DISCLAIMER: ALL OF THE CHARACTERS AND SCENARIOS BELONG TO PATRICK O'BRIAN AND/OR MIRAMAX
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Currently occupying a large, officious room overlooking a wide courtyard on this bright early summer morning two men stood, eyeing each other beadily as they savoured their presence in each others' company with distaste bordering on the intolerable.
The building itself was part of their cause: a room in a long-rented property from the army was situated along a busy thoroughfare of London and while their business was far from public to the first man, a tall, thin man, whose affairs ordinarily would have kept him far from any sort of public gaze the noise of traffic on the street adjacent was beginning to distract him.
The second man couldn't have been more different. Red-faced and brusque, this man was used to giving orders and had been a high-ranking officer before the lure of the desk and papers offered a more comfortable appeal.
Every so often, to the frustration of the first, the second man would focus on the activities of the military recruits, whose presence were undoubtedly a smokescreen for the covert activities undertaken here and the first man could see that the second was not giving their conversation the attention it was due.
Finally, the second man broke his eyes from the trainee soldiers who, reckoned the first man had practiced the same manoeuvre at least twenty times that morning and turned his attention to a letter that was sitting on the expensive teak desk.
"Do you know, Wickham," intoned the first man loudly, his handlebar moustache twitching under his nose as he spoke, "I have never come across such brave a feat as the one I am privy to right in this letter!" He slapped the letter with the back of his hand and William Wickham watched as the disturbed air around it wafted other papers outwards.
"Yes," replied Wickham, eyeing his equal with a look of mild distain. "I read the letter." His look of disinterest seemed to anger the second man, whose face grew redder at Wickham's clear insubordination to his irrefutable authority.
"That's the surgeon of Aubrey, don't-cha know," he boomed, slapping his hand back on top of the letter as William Wickham returned it to the desk. "You know, the one who rid us of the treacherous Fotherington. In the pay of Fouché don't-cha know, Fotherington!" The second man reclined stiffly against the heavily embroidered chair pad that luxuriously adorned the large majestic chair whose grandness, Wickham noted astutely, did not match the status of the man bearing down his weight in it.
"So I am led to believe, Hamilton – hm-hm," consciously clearing his throat, Wickham wondered how long he would be kept in this meeting for the last "short meeting" he had endured with Hamilton had lasted almost an hour.
"However Fouché has more spies out there; more zealous than Robespierre. Three of our men have been guillotined and – " Wickham broke off as Hamilton bayoneted him to the far wall with his glance before leaning forward and banging his fist upon the letter again, this time upsetting his ink-bottle. Wickham watched silently, a feeling of mild amusement quelling in his mind as he watched Toby Hamilton trying to blot up the ink with the already well-blotted blotting paper.
"Nevertheless," replied Hamilton at length, giving up with the residue of the ink as some of it ran to the edge of the desk and began to drip onto the once-beautiful carpet before seeping between its fibres, and Hamilton threw down the blotting paper before looking up at Wickham, returning the conversation to the point of their meeting. "Aubrey's man…the surgeon…"
"Maturin…our man in the South Seas. The Feinian. What of him?" Wickham shifted from one foot to another as Hamilton refolded his arms and returned his expression from embarrassment to gruff bluster.
"He's rumoured to have married a…a…" Hamilton grasped up the now-inky letter and glimpsed at the ruined words scribbled on the back, "a mizzenlad, if you please! By he name of Hollum…! Ridiculous!" Turning, Hamilton balled up the letter and threw it into the flames of the small fire that flickered lazily in the grand hearth. Wickham watched its trajectory and its fate before looking back at Hamilton, flicking the man a small, polite smile.
"Ridiculous indeed. He may indeed have married," he conceded, nodding pre-emptively towards his intelligence colleague and Hamilton hmphed in agreement. "The certificate should be lodged with Somerset House by now…what with the man's counterintelligence role, we cannot be too careful…"
Slowly, Wickham folded his arms across his chest, waiting for the inevitable acquiescence of his decision by Toby Hamilton. Sir Toby Hamilton, Will Wickham corrected himself in mock-reproach. With societal connections.
"Maturin…" pondered Hamilton, getting to his girthly legs and lumbering over to the leaded windows before turning back to Wickham. "I do recall that name…and I recall…he met his death on Heard Island…" A crease folded into Hamilton's plump, ruddy face and for the first time uncertainty unfolded across his features.
