WARNING: This chapter contains an unbelievable amount of fluff. This is not to be taken lightly, and is only for the strongest, most emotionally-stable fangirl. Please try to keep squealing, drooling, and awing to a minimum. The author is not liable for any fainting or heart failure that may occur.
But seriously, I do feel like this chapter is 99% fluff. So enjoy, and don't be too mad at me for this girly chapter. :) And about the title: it's taken from a Nena song, it means "There My Heart Goes Out", and I think it just fits. :]
And it's really embarrassing how long I've waited to update this story. New readers, welcome! Thank you for waiting, all of you.
Chapter 3: Da Geht Mein Herz Auf
The next morning, the navy men from Hotspur and Armageddon alike prepared themselves for their journeys homeward. Lieutenant Bush was the first to rise, even before the sun. He was an impatient man, and now that he was ashore and could no longer feel the sea breeze on his face nor taste the salt in the air he desperately wanted to be home—with his wife, in his own house, in his own bed.
The road to London was a long one—and with the awful weather rolling in over England, it would surely prove to be a longer journey than usual. No matter. He would be home soon enough, back in the arms of dear Amy. Being the respectable husband that he was, Bush had sent a letter ahead to London, informing Amanda of his safe-and-sound arrival in Portsmouth, and that he would be home in three days time. With ay luck, this letter would arrive before he would. He had teased his companions severely for not doing their duties as husbands and letting their wives know that they had arrived back in port safe and sound. The three men had huffily replied that they wanted it to be surprise.
Amanda was known for her long, overdramatic letters. They were often pages long, and filled with her wistful thoughts, the latest annoyances she had discovered, daily gossip from her theater company, and news of her performances. Despite their length, Bush treasured every word he received from Amy. Upon docking in Plymouth, he had received a letter Amy had written to him over a month-and-a-half ago, which had regrettably never made its delivery to him over seas. Instead of reading it straight away, as he was sorely tempted to do, he decided to save it for the long journey ahead of him. It would be something to pass the time.
Several miles into his traveling, Bush decided that he could simply not wait any longer. Pulling out the pieces of parchment neatly folded from the wax sealed envelope, he began to read. All was well in London, wrote Amy, although quite dreary without him around. She had several large performances coming up shortly, for which she felt aptly prepared for—she did wish that he would be home soon. It would be lovely if one day he could be here for one of her performances, although she understood the unlikeliness of this. And his brother Thomas—the man was infuriating and insensitive. "… even more so than you, William—which is exceedingly difficult," Amy had penned. Bush chuckled to himself. They often teased each other, calling each other by their vices until one surrendered. There was no anger, nor ill-meaning behind their friendly banter—only mere competitive drive to see who would be capable of outwitting the other in a rather childish name-calling duel.
Flipping over the paper to its backside and reading it to the end, Bush smiled as he lingered on Amy's carefree signature before tucking the letter back inside his jacket. He would be home soon, and this thought kept him from growing too grumpy as the small cab bounced and rocked over the bumpy road to London, and the weather remained impenetrably gray.
Horatio, Wellard, and Archie rose within the next hour, preparing themselves for their journeys back home. The two lieutenants said their farewells to the captain of the Hotspur, giving their well wishes and Godspeeds. As it would only be a few short weeks until would once again be in each other's company, it was a brief, happier farewell than previous had been. Horatio left first, reluctant to leave the company of his friends, and yet compelled because of his duty to his wife.
Archie and Wellard shared a coach together on to Southampton. The two officers had grown considerably close during the last few years of their shared journeys. Archie had become the much needed mentor for Wellard to grow under, and Wellard had fully fulfilled the role of loyal friend. There was very little now that the two men did not know about each other. Archie was a very talkative person by nature, and after a while, it became impossible for his companions—no matter how reserved they were—to stay quiet. Even shy Wellard had opened up after a while. Now he laughed easily around Archie, having no reason to fear a reprimand or harsh word. He and Archie had more in common than Wellard had first presumed. The Renown was not the first of Archie's painful tales of his past. He too had known the cruelty of men, namely of his fellow midshipmen aboard the Indefatigable, and a long stay in a prison in Spain that had nearly killed his spirit—had it not been for Horatio's kindness. Archie didn't like talking of these stories, and Wellard did his best not to mention it. They each had their secrets, and that was alright.
The last plight of the Armageddon had been prosperous and successful. Their ship had behaved as a privateer, collecting cargo prizes for England from enemy ships. It was a risky business, oftentimes many a sailor would return home with barely a pound in their pocket, and stories hardly worth sharing. Lottie had been concerned, Wellard knew, but her concerns would vanish as soon as he showed her what he had brought home. Ah yes, the officers and crew members aboard each got their small taste of the prize. Archie had taken a number of small foreign foods and spices for his girls—Mary and Cat—to experience. Wellard had finally saved enough to settle he and his wife in a decent house. Lottie would have to work at the tavern no more! He wouldn't tell her right away, though. It would be a surprise, a Christmas surprise.
"What are you giving your wife for Christmas, Wellard?" Archie asked, as if reading the gentleman's very thoughts, and the already pale-faced lieutenant blanched. "I'll take it you haven't a single idea?"
The boy sighed. "It's rather hard to get her anything, Archie. She's always insisting she doesn't need it," Wellard defended, knowing full well that he had been in the very same situation last Christmas, and that his friend would surely not miss the opportunity to tease him about it. Archie had much talent in the business of finding apt gifts for people, male or female—female especially. Wellard did not seem to posses the ability, and often found himself scratching his head as to what exactly to give his wife. He had given her flowers on various occasions, as somehow he possessed inherit knowledge that woman liked flowers. But of course it was now winter, and flowers were nowhere to be found.
"Well of course she doesn't need it, but I'm sure she will adore whatever you decide to give her. Don't ask her what she wants—just make her take it. Jewelry, a poem, some nice gloves—she'll be in ecstasy," Archie assured him.
The younger lieutenant smiled, thinking decidedly over the possibilities, and the two officers fell into a comfortable silence. "It wasn't the Renown at all, was it, Wellard?" Archie mused of their most recent journey, turning to look out at the passing scenery of farmhouses, trees and stone fences as they passed out of Portsmouth.
"No, no it wasn't," Wellard agreed. "It was most agreeable."
