Beginning Part II:

Chapter 26: Sea of Promise, Sea of Storms

"Do you play cards, Miss Rutledge?"

"No—I have never played." Very daringly, Letty added, "I have always thought I might like to, but I never have."

Lieutenants Grantley, Paget, and Duckham, her faithful courtiers, exchanged pleased looks, as they finished their dinner at the captain's table. Captain Ballantine, who was very fond of card play himself, lost no time inviting her to learn the noble game of whist. It was a week into their voyage, long enough for the Tavington party to have gotten over the worst of their sea-sickness, each at his or her individual pace.

Tavington had sailed before, many times, and was always disordered for the first day or so. He had enough experience, however, to avoid staring at the horizon before he was completely acclimated, and it was not long before he was out on the deck with the officers, or below, working on his notes of the campaign.

His womenfolk had fared far worse. Jane lay on the narrow bed, occasionally moaning, a damp cloth over her face. Letty had often come in to lie down next to her. Tavington was dutifully sympathetic to their misery, gave them each a little watered wine, and left them to Moll's care. A seasoned campaigner like the hearty sergeant's wife had not turned a hair at sailing; and when not tending the ladies or the baby, she would stroll the deck, sturdy as an able seaman, helping the sailors coil ropes and chatting up the ship's carpenter and cook. Tavington thought that she would as soon go aloft as not, were she not encumbered by petticoats.

Tonight, though, the ladies felt equal to dressing for dinner with the captain. Tavington was glad to have them join the party. He congratulated himself on his own judgement in choosing this ship. Ballantine and his officers had proved pleasant companions. Aside from the captain, whom he had liked from the first, he had particularly taken to the lieutenant of marines on board, Fordyce Grantley. Grantley was a lively fellow, from a long line of marines, starting in the service without a penny to his name, but now well pleased with the prize money he had earned in this war. Naval officers, Tavington found, did not seem to have the personal animus against the rebels that he felt himself. It was different he supposed, when you rarely saw the enemy face to face, except during the brief fiery moments of battle. At dinner, Ballantine and his officers listened with horror to Tavington's tales of rebel atrocities.

Ballantine clearly spoke for them all when he finally said, "Hardly the work of a Christian people. Since the old Caribbean pirates were put down, only the crews of the Barbary Coast display that kind of savagery at sea. I thank God I'm a sailor!" A rumble of assent rose from the table at large.

With the addition of Jane and Letty to the dinner party, such topics were avoided, since Tavington had given Ballantine a condensed account of the day his son was born, and warned him that the subject was a painful one. He had not revealed that the slaughtered nursemaid was the lovely Miss Rutledge's mother, but even without that detail, it was all dreadful enough.

It was always pleasant to have women at dinner. The conversation was a little more elevated in tone. Tavington was glad to see Jane in the splendor of her emerald green gown. And Letty! She was a sight indeed, dressed in dark silk that made her skin glow in contrast. There was nothing to blush for in the appearance of his female companions—and nothing to decry in their conversation. Jane restrained her unfortunate tendency to sarcasm, understanding that they must get along with this little party for at least eight weeks. Letty was very quiet, but could be brought out to reply to questions about her reading or her music. Mostly, she listened: fascinated by talk of travel and adventure, and most especially by tales of London life. Her dark liquid eyes glowed with every anecdote of town pleasures, and she made bold occasionally to beg for more particulars.

Ballantine, tall and lean, with grey in his temples lending him a touch of distinction, volunteered to partner Letty himself in the game. The table was cleared and the cards brought out with anticipation. Nor did the captain neglect Jane.

"And you, Mrs. Tavington--will you not join us?"

Jane managed a smiling assent, much to her husband's amusement. Tavington had been surprised when Jane, in one of her occasional fits of marital unreserve, had confessed to him how very much she hated playing cards. It was too bad, for cards were a favorite pastime at home. Mamma was known for her daring play, and John—well, John had lost more money at the gaming tables than Tavington was ever likely to possess. Gambling was a fever from the cream of London society down to its veriest dregs. Tavington prided himself on knowing when to stop, but he knew many—like his father—who had played their way to ruin. No matter. Mamma liked to play cards, and Jane would have to be a complaisant daughter-in-law. Letty, too, needed some expertise in this important social skill.

Paget instantly claimed the right to partner Jane. Tavington knew it was because he wanted to be part of the quartet playing with Letty. A decent young man, in Tavington's opinion, if a little too given to sentimental reflection and poetry. The unhappy Duckham and the rest of the officers on watch took themselves off, and left the players to their sport.

