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Chapter 7
"Mary! Mary!" Mrs. Junkins called as she removed her pelisse to the rack near the rear door. Hanging her bonnet and taking down her apron, Beatrice awaited an answer to her call. Mary was a good girl, but much too divertable. She was most likely with Joshua. Once the girl had grown accustomed to his appearance and had learnt to understand his mumbly speech, she had become his shadow.
"I'm here, Ma'am. I'm a comin'" Mary called. She ran into the kitchen, stopping herself just short of bowling her mistress over. Straightening her cap and smoothing her apron, she began, "I was with the Master . . . he is making the whitewash for the walls of my bedchamber . . . he let me pound some of the lime . . . and the wash must be stirred ever so long . . . I shall very much like my sweet little room, I know I will, Ma'am." The girl stood before Beatrice, breathless after her run to the kitchen and such a rattling discourse
Beatrice smiled, glad that the girl would be pleased. Though she thought she might mention to her husband that he take more care in helping Mary keep to her duties, "I am happy that you are pleased, but now it is time to prepare dinner and I need you in the kitchen. The potatoes need tending and did you begin the chine as I asked?" She was afraid for the answer she expected.
"Yes, Ma'am. The Master reminded me just after you left for the Rectory. He said you wished it done directly and I did it." Mary brought a bowl with potatoes and carrots, both to be readied. Seating herself at the table, she began to scrape. "Is Mrs. Wentworth much improved? I was awful worried when word came that she needed you . . . and with the Rector away . . . well . . ."
"Mrs. Wentworth is quite well. And I do not wish to hear any of the gossip as I did on my way out of Church on Sunday morning. It is not our place to judge the Rector and his decisions to do with his household. Mrs. Wentworth was a bit tired and became faint. The midwife has pronounced that all is well today. The lady is to her bed and shall stay there for a short time. Now, Mary, the potatoes and carrots . . . nothing else until you have done them . . . please." Having prepared the gratin of onions and cabbage, Beatrice wiped her hands and left the kitchen to find her husband.
"Mr. Junkins! Are you up there?" She called up the stairs, thinking he must be there since Mary had mentioned whitewash and her bedchamber.
The Junkins had been married just a month, but when they had begun to look for a woman to help in the house, it was clear that there were none willing. The people of Crown Hill were suspicious of Mrs. Beatrice Junkins, she being an American and very beautiful into the bargain, and then there was Mr. Junkins himself.
Mr. Joshua Junkins had been horribly burned when he was thirteen-years-old and by the time he was eighteen, his mother had died and all his brothers and sisters had moved away from Shropshire, leaving Joshua quite alone. He had been injured quite seriously and his body still bore the deep scars of that fire. Miraculously, he had managed to keep himself alive and even prosper by his land. It was not much to look at, but there was a different kind of wealth in the mind of Joshua Junkins. He had used knowledge gleaned from acquaintances he had made through the writing of letters, and with investing small amounts of money here and there was now quite well off. He had met his wife by way of letters also and, for the first time, was experiencing life as God had intended . . . in the company of fellow beings. But there were those in the community that felt he had overreached himself in marrying at all, much less a pretty woman and no amount of looking had brought anyone willing to work for them.
Mary's coming to them had been Providence and both sides were grateful for it. While the Junkins's had looked for a woman to take the job, Reverend Wentworth had thought that a girl might suit. Mary's father was a poor tenant of Bramford Hall who had died during the autumn leaving her and her mother alone. The mother had expected a child at Christmas, but the child came too early, and both had died of fever. Since then, Mary had been shifted from home to home, but no one wished to permanently take an awkward twelve-year-old girl.
The Rector had sat with the Junkins two weeks earlier and asked that they consider Mary. She was young and strong, she could be taught everything just to their liking and they could take satisfaction in knowing that they were giving Mary a place. He explained that the Church could not long keep her, that she would have to go to the orphanage in Shrewsbury. They had excused themselves and talked. Joshua was hesitant, he was not yet accustomed to having a wife with him every moment, the thought of another person in the house was disconcerting. Beatrice was willing and assured Joshua that she would keep the girl so occupied that he would not know she was about.
Upon their word, Reverend Wentworth had fetched Mary and introduced them all. He reminded her of her place and that she would be expected to work very hard and be courteous to her betters. With wide eyes the girl had stared at the disfigured Mr. Junkins and at the beautiful Mrs. Junkins. After one day of near silence, Mary's more friendly nature had come forward and she had chattered with Mrs. Junkins about a variety things. The next day, Mrs. Junkins had left instructions for the girl and had gone to visit the Rector and his wife. That had left Mary alone at the house with the Master.
Joshua had not felt well on that day and so had stayed to a chair before the fire in the front room. As he played at reading, (he knew Mary to be peering occasionally at him through the door), he could hear her footsteps advance and retreat. Deciding that she must be allowed to look closely at him and see that he was not a monster, (as surely she must have heard); he went to the kitchen and began to make himself tea.
The making of tea, in Joshua's mind, was rather like art and he had a particular way he liked it done. Motioning for Mary to watch, he began to show her how he wished for the task to be performed in the Junkins' household. As he worked, he would point to various things and say them for her, almost as though he were teaching her another language, for in all actuality, he was. The fire had left a large scar that encompassed much of the right side of the man's face and had damaged his voice, making it very soft and scratchy. So he could be understood by Mary, he began teaching her his own butchered manner of speaking. Mary, being a bright girl, caught his meanings quickly and within a day or two, the pair could converse quite easily.
After their quiet beginning, Mary and the Master became especially good friends. This was a bother to the Missus as Mary was developing a tendency to neglect the more menial duties put before her. Her excuses always seemed to involve helping the Master do thus or the Master showing her this. Beatrice was of two minds. Mary was a girl they had taken on to help with the household chores, but she had also to take into account that this silly little creature was one of the few people with whom Joshua was comfortable. To forbid their large portions of time together would be terribly cruel. As her husband was just beginning to find his way out of the hermit's lair that had been his life, Beatrice decided it would be best to wait and pray, hoping for Divine inspiration in the matter.
