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A breeze played impishly at the foremast sail as the sheet hung lifeless from its rigging. The "Surprise", now in dock at Genova, redundant of her glorious function, floated purposelessly in the azure water. Dr. Stephen Maturin looked away from the hypnotic lap-lapping of the shallow waves which licked the hull and turned instead to where Captain Jack Aubrey was perusing the deck, inspecting his vessel and the activities upon.
His departure, Stephen knew, must be prompt in order to take the mail carriage which left Genova's postal office at six that evening. Its route, over the Alps to Switzerland and then on into Vesoul, was the most effective method of reaching France without attracting a great deal of attention from Bonaparte's militia. No-one questioned the postal service, commissioned as it was by the wealthy, and Maturin had secured a place aboard through his connections with Ligurian nobility.
Prompt, Stephen reflected, but not welcome. Once he disembarked "Surprise" the next part of his undertaking required a deal of skill and deftness and all thought of his beloved Cicely would have to be set aside. The now-burned letter he had received not a day into their docking at the port cryptically ascribed to this.
The future, reflected Stephen, was going to be even more unpredictable than the recent past. On a chance meeting with Aubrey in Milan all those years ago his friend, the Captain, had taken him to the very edge of the world, allowed him to see wonders beyond his imagination all within the limits of the Admiralty's orders and the context of battle. He could not have asked for more had he dared to dream so when he had agreed to medic for Jack Aubrey in exchange for access to the world's natural delights.
There had been times, of course, when his friend had driven him to distraction as these natural delights passed him by, having given way to manoeuvres in deep water, for example, or feeling at his wits' end when the simple seamen had clung to their religion to heal their injuries and illnesses when all that was needed was good, sound medicine.
And then, when he thought he had seen it all along came human spirit in the guise of Cicely Hollum in the disguise of Robert Young. A determined young woman who refused to let her gender be her ruler and who fought for what she believed, turning the world around her upside down, as the discovery of a woman hidden aboard a warship would, of course. Her presence had been handled with swift efficiency and her departure ever the bitterer.
"…get that mast-fitting high!" The carpenter, who had worked tirelessly on refitting a new mast to replace that which had been made to do, heaved the timber into position. The lower-ranking sailors who had climbed the rigging and now were perched like birds aloft pulled tightly on thick hoisting ropes. It was a tricky, heavy and dangerous task but one which was necessary for the ship to be in its prime.
Maturin blinked from his thoughts and turned, analysing the movement adecks. As well as his equipment and notebooks which Jack had promised him would be preserved, "in as whole a manner as practical on a warship", the Doctor would be leaving behind a family, of sorts. He had little of his own and, having met Jack Aubrey in Naples all those years ago had come to first a convenient arrangement, and then mutual respect. Opposite though their characters were camaraderie and companionship had forged their friendship. Goodbye was going to be difficult and fleeting thoughts of finality had caught the doctor off guard.
"You have rejuvenated her well." Stephen noticed that Jack Aubrey had observed he was above and he crossed the firm-timbered planks to his friend. There was no way to avoid him so Stephen knew he must speak to him.
"She looks as good as I remember her when you first introduced her to me. Sails high, sheets firm." Aubrey glanced at the doctor and thought he had caught a glimpse of rare emotion. The last time Stephen Maturin risked his feelings was when he would have lost Cicely Hollum in her alias as Robert Young to the crew of the Acheron under Pullings. What had caused this momentary display? He was used to his friend's fervent opinions stemming from reason and practicality.
"Indeed," Aubrey agreed, nodding and beaming at the frenetic work of his men. "I do believe that she will be fit to accompany the flagship. The First Sealord has sent his orders." Maturin looked at Jack, the Captain's face showing his satisfaction at the idea. He didn't believe that his friend could be happier off land than when he was co-ordinating a seagoing vessel in naval strategy. Similar could be said of himself with naturalism yet it was the espionage, which he would soon be engaged, that which financed his scientific enquiry and allowed him access to the world stage. Naturalism and, to his own utter amazement the captivating, beguiling Miss Hollum which had turned in the course of a few weeks eighteen months before to affection and love.
