Four bells at the forenoon watch. Damn halfhour glass! That made it halfway through the morning, for civilised folk, about ten o'the clock at Greenwich. He had spent several weeks travelling through hostile country, French country: that had been bad enough. Then things had got too close form comfort and instead of taking his intended route into Spain with a Spanish vessel.
It had been little trouble to gain passage with the Spanish brig – there was only one man who could…could have…rivalled him in the art of disguise. His appearance as a French soldier who was looking for his regiment in the south of Spain, flawless army-private French gand the job was done. Upon docking and a change to Captain, location of a genuine ship which had moored with the fleet and a ten minute delay for its captain while he took his place for less than half an hour.
Now, aboard the flagship of the fleet, glorious HMS Victory as a Royal Marine, his legitimate papers from Admiralty House under a acceptably fictitious name and his place was secure. If only it weren't for the damned bells!
The spy knew that the Navy's efficiency was almost all attributable to its attention to detail and timekeeping was its strong point. Had he the choice he would happily give another six months on the brig and be on the opposing side come tomorrow – the Spanish were tardy in their timekeeping, preferring to use inefficient French timepieces – than put up with another day of the bells!
"…and the Son and the Holy Ghost…"
All men were assembled on the Victory's deck now. Captain Hardy, his head bowed over the ship's official-issue bible, a King James Authorised, took prayers for the day. Unlike any other Sunday however, the afternoon would not be given over to the crew. Instead they were to continue with preparations for battle until sundown after which short two-hour shifts were to be carried out to preserve the men's strength for the day that was to follow.
They were to engage the enemy; that much the spy knew. What would follow would certainly be a superb cover for the assassin. And he who would assassinate the assassin.
Head bent in supplication with the rest the spy stared at the planks of the main deck in his view. It was no coincidence that he had been made chief spy for the military – his position as an exploring officer for the army; his vast espionage experience his unofficial exploits as a thief of monarchs, of thrones, rich men – influential…arrogant…witless…of chieftains, lairds, rajahs, sultans…their wives and lovers too…
…this would be the first time that he would have dethroned an emperor however…and what an emperor to have brought down in Napoleon Bonaparte…
"…will remain with us, foul or fair, tempests or fine…"
The prayer was continuing far longer than expecting – he wondered how many more invocations and blessings Hardy could tease out of the Blessed Lord to harbour against possible impending ill fortune. His thoughts turned to his role in the battle.
He who would stop the assassin – who would it be? Fouche would only have sent one who was brave or foolish, had been blackmailed with something wholly precious or who had nothing else left to lose. His French counterpart certainly would not have left it to chance to prevent the assassination of Nelson. Who of these here could it be?
"Amen". Around him eight hundred-odd men chorused the reply to the Lord's Prayer. He raised his head.
He had carried out the basic investigations of course, ascertained who aboard may have any interest to do such a thing, any history between him and other seamen on the Victory…
…his mind wandered a little to his magnificent and long-departed equal. How the dear Doctor would have revelled in his covert exploits so far, and those to follow! He almost wished Stephen Maturin could be there with him as he worked the next day…alas, of course, it was not to be: he was now serving the last of his orders faithfully for the country he hated to the end.
And yet, when he considered the assassin, he invariably thought of the man. Not one to dismiss coincidence, the spy put the nugget to the back of his mind to analyse later.
He looked to his station as gulls overhead screeched their cry. The assassin was now busy with his legitimate work. He must keep him safe – he had an important role on the morrow. Looking up he spotted more gulls, being chased off the rigging by the top men.
Some men, sailors and common hands, believed that, when a seaman died his spirit was taken in by a seabird and that he soared high above everything, above mast-tops, through the clouds and squalls for the rest of eternity. Perhaps his former colleague had sent his spirit to join one of the gulls overhead now. Perhaps he was looking down at him. If he were, he may well be damning his soul to the devil.
Stephen Maturin. He smiled to himself faintly as he moved off to continue his false duty. The ghost of William Wickham's closest rival danced macabrely in his mind, as if his corpse had got to its feet and danced a gangly dance in the Parisian square in which it had died as he crossed the main deck to the mizzen. He was playing his own supporting role in Wickham's mission by being entirely absent from it.