"I am up here, in the Mary's room," Joshua called.
"Before I come up, is there anything I can bring to you, sir?"
"No. Bring yourself and see what I have accomplished this morning." He came to the head of the hallway and beckoned her to come up.
"All right. I expect a great deal . . . since you had much help, I am told," she said as she began up the stairs. Giving him a knowing look, she reached the head of the stairs and together they went down the hall.
A small room off the kitchen would normally have been reserved for Mary, but as the room was full of unpacked barrels and crates brought from America, it was determined that she would have a tiny room at the end of the upstairs hall. While the work on the room was being accomplished, the girl was sleeping on a pallet laid out by the kitchen fire. It was not that the Junkins felt the need to remind Mary of her place, it was that Joshua wanted her to be warm and the kitchen was the warmest room in the house on the cold, late winter nights.
After clearing the spare room of mouse nests and spider webs, and the plaster having been patched, it was now ready for a fresh coat of whitewash. "It should be quite snug with the tiny hearth, though we will have to remind her to be very careful, lest she forget and burn us out. And there is that small rug in the storage room, we can put that down later, before the bed goes up. She has said she is certain to be happy here." Beatrice looked at her husband. He was smiling at the thought of the girl being happy. Mary had had too much unhappiness for someone so young. And too, there had been more than enough unhappiness in this house. Long ago unhappiness, and for too long, silence. Joshua liked the idea of a happy and somewhat noisy little family living under his roof.
For it was a family he thought them to be. He did not view Mary as a serving girl, he had come to see her as . . . he was not certain he could say what place she held, but it was a place he wished her happy.
"I am glad. If it is left to me, I shall do everything I am able to make her so." He stirred the whitewash as he continued to think about Mary.
"Really, sir. You are much too concerned with her," Beatrice said as she took a rag to the sill of the small window looking out over the side yard. "And you are becoming too familiar! She is a serving girl, not family." The perturbed look her comment drew made her know that he still felt differently about the matter. Beatrice knew that her view was not shared by her husband and she elected to not try and change his mind. It might be best to let him coddle her, he has never had anyone care for, certainly never anyone who adores him in the way she does. I love him, but not unabashedly as Mary. "I am sorry, dear. I understand that we are at odds in this." Turning from his bucket of wash as he waited for her to continue while she gently shook out the rag and put it in the pocket of her apron. "I have no objections to her, it is just that I need her mind more to her work. Perhaps if we were to share her . . . I have her mind in the morning and you have it in the afternoon."
Rising, he gave her his usual lopsided grin and catching her hand as she passed by him, he kissed it. This was quite a lot for Joshua, as he was still rather shy about showing her affection. It was still a little startling each morning when he awoke and she was laying next to him! There was the expectation that, as with any dream, when the morning came, she would be gone. But Beatrice was not a phantasm, she was a woman who loved Joshua very much, more than she expected was possible from a woman such as herself.
Mrs. Beatrice Lowell Junkins was a practical woman who, despite a beautiful face, had struggled much in her life. She had spitefully married beneath herself and her family. And to her horror, her family broke with her over the match. When the man proved to be quite cruel to her, there had been no refuge for her anywhere, and so, she had been forced to stay with him.
Mr. Lowell had been a clever man though ill-educated and unable to read. He had invented several mechanical devices which had brought him a modest living. His primary occupation though had been lighthouse tending and so, together they had always maintained a very solitary existence. That had satisfied Mr. Lowell, but Beatrice had been raised in Boston, the daughter of reasonably successful businessman. She had had advantages and society that Mr. Lowell neither cared about or aspired to.
Their solitary life had suited him. He took an unnatural pleasure in having her beauty to himself as he was a jealous and suspicious man. Much of his cruelty had been spawned by her looks and so it was always good for Beatrice when he was gainfully employed at a lighthouse.
Mr. Lowell had died of pneumonia early in the previous year and inasmuch as he and Mr. Junkins had held a long term correspondence, Beatrice had dutifully informed him of her husband's passing, as it was she who had read the letters to Mr. Lowell and wrote the responses to Joshua. When left to themselves, the pair had found much to 'converse' upon and over time, fallen in love. But that was not to say that love had immediately healed all their wounds or that it hadn't brought its own difficulties to the newly married couple.
Mrs. Junkins would be loath to admit that she was forever scarred by her first husband, and to her shame she had been comforted by seeing that Mr. Junkins would be physically unable to harm her, either strength wise or in following after, was she ever to flee him. The scars of her mind she could keep hidden from her husband, and most of those on her body were the same, though with the approach of warmer weather, she feared some that would be impossible to conceal.
Mr. Junkins's difficulties were of a nature that he had not considered until he took a woman to be his wife.
She kept hold of his hand for a moment and raised it to her cheek. They were still quite awkward with one another and any show of affection on his part was greatly welcomed by her. Beatrice was determined to be patient and until he was more comfortable, she would be cheerful and show him all the care she might were they completely ordinary. "I love you, sir," she murmured, feeling the roughness of his hand against her cheek. He had worked hard all of his life just to stay alive, now he worked hard out of habit.
Joshua was uneasy with her expressions of love for him, and her beauty was still intimidating to him but he wanted her to know what he felt. Moving closer to her, he turned his hand and cupped her face in it. Feeling her hair with the tips of his fingers, he brushed the lobe of her ear with his thumb. Still holding his hand, she closed her eyes and he heard her sigh. Looking at her face, he saw the look come over her. He was always amazed that she would desire him, a man so damaged that he could not even love her without difficulty. Had he known what he was condemning her to he would never have married her, but when they had realised the truth, she chose to stay. No matter how mortifying that part of their life, he prayed she would never change her mind.