"You seem troubled, my friend." Aubrey had focused his full attention now on Stephen and the doctor shook his head as he realised he must have been staring out onto the horizon and into the distance.
"My disembarkation," qualified Maturin. "I have orders of my own. Things will become very difficult presently, and apt to complication. My only thoughts are of Cicely and how she fares."
Stephen had been sure that Jack had thought him a reckless simpleton when he had asked Aubrey to marry them in his capacity as Captain. But how could he not love her? Cicely had managed to get out of England and halfway across the world to find her brother on her own wit, adapted, fitted in and caused no fuss in her role as mizzenlad aboard the "Surprise", taking the conditions aboard along with the rest of the men. She had got along with her crewmates, forged a friendship with her pair, had worked cruel hours with very little rest and food just to be near her brother. Had Edward Hollum not taken his own life…had Cicely managed to speak to him…things may have been different. How could he not have grown in affection for such a person such as her? Her spirit, bravery and determination? Not that he had never known the intimacy of women before Robert Young, but this…more than fondness…more even than desire…
"Taking tea with Sophie," purported the Captain, grinning widely and beaming at the doctor. "Organising a social event. Pursuing your research. My wife has many facets, as does yours. I do not think boredom will avail them." Not boredom, thought Stephen quickly. The only life they had known together had been aboard the Surprise. Their own floating island away from the rest of the world. Since her departure a small part of him had gone with her and he had not been quite the same.
"What hour do you depart?" Jack continued his conversation as he began to walk towards the stern. Stephen followed, feeling the wind blowing towards them from the open harbour.
"Post meridian. It is vital I reach the town in good time." Aubrey nodded. He had known Stephen for many years and for most of them that he was a spy. He did not like to question his friend on such matters but he found himself wondering when, or even if they would sail together again.
"We made it into the Mediterranean faster than I thought," replied Aubrey, craning his neck upwards to inspect the mast refitting. To get the timber into just the correct position, checking the sheets and mainsail the men would have to spend most of the day and the following one. All aboard knew how important the job was. The minutes which could be lost or saved through the ship's sailing efficiency may mean the difference between victory and defeat when they next engaged in battle.
"And you are to rendezvous with the Acheron?" Stephen turned his face to the harbour breeze and focused his mind clearly on his friend's future movements. "You'll be pleased to see Tom Pullings, no doubt." Jack's face broke into a smile and he clapped his friend on the back.
"Indeed," he chuckled, "Indeed. However that will have to wait. We were supposed to rendezvous with the "Charlotte", which is what she is called under the Flag. That has changed and we are to depart to Calais where I will meet up with my old First Lieutenant. A welcome re-acquaintance."
Stephen looked at his friend, then nodded, taking in what Jack had just told him. Surprise would be in the Channel within a week and within two sailing with the "Victory" wheresoever Admiral Lord Nelson decreed. However Dr. Maturin had hoped that the ship which Aubrey had won for the Navy in the South Pacific from the French would indeed be moored alongside them. Not least to buy a few more days aboard "Surprise" but he could have informed his contact in London that it was necessary for him to delay until the next mail coach in order to interrogate what remained of the "Acheron" crew. John Fotherington may well have been long buried at sea but it seemed that repercussions of his actions, or rather, his failed actions had had a wide-ranging impact. Dr. Maturin would need all his wit about him once he entered France and the would be little chance to board the "Charlotte" and question the men aboard in an English Channel port.
"And you will be behind the enemy's frontier," stated Aubrey, conversationally but from his tone Stephen could tell his friend would miss his company as much as he would miss Jack's. "Do you know how long you will be gone? I may have Hardy, but I'm sure I don't want to keep him. Banjo player, indeed!"
"Shall we move to your quarters?" Stephen was aware that the foredeck was becoming rather crowded now and he wished he had longer. Considering what was ahead perhaps it would be wise to confide in Jack a little. His friend must have picked up on this as once through the thick oak door of Aubrey's quarters the Captain smiled at his friend.
"I may be many things, Stephen, many things which you have rightfully levelled at my character, but I sense something is amiss." Maturin looked sharply at his friend before sagging at the shoulders.