"How peculiar, Hamilton. Well, that's obviously a mistake. I'll – "
"Look it up, will you?" Hamilton cut across him, to Will Wickham's expressionless annoyance. "Perhaps it's not even the same man. In any case, it's obviously a mistake…"
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In the light of the dying sunlight Cicely drew a chain of jewels to her neck as she watched the gnarled fingers of tree branches silhouetted against it, their branchlets velveted with the promise of new life. Behind her, the Aubrey household's maid, clearly a maid of all work (for she had brought Cicely breakfast on a tray each morning in her room since she had arrived here, and supper when Cicely had felt far from wanting company) stuck Cicely's arms out so that she could smooth down the fabric at the back of her dress.
Not her dress thought Cicely, as she watched absently at the waving branches; nor even the jewellery. She had arrived at Litten Hall in Surrey, almost two weeks ago with nothing more than a dress that Cicely had promised Stephen she would buy in Portsmouth, a letter given to her by Captain Aubrey for his wife and (much to Stephen Maturin's undoubted belated annoyance) one of her husband's notebooks detailing the habitat of a flightless bird that had inhabited the island of Rodondo and had caused him to spend much of his time puzzling over its existence.
"'s a very lushing outfit, madam, if I'm not too bold to say," commented the maid, a woman of around Cicely's own age, or maybe a few years older in a clipped Wiltshire dialect. "A fine choice of my lady's frocks."
"Yes," replied Cicely, smiling at the maid, whose name was Mary. "Mrs Aubrey has been most kind to me, Mary; I could not have asked for a more gracious hostess. Even after I told her about her blue dress." She continued to smile as Mary returned it for it had been she with whom Cicely had first shared her story, not in too great a detail, but enough for the woman to marvel agog at this visitor who had chosen to entrust her with a wonderful secret.
"Why, I did tell thee that my Lady would not be mindin'," replied Mary as she stepped round behind Cicely and she began to lace the outer ribbons of this smart coral gown, pulling the bodice tightly around Cicely's ribcage. "The master does indeed spoil her…that is, my Lady describes it so," Mary added quickly. "The master sends her at least one from each port; it is a wonder to my poor mind that he has time to conduct any warrin'."
"He does, though," replied Cicely, smiling again. "We battled a French frigate in the Pacific and challenged another near Singapore, but the Parlez-Vous didn't want to play," she laughed.
"Aye," replied Mary, stooping to her hem in order to smooth her petticoats, "and to my reckonin' your Dr. Maturin wasn't too pleased that you offered your services to the master again," she added and Cicely's mind drifted to that morning, when the large wooden enemy roved into view upon a portentious, atrabilious horizon. She had thought nothing of stating her intent to Jack Aubrey, even though she knew he would, following her miscarriage, be united with her husband and he had gently insisted, counter to her fervent obduracy that should danger impinge she should not object to being locked in the doctor's cabin.
As Mary uncurled Cicely's arms again, so the dress's sleeve fabric could be fussed over Cicely's thoughts turned to the moment that she had last seen her husband; not fifteen minutes after purchasing a very ordinary grey gown from a shop on the Commercial Road. He had escorted her to a carriage which would transport her directly to Reading, thence to Ashfield, and thence had Mrs Aubrey sent a private carriage to Litten Hall where she had been greeted, well – as any guest should be by a hostess.
Mrs Aubrey had not appeared to be perplexed in any manner by her appearance at her home, nor still by the instruction that she should remain there until Aubrey had sent word again. Perhaps it was Cicely's indefinite manner that had reduced their conversation to mere pleasantries; she was sure that Mrs Aubrey was indeed a fine hostess, and a fine woman. However Cicely had found she had little in common with Sophie, who was more advanced in years than herself and was deeply connected to her social circle. Perhaps that was why she had confided a little of her life these last two years with Mary the maid, rather than Sophie Aubrey (although only just enough without going into hazardous detail).
And now it was Mrs Aubrey's society that had Cicely dressing for the occasion that evening; two days ago she had spoken to her about her sadness at being parted from Stephen; about the heartache she was feeling along with numbness. About how it had been only his notebook, tucked inside her new linen dress pocket, which she had curled tightly in her hand as the carriage from Deal Street had began to transport her yard by agonising yard that had stopped her from leaping out of it and running back to him – him: her wonderful husband who made her so happy.