Tavington sat down to his own game; with Grantley, the red-faced ship's surgeon Mr. Plumson, and young midshipman Claypoole. Young, certainly: he could not be more than thirteen. And yet, here he was in mid-ocean, risking life and limb for the Crown as much as anyone, and was treated like a man by his fellow officers. There were two other midshipmen on board: young Spalding, who was old enough to be preparing for his lieutenant's examination, and Pevensey, the little boy of eleven, who still vocally hoped for a ball. Indeed, the midshipmen were all treated like men--but like young men who needed guidance. The older officers taught them their lessons: not only navigation and (Tavington shuddered delicately) advanced mathematics on a regular schedule, but other subjects as well, when there was time. Tavington was glad, himself, that he had had those hard adolescent years at Eton, and not at sea. It was bad enough to be a schoolboy, without also being occasionally fired upon. His companions focused on the game, only occasionally glancing over to admire Laeticia Rutledge.

Letty had become exceedingly popular on board ship. As the only unmarried female, she was of natural interest to a crew of lonely men. As a remarkably pretty, sweet-spoken young lady, she absolutely riveted their attention.

Little presents made their way to her, left before her cabin door in the morning like offerings before an altar: a carved cylindrical needlecase of some tropical wood, rare shells, a necklace of little coral beads, an amazing ornamental comb of whale ivory, etched with a frigate in full rigging and the name "ARTEMISIA."

Tavington smiled as he dealt the cards, remembering Letty's worried conferences with Jane about these gifts, overheard in the close quarters of their cabins.

"What shall I do with them?"

"Well," replied Jane, "you cannot wear the items here aboard ship, or the giver might misunderstand and talk about you in an improper way. Of course you may keep them. The comb, especially, is a wonderful souvenir of our voyage."

"I'll put them away in my trunk," Letty assured her. "I can carry the needlecase in my pocket, though. It's such a nice size."

Jane did not seem envious of the attention paid Letty, which would, of course, have been very inappropriate to pay a married women accompanied by her husband. Tavington thought his wife was a little nonplussed by the speed Letty was adapting to her new role, but in the main she seemed pleased for her.

The conversation over cards quieted, as the players concentrated on their game. Tavington glanced up at a delighted cry from Letty.

"Does that mean I win?"

"Indeed, ma'am, the game is yours. Shall we have another?"

"I don't know—I haven't much money to risk---"

Tavington spoke up. "Think nothing of it, sister. Let me be your banker. Only let the stakes be moderate."

Jane frowned at him slightly, narrowing her eyes. Tavington smiled back at her disarmingly. Just because you do not care for cards, my dear wife, you ought not to repress the pleasures of others.

-----

You ought not to encourage her. Jane glared at her husband, annoyed with him. Playing cards was a silly way for rational men and women to pass the time. Letty had no money, and should not be led into situations that could put her honor at risk. If she accrued debts, Jane must pay them, or see her sister in a debtor's prison. She would talk quietly with Letty later. Tavington did not seem likely to support Jane. Their fortune was good, but not equal to the demands of frequent high play. And she hated cards anyway. It was impossible to hold an intelligent conversation during a game, for if she were distracted, her partner would justly blame her.

At last the game was over. Captain Ballantine had taken the trick, and was well pleased with the evening and his pretty partner. Jane caught Letty's eye, and the ladies made to withdraw. The gentlemen would have another glass of wine together, and they bowed and smiled their goodnights, mellow with a comfortable evening. Before Jane and Letty could leave, however, they were stopped by Lieutenant Paget, who pressed a leather-bound volume into Letty's hands.

"I nearly forgot, Miss Rutledge, that I meant to lend you this. It is a new novel by a lady. My sister gave it me, and it was all the rage in England when we sailed."

"Evelina," Letty read the title. "I thank you, sir."

The young officer blushed. "It is the story of a young lady's entrance into London society: her adventures and misadventures. I though it would divert both of you ladies on this long voyage. There are some serious parts, and also some comic ones, and some very good descriptions of the sights of London."

Captain Ballantine overheard. "Evelina, eh? Paget lent the book to me. Not bad: you ladies should enjoy it. I must protest at the character of the sea-captain in it, however. I would never use a women so ill as he does, even were she a Frenchwoman!"

With thanks, Jane and Letty left, peering into the book.

"Another novel told in letters," Letty said. "At least it is not terribly long."

Jane was pleased. "It was a good thought of Mr. Paget's. We shall read it to one another, and it will divert us for quite some time!"