"Are you not to meet with the flagship and sail with Nelson?" Jack turned to peruse the harbour hoping his prompting would allow the doctor to relieve his clearly troublesome burden. Other ships from other nations had joined them at the port, some naval while others merchant. Jack watched the wharfside bustle as he waited for his friend. Eventually Maturin spoke.
"I am," he confirmed and, as Aubrey turned from the window he saw his friend leaning his forehead on the heels of his hands. "But it is not as straightforward as you suppose. Assuming I pass unheeded into France, and that I am not delayed on my work, which may take several weeks, I then have to discover the whereabouts of "Victory". I do not know when I will be taking up surgery in Hardy's stead. So many uncertain things..." He let the half-sentence hang and looked at his friend.
"Life was so much simpler when my primary work was as your surgeon and my naturalism. Espionage was a good method of financing both. Now…"
Bonaparte had already won a great victory at Austerlitz on land. A battle won not by might but by espionage. Intelligence and counter—intelligence. And base foolishness. Such means would be more vital to victory or defeat in the future, Maturin was certain and Austerlitz had been a terrible blow to those opposing the Emperor. He hoped that what he was to do would redress the balance somewhat.
"It will like that again, I dare say." Jack sank into his plush, velvet-backed chair and examined his old sextant. "You will be sitting here with me within six months," he chuckled, "delighting me with the wonders and horrord of France…"
"The future in France is uncertain. My future is uncertain!" Aubrey looked sharply at his friend, but his snapped response revealed more to the Captain than he suspected Maturin to know. "I wish I could be as sure as you," the doctor added solemnly.
"Let us part in good spirits then." Jack stood up and held out a hand to his friend, half expecting Stephen not to take it but the doctor shook it firmly and clapped his own over Aubrey's before taking it back and reaching into his waistcoat pocket.
"Here." Maturin gave Jack Aubrey a small piece of paper. "A tiny measure of contact if you hear from Cicely." Into Captain Aubrey's hand he placed it as he took the hand firmly and shook it. It didn't seem enough after nine years aboard the ship. Jack circumnavigated his large, oak desk and took a few steps towards Stephen, clapping him on the back.
"You are right, of course. It shouldn't take more than a few weeks, one or two months perhaps. I need to know what my orders are. But if you should hear from her…"
Jack knew Stephen was worried. Cicely had sent him but one letter, upon her arrival at Jack Aubrey's home and she had spoken about how much she appreciated Captain and Mrs Aubrey's hospitality. And that had been it. Almost three weeks with no word.
"Of course, old friend," replied Jack. "You know the post is less than reliable out of town." Stephen Maturin nodded but it had little conviction in it. Nevertheless time had run out for now and Jack Aubrey's surgeon, companion and friend was to be replaced with another surgeon, one who if not equalled Stephen's skill, came close to it.
Jack opened the door into the corridor which led to the steps below the foredeck. Maturin followed into the melee of working seamen. He looked at the gangplank which the men were hoisting into place, its metal studs grinding on the stone quay as the ship rocked gently about its mooring.
"You are docking at Portsmouth next, I believe?" Jack nodded as he looked around at his men. "Before you leave Dr. Hardy should arrive to relive Higgins." Stephen blinked into the mid-August sunshine which chose that moment to glance out from behind a large cumulus cloud. "I will meet you back at whatever dock you happen to be at once my mission is done."
"We sail to Calais, Doctor," replied Jack, hands balled up as fists he placed them on his hips. "And after then, I wait to see." Maturin nodded resignedly. Such was life aboard a warship. Nothing was known more than a fortnight in advance and it was always subject to change. Few plans could be made, especially with what his own future held.
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Sunlight flooded the hallway of Litten Hall, lapping at the drawing-room's open door and threatening to wash into the library. It got its way when the lady of the house pushed its panelled door and, with letter in hand, sought a comfortable repose in order to read its contents through for the fourth time.
Above the fireplace hung a large portrait of Sophie Aubrey's husband, commissioned when he was at sea (she knew Jack would never have posed for an artist in full regalia, even for her) and she smiled briefly at the Captain more in uncertain relief than humour.