Sophie Aubrey had then informed her the following morning that she had organised a dance at the Hall, for tonight and, pre-empting Cicely's declination on the grounds of nothing appropriate to wear had offered her free choice from her moderately large wardrobe.
"There now," said Mary, putting Cicely's arms unnecessarily back down to her sides, posing them as if she were a doll and smiling with satisfaction. "I must say madam, that I do not believe my Lady has carried that gown off as well as you do now." She took a few steps back, looking Cicely up and down, waiting for her to return the smile. Instead Mary's own smile evaporated when Cicely thrust her fists against the dark ruches to her sides in frustration, hanging her head which Mary had adorned with pearls almost an hour ago.
"Madam?" said Mary, her tone changing from contented anticipation to shrill alarm and she advanced slowly and tentatively towards Cicely. "What's wrong? Are you feeling ill, madam? Shall I fetch the mistress?"
Cicely continued to look towards the Persian carpet that looked reasonably new, and reasonably cheap, inching her eyes along the frontiers between the colours but loosened her fists. For she was quite unsure what had made her feel like this but she knew, for the sake of her hostess that she must get over it.
"No," whispered Cicely quietly, her voice to her own surprise cracking slightly. "No," she repeated and lifted her head. "Do I look well enough for Mrs Aubrey?" she added, trying to relax the tension in her shoulders.
"Aye," replied Mary, though she didn't sound very convincing. "You look very well. And if I can be so bold, especially after your ordeal." At her words, Cicely's expression changed from vague hope to confusion.
"Ordeal?" she repeated and Mary smiled, knowingly.
"Aye, madam. I don't suppose it's my place to say…I lost a child too, once." The corners of the maid's mouth turned up but there was no happiness in the smile. "Madam was kind enough to take me on, though she and the master have no need for me and Betty. Nearly ten years gone, 't'were. But I can remember it like it were yesterday."
Suddenly, between the two women, a change occurred as they exchanged looks; a look between people with something in common that transcended any artificial social standing. Before Cicely had a chance to say anything, Mary continued.
"It will hurt less, and 'tis better to keep busy rather than not. You won't forget, but – "
" – wouldn't want to forget," replied Cicely, a serene tone entering her voice and she focused on an oil painting of an arrangement of flowers that hung on the chimney breast of the wall. "He was our child, even for a short time." She looked back quickly at Mary and she nodded back briefly at Cicely.
Just then, there was a knock on the door. As Sophie Aubrey opened it, she began to speak, her tones light and full of anticipation of the evening ahead…tenors in which Cicely vaguely remembered her own mother speaking to her before dinners and dances at her family home in Gloucester, with lightness and laughter just below the surface.
"…and Mrs Maturin is ready, I see?" she finished, her usually prudent and sensible features lit with exhilaration as she took in Cicely's appearance. "And making another of my gowns look as it should be worn, rather than as I would wear them, "she added, making Cicely pink with mild embarrassment. "Wouldn't you say so, Mary?"
"I would indeed, mistress," replied Mary politely, smiling towards Cicely again. "Not a dress for cleaning the kitchen in, I believe," she added, adding to Cicely's mortification as she reminded them of the time Cicely had ventured into the kitchen, almost a week ago and, spurred by an inward desire to not only earn her keep but to reconcile her longing for being aboard ship, had set about scrubbing the flagstone floor until Betty had found her and unceremoniously shooed her out.
"You'll be the belle of the ball, this evening," concluded Sophie Aubrey as she held out a hand towards Cicely. "A little beauty."
And had Cicely not actually been keeping up some measure of a pretence since the moment she had arrived at Litten Hall the shock she was feeling might have shown on her face and in her gait as, all at once, another reason for her awkwardness and unwillingness to socialise surfaced in her mind: that was an expression that her father used to use in reference to her as she forced herself to attend endless social and society events. Events where she knew her father would be using her as matrimonial currency in the drawing room at the end of the evenings. Magistrate Wigg even used the phrase to her face, so she knew her father must have bandied it around there too.