Both men had had their own reservations and apprehensions before boarding the Armageddon, Wellard more so because of the abuse he had suffered at the hands of his former captain, James Sawyer, and his unwillingness to experience a similar struggle all again. The boy had suffered quite a trauma from that ordeal, and had been left with a keen nervousness for superiors. But all fears had been put to rest. Much to his relief, the men under him had fully accepted –he would be the first to admit that he had pretensions about their reaction to him as a new lieutenant after having experiences the gross disrespect shown by many sailors aboard the Renown of whom he was in charge. The Captain of the Armageddon was very much unlike Sawyer had been. There was no need to fear reprimand for right action taken, and their fellow officers were friends, not spies. Both had found their captain very agreeable, and most of the crew amiable. Their Captain, Wentworth, was a good man—a fighting man—quick carry out justice for wrongdoing, although sure to listen to every perspective before reaching a decision.
"Have you told the wife of your plans to move to a townhouse?"
"Not yet, but I've informed Mr. and Mrs. Hempsy that Lottie will only need to stay with them—I daresay—a month or two longer," the boy responded, somewhat excitedly.
"That felt good, didn't it?" asked Archie kindly, and he saw his friend swell a little with pride that so rarely graced his face, it would scarce be considered in any way a sin.
"Yes… yes it did," said the lieutenant quietly, very much enjoying the fact that for the first time in his entire life, he had money, and what's more—a beautiful wife to impress with the things he could buy. Never before had he known what it was like to not be particularly worried about what the future would bring financially. For the time being, he was a well-off gentleman.
Lottie was busy at work in Southampton. It had neared the time when business was beginning to slow down for the day, as the late afternoon set in. Soon enough though, evening would slowly creep in over the city and those wanting their supper would fill the tavern once again. Thus, all the hands about the tavern were busy in preparation, despite the lack of present customers. The serving girl wiped off what she thought had to be the fiftieth dish she had dried that day, and peeked around the corner of the kitchen. People slowly filtered in and out of the tavern's dining area and trudging up the stairs to their beds or out to the streets.
"Lottie?" Bridy called from the other room, and the girl placed the now dry dish on the counter before answering. Lottie walked into the other room, finding Bridy chopping carrots for the stew that was starting to bubble in a large pot hanging over the kitchen's fireplace.
"Yes, Bridy?" she answered brightly, and the woman gave her a tired smile.
"See those, there?" she asked, jabbing her head in direction she wanted Lottie to look. The girl looked, and saw two large cloth bundles "Would you mind taking them to the back alley? They're rags."
Lottie did not particularly like the back alley. It was always dim and dreary, no matter what time of day it was. Although it wasn't a very far journey—just past the next few buildings there was a small alley that led to a narrow road behind the tavern—Lottie always tried to make it a hasty one. Nevertheless, she picked up the two bundles and made her way back to the kitchen, pushing open the the door and making her way to the coat rack, where she had hung her hat and cloak. This was one of the chores she took on for Bridy. She would leave the rags in the alley, and someone would collect them early the next morning.
Evening was fastly approaching as Lottie made her way to the back alley. It was quite cold out, and Lottie hastily dropped the bundles along the wall, observing that the other shops had done the same. She began to make her way back to the inn, when an odd feeling passed over her, as if someone else was watching her.
Glancing behind her, she saw no one. The alley was dim and dreary—but it was also empty. Feeling a little silly, and thinking herself merely paranoid, she turned back around, only to stop. There was an observer—she had not been mistaken. A man was staring at her, leaning against the side of wall, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his rather odd coat. In fact, every bit of him was unsettling to Lottie. It wasn't that he was dirty, or unpleasant-looking. It was rather, well, Lottie couldn't quite put her finger on it. Deep down, somewhere beneath the layer of lies and false memories this time had pressed upon her, she knew that once, some time ago, to her those clothes were normal, not odd.
But the girl did not realize this, or recognize the clothes remotely. Rather, the girl was unnerved at the sight of him.
He smiled at her, in what perhaps was an attempt at a friendly smile, but in her confusion and state of increasing anxiety, and in her distressed mind, Lottie could only be reminded of the various drunks grins as they tried to grab her as she passed by their tables, trying to sweet-nothing and wink their way into getting her to give them another drink, along with other things she never would consent to. And at this moment, Lottie realized it would soon be getting dark, and that it would be a rare occurrence for anyone to pass by after the sun had set. She suddenly felt very alone, and very vulnerable.
Without thinking, the girl ran, past the man, down the narrow road, and out back into the street. It wasn't that she was awfully afraid, for she knew that if it was necessary, she could defend herself. Or at the very least, not go down without putting up a fight. Lottie had never considered herself a very strong person, neither of physical character nor of personality. Bridy had taught her a few things—about men, and about avoiding certain, well, experiences that were possible to occur to a girl if a customer got a bit handsy while she was serving him. Lottie felt safer with this knowledge, and she did not often fear when she was out and about. This time, however, Lottie was nearly unnerved with fright.
Once arriving safely back onto the open streets of Southampton, Lottie exhaled, much calmer than before. Seeing people with some familiarity about them comforted her, but that did not keep her from walking as briskly as she could back to the inn. The odd man's face and attire lingered in her mind, and a crippling fear overtook her. It was a strange feeling, one she hadn't felt in a very long time, possibly ever. She was suddenly cold, but not from the chilly breeze and the few flakes of snow that had begun to fall onto the cobbled road below. For the first time since her settlement her in England, she felt out-of-place, as if she didn't truly belong here. As if she was a stranger, an outsider so rudely Self-consciousness seeped through every pore in her body, so much so she wondered why no one was noticing her, or seeing that she looked as strange as she felt.
For the next hour, Lottie went about her duties as normal, keeping herself busy by serving the customers who had arrived for the evening meal. This put the jarring encounter she had experienced in the alleyway out of her mind almost completely. Most of her work went smoothly, and the sailors and regulars all seemed to be in joyous spirits.
She leaned against the counter, setting down her tray and passing several empty jugs to Bridy so she could fill them. The girl enjoyed this brief respite from her work, and glanced around the noisy room.
"Lot of navy boys here tonight," Lottie remarked to her friend, having noticed the many blue uniforms that decorated the tables. She, in vain, could only dream that one of them belonged to Lieutenant Henry Wellard.
"Lads must be on their way home to wives and sweethearts," Bridy replied, sharing a hopeful smile with Lottie, knowing how much she missed her companion. The girl couldn't help it, the prospect of Wellard being home in time for Christmas this year for excited her exceedingly, even if it only was a faint, desperate wish which in all likelihood would not come true.