She had been back from the Darwins' for just over a week and had made her way home swiftly when it had been established that Cicely had gone, far sooner than expected despite both Robert and Susannah's vehement insistence that she remain for the intended time. Awkward described the situation very mildly indeed. Difficult was closer to the mark despite her hosts' reassurances that Mrs Aubrey should remain. Following her return home Sophie also felt another, far uglier emotion, that of embarrassment that such events had taken place and consequential reflections upon her and, by extension, her husband's reputation.
Sitting back in her favourite chair, scroll-backed, mahogany chaise-langue with blue silk covers, Mrs Aubrey read carefully the words which were scratched seemingly at haste on poor-quality paper but, she thought, it was better than nothing. Cicely Maturin was alive. That was something at least. But the manner of her disappearance, the questioning by Shrewsbury's sheriff, the awkwardness she felt in the presence of the Darwins…all this had been brought about by the young lady's abscondment. Sophie Maturin shook the double-folded paper open again and began to read the neat, if faint, writing.
"Forgive me, Mistress Aubrey," she had written. "Once you read this letter I will have been gone. I explained to you about my former situation. The past has come to haunt me, and rather than bring shame to your household, I have departed the county, and your splendid, hospitable, welcoming company."
Shame, pondered Sophie Aubrey. Would that have been shameful? Yes, she supposed it was. But by disappearing, by running away, surely that was shameful too? Did it not suggest that Cicely was in the wrong and knew it? Or were Magistrate Wigg and Sir Richard Hollum so hateful? Though her social connections were comprehensive they did not stretch as far as Gloucestershire nor as high as upper middle classes. Such being, Mrs Aubrey could not recall the gentlemen or anyone who may know them.
"I know that I have left a situation behind which is both difficult and uneasy for you." Mrs Aubrey continued with the missive. "Difficult because of the questions which Wigg, no doubt, held you to. Uneasy because you will not know what to tell your husband."
She is perceptive, thought Sophie. Perceptive, intelligent, quick-witted, deft…wild-natured... On the occasions that Mrs Aubrey had spoken to Cicely Maturin about her life prior to and aboard "Surprise" the girl's face glowed and her eyes shone. There was something about such freedom that she had acquired which spurred her on, kept her going, perhaps even exhilarated her, not only the unshackling of herself to her father and would-be suitor.
And that was the point which irked Mrs Aubrey: had she put adventure ahead of the thoughts, feelings and reputations her hostess and of those at "The Mount"? Shaking her head as if to dislodge this hornet of bad feeling Sophie read on.
"It is true, Mrs Aubrey. All that Benjamin Wigg says is true. As you know, as I told you, I was betrothed to him, against my will. However I left my father and chose to be free – "
Free, thought Sophie Aubrey. Cicely had chosen to be free. She had spurned her would-be lover and left the bounds of her father's estate. Certainly her father had every right to do as she wished with her, as the law of England stated. Sophie knew ship's marriages held the same weight as those in a church. But for Wigg to claim her subsequent marriage to Maturin to be invalid, well…that was a case for a judge. And, of course, Cicely's disappearance meant Wigg and Sir Hollum too, had very little for a judge to consider.
"Know only this, for I am sure this letter will have been intercepted on its journey to you: – " Swiftly, Sophie turned over the letter, looking analytically at the wax seal made by cheap tallow across the fold. There were one or two deep cracks possibly made during delivery or through Sophie's own haste in opening the letter. She could not determine just by looking at it whether it had been opened prior to her receiving it. It was possible, nonetheless.
" - that I am well and intend to be with my husband, who I love dearly. I value your unquestioning and wholehearted welcome of me into your home, and I wish to convey my esteemed gratitude, and honour, for your unreserved generosity and friendship and also for such similar hospitality of Dr. and Mrs Darwin – "
Doctor Darwin had allowed Wigg to go through his house and watched the man get angrier and angrier at his fruitless search before shooing him out once it had become clear that Cicely had gone and the household which had been awoken quickly abedded. Early the following day Dr. Darwin had visited Shrewsbury to speak to the Sheriff there, with the intent on sending out militiamen to search for her. He had asked that the Sheriff to guarantee Cicely's protection should she be found and her situation investigated; it had been in vain however because, upon his arrival, Benjamin Wigg also had the ear of the Sheriff and was bending it to his will with large amounts of wealth.