As she descended the grand stairs that rose from the centre of the Hall like a becarpeted, double-tailed serpent splitting the steps in two directions; as the noise and clamour of chattering and conversation grew louder Cicely commenced her forthcoming engagement as Mrs Aubrey's guest of honour as she descended into the beast's wide open, hungry jaws.
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For three long hours actress Cicely Maturin played the role of her life. From the first flourishes of introduction, smiling and nodding politely to Mrs Aubrey's guests and straining her whole gamut of phrases expressing her delight to be in such esteemed company, to the small-talk of society status, of who was related to whom and who knew whom, which other society each of them has enjoyed in the past few months and the pastimes of the women contrasted with the achievements of the men.
An hour of society talk had driven Cicely to the outskirts of the main social hub, close to the beautifully brocaded curtains that dressed the large windows that they themselves framed with magnificent simplicity. Behind her she could hear snatches of conversation, about London and the court, about recent purchases and acquisitions and Cicely's eyes scanned the darkened garden as the lofty trees blowing struck a chord in her, reminding her of the masts of the Surprise swaying in sea breezes…
…her mind drifted to her last night at sea, when Stephen uncharacteristically allowed her to sit with her former mess-mates. What would they be doing now were she with them?
A jar of rum or ale apiece (not that she'd actually drink it herself) with the wind on her skin and her friends around her, jack tars the lot of them. One of them would strike a note and another would pick a tune. Then they would all be singing and making merry…another would make a wry comment which would lead to a story or a tale of adventure…
So very different to here…there, that was where reality lay, not like here: showy and false with airs and graces, fanciful ephemera and gilt, where people looked down their powdered nose at you if you weren't wearing the latest up-to-the-minute from London (which is what one rather rude daughter of a gentleman had done that evening at Sophie Aubrey's best dress). Time was she could (with her father's money) afforded it and she had angered him on more than one occasion by attending a social gathering such as this in highly unfashionable clothing and making contrary remarks to all of the guests…
Cicely's heart began to grow heavy as she tried to extinguish the longing of climbing into a hammock or a bunk next to Stephen, to be lulled into beautiful slumber hastened by hard rather than a static and still one where little or no energy had been expended and the mind was uncomfortable and disturbed.
And now, as she was introduced to yet another guest Cicely smiled and nodded politely as she compared the agonies of the evening to her gruelling work aboard the Surprise and she was not sorry to believe that she would far preferred battening down the rigs in a gale in the Straits of Magellan than this hotbed of frivolity and as an older and nearly deaf lady clapped her on the arm.
"…and how do you like Surrey, Mrs Maturin?" The lady, who turned out to be an owner of three lines of merchant ships docking in Bristol, had somehow picked up on the fact that Cicely knew something about the sea and had cornered her near Mrs Aubrey's mahogany long dresser.
"Yes indeed, Mrs Forrest, very much," Cicely nodded back, well rehearsed if a little rusty in the manner of addressing elderly widows, "although I have seen little of the county yet…"
"Hm," replied Mrs Forrest, "mush," she added, her wrinkles creasing on her already well-lined face as she took a sip of the sherry in the minute glass in her hand, before taking a step towards her. Cicely smiled politely at the lady's mishearing.
"My son Rupert, he is bringing in over three thousand a year," she continued, her voice cracked and old, "and that's just from the Americas. Costing him a fair guinea in repairs from the Frogs though – did you encounter Frogs, Mrs Maturin?" She nudged Cicely again.
"What? No. Well yes," Cicely began, trying not to give anything away about her life over the last few years. "Why do you ask, Mrs Forrest?"
"Arts? No dear. My son is a businessman. He's a very clever businessman, my Rupert, very good at spotting opportunities. The sea'll make him rich, I fancy," Mrs Forrest added proudly.
"The sea is very fickle," commented Cicely, smiling at the old woman. "Sometimes it gives, and sometimes it takes."
"Snakes? Oh no dear," replied Mrs Forrest. "At least, not in Surrey. Perhaps in the wilder counties, perhaps the North..." She looked at Cicely critically, as if examining a portrait or sculpture. "What of your family, dear? Where in this land do they herald?"