The woman's eyes moved to look to someone over Lottie's shoulder. Something about her expression changed, and Bridy shied her eyes downward, hiding the small smile playing on her lips, and turned and walked quickly back to the kitchen from whence she had came. This smile did not go unnoticed by the attentive Lottie.
Her confusion evident at her friend's sudden departure, she called after her, "Bridy, what-
"Oh!" the girl cried out suddenly as strong arms pulled her up off of the ground, spinning her in a circle before setting her back down gently. Turning, she saw Wellard's smiling face, and her fear instantly melted. Lottie let out a shriek of surprise, which soon spilled over to bubbly laughter. It was contagious, his enthusiasm, and she felt herself matching his smile with a brilliant one of her own.
Wellard grinned sheepishly, not having meant to scare her. Expressions of her happiness overflowed, and she placed both her hands on his face, scarcely believing it to be him. The boy stooped down to meet the shorter girl, closing the distance between them, and they embraced, Lottie nearly suffocating him.
"Easy, now," he teased her, and his wife relaxed her grip, coloring slightly. Wellard did wish to kiss her, but he knew that such behaviors were best left out of the public-eye, and thus he refrained, though he did glance sneakily down at her lips. Lottie, catching his gaze, raised an eyebrow. That will come later, dear, her eyes seemed to say.
Only the promiscuous dared to show such displays of affection in public. Aboard the Renown, and later the Retribution on their way to England, the rules had been more relaxed, to put it simply, when it came to the relationship between the men and women aboard. The looseness of these regulations was evident when it came to the frequent embraces and caresses passed between the lieutenants and the females, all done without fear of the observer reporting such acts, or of a bad opinion of their character forming. One could hardly blame them—two couples were recently married, and the third eagerly engaged. There was a side of Wellard who thought sociality and formality be damned—he was going to kiss his wife as he pleased, and when he pleased. The other, as a naval officer, and a young gentlemen, was able to resist such temptations for the sake of propriety.
Lottie dabbed hastily at her eyes with the corner of her apron, which had swelled with tears of joy. There had been very few moments that Lottie had truly felt happy these last few months—now was one of them. Being excited and slightly shocked at his sudden arrival, it was all she could do to get out a sensible, coherent sentence. And there were many of them, all questions and comments that Wellard had a difficult time understanding. A few of her inquiries were answered; when he had docked, how long his furlough was. She did wish he had written ahead, he had caught her so miserably unprepared. In her serving apron and everything! What a sight she must be.
Wellard did not care about appearances—he was just glad to see her, no longer having to console himself with written words, and a voice procured by his imagination. Although, it was slightly amusing to him that she seemed to think it so very distressing that he saw her in an apron. It was, after all, what was required of her job. The first time he had seen her, the quality of dress had been severely compromised by the rain, wind, and conditions she had been embarked upon and the journey she had endured. And the first time he had seen her, he thought her most beautiful.
"Lottie," he interrupted her musings and excuses, and at once his wife stopped her chatter, embarrassed.
"Oh, it is so good to see you!" she cried, her bright eyes welling once again with tears. Wellard took her small hands in his his, bringing them to his face.
"How I've missed you, my dear friend," he said in response, and dared to kiss her fingers. She giggled girlishly, pulling away.
"Where has my mind gone! You've taken it clear away," said Lottie, as it occurred to her that Wellard must have traveled all day in an uncomfortable coach in order to get here, and that he had probably scarce eaten since early that morning. Surely he would be hungry—no, famished—by now. She glanced up at him, apologetic, "You must be hungry, I'll get you something."
Wellard immediately felt regretful as her hands left his, but he did not utter a complaint as Lottie brought out a bowl of soup and a large slice of buttered bread on a tray, feeling suddenly the emptiness of his stomach that had been increasingly hard to ignore for the last few hours, but had been overlooked entirely after the excitement of being once again in the company of his bride. He had eaten here many a time before, and he smiled affectionately at Bridy, who returned the glance and swiftly walked back in the kitchen. She was a kind soul, and Wellard liked her. Though she was not that much older than him, she mothered him, worse than Lottie, much like a hen—and he the chick.
From afar, Bridy watched from the reunited couple, as the girl laughed, and the boy smiled. She had been young like that once, it felt so very long ago. Once she had known what it was like to wait for weeks, months at a time for the loved one to come home. It made her happy in her heart to see the two of them, for so often she had been the same, waiting the return of her military husband, always on duty it seemed. With such short respites in between long absences, and no matter how much the phrase "absence made the heart grow fonder" rang true, it caused so much worry and grief she was selfishly happy when her husband had suffered an injury preventing him from leaving her again.
Lottie stayed with her husband until he had finished eating, and then the couple separated, clasping hands once again which the boy again then dared to kiss. Wellard returned reluctantly to the rooms upstairs to await her, where his wife promised to later join him, after having finished her work. It wouldn't be too much longer, she promised. And yes dearest, I will hurry.
Lottie dazedly walked back into the kitchen, and made her way to the sink, where she beginning to wash the dishes that Wellard had used. Bridy noticed her lack of concentration, and smiling slightly, she addressed her.
"You forget, Lottie, that I am also the wife of a husband who left for long periods of time," Bridy said teasingly, wiping the inside of a glass dry with her rag.
Lottie's face turned crimson, knowing that Bridy knew exactly the only thing on Lottie's mind, plaguing her thoughts and preventing her from doing her job as attentively as she usually did. She knew the only thing that Lottie would concentrate on—her one goal, desire, secret wish of the night would be to return to Wellard.
"He—he can wait," she answered half-heartedly. The truth was, yes, she was dying to be left alone with him—there was so much to say to him, after all the time that had passed—but she knew there were things that would keep her busy here for at least another hour. There was still more dishes to wash, and other chores as well that needed attending to. As much as she wanted to drop everything and fall into Wellard's arms, she did have a job that provided a place for them to stay. Duties came first, and she knew he understood.
"Can he, now?" Bridy asked, and the smile in her eyes told Lottie that her friend understood everything all too well. Lottie ducked her head, bashful, and focused on wiping the countertop in front of her.
"He knows I have work to do," she said softly.