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"…who will remain with us, foul or fair…"
The words filtered through to Captain Aubrey's cabin. Robert Young stood by the thick oak door, listening to Jack's rounded words infiltrate as she issued the Sunday prayers to the men. It had been important that the new recruits had been aboard to hear the service and he had begun it as soon as William Blakeney had brought the three dozen badly needed hands aboard and all had been assembled on the main deck awaiting Captain Aubrey's presence.
Almost all. That morning two miracles had happened. Firstly she had been taken back aboard the Surprise by Blakeney, who had responded to insistent shouts from the gang plank which turned out to be a rather agitated Captain Aubrey, and second, that she had managed to get to Blakeney in the first place. The crush of men, all desperate to get a place but the loosing of the rifle had made Cicely's heart sink in her chest for she had believed that she would eventually have reached the choosing-line.
Like so many situations in her life when she had little left to lose Cicely's mind had come up with the notion to cause a fuss half way along the line and then use it to distract the Marines' attention. It had worked, to some extent but she had tripped up over the foot of a short, dark haired Portuguese man as she had darted towards the head of the line. Stumbling awkwardly she has scuffed her right hand on the hard wood wharf-planks and her note from Major Blunt had tumbled from her hand.
It had landed a couple of inches from her left hand and, as Cicely had got to her feet she had reached for it but the man over whose foot she had fallen had picked it up. She'd grabbed it back suddenly before he'd had time to take it (such a note was valuable to the chances of selection on the quayside) causing a scuffle as the man had swung at her, hitting the man in front who was in line.
The second gunshot had caused the usurpers to disperse but Cicely had had her chance and she had cuckooed herself into the line, pushing the note into Blakeney's direction and bowing her head reverentially and had tried to keep him talking. She had wondered whether he would recognise her – Will had, in the eight months that had passed since she had seen last seen him, grown much taller, his features more defined and his stance more adult. He spoke as he had always done, his voice soft though naturally authoritarian – you were encouraged, Cicely had always felt, to listen to Will Blakeney when he spoke and enchanted enough to unquestioningly carry out his orders.
Panic has set into her heart as Lieutenant (Cicely had noticed) William Blakeney had handed the note to a midshipman who, out of the corner of her eye, had boarded the Surprise, presumably to give it to someone aboard. Who that someone was became all too clear as Blakeney had marched them on, heralded as they were by Aubrey's commanding tones.
She tried not to look at Jack as she had boarded and Cicely had breathed out heavily when her booted feet trod on the decks that had been so pivotal to her life. But before she had had a chance to think about what was next Robert Young had been marched close-to by Jack having been taken silently out of the group with a hand on her shoulder steering her towards the mizzendeck.
Cicely had heard Mowett speaking the opening words of the Sunday service and, in the secluded corridor outside his office Aubrey had bent his head, looking at her as if his eyes were deceiving him and that he was still in his cot and in an implausible dream.
"Cicely…?" He'd asked, it seemed, just to make sure. She'd nodded and he had taken her in for a moment longer before opening the door and pushing her in.
"Wait there," he'd instructed, tapping her on the shoulder, unknowingly her injured one, a couple of times as if to check that she were not a mirage. Then he paced in one stride back to the door and, without looking back, he opened it again. A second passed, and then a click from the latch, indicating Aubrey had locked it.
Now Cicely stood, in her new army uniform, next to the door, listening to everything which was going on outside, but not for long as Aubrey's characteristic gait was getting louder as his boots beat the boards. Cicely moved quickly away from the door and stood to one side of his desk hoping she didn't look as if she'd been eavesdropping. She was glad she had moved for the force that the captain now re-entered his quarters caused the oak panels to reverberate as it bounced off the oak wall with a bang in response to Aubrey's force.
"I don't know why you're here Cicely, but you can't be here." Jack Aubrey stalked into his cabin and thrust her vouch from Major Blunt before her on his worn, oak desk, fury etched into his face which seemed to have been made worse by being bottled for three quarters of an hour in order to act as reverend, a task, Cicely knew, he relished least. He took it back up and looked at it, as if it were the lowest, most conniving enemy he had ever seen. "We go to battle on the morrow; the men are preparing for the battle tomorrow," he added, frowning at her as he marched round the opposite side of his desk.