Cicely exhaled as she felt a few beads of sweat bejewel her forehead. Her family did not life in this country, not on the land at any rate. Her family was aboard the "Surprise", making merry with song and story, offering advice and trading stories…her family was…absent from her…
"Not here," replied Cicely, trying not to let the sorrow press so tightly on her chest that she couldn't breathe. "Many miles away, Mrs Forrest. I have spent such time abroad that my family is aboard ship," she conceded, smiling widely at her veiled admission of her secret to a stranger.
"Vilesway," repeated Mrs Forrest, watching her lips intently, "I can't say I've heard of that town. So, you've been aboard ships, Mrs Maturin?" Mrs Forrest nodded as Cicely smiled.
"My husband is a surgeon," Cicely conceded, allowing herself another smile. "A very talented man…"
Just then, she felt a hand on her shoulder and she turned to see Sophie Aubrey smiling widely at her. Mrs Forrest smiled at her hostess too and Mrs Aubrey stepped towards her.
"Mrs Forrest," she said loudly, "I do beg your pardon. It seems I have been remiss in duty as a hostess. Mrs Maturin is a stranger to this part of the world and I promised that I would introduce her to everyone tonight." She looked across at Cicely with an apologetic expression. "Mrs Glenthorne has yet to meet your acquaintance, Mrs Maturin…" with one gloved hand Sophie Aubrey gestured towards the open screen doors that led out into the house's front hall. "My apologies, Mrs Forrest," she added as Cicely smiled gratefully towards her.
"It was a pleasure to meet you," Cicely finished, holding out a hand of her own which Mrs Forrest shook politely.
Once out into the hall Sophie Aubrey took Cicely's hand between both of hers, looking at her concerned.
"I must apologise for Mrs Forrest," she began, her voice soft and steady. "She does not mean to pry however she is an old woman in need of company. Her son has long been a friend of Jack's…" she trailed off and frowned when she saw Cicely's expression.
"…what is wrong my dear?" Leading her towards the staircase she took Cicely by the elbow and Cicely felt a lurch of guilt in her chest at Sophie Aubrey's boundless generosity compared to her own less than grateful manner.
"Nothing, Mrs Aubrey – "
" – Sophie – " she chided gently.
" – Sophie," Cicely nodded, "however my manners have become altogether – " She broke off when she realised that Mrs Aubrey was looking about the candle-lit hallway anxiously.
"I had intended this evening to be a small and social event, but it appears that my original guests extended my invitation…ordinarily I would be delighted…" she looked back at Cicely and touched her shoulder soothingly, "but it has turned out to be far larger and grander than I imagined…"
"No no," insisted Cicely earnestly, her eyes pricking with emotion, "it is the evening I fear, Mrs Aubrey…" And there was a long pause. Finally Sophie Aubrey spoke, her voice rapid and soft.
"I apologise my dear, I put this on for your benefit and I presumed your demeanour to be akin to my own. It is somewhat short sighted of me to assume that you would enjoy…were I to be such misfortunate as yourself…of course…" She looked away momentarily before meeting Cicely's eyes. "If you wish to make your leave, feel free to do so, Cicely…" But Cicely shook her head, feeling the pearls that adorned her head tap against it.
"No, Mrs…Sophie. I should not have mentioned it and caused you undue distress..." Cicely broke off as the fuzzy feeling that had begun at the back of her head earlier that day made another appearance and the sickness that had accompanied it was beginning to build in her throat…
"You look unwell," declared Sophie Aubrey kindly. "Do you wish me to summon my physician…after your child…" Cicely rested her hand on Sophie's reassuringly as a surge of involuntary defiance surged through her and she shook her head again.
"Thank you, Mrs Aubrey for all you have done," she concluded, returning the reassuring touch on the arm as the thought of the letter she had planned to write to her husband refilled her jorum of hope which the social event had drained.
"We do not need to see anyone again," said Sophie Aubrey decisively. "What can I do to help you bear this easier…tell me my dear, what can I do for you?"
"I need a task, Mrs Aubrey. Stephen – Dr. Maturin, he seeks a commission from the Royal Society. I beg you to allow me time alone to assist him…access to books and literature…" Sophie Aubrey smiled before stepping past Cicely and disappearing for a moment. On her return she was holding a wax-sealed letter which had caused bright excitement to shimmer in the candlelight.