Drawing her close, he tilted his head to bring her lovely, normal lips to his misshapen ones. From their first kiss beneath an umbrella in a field, there had never been reason to suspect that she was put off by his physicality. Every kiss they had shared left him feeling loved and whole. As he kissed her and sensed her respond to him, Joshua felt the amazement and frustration which always accompanied one another.
Drawing back after their kiss, he looked in her eyes and said, "I love you, too." Just the saying of this and the kiss caused him to feel shy and awkward. Pulling his hand back, he turned from her to the bucket of whitewash. Bending to pick up the brush, he said, "I know that Mary is not family, but she may be the nearest to a daughter we are able to have, let us not lose such an opportunity." Without looking to his wife, he began to whitewash the walls of Mary's room.
Watching him carefully apply the wash, she thought for a moment what a wonderful father he would be.
Since her arrival in Crown Hill, they had been unpacking crates and barrels of her possessions that she had sent on from Boston. Most women would have been prudent and left such things behind, but Beatrice took comfort in her belongings and the idea of coming to marry a stranger and leave everything she owned behind had been more than she could countenance. Joshua's small cottage was brimming to the rafters with so many things now that the thought of one more barrel to unpack was near comic.
She had walked by the barrel for weeks now and so she felt it time to open it and at least take an account of what it contained. "Mr. Junkins, will you be so kind as to open this for me?"
Peering around the door frame, he saw what she needed and putting down the brush, he brought a small bar and pried opened the barrel. "So . . . how is Mrs. Wentworth? Better?"
"Yes. She was overtired from setting the house in order, she is expecting that the Rector will bring Captain Wentworth and his new wife when he returns from . . . Somerset? She did not say, though it sounded as if the Rector was rather upset about the marriage, but Catherine is quite looking forward to meeting the girl . . . Louisa I believe she said is her name." Beatrice began to lift the cover from the barrel.
Joshua frowned. He and Frederick had talked of the girl, but . . . "Are you certain that you heard right? I thought her name was Anne. That was what he had called her . . . Anne," he said with assurance.
Replacing the cover, she pursed her lips, thinking. "No . . . no, Mrs. Wentworth called her Louisa. Perhaps Anne is a pet name they have, some couples do that you know. Or it may be her second name, Louisa Anne, and he prefers to use that." Again lifting the cover of the barrel, she began to poke through the contents. "I know that if my name were Louisa, I would surely find something else to go by . . . I had a frightful cousin named Louisa . . . she gave no credit to the name at all!"
Joshua shrugged and went back to the room. Taking up the brush, he thought back to a conversation that he had had with Captain Wentworth shortly after they had been introduced in December. They had spoken of Frederick's love of "Anne," he had told that he had been angry with her and had no idea what she felt about him. Perhaps he had declared himself and had been rebuffed; perhaps Anne had not felt as the Captain had hoped. Were that the case, Joshua mused that Wentworth had been quick in salving his heart.
Poking through things and moving the packing away, she exclaimed, "Well, there you went! I thought I had quite lost you." Reaching into the barrel, she brought out an odd shaped blue baize-cloth bag. Laying it across the barrel, she opened it to reveal a violin.
Plucking the strings, she began to tune. After she was satisfied that they were as near pitch as they could be, she reached into the bag and brought out the bow. "I have not played in ever so long, not since Mr. Lowell died."
"Please . . . play something." There was something odd about the way Joshua spoke.
"All right. I do not play very well, nor anything very special. Mostly little airs and a few simple hymns. Though . . ." Thinking as she rosined the bow, she decided to play the most complicated piece she had taught herself. It was a poignant Irish air that had been favoured by her father. Putting the bow to the strings, she began.
Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the melody and becoming familiar with the instrument again. A short way into the piece, she heard a sound she couldn't readily name. She opened her eyes to find her husband daubing his eyes with a kerchief. Worried that she had done something wrong, she stopped and rushed to him. "What have I done? I am sorry to have made you . . . weep? . . . have I made you weep?" The tune was haunting, but she did not fathom why it would make him cry.
As he nodded vigourously, she turned to lay the violin back on the barrel, but he stayed her hand and nearly shouted, "No! Continue. . . please!"
"A . . all right. Shall I play the same piece or something more to your liking?" Beatrice was still very puzzled as to why he would be so upset by the tune.
"Whatever you would like. I have had no music for . . . years! . . . anything will be very welcome." He had settled himself on the top stair, anxiously awaiting her choice.
As she readied to start again, what he had said penetrated her mind. He had lived all these years without music of any kind. He had not left his farm for over thirty years. This ill-played violin would be the first music he had heard in his adult life. She prepared to play with a new energy. Resuming the tune, she watched his reactions.
Very soon, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the bannister. A smile came to his crooked lips and she thought how peaceful he looked. He would occasionally bring the kerchief to his eyes or take a dab at his nose. She realised that he was humming as she could see his Adam's apple move up and down. He made no responses when she would bow a bad note and he had no ideas that there were times she left out complete runs that she did not know well enough. He just sat, enraptured with the sound of her violin.
After a time, neither knew how long, Beatrice stopped for she had gone through all the pieces that she remembered well. Her fingers had begun to tire and she dreaded the pain she knew would be hers on the morrow, but then and there, she decided that she would put herself to really learning more tunes and not depend on a talented ear to help her along. When Joshua realized that she had finished, he began to applaud as he stood. Both turned to another set of hands clapping. Looking down the stairs they saw Mary, half way down. She had been drawn from the kitchen and had settled in for the impromptu concert. "That was wonderful, Mrs. Junkins. I have rarely heard playing as good." Mary had not heard much playing in her short life, but the Compliment was taken in the spirit which it was given.
"Thank you, Mary. Have you finished with the roots?"
"Yes, Ma'am. They are finished and in with the chine." She stood quietly, awaiting any other instructions.
"Good." Beatrice looked to Joshua and said, "Then I think it best that you would help Mr. Junkins with the whitewashing of your room. Be quick about it now!" Both looked like children given leave to Bartholomew's Fair. Mary came clamouring up the stairs and Mr. Junkins stepped close to his wife and took her hand.