" - and if you would be kind enough to pass on my true sorrows to them I would be forever in your debt – "
In the event Cicely was not found and the matter was dropped even by Wigg himself. It didn't prevent the muscular knot in Sophie's stomach tightening at every answer of "The Mount's" front door or her uneasiness in the presence of her hosts. Even the Darwin children putting on a play about the Spanish Armada the following day had done little to lighten the mood.
" – I will repay with the money I took from the kitchen when I am able. Above all, please do not worry. Your friend, Cicely."
Do not worry! Do not worry? Sophie Aubrey was on her feet now and she repeated the words in disbelief to her pigmented husband. Of course she was worried! Heaven knew where Cicely Maturin was; who knew whether she was still alive?
Well, she thought, pacing her own drawing room-cum-library, a far more modest affair than Dr. Darwin's, she must have been alive at least a week ago for her to have sent the letter. Sophie knew that she could contact the Admiralty: as a Captain's wife she had similar rights of access to Admiralty House for such purposes as administration and there was a possibility that new recruits would be listed there.
But, of course, that was if Cicely Maturin intended to disguise herself and use her previous pseudonym, or whether she would even seek out her husband through naval channels. Sophie Aubrey paused, allowing her arm to fall to her side with the letter still in her hand and made her way across to the window, allowing her gaze to fall on the box hedges which outlined Litten Hall's fragrant sitting garden.
It was an understandable response, there was no doubt about that. A young woman who had managed to get herself to a ship in the Pacific Ocean to find her kin was a woman with wit and guile. Clearly such action was self preservation. Nevertheless…
In the late August sunshine zephyrs danced in the fruit trees as Mrs Aubrey considered whether Cicely's marriage to her husband's friend had been convenient for more than one reason. Sophie had listened to Cicely when she had told her of her plight: that her father had intended she marry for the financial connections he would make. How happy she was with Stephen Maturin, she explained. She thought back to the conversation which had occurred a few days into the girl's stay. Cicely Maturin was no liar. It was the way she talked about the Doctor. She spoke in the same tone and manner about him as she, Sophie, thought about Jack.
Raising her arm Sophie Aubrey looked at Cicely's letter again. She had solen the money, clearly, to send the letter or she had used that which she had admitted to taking from "The Mount". It was unusual for anyone to pre-pay mail but again Sophie could hear Cicely's mind reverberate around the epistle that she held: she considered it vital for Sophie Aubrey to receive it and the lady of Litten Hall was unlikely to accept it otherwise. Undoubtedly Cicely Maturin wished to temper the situation for she did not know how Mrs Aubrey would feel about the manner of her disappearance.
Well, she would have to inform Jack of the situation. Turning her back on her beloved garden Sophie Aubrey walked back over to her husband and looked up at him, standing proudly in oil in his gilt frame. Cicely had pre-empted her actions again. Unfolding the letter again Mrs Aubrey found the sentence and re-read it.
"...uneasy because you will not know what to tell your husband..."
Ah yes. She read the sentence again and thought again about her next course of action. At least she had the letter which Cicely had written, something she had intended to send it to Jack. However she did not wish a sully to be brought upon her husband's reputation and should, as Cicely Maturin's letter, be traced sending it in its entirety to her husband may damage his career.
But the situation shouldn't reflect on his career: the paperwork from such a marriage aboard a naval vessel would be in the archives of Admiralty House. Wigg, with his contacts abounding across the land, or so he had claimed at "The Mount", should easily be able to track it down. Sophie knew more than the records showed, however. The evidence was in her hand at the moment despite nothing crystal being written therein and should she be implicated in –
- implicated in what? There was nothing which could be discerned from Cicely's letter and nothing which could not be guessed from it or anything from her past actions. Captain Aubrey and she were merely bystanders.
Crossing the room to her bureau Sophie sat on her beautiful walnut writing chair, drawing it closer to the flat surface which she had unfolded earlier that morning. Sunlight glanced through the window illuminating its green leather surface.
She refolded the letter which Cicely had sent and, drawing a fresh sheet of paper began to write a brief of her own to her husband. Short, to the point, and of dutiful regret. She needn't worry him with her own concerns about their lives nor her measure of shame that she felt for both them and the Darwins' that the girl Jack had sent to live with her had embarrassed them.