For a baited moment, Bridy was silent, and watched the girl squirm under her gaze. "Oh, go on!" her friend finally whispered, and Lottie looked up, puzzled.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"Go on upstairs to him, I can finish here," she explained, and Lottie sighed gratefully.
"Are you sure?" she asked, not wanting to inconvenience her friend. After all, she had a life as well, and surely her own activities she wanted to pursue that evening.
"You would do the same for me, if our situations were switched, I know you would,' Bridy reiterated, and Lottie clasped her friend's hands gratefully.
"Thank you, Bridy," she said, her eyes earnest, before rushing out of the kitchen.
"Make him behave, now," called Bridy after her, catching her towel across the back of Lottie's dress as she made her way out of the kitchen and up to her awaiting husband.
Later into the night, Wellard and Lottie stayed awake, despite the increasing lateness of the hour, hidden away in the sanctuary they had made using the bed's sheets and quilts to drape around them like a tent. Candlelight bounced around the room as the flames flickered and danced from three lit candles on the nightstand. Their conversation was seamless, although every so often, a kiss or caress would serve as an appropriate interruption. The two conversed in whispers like excited children, although for their hushed tones there appeared to be no real reason. It was highly unlikely anyone to awaken even if they resumed talking at a normal volume, and they surely did not fear a reprimand for not being asleep. It had become a habit when they were together—to speak softly. Aboard the Renown, and later aboard the Hotspur, they had learned it was better to whisper at night, as people were always sleeping on the ship, and it was best not to give the sailors an excuse to eavesdrop, or the surrounding officers to become intrusive.
Wellard told her of the chance meeting of old friends in Portsmouth, and the conversation it had spurred. "Archie has invited us to stay at his house for the holidays. Dare I say we accept his invitation?" Wellard asked his wife, and Lottie squealed as he reached out and fingered her side, tickling her.
"Of course we do," she answered, after having sufficiently swatted Wellard's fingers away, simulating annoyance by glaring at him. For a moment, she allowed herself to relish in the excitement of a holiday without work, away from Portsmouth, and the inn, and the city. Her smile flickered, "I do hope Bridy won't require my service over Christmas," she murmured, her eyes hopeful, although not naïve of the rareness of achieving time away from her services, and the busyness that the season ensued.
Wellard eased her worries, knowing that he had already informed Bridy that Lottie's services would be greatly compromised after his return home, and eventually impossible after he purchased a house. There was hardly ever a time that Lottie asked for a favor, much less for time for her own leisure. And this was a special occasion. He would convince Bridy, he was sure of it.
"You need worry about that, trust me," he assured her, smiling faintly at the thought of Lottie's reaction if she were to know that soon, Bridy would no longer require her services ever again. Soon, she would leave this inn, and this small room behind.
"Do you know something I don't?" Lottie asked suspiciously, noticing his nearly mischievous smirk, and the boy's eyes shifted slightly, a hint of playfulness washing his face for a brief moment.
"No, why would you think that?" he replied, pretending to be wounded by the accusation, before he stole a kiss, intending to distract her.
Lottie pulled away, frowning slightly. He knew something, alright. There was some information he had that he wasn't sharing with her. Well, she would get it out of him eventually—one way or another. There were certain methods of extracting things from her husband. A few months into their marriage, Lottie had discovered that Wellard was ticklish—awfully, girlishly ticklish. And when she tickled him, he would giggle manically, in a manner that was not strictly masculine or comely for his sex. Lottie thought it adorable—Wellard thought it mortifying. Needless to say, it was her most rewarding, and least accessed, tool of persuasion she possessed.
"It will be lovely to see them again," Lottie commented, and Wellard hummed in agreement, his eyes shifting downwards before looking back at her. Leaning in, he bent to cup her face in his hands, kissing her while caressing her cheeks with his thumbs. It was clear that he wanted to halt the exchange of thoughts and conversation for something else. The girl smiled against his lips, and Wellard drew away only for a moment before returning, elongating his previous buss.
Eventually, Lottie's eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, the candle on the windowsill beyond flickered, and a shadow flittered across the pane. The girl pulled away from the boy, distracted by the shadow, and frowned slightly, although Wellard's lips followed in protest, grazing her jawline. Lottie was reminded of the man earlier, in the alleyway—of his smile, as if he knew her, and his clothes, so strange and different from hers. The candle continued to cast odd shadows around the room, and for a moment, Lottie felt afraid—not as much for her own safety as for the strange sensation that the man had left her with.
"Are you alright, Lottie?" Wellard asked her, realizing his wife was no longer returning his kisses. Lottie was staring oddly at the windowed wall behind him, jarred from her thoughts, a mist hanging over her expression. She shook herself, turning to look at her husband, who was frowning slightly, concern lighting his brown eyes. She considered avoiding the truth, or perhaps not telling him at all—this was, after all, different than ordinary thoughts she shared with him—but then decided that there was no advantage in hiding the odd sensation she was feeling.
"Oh," she shrugged it off apologetically, intending to relieve her husband's concern, "It's just that sometimes, I get the feeling that I... that I don't belong here," she confessed, and Wellard translated this into meaning her American heritage, and rather different upbringing than those she was surrounded by.
America must be vastly different from Britain, after all the things Lottie had told him. Those yankees had strange taste in music for one, both melodies and lyrics, which Wellard had dubbed "Lottie's strange songs", classifying every stray tune and hum from Lottie's mouth that he—or any other English fellow—had never heard before. Wellard felt horrible sometimes after learning of all the conveniences Lottie had available to her in America. It seemed that previous to her marriage to him, she had never had to wash, cook, or clean—Bridy had taught her everything. Lottie had never said this, but the boy often felt that by marrying him, the girl had traded riches for rags. This made him feel horribly guilty at times, and sometimes he felt that he did not deserve her as his wife, although Lottie reassured him constantly that she couldn't be happier.
Wellard's brow furrowed, and he kissed her forehead. "Nonsense," he said, kissing her cheek, "You belong here," he kissed her other cheek, "With me," he emphasized, and Lottie giggled faintly, bringing a smile to Wellard's face, "Always," he finished, his voice barely above a whisper, kissing the top of her nose.
Eventually, the couple had to accept defeat—not all stories of Wellard's travels on the high seas could be broached tonight, neither could all of their secrets or sweet nothings be emptied from their souls. The couple shifted to lay down beside each other as drowsiness ebbed away at their energy as they told each other of the tales of far and of home.