Looking into her eyes, he said, "You are a good woman. Quickly kissing her hand, he went with Mary into the little room.
Taking the corner of her apron to her eyes, she murmured, "A good woman who is very easily persuaded." Beatrice left them to their whitewashing and went down the stairs to finish with dinner.
Chapter 8
As he sat watching the flames of the fire through the golden brown of the brandy, he thought how coming to know a woman was quite an education. When he had met Anne all those years ago, she had been quiet and shy. Her youthful beauty had been first thing to catch his eye and that had caused him to take great pains to draw her out. What he found after doing so, had been a sweet and lovely young woman. Her quietness had belied a native intelligence that lay underneath. With the quick mind also came a quick but gentle sense of humour. None of these things had been evident by the outward appearing. But, neither were they great surprises. With Louisa, things were a bit more complicated.
As it had been with Anne, there was more to Louisa than he had seen at first. The last two evenings, in particular, had proven that she had patience, a good deal of patience and that she was not slow to follow when he chose a more humourous or circuitous route to a point.
But while he was beginning to do his new wife justice in her character, he was still quite certain that he could never attach himself as deeply to her as he had Anne. Not only were they nearly physical opposites, but worlds apart in personality as well. It had been impossible not to see the striking differences between the two at Lyme. Louisa had been headstrong and willful to the point of injury, while Anne proved to be calm and clear thinking in a crisis. The difference in them was profound. He was persuaded that all he desired in a wife was met in Anne Elliot, not Louisa Musgrove.
In most ways, the differences were still far-reaching, but as with Anne, Frederick was finding that there were things about Louisa that he had neglected notice, things that were taking him by surprise, things about her that he grudgingly found sweet.
Not only was he seeing things in her character that were charming, but he could not help but think that perhaps the fall had done some good work. Perhaps spending time away from Uppercross and in the society of the Harvilles--and Benwick--had done her good.
Thinking back, he saw marked changes in her behaviour. The most conspicuous being a less strident inclination to be at the center of his attention than she had shown in the autumn. He remembered during all the social gatherings at Uppercross, as was her due as his fiancée and then wife, she had taken his arm when they were together, but those times when he had been drawn into conversations more appropriate to gentlemen, she had readily left him to it. In Lyme, he had had no private conversations with his friends, as she had kept with him unceasingly.
During the short engagement there had been no need for flirtations on her part, but she had also not been excessively frivolous or silly. In the past, he had met the young fiancées of fellow officers and their behaviour had, at times, been awfully embarrassing. An engagement to a man of even a little rank seemed to bring out either a pride totally disproportionate to the level the fellow had attained, or a giddy kind of nervousness that was more than just a little harassing.
Taking a drink, Frederick thought how Louisa had not seemed to be either of those.
Even the day's carriage ride had been pleasant. She had not talked overly much. The occasional comment on the weather, a particularly jolting stretch of road or the odd cottage now and then; much to his surprise, she had taken out a book and begun to read. The conversation between Arabella and Mr. Musgrove had come to his mind, but when Louisa had asked him how to pronounce, "Seychelles" and enquiring as to whether he would be sailing there on this voyage, he could see that he had obviously misinterpreted what they had been talking about. It was perfectly clear that Louisa could read.
"It is pronounced, 'Say-shells,' not 'Sea-shellees,' though some do call them the 'Shillies.' Why do you wish to know of the Seychelles Islands?" he had asked, curious to hear what she would say.
"You told Papa that you were going to the Indies and I found this book on the shelves when we went to dinner at Uppercross." As she spoke, she had given him the small, blue volume. "The Indies: Character and Politics of the Region" was the title. "But there is no map to show me where it is."
He had felt badly when he had been forced to tell her that he was sailing to the West Indies and not the East.
"Oh . . . you must think me quite stupid for not knowing the difference." She had turned to the window; she looked to be hiding her embarrassment.
"No, I don't think you stupid in the least. Reading this," he held up the book, "says you are merely ignorant and quite willing to change that. And as for the Seychelles, I have never been there. I have never been to the East Indies myself. But I could tell you of the Mediterranean, for I have sailed it extensively."
She brightened and then had listened raptly as he had told of one of his first voyages as a midshipman on a hydrographical cruise off the island of Minorca and how their soundings had aided in the rapid building up of the Port of Mahon. She had enjoyed hearing him talk about the various characters he had come upon in his journeys. He had just begun to talk about the summer of the year '07, when he had had such luck and made quite a lot of money, when he noticed that her head was resting on his shoulder. She had quietly fallen asleep.
Sipping the brandy, he chuckled to himself, She held out as long as she could, but Frederick, my boy, there are times you are a long-winded fellow.
While the morning part of the journey had gone smoothly, after baiting the horses in the early afternoon, the latter half had gone poorly and their evening at the Blushing Maiden Inn had come about quite by accident. Bad roads, a long detour, and darkness falling had forced them to stop. The hired driver, Mr.Trimble had assured the Captain that this particular inn would suit quite well, as he was somewhat acquainted with the proprietor and, had availed himself of the comforts of the establishment on previous trips through the area.
After Frederick had secured the last room, Trimble had fought heatedly with the ostler about prices for stall space, feed costs and assorted other charges. Determining that much of his own profit would be eaten away by such a large outlay, it was decided that he would take the rig to a nearby grove of trees, unhitch the horses, while he and his boy would sleep in the coach. When the plan was proposed to the Captain, he had agreed, even to the point of giving over a hamper of food provided by Mrs. Musgrove upon their departure and making the offer of a pistol, one of a brace he always carried.
The food had been gladly accepted, the pistol declined in favour of a dirk the boy carried and Trimble's whip. The driver was uncommonly proud of his abilities with a whip.
After seeing their night case unloaded and carried up, Frederick and Louisa had made their way to the dining room.