Cicely, in her rifleman-private's uniform felt as though her boots had been rooted to the spot. She watched Jack pull back his chair and sit in it, his muscular bulk filling it.
"I don't know why you're here – " Jack looked up at her, a man at whose table she had dined following Stephen's declaration of love for her and the captain's acceptance of her as his friend's wife. "Do not think that you can fight again aboard my ship!" Was this the man with whom she had discussed art, a subject about which they were both keen and both talented, had confided in a little, had laughed with? Who had taken intimate and horror-filled steps as she bled with her dying child?
Jack Aubrey must have taken in her expression and comprehended it for his face softened and he got up, his head lowered into his shoulders a little. Cicely said nothing. She had expected much worse after the shame she had brought upon him and his wife after all their kindness.
"Oh my dear child!" Jack exclaimed as moved towards her and the thought struck Cicely that he could only be about a dozen or so years her senior and she had been twenty four in May: she could be accurately called many things but she was hardly a child. "You are here…you are safe…"
Cicely watched Aubrey turn up the corners of his lips in a tentative smile and then, most astonishingly, in a quite out-of character move, had hugged her stiffly for a moment. Cicely, who had said nothing to Aubrey felt a sigh in her chest. Not much of a home was HMS Surprise, but to Cicely it was her home nonetheless. She had come home.
"Please…" Jack gestured to her left at the simple wooden chair near the door to his cabin that usually upheld his now-absent violin. "Sit down, Cicely. Please tell me everything…how it was you made it back to the ship, and why…?" Cicely said nothing but felt herself quake as she took one step
"First, Captain Aubrey, please may I pass on my categorical gratitude, my thanks for your un hospitality…Sophie – " But she couldn't manage it. Cicely heard her voice begin to squeak and mangle. She lowered her head and sobbed, her shoulders wracking as she tried to hold in the salty tears. How shameful, before her captain. Or, before her husband's friend.
" – Mowett! Blakeney…!" Jack looked over his shoulder as Cicely continued to stand sobbing by the side of his desk. His two lieutenants appeared promptly, Mowett's face in fixed in a genial, expectant expression; Blakeney's one of a confused frown – Aubrey having just instructed him to inspect the armoury.
"Mr. Mowett?"
"Yes sir?" Mowett caught a few glimpses of the green army uniform over the captain's shoulder.
"Bring food, some rum." Everything seemed better after some rum, and God knew, as well as she, he definitely needed some of his own. "Oh, and some bandages. Looks as if her hand's quite bad. Could you ask Dr. Hardy if he could spare a few moments?"
"Yes sir," replied the first Lieutenant, frowning slightly as if the syntax hadn't registered correctly. "Blakeney?"
"Yes sir?" His young lieutenant turned from glancing at the confusion on Mowett's face as he turned to leave, and looked at Aubrey expectantly.
"Do you remember this?" He unfolded his hand showing the letter of recommendation that Blakeney had passed to John Barrington which the middie had then passed to him.
"Yes, sir. But why – " Jack swallowed and looked firmly at Blakeney, knowing the bucketful of weevils his revelation was about to spill.
"Did you read it, Will?" His voice was low, punctuated by infrequent sobs. When Blakeney remained silent, Jack handed him the paper then took a step back, as if an incendiary had landed by his feet. Once Blakeney had finished he looked sharply at Captain Aubrey before directing his stare past him.
"Cicely?" Blakeney half whispered. Jack found himself nodding as he took another step inside, his back to the door opening up the lad's frame of sight.
"Try to calm her down, for pity's sake!" He watched Blakeney's hasty gallop towards Cicely, his pace slowing as he took in her distress. She looked at him as Aubrey closed the door, her sobs waning.
"Cicely! You're…you're…not a sailor…?" Cicely had followed orders, on two occasions now, given by William Blakeney, an aspiring officer who held command over the majority of men aboard the Surprise. Now he was speaking to her as if he were a fettered youth quietly but urgently concerned with the welfare of a relative.