And so they did. For days, Evelina's hopes and dreams and endless social crises were all they lived and breathed. They commiserated with their heroine over her rude, vulgar relations and her embarrassment at the faux pas she made. Jane approved of the book: though the author had not identified herself, she was clearly genteel, and the book was very educational. She and Letty would read a chapter out loud, and then discuss what was to be learned from it.

One afternoon, they reached the point of Evelina's first London ball, and what befell her there. Babe in arms, Moll came in to hear the story, and kept her peace throughout, though the faces she made at times showed all too clearly what she thought.

"You mean," asked Letty very earnestly, concerned with a point of etiquette that she had not known, "that if I refuse to dance with a gentleman, I cannot dance with anyone else for the rest of the evening?"

"That is correct. The only excuse is that you do not mean to dance at all."

"But what if the gentleman is mean, or rude—or drunk?"

"Then that is very bad, but there is no help for it. Women do have the power of refusal, but it must be a blanket refusal."

"That's not fair."

"There is nothing fair about society. It is a world of arbitrary rules. I cannot understand how Evelina should be ignorant of such a thing. It speaks very poorly for her guardian. She was taught how to dance, clearly; but at the same time, she should have been taught how to conduct herself in a ballroom."

"And everyone says she is very accomplished, but it is not clear at what. She never plays or sings or works. I am not sure what is meant."

"A common description. Of course, the heroine of a novel must be beautiful and accomplished. It is hard to imagine a novel in which she was not." Jane sighed to herself, knowing that she was not the stuff of which heroines in novels were made. Now Letty… "Enough of this for today. We ought to have a music lesson, while the light is still good." She smiled down at little William Francis. The baby was wriggling unconcerned in his basket at the feet of Moll, who was sewing diligently on a new apron, while she muttered, "Stuff and nonsense!" under her breath.

The ship's carpenter had been cajoled into making a shallow wooden box that could be attached to the floor and which held the spinet in place. Otherwise, it would have slid back and forth with the roll of the ship, and perhaps tipped over. The carpenter's work kept it safe. Jane had promised an entertainment to the officers, and she wanted her pupil to do her credit. Tavington had asked if Letty could sing for them. Jane had heard her, from earliest childhood, singing old ballads and hymns. She had a pretty voice, and one that might be trained by someone more expert than Jane. Having no voice herself, she knew little of the art. She had only a few pieces for voice, those few that Miss Gilpin had tried to teach her before she gave it up as hopeless. Letty practiced these, very softly, in the privacy of her sister's cabin. Jane did her best, sifting her memories for the suggestions Miss Gilpin had made. Luckily, Letty's voice was pleasant enough to make amends for Jane's limitations.

As they worked, Tavington entered, and laughed at the words of the song, The Bold Soldier.

"Soldier, oh soldier,

A-coming from the plain:

He courted a lady for honor and for fame.

Her beauty shone so bright

That it never could be told.

She always loved the soldier,

Because he was so bold.

Fa la la la, fa la la la,

Fa la la la, fa la la.

'Soldier, oh soldier,

It's I would be your bride,

But I fear of my father

Some danger might betide.'

Then he pulled out sword and pistol,

And hung them by his side.

Swore he would be married,

No matter what betide.

Then he took her to the parson,

And, of course, home again.

There they met her father,

And seven armèd men.

'Let us fly,' said the lady,

'I fear we shall be slain.'

'Take my hand,' said the soldier,

'And never fear again.'

Then he pulled out sword and pistol,

And causèd them to rattle,

The lady held the horse

While the soldier fought in battle.

'Hold your hand!' said the old man,

'Do not be so bold.

You shall have my daughter,

And a thousand pounds of gold.'

'Fight on!' said the lady.

'The portion is too small!'

'Hold your hand,' said the old man,

'And you shall have it all.'

Then he took them right straight home,

And he called them son and dear.

Not because he loved them,

But only through fear.

Fa la la la, fa la la la,

Fa la la la, fa la la."

"Very charming, Letty," Tavington approved. "You have a lovely voice. But why so soft?"

Jane said, annoyed, "Because we want it to be a surprise, not something that everyone has heard a thousand times!"

Tavington smirked at Jane's testy tone. "I like the song, too. It could be a page from our memoirs. Perhaps I should have rattled my sabre a bit more at your father."

"I think I should have liked that. Letty has another song she can sing as well—a more refined one, but you shall hear it later. Perhaps once in England, we can find a master to teach Letty to sing."

"A good thought, though Caro and Pen could help her there. They both sing very well. Mother often has them sing duets after dinner. I'm sure she would like to hear Letty as well."

"Oh!" cried Letty, "I couldn't sing in front of Lady Tavington!"