" . . . and so Mr. Trimble has apologised profusely, but because of the detour, unless we wish to go on another two hours in the dark, this is our home for the night." Pointing to the one empty table, Frederick guided Louisa through the other tables in the common room. "Trimble said that when he was up this way last year, the place was much better kept. He suspects that the proprietor has fallen on extremely hard times. He has heard that the fellow even had to send his one daughter out into service for extra money, so there is not even a ladies' maid anymore." Pulling the bench out so that she might sit, he continued, "Frightening how a thing can go down in the heel so quickly."
Other than a woman at the taps, Louisa was the only lady present in the dining room of the Blushing Maiden Inn. The place was on the dark side, and the clientele on the coarse side. The room itself showed its past good standard. The furnishings were not grand, but of good quality. The past year had been hard on them though, they had not received a good thorough cleaning for some time and the benches had a loose feel when sat upon.
But, the food had proven to be quite good and there was no stinting on it. When it had been brought and, as the Captain and his wife had begun with their soup, six or seven shabby men, looking to be itinerant labourers, came off the newly arrived mail-coach. Standing in the door, and finding no other tables free, the men had swarmed about the couple, finding seats on the empty benches. The boy serving had brought more plates and the men began to pass the serving dishes and bowls quickly, eating with little gentility but a great deal of energy. As the edge of their appetites was blunted, the men conversed among themselves in a foreign tongue; laughing and passing not only plates of food but pitchers of beer that were being constantly refilled.
When a bent, older gentleman had come late to the table, he nodded and pointed. A space appeared between two of the men and all the other, younger men fell silent. He had doddered a bit as he had seated himself across from Louisa. As he had taken a seat, he had removed his hat and smiled a wide, missing picket smile. He spoke to her in a language she did not know, and seemed to be introducing her and the Captain to the younger men who had seated themselves about the table.
The Captain gave a general nod to the table and particularly introduced himself and his wife to the old man. Louisa gave them all a nod and a shy smile, then, as politely as possible, moved herself a bit closer to her husband.
Aside from the men, her embarrassment was due again to ignorance. The fact was, when the Musgroves travelled, the family had always taken private dining rooms where there was someone to serve; Louisa had never taken a meal in the common room and this was not at all as she had expected things to be.
Frederick had felt that taking a private room, when the staff was so meager, would have been an invitation to neglect and they could very well have been left to languish much of the evening behind a closed door. He knew there would be enough of that later. No, he had thought, one meal in the public room would do them no harm. In this frame of mind, he had taken little notice of their privacy being breached. After a time, he looked over to her and noticed she had finished the soup, but was not eating her chops and potatoes.
"Are you feeling all right? Is there something else that you would prefer?" he asked, indicating her plate with his knife.
Smiling, she said hesitantly, "The soup was very good and I think I would prefer more of it rather than the other." She had not wished to be a bother, but she was uncomfortable with the company at the table and ignorant about how things were done.
"Certainly," he said, taking the bowl from before her. "Friend, be so kind as to fill this please," holding up the bowl, he called to the man sitting next to the soup pot. The fellow nodded and awaited the bowl to come to him. Filling it, he dropped in a piece of toasted bread with it, and the bowl and bread made their way back to the Captain. "Thank you, sir," he called again. The man nodded once more and went back to his meal. "There you go, soup and sippet, just as you requested," Frederick said as he placed the freshly filled bowl before her.
"I'm sorry to be such trouble to you, but . . . well, I have never eaten in a place like this. It is rather like at home, is it not? So many at table . . . but . . . they are strangers." she observed as she began to cut up the toast with her spoon.
"Yes . . . yes it is like home . . . aside from them being strangers. Will you pass me your plate, if you are not going to have it," he motioned with his fork.
"Oh, surely." She moved her abandoned plate to him and he placed it on his already empty one.
As he cut up his chops and took more butter for the potatoes, he felt pity for Louisa's obvious distress and said, "Shall I tell you the bit I think I know about our tablemates?" he asked, pointing to the bread.
Handing it to him, she nodded, "Please . . . do."
"Well, I say the fellows are Irish. By the older gentleman's introduction and snatches of their conversation, I have recognised some of what they have said to one another. A friend of mine taught me some Gaelic long ago. They most likely labour in steel works of Coalbrookdale, and along the Sevren . . . they look dirty but they're not really, just stained from the smoke of the furnaces. They are probably returning from the southern shipyards . . . couldn't find work and didn't want to risk the press."
She and the Captain talked on about the fellows and he pointed out how the common room of an inn was much like being aboard ship. " . . . even the number is about right. Eight to twelve in a mess . . . a table. They become your messmates. You do most everything with 'em. Eat, sleep, divisions . . . that's a complete inspection on Sundays, before Church. You learn to get on with them, even if you don't particularly care for one another." The Captain wiped his mouth and laid his napkin on the table, "Well, have you had enough? Shall I take you to the room?"
Louisa noticed that when Frederick had begun to speak to her this time, all the talk about them had ceased. The rest of the men at the table had been laughing and talking throughout the meal . . . until now. All were occupied with their food, but they were also very quiet.
Leaning close to him, Louisa whispered, "Yes, please."
"Why are we whispering?" he had asked.
"They seem to be listening. But I didn't think they could talk English."
Frederick looked up and it was as she had said, the fellows were studiously avoiding his look, but they were also listening to be sure. "Mmm . . . they may be like me, I can understand it, but not speak very well. You are right though, they are listening . . . and quite attentively I must say. I shall take you up then."
He rose and helped her round the bench while the fellows at the table smiled and waved and bid the couple a good evening. Glancing all around her, she blushed to find that all the men at the table were smiling and winking at one another.
How mortifying, they think . . . he . . .and I . . . would that it were so, she thought. Suddenly another thought came to her. She kept it to herself until they were in the empty hallway, leading to their room. How to say this . . . ! "A-hem . . . you know, I shall need your help."
The Captain had been thinking his own thoughts and had barely heard her, "Oh? My help? In what way?" His help? Simple enough . . . a trunk moved, fire stoked or some other chore.