Wellard held his wife, wrapping his arms securely around her waist and nuzzling his head between her shoulder and and neck. During his previous visits, he had left continually concerned, for he had realized when he wrapped his arms around her as they slept how thin she was becoming. Upon his return months ago—just for those two, beautiful days with her—he had noticed it then. In attempts to remedy this clear sign of impending illness, when they were together at meals he always gave her a seconding helping when her plate was nearly empty, sometimes giving her his own food, claiming that he himself was not hungry enough to finish it. Lottie laughed—always laughed—asking if he was trying to fatten her, and he would smile sheepishly, coloring slightly, because that was exactly his intent.
Although, she seemed to think it so unhealthy, to be fat. It was odd, this perception, to Wellard—who associated plump cheeks and rounded stomachs as having enough to eat, as not having to work hard just to survive, as holding desirable status in society, as having wealth. Fat was a symbol of good health, of beauty, in his mind. He did worry for her, as much as she tried to assure him that she was perfectly healthy. She worked too much, he thought, and the weather here was gray and damp more often than not, compared to the sunshine Lottie often reminisced about when speaking of her former life in America.
This time, though, as his arms wrapped around her once again, he noticed there was definitely more to her now—not that she was excessively large by any means—but she was more filled out around her middle. Wellard approved. Perhaps his efforts had not been all for naught.
Which reminded him.
"I have money now, Lottie," he told her sleepily, "Tell me what you desire, and it shall be yours."
"You'll spoil me," Lottie protested, and she laughed softly as Wellard left a gentle trail of kisses down her neck.
"Not possible," he replied earnestly, "You are incapable of being spoiled," he murmured in her ear, a bit tiredly.
Lottie rolled over to face him, looking straight into his brown eyes. "All I want is here now," she said seriously, and Wellard ducked his head, slightly bashful, knowing she meant it completely.
Lottie was disarmingly honest—she always had been. He kissed her softly, grateful for her love and loyalty to him, and she melted quite naturally into his embrace. It was very odd to him to know that Lottie did not seem to care that they were poor. Women, as far as he knew, were very concerned about money and social status, and for good reason. Women with impoverished husbands led laborious, unremitting lives. Unmarried women were worse off—and thus there were few of them. Lottie, very different from most he found, did not seem to mind leading a pinching-pennies lifestyle.
"Remind me to never deny you kisses," Wellard said in response, paused, and then with a mischievous smile, "Or other love-makings," he told her kinkily, and his wife pinched him, to which he responded with an exaggerated cry of pain.
"Go to sleep, naughty boy!" she scolded as she turned her back to him, and Wellard let out a quiet laugh, snaking his arm once more around her waist and pressing her to his chest, and settled down to sleep.
Despite everything, her tiredness, her happiness, the return of her husband, the excitement of the approaching holiday and her joyous news of her pregnancy, Lottie remained awake long after Wellard had fallen asleep, breathing in and out in rhythm. She was left with feelings unconsidered the previous year and a half—old, strange feelings that had been renewed upon the sight of the stranger. Now, they nagged at her insides, keeping her droopy eyes from shutting completely. She was an intruder in this life, an imposter here in 1803—a liar. Charlotte O'Hara did not belong here. She didn't deserve to live this life. She was out of her place, and out of her time.
Cat sat at her home near Tisbury in the front parlor, holding her set of cards neatly in her hand. Her sister-in-law Mary sat opposite her, and frowned thoughtfully as she debated her next move. It had been a slow passing day thus far. The start of the day had been gloomy and dark, although the weather had bettered eventually, and the sun found a way to poke through the ominous, dismal gray. It was the third card game they had played today—and this match was certainly approaching the longest one yet.
The two of them had busied themselves by making decorations out of paper and other materials, and embroidery on pillows, handkerchiefs, and other miscellaneous textiles to be handed out to friends and family as Christmas presents. All in all though, none of this kept them from anxiously awaiting the arrival of the man of the house—Archie Kennedy. He had promised them, upon leaving from a short furlough in September, that he would return in time to celebrate the holiday season in their company. They had laughed, trying not to get their hopes up to high. After all, such a promise was hardly in his power to keep, it depended on much more than his word—the weather for one, as well as the Admiralty's orders, the generosity of his Captain, and the will of the Almighty.
There came a knock at the front door. Not expecting visitors, Cat glanced up from the card game as the butler went to the front door to receive the person of interest. Whoever could it be? A gasp escaped her as she saw none other than her husband, in that familiar lieutenant's hat and cloak, step into the front room. In fact, she would have assumed it to be a figment of her imagination—it was nearly time for afternoon tea, and she was positively peckish—had it not been for Mary, who leapt up from her seat on the sofa.
"Archie!" cried the girl happily, rushing over to embrace her brother. Cat followed quickly in her footsteps, cards completely discarded. No matter, the game had served her better hands in the past, and she would take any excuse to leave it unfinished. Besides, the naval hero who had returned from strange distant worlds afar was far more fascinating than a boorish card game.
"Hello there Pearson," greeted Archie kindly to his chief manservant. Pearson had lived at the Kennedy residence for most of Archie's life. Archie held many memories of Pearson watching or entertaining him as a boy. In some ways, Pearson had been a father figure throughout Archie's life—replacing his biological father after his passing away, and accepting Archie for who he was rather than having an expectation of what he would never be.
"Nice to see you back again, sir," replied the older gentleman warmly, welcoming in the cloaked figure to the corridor adjacent to the front door.
A smile lit up the lieutenant's face as the two girls approached, his bright blue eyes flashing as he whirled his sister around, who reached him first. "Dear sister, you keep growing prettier and prettier—you must put a stop that, or we'll be infested with suitors day and night," he greeted her, planting an affectionate kiss on her forehead.
Mary laughed at his statement, knowing that the jibe was meant to be flattering. "Oh, how lovely it is to see you, dear brother!" she cried, overjoyed at his return. She had never gotten along well with her older sister, always overly concerned with propriety and class and her appearance to other people. Her brother had always been her best friend.
Archie then turned to his wife, who waited patiently for the siblings to greet each other. She knew they had a unique relationship, one that she would never dream of squashing. Cat hugged him, and the couple embraced for a long, weary moment. Archie looked enthusiastic, however, he also looked tired—presumably from the journey home from Portsmouth, which had taken nearly two full days. "Oh, Cat," he sighed. "It is in this moment that I am impressed by how good it is to be home!"