Tavington felt an uncomfortable tensing at the back of his neck. "You certainly must if you are asked. More importantly, you must not call my mother, 'Lady Tavington,' under any circumstances!"

Letty looked at him bewildered. Moll's face was equally blank. Jane appeared to be thinking. Tavington decided that he must make it perfectly clear to them all. A petty matter: but family harmony was endangered by such mistakes.

"Listen carefully to me," he began. "You, too, Moll. I am going to explain English titles to you. If you think soldiers are touchy about rank, you will find they are modesty itself compared to the aristocracy." The women were all listening wide-eyed. Tavington considered his words, and then began:

"My mother is the daughter of the Earl of Colchester. As an earl's daughter, she was born with the title 'Lady,' and was 'Lady Cecily Mortimer' until she married my father. Sir John Tavington. My father was a baronet, a titled gentleman, and not a nobleman, and thus her name changed to Lady Cecily Tavington. Had he been a nobleman—a baron or viscount, or whatever—called 'Lord Tavington," she would have taken the name Lady Tavington. On the other hand, had she been born 'Miss Mortimer,' she would also have become 'Lady Tavington' upon her marriage."

Letty frowned. Moll's forehead creased with her confusion. Tavington could not let the matter go. 'If my brother, Sir John Tavington, married a gentleman's daughter, or the daughter of a baron or viscount—any lady addressed as 'Miss," she would be called 'Lady Tavington.' If, however, he married the daughter of an earl, marquess, or duke--a young woman who was already Lady Mary, Lady Elizabeth, or whatever—she would become Lady Mary Tavington."

Jane put in a word to help him. "In other words, your mother would feel demeaned in rank if she were addressed as Lady Tavington. We must always give her her due as the daughter of an Earl."

Tavington sighed with relief. "Yes. Exactly so. She never lets anyone forget it, and you must certainly not!"

Moll nodded sagely. "It won't matter much to me, Colonel. I'll always be saying 'Milady,' anyway."

"Perhaps so, Moll," Tavington agreed, "but you must know how to call her be her right name if you are sent on errands for her. If you speak of 'Lady Tavington,' no one will know who you mean—or they'll think my brother has recently married!"

Jane thought she could remember the proper title. "What about the rest of your family?"

"All right. My uncle, William Mortimer, is the Earl of Colchester. He is always spoken of as 'Lord Colchester.' His son has the courtesy title of Lord Sattersby. If that gentleman has married since I last saw him, his wife would be Lady Sattersby."

"What if she used to be a Lady Mary?" Letty asked nervously.

"Then she would still be Lady Sattersby. Her name in full would be Mary Mortimer, Lady—or Viscountess--Sattersby. There could be no such person as Lady Mary Sattersby. Calling her so would make you sound very ignorant. Now," he added thoughtfully, "you might sometimes hear someone informally called by her Christian name and her title. For example, Georgiana Cavendish, the Duchess of Devonshire, might be referred to as Georgiana Devonshire by a friend. Thus, while you wouldn't call my cousin's wife Lady Mary Sattersby, you might call her Mary Sattersby."

His listeners were clearly baffled.

"Anyway, you should know that my uncle has two daughters: Lady Anne, who married Viscount Trumfleet—she would, of course, be Lady Trumfleet—and Lady Sarah, who married Mr. Hawkins Bilsthorpe, and is thus Lady Sarah Bilsthorpe." I've not seen either of them in years, and possibly you won't either."

Letty blushed. Moll rolled her eyes discreetly, thinking it all much ado about very little. It was strange, what bees in their bonnets the quality had. The Colonel was a good man—none better—but it was clear that all this rigmarole was important to him.

-----

How the officers loved their little musical entertainment!

Jane kept her pieces short and light, not taxing the officers' patience. They were most appreciative, though, surprising her with their taste and appetite for music. In the end, she played more than she had expected, and was pleased by their approval.

Of course, Letty charmed them. She played two short dances herself, and then sang the song that Miss Gilpin had labored in vain to teach Jane, A Pastorale by Henry Carey. It was not technically very difficult, nor demanding in range, but it was a pretty, ladylike piece, and Letty felt very grand singing it. Standing straight, hands folded, eyes fixed just above the heads of her listeners, it was very delightful to perform for an audience.

"Flocks are sporting,

Doves are courting,

Warbling linnets sweetly sing.

Ah!

Joy and pleasure,

Without measure,

Kindly hail the glorious spring."