"Well . . . I shall need your help getting . . . undressed," she said in a low tone.
He had not expected this and before thinking, said rather loudly, "Why would you need my help to do that?"
As he was saying this, an older couple was just leaving their room and looked pointedly at the two of them.
"You said they have no girl. I will need help with my dress . . . the buttons!" she exclaimed with a strangled whisper and a small gesture of her hand.
Frederick looked at her a moment, wondering how he might extricate himself from this. Realising that there was no way but to help her, he said in a much lower tone, "Of course, I'm sorry. I never thought of such a thing . . . of course I'll help you. Come."
She leaned in again and whispered more, this time with more elaborate hand gestures. Frederick looked sharply at her, scowled, and felt the colour coming to his face. After a moment of their staring at one another, he stammered "Y-yes . . .I . . .I think I can do that too, especially as it would appear that I have no choice!"
Chapter 8
From Part I: She leaned in again and whispered more, this time with more elaborate hand gestures. Frederick looked sharply at her, scowled and felt the colour coming to his face. After a moment of their staring at one another, he stammered "Y-yes . . .I . . .I think I can do that too, especially as it would appear that I have no choice!"
Later, Frederick's 'husbandly duties' completed, he had come to the small table in the corner of taproom and sat with his brandy, watching nothing in particular. The hum of the room lulled him into reflection. He now began think on helping Louisa with her dress.
When she had first told him that she would need help with her buttons, he had taken the news with as much feigned ease as possible, but she had then gone on to tell him his help would be required with her corset as well. Sipping the brandy, he thought about her rapid, stammered whisper about needing him, as she feared pulling the wrong cord and putting things into a knot. He chuckled to himself that it was, in fact, he who had quite knotted things up.
Their late arrival had meant that the only room available to them was very small, rather dismal, and upon returning to it, they found that there had been no fire laid. The lack of staff was making itself evident again. "I can go directly to bed, you needn't bother with a fire," she said trying to be helpful.
"No, it is much too cold to undr . . . go to bed without one. Stay here, I shall go down and take care of this." A quarter of an hour later, he had returned with an armload of wood and the serving boy carrying another. The boy withdrew and the Captain began to build the fire. "There was no one to do this, but at least I now know where the wood is stowed," he said, glancing at Louisa. Looking again, he saw that she was shivering.
"Girl," he uttered with a certain exasperation, "You'll take a chill. Put this round you, warm up." Taking the coverlet from the bed, putting it about her shoulders, he sat her on the blanket chest and he went back to tending the fire.
"Thank you. I was thinking. I didn't notice the cold so much." She pulled the coverlet tighter around her shoulders and laid it over her legs.
As he slowly fed the kindling into the burning tinder, he asked, "And what were you thinking on that makes you forget the cold?" He took the candle and dripped the tallow to catch all the kindling at once.
"I was thinking how kind you were to Mama this morning . . . I know she can be . . . well . . . excessive. And how you didn't expect them to come and see us off. They put us a bit late, I know." They had been behind from the start as he had allowed her to sleep later than originally planned, and then her mother's fussing and chattering had put them over a half an hour later still. While he had continually checked his watch, he had nonetheless, maintained a calm exterior.
"Well, they were saying good bye to their first married daughter. And . . . it did work to my advantage, the extra time kept me from leaving my satchel . . . nearly left the dratted thing. Besides, that huge basket of food she brought is what Trimble and his boy are taking tonight. He insists on sleeping with the coach and the horses, after the set down he had to give the ostler, he doesn't trust this place a bit." The larger kindling had caught nicely and the Captain began to lay bigger pieces in. The cold edge of the room had been diminished and Louisa opened the coverlet a bit.
"Yes . . . though I hope neither of them drinks any of Mama's elixir thinking it to be for after dinner." Mrs. Musgrove had included more of her cold preparation along with copious amounts of food and drink for their journey. "But even so, I was somewhat embarrassed . . . I shall be gone less than a fortnight. I am to return very soon . . . not leaving for good." Yes, she would be returning all too soon.
Laying the last of the wood on the fire, he said, "Mothers can be that way . . . or so I hear." He could not help thinking about their parting from the Musgrove family. Frederick was thankful that it had not been all the Musgroves, merely the inmates of the Great House. Mr. Musgrove had been his usual jovial self, while Arabella had been full of frolic and capers, nearly to the point of annoyance. But the truly astounding spectacle had come in the form of Mrs. Musgrove's farewell.
Over the days before the wedding and particularly since the ceremony, Mrs. Musgrove had come to believe that Providence, in the figure of Captain Wentworth, had in a sense, returned to her the most beloved of her children, poor Dick. And on that cold February morning, one would have thought that the child she was bidding farewell was the acutely lamented Richard himself, for the crying, the fussing and the sighing had been most pointed in the direction of her son-in-law, not her daughter.
When thinking on the morning's episode, Louisa had her own thoughts which tended towards embarrassment, and so were best left alone. But having brought the subject of her mother to their minds, she realised that they had never spoken of his family. She knew from Mrs. Croft that their parents were no longer living, that both had passed many years earlier and that they had depended upon their older brother for quite some time. Hoping to learn more of her husband, she asked, "Since you know precisely what my mother is like, may I ask about yours?"
Frederick sat back on his heels, thinking. Louisa feared that he would not wish to speak about what was perhaps a painful thing, but a faint smile came to his mouth and he began.
"Her name was Rose. She was very pretty . . . like Sophia a bit, but much more delicate features. . . not a strong woman, I think. Neither in mind, nor constitution. By the time I remember much about my family, Mother was spending so much time in her rooms that my sister was raising me almost entirely. My father was very busy with his business and we didn't have to endure . . . " he stopped and collected himself. "My father was not a loving man such as yours. He was not fond of his children and so . . . I very much admire your father for his . . . his genuine care of his family."
