Mrs. Forster laughed uproariously, playfully swatting Lydia in mock rebuke as the gathered officers smiled.
"Oh Mrs. Chamberlayne, how dull we would be without you," she said, still laughing.
The officer's approving gazes upon her were as sweetmeats to Lydia, and she lapped up the attention. Brighton was all that she had hoped.
Kitty's eye caught masculine writing on a letter directed to her father, and as soon as he took possession of it, asked him of it.
"I should have to read it, Kitty, before I know," he said in slight reprimand. Impatiently she waited while he carefully opened, sought for his glasses, and at last read it, once then twice.
He smiled at his daughter, amused by her pointless excitement.
"Tis nothing but a letter of thanks for our hospitality," he said, turning it over to her. Catching it up, her eyes alighted on the signature. It was from him. She rushed from the room, carefully clutching her treasure. Her father shook his head. Silly girls, he thought to himself, pouring a brandy.
Kitty read the note over and over, captured first by the evenness and firmness of the writing, then drawn to his words of warm thanks. Though he did not mention her by name, she believed that he meant her to understand how grateful he was for her welcoming of him.
Drifting into thought of how much warmer her welcome was than he knew, perhaps — the possibility that he knew of the pleasure they had shared in the guest room never far from her mind — she carefully stowed the letter in her drawer and withdrew to bed.
His letter brought his slowly fading mental image more sharply before her mind, and she dwelled on his excellence: his firm countenance, his pleasant voice, his steady hands, his commitment to duty. She sighed, wishing that his commitment was not so great that he could not visit. None was proposed in the letter, and she considered asking her father to invite him. But as she had already shared that she expected to be in Pemberley at Christmas and having let slip that the colonel might also be there, she thought it more than likely that her father would say that Christmas was soon enough. And the request might arouse his suspicion, which would be dreadful. She must wait all the long days of summer and fall before she might see him again. Her mind would not admit the possibility that he may be detained, that he would have anywhere else that would draw him, that he would be shivering in a distant camp when Christmas drew nigh. He would be at Pemberley, as would she, and again they could be together.
She thought of finding her way to his room by night again. But she should wake him tenderly, her finger to his lips that he may not shout and wake the house. She thought of his surprised expression, his wonder at seeing her thus alone by his bedside. In imagination, she brought his hand to her breast and bid him cast his mind back to when he held her before. Surprise gave way to recognition sparked by the feel of her body in his hand. Gladly would he take her night dress from her, remove his own shirt and draw her into bed with him. He would tell her that he loved only her and join their bodies together to mark this.
Her hand sought to mimic the feel of his body pressing against her. She had shed her dress and lay upon the bed, imagining his body upon hers, his lips upon hers, moving with a desire heated by his powerful feeling for her.
A sound in the hall startled her and she quickly covered herself. She sighed. Neither in visions nor in real life could they be together.
Captain Wentworth thanked his lieutenant gravely as he stepped out of the longboat onto the Brighton shore, reminding him to keep order when he returned to the Laconia and to send a boat to wait for him – offshore, not to land without his signal – each evening. The man saluted as he affirmed the orders, then quickly had the men row back to their ship.
Wentworth turned to look at the town, adjusting the strange-feeling civilian clothes upon himself. He needed a tavern, full of locals likely to be on intimate, but not friendly, terms with the militia encamped upon them. A tavern full of fishermen seemed to be his best first target, and he made his way toward the gathering of small boats he saw toward the crowded center of the town's shore.
Wentworth scanned the bar's denizens as he stepped inside. He saw no army uniforms, only the salt- and dirt-stained weeds of working men.
Relieved at this sign of fortune's favor, he stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer, then turned to one side to begin quietly observing the men drinking there before choosing his target.
Wentworth let his eyes drift downward as he confessed, "I've wagered more than I can afford to lose that I can pass as an officer of the militia at an assembly here in Brighton."
The fisherman suppressed a smile at the stranger's admission of vulnerability, only a twinkle in his eye showing the humor he found in this gentleman's predicament.
"That weren't wise o' ye, sir," he said, taking another draft of his ale. "These officers here guard their own something fierce. The Prince Regent, himself, goes among them, and they keep a careful watch around the camp."
Wentworth sighed and let his shoulders slump. "Ah, I had not thought of the prince. Surely it will be impossible for anyone to enter the camp."
The fisherman took a pull at his pipe and took a moment to enjoy the man's despair. "Well, happens that the prince isn't always among them. I hears there's to be a dance or something of the sort for some of them newer arrived soldiers. Not the sort of affair to bring the Prince from his own entertainments, from what I hear." The fisherman leered knowingly.
Wentworth allowed hope to light his face. "I had not truly thought to find any man who knew of what goes on inside the camp," he said falteringly.
"Oh, I know what goes on well enough," said the fisherman, thoroughly enjoying the scene.
"But I shall need a uniform, and an officer's uniform at that," Wentworth said, seeming to return to dejection.
"That's even easier. I have a cousin as takes in washing for some of the officers. They pay her little enough, and I'm sure with a little persuasion…"
"If I lose this bet, I lose all. I am prepared to be more than a little persuasive."
The fisherman led him through the noisome streets near the waterfront to where the scent of soap hung heavy enough to conquer the brine.
"Belinda, cousin, this gentleman would like to ask a favor of you," the fisherman said, addressing a woman who stood wringing clothes onto the pavement.
She looked at Wentworth warily, the hands never ceasing their work.
"Aye, and what can I do for you, sir?"
Smiling wanly, Wentworth explained the bet and begged her to let him borrow a uniform for the evening of the dance.
"Of course, whatever you feel is fair for the inconvenience," Wentworth offered.
Need warred with caution. She sensed danger, but the kind of money a gentleman might provide in the course of a caper like this — she had heard tale of the extravagances of the upper classes but never hoped to be the beneficiary of one. She named a price at the upper end of her hopes and saw him conceal a wince, then slowly agree to her terms.
The dance would not be held until the day after tomorrow, and the fisherman would meet Wentworth with the uniform and act as his guide. Wentworth thanked them both effusively, then accompanied the fisherman back to the tavern, which would serve as his headquarters for this adventure.
—
Thank you for reading!
One reviewer made the excellent point that one need not trouble themselves to go to the full, explicit version via Patre()n to know what the characters did. They are entirely correct.
It's *how* they did it that keeps me clicking. ;)