"She is now you took her on," replied Jack, a hint of humour in his voice. When both of them stared at him he added. "No! She's neither." He fell silent, folding his arms as the pair, as if siblings, spoke to one another quickly and gently.
"You've come back…how did you manage…? What's caused you to…?"
"I think we'd all like to know that," replied Jack Aubrey soberly.
"There's so much that's changed since you went," continued Will, as if he was welcoming a long lost member of the family. "Bonden, he'll want to talk to you I know – his reading's improved…Tranter too, but there are plenty of new – "
"No," interrupted Aubrey sharply, drawing Cicely's attention away from Will's list of people who would be pleased to see her, and his lieutenant too. "Mr. Blakeney, as lieutenant, and Mr Mowett in his stead at First Liutenant, you should know that she is here, the doctor too – " he looked widely past Blakeney at Cicely, " – I think Dr. Hardy would be grateful of some work before the battle tomorrow and from the look of you, I think you need it." He looked at Blakeney again. "No more of my crew are to know, do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, sir."
"Dr. Hardy…?" Cicely spoke her words aloud – she recalled the name. In Captain Hardy's cabin had been his belongings, similar to those of Stephen's, which was probably why she had been drawn to them. Beatty had been the man actively carrying out medical duties on the flagship however: Cicely had met him. So why was Thomas Hardy here?
And then it dawned on her that if Hardy was the doctor for the Surprise then Stephen wasn't actually there. She had known it, of course, in Fouche's dealing but, following her desertion from the Victory and her failed attempt on Lebec's life she had hoped to see him soon. So, he was a prisoner of Fouche. And, if she failed to stop the ex-Acheron captain, he would be a corpse of Fouche. Cicely's confusion and anxiety showed on her face despite her efforts to conceal them.
"Dr. Hardy is our surgeon for the moment," Jack replied simply. Then he turned in reply to the knock on the door. A rather unservicelike hug from Cicely to Blakeney, about which Jack gave a disapproving "hmph" preceded the Captain's dismissing of Blakeney to his armoury duty and first and second lieutenants traded place, Mowett being followed by Hardy. He stood adjacent the door to allow the doctor entry and Jack closed the door again.
"Mr. Mowett, thank you for bringing Dr. Hardy – please don't leave just yet," he added as Lieutenant Mowett made to salute. "Dr. Hardy, I would be most obliged if you would assess Mrs Maturin here."
"Mrs…Maturin?" Through his round-framed spectacles Hardy peered around the office, overlooking Cicely before landing his eyes on Jack, before glancing at the door to his cabin expectantly.
"Yes, doctor." This time Cicely spoke, removing her hat and smiling at the slight man and she caught William Mowett's beam of a smile. She had got on well with Mowett; Cicely had been a patient ear for his poetry which, in her amateur opinion was rather good.
"You may use my cabin if you wish," Aubrey continued, gesturing to his right to the adjoining door. Cicely took some keen steps towards it; she was followed only by Hardy's eyes, wide in disbelief. He would know soon enough, Cicely supposed.
Nothing had changed inside the cabin. Aubrey's cot slung across the starboard wall, a snug though not too roomy a bed (roomier than the fourteen inches a seaman's hammock ran to, though); opposite a Chinese screen which had been used for a variety of purposes when she had been…a guest…within when Jack had discovered her identity in the first place, sometimes even as a screen.
Adjacent the screen, which was, for the moment, being used as a table to support a retinue of arms in the process of being cleaned, the portrait of Nelson which Cicely had long stared when she had had little else to do bar wait for Aubrey's decision on her fate. In the corner seemed to be a heap of belongings, which didn't appear to have any order or purpose.
"Er, Mrs Maturin…" Dr. Hardy still looked unsure of what exactly he was supposed to be doing with what looked like an army private in the captain's cabin. "What seems to be the trouble.
"May I explain, doctor?" Hardy did and said nothing and Cicely continued. "My name is Cicely. I'm in disguise. I really am a woman," she added, as if to reinforce her point. "I've a shoulder injury and a burn to my hand – " she held it forward and the bewigged Hardy squinted. "Also my other hand's bruised, but I've had worse."