Giving Louisa a quick smile, he leaned forward and prodded and arranged the wood on the fire. He hadn't thought about his parents much lately, even during preparations for his wedding. Sitting back on his heels, he went on, "Louisa, your mother may embarrass you now and again, but be glad of the family you have . . . they are good people . . . and they love you very much . . . and me, it would seem," he said more to himself than out loud. Replacing the poker he watched the fire for a moment and the rising said, "I think we can get on with . . . well, you know."
"Yes, I suppose so," Louisa said, taking the coverlet from her shoulders. She unbuttoned her pelisse and hung it on a peg near the door. Coming to him, she turned with her back facing him and waited.
He raised his hands hesitantly to the neck of the dress. Pushing aside the lace trim, he began. After only three, he exclaimed, "These things are awfully small. No wonder there are so many, just a few would never hold." As he spoke, he could not help but notice that his hands were shaking, ever so slightly. It must be colder in here than I thought. He resolved to bring more wood when he returned from having a drink.
Louisa giggled, "Of course they are small, they are meant for a woman's hands to unfasten, not a sea captain's."
"Indeed, I suppose not." He struggled through a few more. "I'll just be finished with these and it will be time to do you back up in the morning, I swear!" The room had warmed, but as he unfastened her dress, he occasionally brushed her warm back with the tips of his fingers. Being like this with her was beginning to unsettle him and now the thought that he would be doing this again in the morning . . . !
Midway through, Louisa slowly stretched her neck and shoulders. He had glanced up and then begun to watch; he had never noticed how gracefully her neck joined with her shoulders. Without thinking, Frederick's gaze following her movements down to the top of her shift. He took particular notice that the shift was embroidered with tiny white flowers. Blinking, he applied himself once more to the buttons.
Having gotten through what the Captain thought to be at least a hundred tiny buttons, he felt fortunate that the dress unbuttoned low enough that there was no need to slip it off for untying her corset, she could easily hold it open for him. I suppose I should call that fortune! he mused as he stood examining the lacing of the garment.
After his first effort, he murmured, "Hmmmm . . . I can see why you needed someone to help with this. It can be a bit . . .treacherous." He had said this just after he had pulled the wrong lace. "I have been sailoring most all my life and I have never, I repeat, never seen a knot such as this! What was the name of that girl at the Hall? She could be an able seaman with this kind of . . . talent!" he said under his breath as he tried and tugged at the strings.
"Ouch! . . . Please, not so hard! . . . you are making things tighter!" she cried as another pull caused her to take another step back.
"Well, my dear . . . were I in possession of a fid, I would make short work of this, but since I am not, I may have to take out my clasp-knife and cut the d-amn thing from you!" His teeth were now clinched in frustration.
"No! . . . you cannot do that! It is the only one I have that fits well and . . ." she bit back her words, remembering to whom and about what she was speaking.
"Why must you wear such a thing? There is certainly no need that I can see. Ah! . . . there we go . . . Madam, you are free!"
"Oh . . . thank you. I was beginning to think you would bury me in it." He had laid her robe across her shoulders, "Oh, thank you, again." Pulling it on, she tied the belt tightly as she turned to say, "Hopefully our next stop will not have fallen on such hard times. You'll not have to perform so . . . menial a task." She had not looked in his direction, but had gone and busied herself at the case that held their night clothes.
"Yes, well . . . it was very necessary even though menial. I am back down to have a drink now. Sleep well."
At his leave-taking, she had turned to bid him a good night. "I shall, and sir . . .remember that we must be away early in the morning." She cocked her head in a playful warning.
"You needn't worry . . . I merely wish one brandy. I think you quite spoiled me last night." He gave her the same cock of the head and a raised brow.
Raising her chin and giving him a defiant gaze, "For shame, sir. Already blaming your poor, put upon-wife for your wild ways." Softening her voice, she asked, "Before you go, which side of the bed do you sleep?" As he had been helped to bed the previous night, there had been no such decision for either of them.
Stopping to think, Frederick said, "On the Laconia my cot is so narrow there is no side. Since being ashore, I find I go to the middle and take the whole thing." Making a face, he looked at her and said, "I'm a rather selfish creature it would seem."
Smiling at his joke, she said, "I sleep no particular side either . . . so what shall we do?"
"Well, I suppose that when I return, whichever side you are on, I shall heave you to the opposite and take the warm sheets!" His innocent look was once more endearing.
Returning his innocence, she said smartly, "If you can have no scruples about such a cruel deed, I suppose I shall have to endure the suffering. I will lay out your nightclothes for you here . . . at the end of the bed." He watched as she lay out the nightshirt he had worn the night before and a robe, but it was not his.
"Are you keeping something from me? That is not my robe." He walked to the bed and felt of the garment. "I may keep it though, it is good soft knit."
"You indeed may keep it, it is yours. Mama bought it for Papa a few seasons back and it was impossibly small then . . . why she would buy it thus is still a mystery. But, last night she gave it to me for you to have . . . and by the looks of ,this," she held out his old robe. " . . . it was none too soon!"
Taking the shabby robe from her, he said as he held it up for a look, "Yes, it has seen better days. Again, be grateful for your family . . . they are good people and I thank them for the gift." The last was said with genuine feeling. No matter how tangled things had become, he could still see the kindness of both Louisa and her family. Smiling, he handed the offending rag back to her. "Keep it," he said. "We may need to wash up some dishes before breakfast!"
Louisa laid it back on the chair where the night case rested. Moving to one side of the bed, she began to pull back the blankets as she said, "We shall worry about that in the morning. I intend to start on this side and then you may heave me t . . ." Looking down at the bed, her voice faded to nothing.
"Heave you where?" he chuckled, amused that she had picked up the jest. Looking to where she stood, he immediately caught the perplexed look on her face. "Coaching inn sheets! . . . most odious things in the world!" he muttered under his breath. To her, "Well, are they very bad?" Looking down on the bed he could see that they were not very bad, as they were nonexistent.