"Come into the parlor, Archie," his wife replied, "Sit by the fireplace. The damp is something terrible out there," Cat said, and helped him remove his thick overcoat and hat, handing them Pearson, whom she shared a smile with.
"Tea, Archie?" Mary offered, and upon her brother's confirmation that yes indeed, he would enjoy a hot cup of tea, and a biscuit too would be lovely, she rushed off to the kitchens, leaving Cat and Archie alone in the parlor. She would leave them alone later as well, Cat knew, for the girl was a sweetheart, a horrible tease as well as a romantic who deeply wished for her own happiness to find her and sweep her off her feet, coming home after traveling the world and falling into his arms. For these reasons, Mary was never a third-wheel, and never hesitated to give the couple their privacy.
Archie entered the parlor, leisurely leaning against the mantle of the fireplace, taking the time to stretch his tired, cold hands that had been nestled in his pockets for most of the journey out from his jacket and towards the warmth of the blazing embers of the fire. Glancing around the room, he saw that the girls had been busy making paper decorations with hung about the room, giving it a childish, and yet, very hopeful holiday spirit. He smiled, noticing the discarded face cards lying down on the parlor table.
"Damn. I interrupted a perfectly good game of cribbage. So sorry to spoil the fun," he commented humorously, achieving a giggle from his female companion.
"No matter, I'm rubbish at cards anyway. Mary beats me every time," Cat replied, stepping close to her husband and reaching for one of his hands, still outstretched towards the fire. Upon grasping her fingers, Archie dove in, catching her lips in his own. He had missed her more than words could say. She was his one and only, the wise advisor, the counselor telling him when his emotions were clouding his judgment.
"I missed you," he told her, and Cat smiled. Archie knew that the sentiment was returned, if not tenfold. The couple embraced, Archie holding firmly his wife by the waist, not intending to let her go anytime in the near future.
Mary soon returned from the kitchen, bearing a tray of scones and hot tea. Archie rubbed his hands together excitedly, eager to drink something to warm his insides. Sitting on the the sofa next to Cat, he accepted the cup Mary handed him from her chair.
"You ladies will never believe the things that I have brought home for you!" Archie stated proudly, after swallowing a rather large gulp of his tea. Setting down the cup, he rushed from his seat to fetch his sea chest, which waited in the hallway.
Playfully, Cat and Mary voiced their parts, oo-ing and ah-ing over each item procured from the sea chest. Numerous items of dazzlement were drawn from his trunk. A variety of new, foreign spices from lands afar, a shiny piece of Chinese jade for Mary, an assortment of foreign money of which none of them could identify as to its place of origin, and clean, white paper, and German pencils for Cat.
"Christmas has come early!" Mary exclaimed, holding her presents to her chest with gratitude. Cat held the strange stone in her hand, admiring it for it glossy tone. She kissed her husband on the cheek, thinking him to be very sweet indeed. He was always thinking of them, no matter what goods he was presented with. Many a sailor would have jumped at taking all prize money they could, saving it for themselves, rather than spending it on traded goods for the benefit of their families. Truth be told, Archie just liked seeing them happy. He wasn't personally interested in the objects that money could buy for himself—it was much more valuable to witness the smiles on their grateful faces. He loved the way their faces lit up at the sight of the strange objects before them. And he wasn't going to lie—the appreciative kisses he received from his wife in return weren't all that bad either.
"Right, then... speaking of Christmas, I invited a few of our fellow friends over for the holiday season," Archie said, clapping his hands together with a tinge of nervousness. It was not that he feared the women facing him. He was the man of the house, and they trusted his decisions.
It wasn't that Cat held him in subordination—nor was he afraid of her wrath as some husbands feared their wife's strife. It was just that Cat usually expressed slight irritation, even perplexity, when Archie would impulsively invite friends or cohorts for dinner, or worse yet—when the couple would be expected to appear at an outing. Cat couldn't help it, Archie knew, she called herself an introvert—and he, apparently, was classified as an extrovert. These opposing personalities meant that his people skills were not always appreciated, nor were his sporadic invites, parties, and dinners readily accepted.
His wife's eyes narrowed, and at first, she couldn't help but be slightly suspicious it was one of her husband's charity-cases. Archie had a habit of forming relationships with people who well, frankly, needed help, and Cat suspected did nothing more than leech off his happiness. He just couldn't help it, he was a rescuer—he was constantly looking for people to save. Wellard she supposed had been the exception—the boy and Archie had been very close, now that Horatio and Bush had somewhat partnered in their naval careers. Though one could argue that their friendship had saved one another from loneliness. All four were still close friends, of course—that would never change. However, certain undying kinships had emerged between the pairs due to their frequency at which they saw one another.
"Who, who?!" called Mary excitedly from the other room, quickly reappearing to sit back again on the sofa after hiding away her presents in her desk drawer, hands clasped under her chin.
"Mister and Misses Wellard and Bush and Hornblower," he said, trying to gauge his wife's reaction. Her eyes widened, and surprise was quickly followed by giggles and sounds of excitement. Cat kissed her husband's cheek, delighted.
"Oh it will be wonderful to see them! They are so amiable and handsome fellows," Mary cooed, holding a hand to her cheek cutely.
"They're also married fellows," Cat reminded her, and the girl sighed, as if begrudgingly acknowledging this disappointing and boorish fact. Archie laughed at his sister's reaction. She was growing up much too fast.
Later that night, as he and his wife prepared for bed, Archie nervously fiddled with the ties of his shirt. "You're not cross with me for inviting them without your foreknowledge, are you Cat?"
His wife looked mildly surprised. "Goodness no, Lord knows they needed to get out of the house for a change. Especially Lottie, poor dear. And Amy needs some fresh air." Cat enjoyed infrequent visits from her friends. Though she was a bit of a worrier when it came to having company, of which she would be the first to admit. Preparing herself mentally and her house in order to please her guests caused her a great deal of anxiety. She was introverted by nature, and would much rather spend her evenings reading by candlelight than entertaining pleasant and rich guests over wine and dinner.
The two retired to the bed. Archie, now more alert after having eaten a substantial meal, was quite in the mood to chatter away about his voyage and its many successes, needing no inspiration from Cat, who told him,
"And tell me, fair sailor, what was your journey like this time?" As was her usual open-ended question upon the return of her husband.