"May I…take a look at that hand then…?" Hardy was no taller than Cicely. A slight man he was a portly around the middle and wore clothing which was quite in fashion about twenty years previously – long knee-britches and fitted jacket to knee-length, black with white socklets. Under his periwig he seemed to be perspiring a little and he pushed his spectacles up his long nose. Who was she to judge, though? Cicely, a married woman could be equally condemned for her regimental garb, bindings and close-cut hair.
Through Captain Aubrey's adjoining cabin-office door Cicely's ears caught snippets of words that were being exchanged between Jack and William Mowett, though nothing discernable. Hardy assessed her injuries, selecting and sorting from a large leather purse-bag rag-bandage, salve and laudanum. Regarding the latter, Cicely felt a stab of guilt for it was clearly the doctor's own supply she had plundered from Captain Hardy's cabin on the Victory two days before.
The Captain's deep, rich tones pervaded through again as Hardy dabbed tentatively at her hand as did the tenoric timbre of his first lieutenant. Between the two officers there was a gulf, a "them" and "us" and though unlikely, it was more unlikely that she, Cicely, should be there at all and Jack may wish to discuss it with his next in command.
"May you remove your tunic, Mrs Maturin?" The doctor looked as if he was fixing his neck rigidly to continue to look at her rather than looking away as a man might if a woman was undressing before her but seemed relieved to see that her femininity was still concealed.
"Mrs Maturin, your shoulder is not in the healthiest of conditions. There is no bullet, but your clothing – not this cloth, has caused infection. Here." Thomas Hardy handed her a vial of something. "Medic-spirit," he added, nodding in her direction. Cicely understood the pseudonym, and that the brandy was thus named to prevent common theft. "You need to drink it – oh," he finished for Cicely had swigged it before he had got past the "you". "I need to pare a little skin to stop the infection spreading.
Cicely felt herself quake a little – she knew of the technique, seen Stephen use it as a preventative measure just as Hardy was about to. But the hands did not show fear even though she knew they felt the pain. The blade that Hardy was holding seemed reasonably sharp.
"Here." He pulled over a chair that was residing behind the makeshift screen-table. Cicely sat down and adjusted herself squarely, determined to be brave about it too. "Can you turn, if you please? Dangle you arm over the back." She swivelled round and gripped the top of the chair back under her armpit and held onto the lower slat with her hand with as much strength as she could.
"Would you believe me if I told you this won't hurt at all, young lady?" In contrast to his prior interaction which had been stand-offish, efficient and to the point this sentence conveyed some character and Cicely, having been aboard the Victory for nearly a month and witnessed more of Hardy's former manner in both the officers and the hands wondered whether the his personality had developed amongst the geniality and comparative wholesomeness and spirit of the crew of the Surprise.
"Not in the least, doctor," Cicely replied, gritting her teeth, waiting for the cut. It didn't come – as he was about to cut the door opened and Aubrey took a step in. Cicely turned, looking at Aubrey who appeared to be about to say something to Hardy. Instead he took in Cicely's shoulder and she realised the bullet-graze must look damned ugly for Jack to recoil slightly.
"Once you are finished, Mrs Maturin, I would be grateful for your company in my office."
Twenty minutes later, with fresh blood soaking into her binds, a throbbing in her shoulder which appeared to hurt more than the original injury and which the brandy both externally pressed and internally consumed having done little to allay the pain, Cicely was sitting on the ladder-backed chair which Jack had brought in with her from his cabin. He was alone, Lieutenant Mowett having been sent to his duty. She sat opposite his desk, as if about to participate in an interview as Jack sat opposite in his sturdy oak panelled, velvet-lined chair.
"It is good to know you are safe, Cicely," Aubrey began as he beheld his friend's wife, former mizzenlad and later, the ship's nurse and teacher. And now, briefly, mizzenlad again. "However you do understand that you cannot be Robert Young again."
