick considered what the immediate future held for the two of them. He had experienced his own losses from early in life, both of his parents had died before he had left the schoolroom. During such time, only the presence of his brother and sister had offered any true solace from grief. He had even some measure of understanding the loss of a love, though she was not dead she may as well be for all he would see or speak with her again. And though at that time he had fled from the home of the brother he loved, it was directly to his sister and the admiral that he had turned. Eager to be doing something, the Admiral had found him the commission he needed- essentially saving him from himself.
Heart bleeding for his friend, he knew it was imperative to get him to the warm embrace of family and while Benwick's actual family were far away in Dorsetshire, it would be their chosen family to which they would return. Knowing his friends as he did, Frederick knew that James and John would need each other.
Trunks readied with clothing and personal items, he prepared to rouse his friend and begin the journey to Portsmouth. With good weather, they would make it in time for the funeral services to be held for Fanny.
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
Time seemed to pass in flashes.
He existed in cycles, fluctuating between agony and numbness. James wondered detachedly if this is what shock was like, being stuck in a way and unable to process the hole that seemed to have developed in the centre of his very being. He fleetingly thought to ask Fanny, having worked with the Dr, she would know. Then the crushing realisation would wash over him and the cycle would begin again.
Without thought, he accepted drink after drink. It at least offered a brief reprieve, first from the burn which, for a brief moment, rivalled the ache in his chest; then in a drunken stupor, for a short time sleep would come.
Flashes. Frederick's face as he rowed up to his ship. Scrambling to collect Fanny's letters from the floor of his cabin. A vague recollection of Frederick answering the door to visitors, quiet murmurs. This he felt had happened a lot. Something new, travelling in a coach- the streets of a bustling port transitioning into the rolling green hills of the countryside. Somewhere within, James understood what was happening but like a scalding pot that had already been touched the once, his instinct was to shy away from being burnt again and so he did not engage, did not acknowledge. Not able to think ahead to what was coming, he just was.
Unaware, his appearance became haggard. His unshaven face and shadowed eyes drew concerned looks from patrons of the inns in which they broke their journey; his sunken cheeks and long silences produced worry lines on the forehead of his travelling companion. He observed but could not bring himself to care. All of his energy was for Fanny as his introspection ran at a constant pace. Alternating from reliving their best moments together, to imagining her body wracked with coughing as death waited menacingly to the rear. The dark shadow growing stronger and closer with each vision.
How could he have not seen what was happening? He despised himself for having left her, for squandering the time that they had left. It was too late and she was gone.
{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}
A flood of relief flowed through Frederick as their coach rolled through the cobbled streets of Portsmouth. Having made straight for the Harville's quarters, he was not surprised to meet with Mrs Harville waving them down from her porch. More than ready for a full report on the progress of his friend, Frederick prepared to alight from the cab as quickly as possible. This activity seemed to rouse Benwick and his reaction should have been well and truly predicted by Frederick.
Eyes wide with panic at the sight of Mrs Harville, Benwick grasped Frederick's arm, "Wentworth, I can't-" he rasped.
"Steady, my friend," Wentworth replied, placing a firm hand on Benwick's shoulder. Feeling the coach come to a stop, he glanced out the window and saw Margaret's eyes narrow in concern.
"You're needed here. Harville is inside."
Benwick swallowed convulsively and nodded to his friend. Though pale, haggard and obviously struggling with the idea of entering the home of his love, Frederick watched with no little pride as his friend squared his shoulders and motioned for them to move out of the coach. Accepting Margaret's embrace, the two officers entered the Harville's home expecting hard days ahead but facing them head on in the fashion of their estimable profession.