Archie was more than happy to relate to her his journey aboard the Armageddon, setting the scene with wild colors, voices, and noise of a ship setting sail for places unknown. He rambled, flitting from one story to the other like an excited child. There was, after all, so many things to say. Everything became relevant to everything as one fact blurred into the other. Cat listened all the while, a slightly amused expression on her face as she rested her chin on her forearms, interested although growing steadily tireder and tireder as the conversation wore on.
"Captain Wentworth is a good Captain—young, but able to inspire so much loyalty out of his men, nearly like… Sawyer," Archie mused, murmuring the name of the lunatic he so hardly ever gave a passing though. At the mention of the deceased, a sudden darkness seemed to sweep over him and Cat, submerging them in the shadows of past events best forgotten.
Quickly shaking off the vibe the dead former captain of the Renown had spread over them, he moved on to a lighter topic. "The things that were on those ships, Cat—stuff I'd never seen before! And so much of it, all stuffed into their holds. There was a monkey, a little primate who had an apple in his mouth," Archie smiled, remembering the strange companion of one of the French sailors they had taken prisoner after commandeering their ship. This memory spurred another, an explanation.
"The French never saw us coming, we hit him right where they least expected, they were completely unprepared for us, that's what we Union Jacks do in the navy, I supposed," he spoke none too pridefully, remembering the bravery and loyalty with which his men had fought.
Yes. He was correct to deem the Armageddon unlike the Renown in many ways. Of course there was punishment and wrongdoing aboard the ship, but unlike his previous commander, Captain Wentworth seemed only think it necessary to carry out a punishment And instead of poking fun making jabs at either his officers' lack of experience or perhaps misguided opinion, he encouraged their advice and input. Archie new he would grow as a leader, and as a man, under his new Captain. Though part of him had been envious when William Bush had been chosen by Horatio as first officer aboard the Hotspur, Archie realized now that no distance or promotion would ever sever their friendship, and although he hadn't known it at the time, his situation as a mentor to Wellard aboard the Armageddon was immensely worthwhile and a choice that he was very grateful for.
Cat stifled a yawn behind her hands in an attempt to hide her tiredness, being lulled by the hypnotic baritone of her husband. Archie noticed.
"I'm boring you," he said matter-of-factly, not offended by his wife's display of boredom, although eager to tease her.
"No!" his sleepy wife protested, "Not at all, it's just been a long day, and there's been so much excitement, and your voice is so—
"Boring," he interjected, a childish grin on his face, and Cat shoved him, letting out a faint laugh.
"Not boring! I was going to say soothing," she offered tiredly, with a slight smile on her face, knowing that this battle could not be won by her. Her husband was both more quick-witted and awake than she.
"Which also translates to mean boring, I've heard," he contended, but jest filled every part of him, and Cat knew this, and she responded by snuggling up close to her husband in order to shush him.
The couple quieted, and lapsed into sleepy silence. Archie stroked his Cat's hair which cascaded onto his shoulder in long brown locks, as he contemplated the few short weeks that lay ahead of him before being reunited with his naval friends and their brides for what would surely be a joyous Christmas. Husband and wife fell asleep as the first flakes of snow of the season began to fall beyond the glassy curtain and frosted window of their bedroom. The holiday was indeed coming to town—and he, Lieutenant Archie Kennedy, at last, was home to share it with those whom he held most dear.
It was the last show of the season, ending what had been very tiresome week for Amanda Galloway. Each night Amy had stayed out late into the evening and each morning she had gotten up early to go to the theatre, where all day preparations and rehearsal would take place in anticipation of the evening performances. Before achieving her first role with this theatre—a minor role, but no matter, a role was a role—she had forgotten how exhausting acting was. It was then she had recalled that someone once said to her that acting was harder work than building a house due to the fact that it was an emotional transformation—not just a physical one. She couldn't help but agree with whoever had said this. During each production, she felt she would surely die—either from the collapse of her sanity from the busyness the theatre provoked, or from the sheer pressure she felt in memorizing cues, lines, and direction. And yet, at the end of every performance, somehow, it was all worth it—the agony, the waiting, the sleep-deprivation—for the few nights in front of the spotlight, in which she was not herself, but someone entirely different.
Amy sat backstage in the dressing room, bringing herself out of her momentary revery she looked at herself in the mirror. The makeup caked on her face felt greasy, certainly clogging every pore of her skin. Her eyes were heavily lined with black, her lips and cheeks scarlet beyond belief. Only after being subjected to this had she understood why so many people said that cosmetics were only for hussies.
Amy picked up a dampened cloth from her dressing table and began to wash her face, dipping the cloth in the a basin and then wiping her face. It felt freeing, removing the mask of line, definition, and color from her features—like the time when she and her friends Lottie and Cat had bathed for the first time in what had been months aboard the Renown. Amy smiled to herself, remembering a time that the three of them had been together continually, without the restrictions of location, occupation, or responsibility to keep them from one another. Now they were all separated.
All of them had their own lives to attend to. It had become difficult for the three of them to see one another, considering how spread out they all were across England. To make up for their lack of visual contact, they continuously wrote letters to each other. The last of which had been an invitation for Amy and Lottie the two girls to come to Tisbury for Christmas. At once, Amy had eagerly written back, accepting the invitation.
That letter however, was not the most recent one Amy had received. Sitting on the table was a letter from William Bush, her husband. It was a short, informative note, that he would be home within the week and that the four couples, Cat and Archie, Lottie and Henry, Horatio and Maria, Amy and himself were to spend Christmas together. Amy had read and reread that letter so many times that the creases where the paper had been folded had begun to tear already. She was terribly excited to know that all of them would be together again, and for Christmas!
Maria was the newest addition to the group, so-to-speak. She was the wife of Horatio Hornblower and had just married earlier that year. The Hornblowers and the Bushs had dined together on several occasions, though Horatio did not seem too fond of the idea of sharing Bush's company with his wife—which Amy thought rather selfish of him. Amy liked Maria, and thought her to be a rather sad and timid individual, however kind and thoughtful. Her mother, however, was a different story. The older woman seemed to have a dislike for Horatio, despite his many generosities to both she and her daughter. Amy thought her rather spiteful, and much preferred the company of Maria.
There was a knock on the door and one of the girls working at the theatre came in.
"Yes, Kitty?" Amy inquired.
"Miss, there's an admirer to see you."
Amy sighed, "Send him away, I am ever so tired and am in no state to see anyone right now."