"Yes," Cicely replied evenly. "It was never my intention to remain as my alias. You surely know that I left the company of your wife," she continued, but felt the words begin to choke in her throat again. "Captain Aubrey – "
"Jack, Cicely," he prompted. "We know one another well enough to be on first name terms, surely?" She nodded. "You sought to reassure Sophie," he continued, "and for that I am unreservedly grateful. Perhaps it would be easier if you told me your account? Your reasons will be implicit, of that I am sure." Cicely felt herself sigh, as if a burden had been lifted somewhat. Considering his demeanour when she had first boarded, though it must have been a shock to Jack Aubrey, she had feared her plight might be met with hostility and disdain.
And so, Cicely Maturin began to tell her story since she had waved to Jack and Stephen at the dockside in Portsmouth five months before. It took her a few abandoned sentences for Cicely to phrase what she wanted Jack to know but once she had begun, her narrative was smooth and to the point, clear of emotion and uncluttered. Every so often Aubrey chipped in where his side fitted with hers, their stories melding like tin and copper in the formation of the bronze ingot of the chronicle.
She spared him nothing either, the cumbersome, secret truth being shed from her mind as she spoke. Cicely told him of how she tried to get to the ship in England, and had taken up navigational employment, how she had been robbed, and taken care of by a military regiment, how she had been caught up in war in France and captured by spies of Bonaparte, and given the task to assassinate the assassin. She had deserted and by sheer coincidence re-encountered the regiment who had given her temporary shelter, commanded by Major Blunt, who had given her the recommendation letter.
"Had you not had this," he held the note, still folded, between his fingers, "then you may not have been here – I am so, so sorry," Jack concluded at length, as Cicely tailed off as she approached the present moment. "That you have borne so much, to get here…"
"The assassin must be stopped," Cicely interjected. His sympathy was not unwelcome, but irrelevant to the situation.
"The fleet sails tomorrow," Aubrey replied, steepling his fingers over his table. "Hmph. We must be ready, be in as orderly shape as possible."
"We fight tomorrow?" Cicely asked, knowing the answer to be true. Jack cleared his throat once again and put his hands on his desk, pushing the chair back with his posterior and getting to his feet. Then he paced down the side of the desk, his hands on his hips, then stopping abruptly and, leaning over slightly towards the still-seated Cicely cleared his throat again.
"The fleet goes to battle, but I have orders not to fight! Hmph!" He turned and made his way back in the opposite direction, towards the window. "And that's "Surprise," Cicely, not "we," he added, glancing over his shoulder and looking at her sternly. Cicely said nothing – she could tell it was a sore, rankling point and it seemed that Jack Aubrey would very much like five minutes with the person who had given him that news.
"What can we do about the assassin, then? "
"I have orders not to fight, but I have orders to sail." He interrupted and his tone was cursive, to the point and he remained with his back towards her. "I will write a letter to the flagship requesting an appointment so I can speak to the Captain." Something didn't seem right: he was avoiding discussing the situation or even looking at her. Why was he focusing on telling her his ignominious orders rather than recognising the urgency of the assassin who was to kill the Lord Admiral?
Just then, a knock on the door aborted Cicely's attempt at furthering her point. She had not expected the person who had been summoned forth and any idea of the her case went out of her head as she exclaimed, "Matthew!"
"Cicely!"
"Mrs Maturin, if you please, Harris," corrected Jack grimly. It seemed that, contrary to her appearance Captain Aubrey was determined that the proper manner would be followed.
"No!" she exclaimed again, aghast. Cicely took a couple of steps in his direction and stopped. "Matthew! I…you…"
"I last saw you on the dockside at Yport!" Matthew Harris seemed as astonished to see her she was to see him. "You're in '105th' uniform…"
"Never mind that," Cicely replied, now a foot between them smiling back at Harris's own irrepressible grin. "You got shot…didn't you?"
"Does it look like it?" Harris put his hands on his hips as if to offer her a chance of inspection. He caught Aubrey's stern expression however and reined in his enthusiasm. "There was a skirmish, in the grounds where we went – "
" – you turned into the courtyard – "
" – the guards didn't know what to do; they fired some warning shots into the walls. We got onto the quayside just after the Victory had sailed. I was made up when I saw the Surprise, I really was," he added, just to labour the point to the ship's captain but stopped short of mischievously winking at Mrs Maturin.