On the "ah!" she sang a long, ornamented sequence, trailing down an octave, and she felt like an accomplished singer when she managed it well in one breath. Her audience begged for it again. At Jane's nod, she sang it again, and better. And then she gave them "The Bold Soldier," which delighted them, though Lieutenant Duckham though "sailor" could be better exchanged for "soldier."

And it appeared that the officers themselves were not without some talent.

Mr. Duckham leafed through Jane one thin collection of songs, and asked her to accompany him in a favorite. His light tenor voice was well suited to his song:

"There is a lady sweet and kind,

Was never face so pleased my mind;

I did but see her passing by,

And yet I love her till I die.

Her gestures, motions, and her smiles,

Her wit, her voice my heart beguiles.

Beguiles my heart, I know not why,

And yet I love her till I die.

Cupid is wingèd and doth range

Her country, so my love doth change;

But change the earth, or change the sky,

Yet will I love her till I die."

This was almost too pointed in praise of Letty, and Tavington wondered if he should have a word with the man. He was distracted by the appearance of little Mr. Midshipman Pevensey at his wife's elbow, earnestly asking her why they could not dance!

"Indeed, sir, I would dance with all my heart," laughed his wife, "but I must keep my post here at the instrument. My sister is the only other lady here, and I am sure she would dance with you, but a set is a difficult thing to arrange with only one lady!"

But Captain Ballantine, it appeared, had prepared for such a request. An able seaman of tidy appearance was summoned. This good man, it appeared, was a fiddler of some talent, and knew every dance men and women might wish to engage in. The ones he would play tonight were rather the more genteel of his repertory, but he could not complain of lack of enthusiasm.

There was just room for their dancing. Jane had never in her life danced so long: from "Gathering Peasecods," turning and clapping and bowing, to "Sir Roger de Coverley." The dances were short, as there were only two couples, but that was agreeable to the men, who did not have to wait long for their turns. It was, in fact, despite the endless rocking of the ship under her feet, and small and cramped and impromptu as it was, quite the nicest ball Jane had ever attended.

And Letty was radiant. She had danced, of course, but not like this. Even the dances she did not know well were easy to follow in such close quarters. If she was puzzled by the figures of the dance, Jane could tell her what to do. Her sister had gone to children's dance parties when she was a little girl, and had come home to tell Letty all about them, and to make her dance with her. This was the perfect chance to practice, before facing the terrors of a London ballroom. Best of all, these gentleman did not look down on her, or try to talk to her in a degrading way. There was just dancing, and plenty of it, whirling and weaving in the yellow light, as the fiddle sang on.

-----

On the middle leg of their journey, there was a stretch of exquisite peace. They were indeed in the very heart of the sea. Jane often stood on the gently swaying deck, looking in every direction, seeing nothing but the waves. It was possible to believe themselves the only people left in the world. The winds were favorable, and here on the North Atlantic Current they were making good time.

Below, in their cabin, Jane found having her handsome husband all to herself the nearest to perfect bliss she had ever known. They would lie nestled together in the narrow bed, talking of all sorts of things, and then indulging in exquisitely pleasurable play. William's clever hands always seemed to know where she wanted them. She did her best to please him, studying him at length by lamplight. Lying there, one arm behind his head, sprawled carelessly, his scars mattered nothing. Jane's fingers traced the sinews of arms and chests, and always wandered south, seeking out mysteries. He liked that well enough, but generally wanted more. Jane hands gripped him expertly now, rubbing and teasing and bringing him quick and poignant satisfaction. He purred, looking at her under his eyelashes afterward, as she tidied him conscientiously.

That night, that night in mid-July, when she knew she was whole again, she did more than that.

"IthinkImightbereadynow," she whispered in a single breath.

"What did you say?"

She felt hot all over, and repeated herself. "I think I might be ready now." Shyly she reached out for his hand, and brought it between her legs. William always seemed to understand what she wanted.

His fingers sought and stroked. He growled, "You seem so, but I would not hurt you. Are you certain?"

"Yes! No—I don't know. Could we not try? If it hurts, I shall tell you directly, and we will do something else. But I should like to try."

They rearranged themselves cautiously, and Jane trembled as she opened herself to her husband. A slow, gentle probing as he mounted her and eased himself inside. He grunted, restraining himself, but it was so tempting to go at her with all his strength. The muscles of his buttocks flexed, longing for more. At last—at last he was fully, blessedly sheathed, and began a long, careful stroke.

"Oh!" she breathed. "Yes, I think I'm quite entirely ready."

"No pain?" His breath was short and ragged; hers, too.

"Oh, no. It doesn't hurt at all. In fact, it is quite—opposite. Oh!"