Once she had finished Sophie folded her letter around Cicely's, tying a red ribbon around it and sealing both the ends of the ribbon and the edge of the paper with wax. She would have to send it to Admiralty House first, of course, where technically it could be read but Sophie knew in practice that this was rarely done and that, depending upon the location of "Surprise" Jack should receive it within a week.
A knock on the door made Sophie turn and Mary stood by the door, holding the day's newspaper. A few words later, having shooed Mary off with the letter she retired back to her chaise, reading the first column. This time a sailor had been found alive, a mutiny survivor, on Les Erchons, the tiny islands close to France which England held sovereignty. Always a story on the front page, thought Mrs Aubrey, and turned to the next.
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Long shadows were beginning to fall across the courtyard of the inner office buildings. William Wickham had been watching them grow longer and longer as the time to his leaving approached. His work that afternoon, though as important as any other, was repetitive and Wickham he had felt his mind wandering on several occasions to his weekend ahead, his meeting with an acquaintance, his going home.
Approaching the large, oak door behind him he anticipated the satisfactory clunk of the lock joins meeting snugly, which they would, in about five minutes' time. Five minutes after that he would be walking across the courtyard and onto the main street, heading back to his smart house in an even smarter part of London.
On this occasion however, five minutes later an altogether different affair was taking place. The door, unlocked, hung open as the man who had pushed through them four minutes before advanced on Wickham until he was back where he had been all afternoon.
It was his responsibility of course. Of course it was. But he had grown accustomed to leaving the office promptly on a Friday evening and to have the man standing over him was altogether uncouth.
But so was the man for whom this other, standing before him now glaring at him with eyes like gimlets, represented. A bully. Wickham was used to dealing with such men: as a middle-ranking officer himself he had come to know how such men worked. On many occasions intelligence and wit were enough and often such impressive successes had gone shamefully un-noticed.
Other times pulling rank, attention brought to the law or demotion of wealth and reputation worked just as well. Now, William Wickham discerned, none such methods would triumph. It was likely, though not certain, that he might have to concede.
As the man shouted and stalked before him bells of recollection began to ring in Wickham's mind, not least because a name then, as now, was familiar and he tried to concentrate on important aspects of the man's tirade…something about a marriage being illegal in Great Britain…
"Tell me, Wickham has the law changed so much without my noticing that a woman can marry without her father's consent?"
William Wickham switched his attention to the skinny, weasel-faced man who was demanding it. Wickham knew him, knew he was the paid instrument of rich men.
"It is indeed." Wickham had sat back down and was shuffling the papers he had been so keen on leaving behind him a quarter of an hour before. Suddenly they seemed much more interesting than the conversation in which he was currently engaged.
"Hmph!" snorted the man, Jeremiah Buckley, clearly satisfied momentarily with Wickham's confirmation. "And the law is clear that whomsoever marries such a woman does break the law?"
"Indeed." Legal concerns were low on Wickham's list of priorities. Though he had trained at the bar matters more constitutional and criminal were where his expertise generally lay although he knew nearly every writ by heart. Hence his apparent dismissive responses to Buckley, who appeared to be getting a little agitated at Wickham's demeanour.
"And therefore, is the marriage is invalid?" Wickham put down his pages of reference notes and leaned back in his chair. He analysed Buckley's face briefly before getting up from his chair and crossing to the window-side bookshelf. He must at least put on a front, Wickham told himself, or Buckley would not take him seriously. He could have answered the questions which Wigg had instructed Buckley to ask him within the matter of seconds, and answer others which he hadn't even considered.
Such was the nature of William Wickham's mind, which lent itself squarely to the multifaceted role he had currently, that he could remember practically everything that he read. Downsides were completion of repetitive, monotonous tasks such as the one of that afternoon where his mind would wander merrily and time would march by while his productivity was nil.
Therefore it took Wickham practically half a minute to recall the names which Buckley was shouting at him. He even recalled the day, the time of day and the weather, even the drawer in which the documents had been filed at Admiralty House. How Toby Hamilton's moustache waggled as he spoke. It would be waggling again soon, Wickham had little doubt, when Buckley, or even Wigg himself came pounding on the door.