"I thought you were dead," Cicely repeated. She looked around Aubrey's office then back to Harris. "I deserted the Victory…it's a long story," she added as he raised his eyebrows," I ran into Major Blunt again and managed to get back here. But I have to get back to the Victory to stop an assassin!"
Cicely's plan had been forming in her mind and chose that moment to reveal her plan, the only possible course of action that to her was sensible, to Jack Aubrey. Instead of countermanding her declaration as Cicely had counted on him certainly doing Jack said nothing.
"Your leave, Harris," prompted Aubrey brusquely. A momentary pause, as if Matthew Harris was about to say something in reply but instead saluted him.
"Good to see you safe, Matthew," Cicely half-whispered as he left. He turned and grinned, but not so widely as customarily.
"You too."
Cicely looked in Jack's direction. He was still looking out of the window down onto the dock. Her astonishment at Harris's being alive was usurped by Aubrey's unwillingness to look at her.
"There is an assassin aboard Victory, Captain," Cicely said plainly as if to summarise her current end.
"Were my orders no object I would happily engage in the melee." Aubrey turned and half-smiled at Cicely. "What do you propose should be done, Cicely?" The question was genuine, not derisory or scornful.
"Remain in your company until such a time that I can return to Victory and confront the assassin."
"Then that is what you shall do."
"But," Cicely protested, aghast, "are you not breaking the direct orders of the Admiral of the Fleet?"
"I think it is the safety of our Lord Admiral supersedes any other orders by which I am bound, even if they do come from the aforementioned Lord Admiral." He smiled and unfolded his arms and moved towards his desk. Sliding open the thin drawer beneath its top Jack withdrew a letter, string-bound, and held it towards Cicely.
"It arrived for you after you left for England," Jack qualified as Cicely approached the desk and took it from him. She pulled off the coarse twine and opened it, reading it twice. On the second reading she annotated aloud to Aubrey.
"It's from my uncle…my mother's brother…he used to live in Norwich…he's a clockmaker…" She scanned down. "He's made a large sum of money from an invention…he has set up a life on the Carteret Islands…" Cicely choked down a giggle as she read on, "…the natives have made him their king!" With this, she looked at Jack mirthfully. "He invites…he invites…me…me and Edward to live with him…"
Cicely stopped, staring down at her uncle's letter again. She remembered it was her last letter she had written before she had set fire to her father's house, before she had run to the sea to find her brother.
"You could still do that, Cicely. There is nothing stopping you from living the rest of your life there."
Slowly, Cicely looked up from the letter, now crumpling in her hand a little as Jack Aubrey's words began to register, sinking in and meshing with everything they had just been discussion. Why would he suggest that when she had a task to do, for the sake of someone dear to them both?
She looked towards the Queen Anne chair. Aubrey saw her look at it, and Cicely saw him watch her look.
"Where is Stephen?" she asked quietly.
Aubrey said nothing, and Cicely knew, but she knew he had to tell her.
"He was killed. On spying business. He left the Surprise many months ago. Doctor Hardy, who you met just then is his replacement." He looked at her, his large desk between them. I am sorry I am the one to be told this news…only I and Harris know this," he added.
"Not Blakeney…?" Aubrey shook his head.
That he had not sent for Stephen straight away…perhaps she had known it…
Aubrey made as if to comfort her, but Cicely did not move and he stopped, waiting for her reaction.
Instead of breaking down as one part of her mind was telling her that she ought to be doing, Cicely found herself in a treacle of air. Everything seemed surreal…as if she were waiting for the end of a humorous jest or the like and that at any moment Stephen would step through the door now as he had done so many times before, or that he was just in his cabin on the lower deck, and he would call her.
Or he would be examining a beast, with his mounted lens focusing the gizzards to an enlargement which he was sketching or writing down his observations while she was lingering out of sight watching him, or so she thought until, without looking up, he called her in…
"Mt dear child. You need sleep," concluded Jack Aubrey gently. "You need rest. Please, return to my cabin, Cicely. Sleep if you can. You'll be safe there."