Kitty nodded and exited the room again. Looking about herself Amy began to gather her belongings and prepare for the journey home. She had become resigned to the fact that she would have to walk home alone in the dark again. It was supposed to be the job of Tom, William's younger brother, to make sure that she got home safely. But being the irresponsible boy that he was, he neglected this duty daily. Thus, the burden had fallen to Colin—sweet boy! Amy smiled at the thought of him, who upon feeling concerned for her wellbeing, had taken it upon himself to escort her home nearly every evening, despite it being in the opposite direction for his own journey home.
Amy was nearly ready to leave when Kitty came in again.
"Sorry to disturb you Miss, but the man is quite insistent. He says that he won't leave until he's had a chance to speak with you."
Amy closed her eyes tiredly, very much used and rather annoyed by the attention of the cat-callers and coquettish audience members, and nodded her head."Fine," she agreed impatiently. "Send the man in, but make it very clear that he only has five minutes before he will be shown the door."
"Right, Miss," Kitty responded, then turned and left the room.
Perhaps it was vanity, but Amy had grown tiresome of the men who came to pay her compliments. Sitting on her table were several vases of flowers, each from some admirer. She thanked them all for their flattery and found their attention pleasantly surprising—if not a tad amusing—but the only man she now wished to see was her husband. It had been months since she had last seen him, which was an awful long time. While William had been unemployed during the peace, Amy had grown accustomed to Bush being home with her. Now that the war with France had again resumed its usual discourse, he was gone for considerable periods of time. Amy found she hated war.
Amy was sitting on her velvet pedestal when the door opened for the third time that evening. She turned to see who the gentleman might be. In strode the tall decorated figure of William Buh. The actress's eyes widened in disbelief.
"William," she breathed. And with that she ran and embraced the man. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. It had been so long since he had held his wife, smelled her perfume or ran his fingers though her dark wavy hair.
She pulled away and looked up into his face. "You said you would be home within the week! I received that letter only yesterday, and didn't expect you home until Saturday!" she gushed, over-joyed with the surprise return of her husband.
"I got in a sooner than I was expecting," her husband replied simply. "I figured that it was a waste of good parchment to send you a letter, when I would be seeing you this very evening."
"But," Amy tried to interject, only to be ignored by Bush—who was not keen on his thought process being interrupted by his wife.
"And I thought that since I'd be home early that I might as well see your last performance… and give you this." Bush pulled out a small leather pouch and gave it to Amy. She looked at it with curiosity and began to open it. "It is from America. We were there for a brief amount of time on our last voyage. I thought you might like a little piece of your former country."
Amy reached into the bag and pulled out a necklace. It was a black beaded choker with a crystal like setting on the front. She turned it over in her hands a few times before finally looking up.
"William," she began, "It's beautiful." Impulsively, she reached up and kissed him full on the mouth. He was always thinking of her. America. Although she knew deep within herself, beneath the forgotten truths and believed lies, that the America she had been born in and the America William had visited were too vastly different worlds, to the consciousness of which she was aware, they were the same. And any small gem of her faraway "home" she would never again be acquainted with was welcome.
He smiled down at her. "It would go very nicely with that red dress of yours. I was hoping that before I left again that you would wear it for me."
A grin slid onto Amy's face. The dress in which he was referring was the one she had gotten on her first visit to Plymouth. It was a burgundy dress with black bows down the bodice and bits of lace on the ends of the sleeves. This was the very dress she had worn when they had been married. Oh the look on Horatio's face as he preformed the ceremony had been simply entertaining! She knew she looked more than pleasing in that garb. How could she refuse such a flattering request?
"Well, perhaps if you are very good to me," she said slyly, pretending to mull over the request hesitantly.
"As I always am," he argued.
"Then possibly I will find some time to grant your request."
William knew this to mean she would wear them. Amy had always been a tease and a shameless flirt—this moment was no exception.
Seeing as the night was still young, and upon Bush's insistence that his journey from Portsmouth had not sapped him entirely of his energy or tired him out completely, the couple made plans to the theater and conjoin at a nearby tavern for a late dinner. Dessert, decided Amy, was a high priority, as she was finally done with her stressful—though rewarding—rehearsals and performances.
Nodding to Colin, who stood by the door and bid the couples goodnight, Bush exited the theatre with his wife at his side. He watched as his breath fogged in the air. It was certainly cold out. Their boots crunched under the snow, a layer had fallen the night before and covered the streets. A lamppost was lit not too far ahead of them, and two men hung about it, talking beneath its light.
"We've been invited to share Christmas with the Kennedy's," Bush told her, his breath fogging in the air. In spite the frigid air, the couple remained happy and warm.
Amy gasped, "That's wonderful! I do wish to see them again."
"The Wellards will be joining us. Horatio is coming, and bringing Maria with him," Bush said tentatively, and Amy raised her eyebrows.
"So he's finally letting her out of the house, is he?" she began, her voice laden with sarcasm. Amy adored Horatio—he was a real cutie, after all, despite his quirky awkwardness and sometimes harsh honesty. That said, Amy would loudly and proudly proclaim whenever a woman was not being treated as she should. This day and age valued different things—some better, some not—and although Amy had adjusted, her outspokenness for female injustice would not be quieted by 19th century values, no matter how many times they had been instilled.
Bush just gave her a pleading look, one that Amy couldn't help but laugh out loud at. He knew what was sure to follow her
Instead, Amy decided to hold her tongue—just this once. "I'm glad you're home love," Amy said warmly, snuggling up to her husband. He returned the sentiment, patting her arm affectionately.
"Me too, Amy—me too," he said, contented as he took in the scenery around him—the seasonal decorations, the warm candlelight glow shining through frosty glass windows, the faint smells and sounds of a buzzing city preparing for the holiday ahead. He glanced down at Amy's face, her cheeks and nose already turning bright pink from the winter air. Quickly, lest she try to escape or preform and shenanigans, he leaned down to kiss her.
But Amy was faster, and placed a finger over her husband's lips, playfully blocking his attack. "William—we simply must discuss your brother Thomas."
William Bush sighed, and proceeded to open the door to the eatery at which they had arrived. Some things would never change. Oh well. He knew how to shut her up.
Holy crap. That was one big butt chapter. Did anyone like it? Leave me a review and let me know! Chapter 4 should be up much sooner... as it is not nearly as long as this monstrosity.