His hips quickened the tempo, and she clutched at him.

"Does this hurt?" he grunted.

"Oh, no! It's lovely. Just like this—please, just like—Yes!"

It was hasty: it was over in minutes, but it was sweet nonetheless. Jane breathed out, deeply and gratefully, and held her husband close for a long embrace. And then, too soon, he was pushing himself off and rolling onto his back, with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Are you quite well, Jane?"

"Oh, yes! That was just as it ought to be. I am so happy we can be like this again. And now I know that I am healed."

"I am very pleased, too." Tavington leaned over and kissed her lightly; then subsided back into the hard, narrow bed. "It will make our voyage all the better. Otherwise, I might have had to ask Mr. Plumson to examine you."

"What a horrible thought! You must not tease me so. As if I would permit any man---except you, of course---"

Her husband laughed softly, a relaxed leg over her own.

Reassured that he could only be teasing, she agreed softly, "Yes, a very pleasant—diversion." Jane smiled into the dark, and expected she would sleep very soundly, but wanted to speak of something on her mind first.

"William?"

"Mmm."

"Do you think your mother will like me?"

Tavington's eyes opened instantly. What to say? "She ought to. You're rather better than I deserve."

She smiled into the darkness, and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "That's a pretty compliment, but it doesn't answer my question. Do you think your mother will like me? Sometimes, when you speak of her, I feel as if you are not telling me everything."

Surprises can be unpleasant things, he acknowledged. She has asked, and she deserves the truth.

He took a deep breath. "My mother, dear Jane, likes very few people, and those few are old acquaintances. My mother does not believe in making new friends, as she believes she already knows everyone worth knowing."

A pause. Jane observed, "Perhaps it is too much to expect to be her friend. However, I will be family. She must be fond of her family."

Worse and worse. "She is often at odds with her family. Jane—my mother can be a rather exacting woman. No one has ever been good enough for any of her children. You will have noted that my elder sisters and my elder brother are unmarried. That is largely Mamma's doing. My sisters had many offers, but no suitors were quite up Mamma's standards—even the titled ones. There was always something wrong: too old, too young, too ugly, too handsome, too poor—for it is impossible for anyone to be too rich, in Mamma's estimation. I think also that she did not want to lose her daughters, whose companionship is so important to her. And then—her own marriage was unhappy, and she feared a similar fate for them. As to my brother—" And myself, he added silently.

He grimaced, unseen by his wife, remembering those ugly scenes. "—any young woman unfortunate enough to catch her son's eye was warned off pretty quickly. Mamma can be—caustic and disdainful. A young lady once fled her presence in tears and refused even to speak to anyone of us thereafter. Mamma feels that additions to our family are neither necessary or desirable."

Jane began to feel rather frightened. "But your sister—Mrs. Protheroe?"

"Lucy eloped."

"Oh, my."

"You might as well know the truth. Lucy was always a very pretty girl, and was a great success when she came out. She had splendid offers—even a Duke. Mamma would mock them behind their backs, tormenting Lucy about her admirers. It would be a brave man who would approach her. And then, a few years ago, Mamma decided that Lucy was "frail," and should no longer leave the house. I was in the Army by then, out and about, and did not see the worst of it, but I have heard from Lucy and others. By the time I was in America, she was virtually a prisoner. However, that did not mean that people did not call. The family attorney—or more properly, the son of the family attorney--visited on business a number of times, and Lucy managed to make his acquaintance. I know the Protheroes, including Edward, and knowing him, I found what happened very strange, since he is such a civil, cautious, prudent fellow—but one afternoon, when Mamma was out visiting, he called on John. Afterwards, he did not leave the house immediately—or alone. Lucy was received by his family and they were married. She seems happy."

"Your mother must have been very surprised." Jane smiled, picturing the angry dowager, like a hen robbed of her chick.

Tavington's next words threw cold water on her merriment. "She has never spoken either to Lucy or of her since. She considered it a dreadful abasement for one of Lucy's birth to match with a City lawyer."

"But the little boy—did not having a grandson soften her heart?"

Tavington sighed. Jane did not yet know Mamma. "How could it, when the boy would be the child of a degrading misalliance? Apparently she has done all she could to harm the Protheroes. Obviously, they are no longer in her employ. When last I heard from Lucy, they were still at daggers drawn. I pray that there has been a reconciliation since, but knowing Mamma, it seems unlikely."

"So—" Jane shivered. "—She's going to hate me."