Sighing for effect, Wickham scanned the shelves before picking up a blue-spined reference book. He paused, pulling it carefully from its abode before leafing the pages over, before making his way back to his desk.
"Hm," pondered Wickham, pinching his eyebrows together before nodding over the book's horizon at Buckley.
"Well?" he emanded impatiently as William Wickham placed the book open onto his desk. "What does it say?"
"If you would permit me a further few moments," requested Wickham, getting back up and returning to the shelf this time, turning his back on Buckley's boring stare. He selected another and turned to a relevant chapter. Only then did he realise the obnoxious man was waving something in his direction. Wickham took it from the man's pallid hand and opened it. Therein confirmed by Sir Richard Hollum himself, whom he supposed was this Cicely Hollum's father, that he had granted only his permission for his daughter to marry Wigg. From what he knew of both of these men Wickham found himself pitying the erstwhile Miss Hollum.
Placing the letter unfolded onto his desk William Wickham perused his book again "Hm'ing" a few more times, his eyes darting back to the original book before nodding again. He looked back to the Buckley and held steady his determined stare.
"It is clear. Miss Hollum is of course still her father's property. And we have documentary evidence from both Sir Hollum and Mr Wigg, which you have laid before me."
"There! I told him!" Jeremiah Buckley performed a sort of one-legged jug on the spot in triumph. Clearly the man would be praised with large amounts of cash for the information Wickham had just provided for him. "Anyone who stands in your way, Sir Benjamin, would be guilty of breaking the law!" Wigg's weasel-faced right-hand man waved his cane skywards in a celestial celebration addressing his master as if he were there. Then he fixed Wickham with a beady stare. "The papers, then?"
"Hm," nodded Wickham, going to other bookshelf and, selecting large, leatherbound file, opened it up in the desk. Buckley peered forward hungrily. Taking the documents out Wickham leafed through them before shaking his head.
"The documents should be here – " he darted a look at the index page before looking back impassively at Buckley " – but, of course, they will have been held by Admiralty House before arriving here. A naval interest, you see," he qualified as Jeremiah Buckley snorted air out through his nose.
"Admiralty House?" demanded Buckley his eyes bulging. "Admiralty House?"
"Indeed," confirmed Wickham, holding his features determinedly straight so as not to betray his inner joy at the man's discomfort. How he wished he could be invisibly present when he spoke to Wigg that evening, watching Buckey's thin, musteline features contort in the effort of explaining why he had not been able to deliver what one of the most powerful men in the country wanted. Why, it almost made up for his being inconvenienced that evening.
"The document will eventually come into my possession of course…" Wickham tailed off as Buckley began to pace agitatedly across the floor. "Perhaps even as early as next Wednesday." Wickham wondered whether that had been a step too far, whether Buckley would explode on the spot like a nine-pounder. Instead, to his disappointment, the man merely grabbed the letter he had just shown Wickham and stamped loudly on the floor of the room. He was slow enough however for Wickham see angst fleet across Buckley's features as went.
"And a good evening to you," murmured Wickham as the oak-panelled door reverberated back off the hinges.
Staring at the now-closed door Wickham contemplated what was before him: the document Buckley had required was indeed not in the folder and Wickham was sure it would still be with Admiralty House. Should he himself be implicated in such matters that the idiot Buckley had presented him with, his current situation and those connected to him would become tainted with scandal, one which, at the very least, may destroy any intelligence advances Britain had made in their war against Bonaparte.
Well, that which Admiralty House held, the document he had seen all those months ago, he could allow someone else to deal with. Clearly the substance of what the document contained had made its way to Wigg, or to Sir Hollum somehow. Now, he had other matters to consider, namely the mess that Fotherington had left for the enemy which he needed to turn to his advantage.
Sinking back into his chair Wickham, former serviceman, chief in military law and head of espionage operations in Great Britain, closed both books he had been feigning to read and sighed deeply. Things had just become a little more complicated now. Not agonisingly so that he should have to alter his plans, but delicate. Much as he enjoyed the thrill of complications he knew he must meet with his counterpart Stephen Maturin in three days' time in France.
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