"I am to visit friends of the family next month in Shropshire. Should you wish, I am sure they would not be averse to extend the invitation; heaven knows I could do with company and it might brighten your cheeks. They are a family learned in science and I am sure their library would be more than sufficient to suit your needs…"
…but Cicely Maturin was no longer listening to Sophie Aubrey now…her own mind was filled with light as she fought to grapple with the flood of opportune thoughts that were pouring in…
The thought of ploughing through books made Cicely begin to feel bright. At last…some use…a purpose…
Smiling heartily at Sophie Aubrey and shaking her hand heartily she told her surprised hostess that she would be more than happy to accompany her.
"…that would be wonderful…"
"In that case, I will make the arrangements. However, until our departure I will not allow you to shut yourself away, Cicely."
And, as Sophie Maturin led her back to her room, for the first time since leaving the "Surprise", she felt…hope…
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"You are not yourself of late, Stephen." Jack Aubrey had spent the best part of the day anticipating the time in each others' musical company and as his friend tuned the strings of his cello he saw the look of dejection fleet over the surgeon's features.
"I know you mourn your wife's loss. As do the men." Aubrey ignored the questioning on his friend's face as he too tuned his instrument before continuing the sharing of his opinions. "I have to admit, I was surprised at their reaction…the spirit of the ship seemed to have been lost with the child for a time." He noticed Stephen turn to look in his direction, taken aback at Jack's forthright opinion before returning to his cello.
"And I cannot deny that I am missing having her on board." He took in the doctor's glance as his friend half-closed his eyes, "not that her presence was ideal."
"Indeed," sighed Stephen as he took up the bow and looked along its length critically before breaking off suddenly from his examination he looked at Jack solemnly. "And I have word of intelligence that another associate of Bonaparte's spies has infiltrated the Navy at the highest level. As we are now in the Red Sea, I'm afraid I must depart your company for a time. Thank you." He took the rosin that Jack was proffering before smoothing it down the cat-gut fibres.
"You are in fact to join Nelson's fleet, am I correct?" This had been word sent to him prior to his commission in the South Atlantic and he knew that sooner or later his surgeon and best friend would be taken from him. Sooner then, rather than later, it would seem.
"I miss her, Jack. Even though she has been with me only a short time…" A wistful look permeated in his friend's eyes and he knew something had shifted in Stephen, something that hadn't been there before Cicely Hollum…
"In three months I will be through the Spanish steps; the Acheron is to be there – " He handed the rosin back to Jack as he looked knowingly at his friend.
"Tom…" mused Jack Aubrey thoughtfully. His first lieutenant. "I heard of Captain Pullings' great victory over the French at Calais. Prevented le Imperor from invading Britain, I fancy."
"Tail between his legs, God willing," nodded Stephen in agreement, sitting astride and leaning the body of the large stringed instrument against his own.
"And it is in the Lord's capacity that I am now to be relieved of my musical equal. I am to receive a surgeon in your wake by the name of Hardy, of late from the "Victory." He glanced in mock-aggrievance at his friend as he shouldered the violin.
"…yes…" mused Stephen, clutching his bow. "A good banjo player, so I'm told."
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The coach left Litten Hall on a dull rainy summer afternoon, complete with the wives of the aforementioned ship's musical duo. It clattered over the cobblestones, down the long driveway before the coachman bade the horses on the long road north.
It was several hours, and a much darker scene when the front door of Litten Hall was heavily rapped upon by an officious-looking figure who was met by the Hall's manservant. The figure tried not to lose patience as he again raised his staff to raise attention and it was only on the third attempt when the manservant of the house in question peeled the door back slowly from its latch.
"My mistress and her companion have gone to Shropshire," said the manservant when the figure had stated his intent and was met with an abrupt refusal to disclose more details when pressed for an address.
"Why ever not, man?" asked the figure, annoyed.
"Because I don't rightly know, sir. But…now I come to think of it…" the manservant broke off, scratching his whitening hair as he thought, "…my mistress's friend goes by the name of Susannah Wedgwood. They left not half a day ago." The figure nodded stiffly before turning on his heel. The manservant called after him.
"Can I say who's calling…?" he shouted as the smartly-dressed middle-aged gentleman strode away and the manservant watched in silence as he watched him mount his horse before closing the door quickly.
As the upper-class man whipped the reigns of the tack against his horse's neck it harrumphed in the night and Magistrate Wigg left the Aubrey household, and bade the beast north.