"Hate—no, you must not think that. She will be put out, no doubt, that I have married without consulting her, but marrying you is hardly like marrying into the Protheroes!" He shifted uneasily. He was actually not entirely sure what Mamma would make of his marriage. Jane had a fine fortune. But it is not as large as that of Lady Dorothea Manners. Tavington winced, remembering that debacle. She was a gentleman's daughter. She is also a colonial, a provincial, the sort of person Mamma would scorn to notice. She was a loyal wife and the mother of his child. And those are things that Mamma would neither admire nor respect in one she may regard as an inferior. Jane was—plain, and Mamma had been a great beauty, and valued beauty highly in women.

Yes. Mamma is going to hate Jane.

Jane was beginning to believe it herself. Was this family she had so impulsively married into going to be any better than her own? Tavington broke into her thoughts with more cheerful reflections.

"Of course, we are presenting her with a fait accompli. I daresay when faced with a situation that she cannot change and that is unexceptionable in itself, she will resign herself. Caro and Pen will be delighted with you, and will be enchanted by the child. They love babies, and our family has not done particularly well at producing them. Nor Mamma's family, for that matter. My sisters will welcome William Francis whole-heartedly, that is certain. John would never be rude to a lady. As for Mamma," he added after another moment's thought, "I ask only that you treat her with the consideration and forbearance due her age and rank."

"At any rate," ventured Jane, "we surely will not be living long under the same roof. Surely we will find a house once in London."

"All in good time, Jane," Tavington answered sleepily. "I must get my feet under me first, and find out more about the regiment. It may be garrisoned elsewhere. Mamma has plenty of room, and London rents are very high. We will stay with her awhile. Besides, I want to enjoy the company of my brother and sisters, and have you become thoroughly known to them. It's all best done at the house on Mortimer Square…"

He fell silent, drifting into his usual sound slumber. Jane lay awake thinking, listening to the soft purring snores, the creak of the ship, the sound of the bell heralding a watch change. Restless forebodings plagued her, racing around her mind like runaway steeds. An exacting old woman who would actually lock up her own daughter—she could not be quite rational! Jane could not help but have even more uncomfortable reservations about her new in-laws. Time passed, and she knew that the baby would be waking soon and wanting her. She crept out of bed, and threw on her nightshift. The door latch rattled a little, but her husband slept on as Jane made her away down the short passage to the cabin Letty shared with Moll. She slipped inside and felt her way to the cradle. The baby was awake, making endearing little noises as she lifted him from the cradle. Moll's deep breathing paused, and Jane sensed her listening alertly.

"It's just me, Moll. I was awake anyway, and there's no point in making him scream for his milk. Go back to sleep."

She sat in the hard wooden chair and put her child to her breast, relaxing a little as she always did. When she allowed herself to dwell on the matter, she sometimes grew frightened for little Will. She must take good care of herself, for if anything happened to her and her milk, it would condemn her son to death, out here in the hopeless distances of the ocean. Forcing that hideous thought away, she stroked the small head. He was growing rapidly, and had continued to do well. Almost too well, for his newborn mews had evolved into full-throated screams when displeased, and Jane could see how they irritated her husband, in these close quarters. Better to prevent it coming to that whenever she could.

It was in these night hours of wakefulness that her thoughts turned dark, full of slights and old resentments. She would remember the hideous day in the coach, and brood over Biddy's death. She and William had never really spoken of that day, and it was like an injury that had scabbed over, but never fully healed. Despite all his talk about protecting her, he had never been present for the most terrible moments of her life: facing the militia who would have robbed her, the day of Hobkirk's Hill, and that day--that terrible day on the road. Yes, he had come at last--but too late to save Biddy. It was Moll who had held off the rebels while William had dawdled--No! I mustn't think like that!

But other treacherous thoughts rose up. In her trunk was her little box of letters from Ralph Manigault, still preserved despite her marriage. She had not thought of Ralph in over a year, but now, out on the ocean that had swallowed up her first love's life, he had become the companion of her solitary hours. With the sea beneath her very feet, she could imagine his last moments: thrashing, choking, hands reaching skyward in despair as he sank into oblivion. His image appeared in her mind's eye then, pale and scholarly as he had been in life. She wondered if he would think her faithless, or if he would wish her well. Who can know the thoughts of the dead? Who can know if the dead think? Jane could not bear to dispose of the letters, tender and eloquent, speaking to her of sentiments that she knew she had never awakened in her husband. The letters were part of her; something that had made her what she was. They were the last physical remnant of good, kind, clever Ralph on this earth.

Perhaps Ralph would have wanted to go to England, as the war turned ugly. He was no soldier, she knew, and he had so loved the university. Perhaps, had they married, they would have sold up already and gone to join his uncles' business in London. In the City, Jane thought, remembering what Tavington had told her of London. The City, so despised by Lady Cecily that she had disowned her own daughter for marrying one its sons. It did not seem despicable to Jane. But perhaps Ralph would not have wanted to go into trade. Perhaps they would be sailing to Jamaica or Bermuda or Ireland or India. Jane spun the threads of a thousand alternate lives as she held her baby in the darkness; but in the end, she had only the life she had chosen.

-----

William Francis had a temper, it appeared. He had taken to crying every evening between six and seven. It was an unpleasant hour for Jane. Her son did not wish to nurse; he did not wish to gurgle responsively at Moll; he did not wish to be cuddled by Letty. He wished to make himself heard, and heard he was.

His father, unsurprisingly, was no help at all. He had learned to take himself elsewhere just before six, and was not to be seen until the storm had passed. Little Will was red-faced and inconsolable for his hour of drama, leaving the three women who loved him exhausted.

Even Moll was at her wit's end. "He's such a fine little fellow all the rest of the time. Just turns into the very devil that one hour. I never seen the like! The colic, I reckon."

"Yes," replied Jane, exasperated, "The colic! But what does one do?" Her voice cracked, as she tried to be heard over the shrieks of fury.

"Don't know," Moll hallooed back honestly. "He'll grow out of it. They always do. From what I've seen, they settle down once they can get things in their hands right and play with them. Right now our little man can't do much but complain—can't hold anything or talk, but he can let us know he's plumb tired of it!"

"And why is always at the same time?" Letty wondered, feeling that she could not bear much more screaming.

"Well, as far as I can see, that's a good thing! If he does it and stops, then we know it's nothing wrong with him. I reckon he's just tired out after a long day, and is looking to let us know. I'll walk him around a bit. You two lie down."

There was knock at the cabin's door, at first not heard over the baby's howls. A louder knock, and Letty opened the door to find Mr. Plumson.

Jane did not particularly like the ship's surgeon. He was a remarkably unappealing man, with a red and warty face. He was untidy and smelled of spirits, and altogether seemed a heavier version of the odious clergyman Blethers. Dear, dead Biddy had always warned her about doctors, thinking them a pack of charlatans. Nothing roused her scorn more than men pretending they knew more about women than women did themselves. But Biddy was no more, and Mr. Plumson was at the door, little eyes already peering at her tiny son's face, as absurdly red as his own.

He bowed. "Good evening to you, Madam. The captain has sent me to examine the child. He was wondering if he were ill."

Moll held the boy closer. Jane moved in front of them both.

"Thank you most kindly for your attention. No, my son does not appear to be ill, but is fussy and irritable at this time of day. He should be quiet again shortly."

"Nonetheless, Madam, it would be remiss of me not to offer a professional opinion. May I see the child?"

There was nothing for it, and besides, this unprepossessing man might have some idea what to do. Jane nodded sharply to Moll, who extended the squalling infant to the surgeon.

Plumson took him with surprisingly ease, supporting him expertly. The astonished baby was startled into a moment's silence; but quickly burst into renewed shrieks as the surgeons' thick fingers prodded him.

The surgeon raised his voice over the noise. "Yes, the colic, Madam. I have some medicine that might be of use."

Jane shouted back. "Really?"

"If you would be so good as to provide a spoon, I have the medicament upon me. Here, my good woman," he said to Moll. "Take the child and hold him still while I administer the dose."

Moll took William Francis back into her brawny arms. Thinking anything would be an improvement, Letty rummaged through the trunk and produced the tiny silver spoon, grandly engraved with the baby's monogram and date of birth. Plumson withdrew a bottle from his pocket and poured not more than—"One, two—no, three drops! That should suffice."

Jane watched anxiously, as the surgeon dripped the golden liquid into the open pink mouth. The baby stopped in mid-scream, looked absurdly puzzled, and then frowned mightily. He licked his lips and was quiet. Blessedly quiet.

The women stared at the baby and each other in astonishment. The lack of noise was a presence in the room. Jane took a deep breath, and thanked Plumson. "I am more grateful than I can say, sir. May I know the name of the medicine? I might need to buy some in England, and must tell the apothecary."

The surgeon bowed. "Rum, Madam. Always the best medicine at sea." Another bow, and he was gone, leaving the three women struck dumb.

-----

"He gave our baby rum!"

"Very resourceful of him. I had not thought him so clever."

"But he gave our baby rum!"

"Yes, it worked quite well, didn't it?"

-----

Next—Chapter 27: The Old, New World