"Oh! This is nice!" he growled. They looked at one another for a moment and Louisa began to laugh. Frederick ran his hand through his hair and sighed. "I suppose another trip downstairs is in order. We might as well pack it all up and move on down there, as much time as I spend bothering that poor fella." He turned and headed to the door.
She had begun pulling off the blankets. "Be kind," she called. "Things are obviously bad for him . . . here is the proof," she said, pointing to the bed.
"I shall, I shall," he muttered as he closed the door.
He had returned and found Louisa in her nightdress and wrapper, sitting on the blanket chest waiting for him. After they had put the bed in order, she stood at the foot, wondering what she should do.
"Well . . . good night," she said shyly. "Don't stay awake too late."
"I'll not. Just one brandy. Sleep well, Louisa." He felt badly, leaving her standing by the bed that way, but after unbuttoning her dress, his idea of treating her as a sister was proving to be quite unworkable. Having a last look at her, he moved to her side and taking her hand, he said quietly, "Good night. Uh . . . as I said, sleep well." As he kissed her cheek, he felt her press closer to him. Drawing back, both look embarrassed and he turned and went out the door.
Taking the last gulp of his brandy, he thought to himself, You do tend to be a moron, Frederick! What ever made you think that you could treat her like a sister? As he had dressed that morning, the Captain thought how no one had watched over him when he was sick since he was just fourteen. Sophia had seen him through a bout of the influenza that had nearly wiped out the entire block on which they had lived.
Seeing Louisa sleeping by his bedside as she had, reminded him of that sisterly care and as he was grasping for any scheme by which he might get himself through the next ten nights, it had taken little convincing on his part to attempt to treat her like a sister. He had even gone so far to tell himself he felt nothing when he was near her or when he touched her or when had kissed her. Well, perhaps when he kissed her . . . but that was to be expected, wasn't it?... no, not with a sister!
"Another, sir?" The woman from the taps stood waiting for him to answer.
He was certain that Louisa would be sleeping peacefully by now and he could go to their room and to bed. Only nine more nights. Why don't I just do this and get it over with? he thought, as he told the woman 'no,' and paid for the brandy. Without even thinking of her, he knew precisely why.
Entering their room quietly had been a test of his agility, as he had been carrying an armload of wood. After laying the pieces down one by one, he had risen to fetch a candle and was walking by the chair, when he caught a whiff of something spicy, but very fresh. It was faint and then it was gone. Surely nothing that pleasant could be connected with this wretched place! he had mused. Returning his attentions to the fire, which was nearly out, he brought it back to a good blaze, and letting the room warm once more, he listened to the sound of Louisa's breathing, quiet and even.
Leaning against the hearth, he watched the fire and wondered what some of his less-honourable brother offers might say, were they to ever know how he had help a pretty young woman, his pretty, young wife yet! to remove her dress and corset and then had left her side to sit in the bar and take a glass of brandy. Three kinds a booby, they'd say. Just a stupid, blundering fool. Perhaps they're right.
Chapter 9
The Resplendent came highly recommended by Trimble and Frederick closely considered whether he should listen to another of the fellow's opinions, but it was the Captain's belief that every man deserved an opportunity for redemption, and so he had listened and the Resplendent was more than making amends.
He was also glad to be settled rather early in the evening as it had begun to snow on and off in the early afternoon. His mariner's sense of weather told him that it would be moving on well before morning and their departure, but he still did not wish to risk travelling through it more than necessary.
After their calamitous stay at the Blushing Maiden Inn, the next day's leg proved to be spectacularly, uneventful. The inn in which they had stayed was fully equipped with maids, linens and all the amenities that one would expect of a decent establishment. His decision in taking a room at this particular inn was a compliment to all Louisa's good cheer on Monday. Frederick wished he had the ability to conscript seamen as elastic in their response to unexpected hardships.
The room itself was excellently furnished and had more than enough creature comforts; sitting room with a small table for dining and separate bedchamber. Most specially, there was a private bathing room, which Louisa had delighted in taking full advantage of--thankfully there had been a maid to assist with her buttons and corset!
"Good year," Frederick murmured as he opened the bottle of Margaux left by the steward after clearing the table. Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the feelings of being filled by a good meal, warmed by a high fire and as at peace with himself as he had been for days.
As he mused, Louisa entered the room and began to settle herself before the fire.
"What are you doing?" Frederick asked, wondering as he watched her lay out a towel on the hearth.
Pulling down another towel wrapped about her wet hair, she said, "Rather than closet myself in the bathing room to dry my hair, I thought I would do it out here . . . with you, and the towel is because the hearthrug wasn't swept. . . . I can find no broom."
She tried to appear indifferent as she said this, she did not wish the Captain to feel that she was thrusting her company upon him, but she did wish to be with him. Their conversations in the carriage were becoming quite easy and good-natured, she hoped they could grow into more. But with their arrival in Crown Hill on the morrow, that left only this one evening of his particular company. "If I do this now, I won't bother you will I?" Louisa stood fingering through her hair, looking refreshed and of good comfort in her brocade robe.
"No . . .no, I can't imagine that you drying your hair could trouble me. I'm glad that I stoked the fire so high . . . that you might make use of it. But let me sweep the rug for you." Standing and reaching around her, he took a small broom from a hook on the mantelpiece; smiling, he held it up and shook it a bit. Kneeling down, he handed her back the towel and gently swept the bark and splinters of wood into the fire-box. "There you are, swept and ready, Madam," he gestured. Straightening, he rehung the broom.
"Thank you, I did not see it," she said, wrinkling her nose. She batted her eyes teasingly and thanked him again for gallantry in sweeping the rug. Seating herself upon it, tucking her legs beneath herself and turning her back to the fire, she began to comb. "Thank you for tending the fire so closely, it is very nice to be warm and snug on such a cold night . . . I'm glad you were able to convince Trimble to take his son and stay in a room at the coaching inn rather than the barn with the horses . . . again. It is a pity that the man is so lacking in trust." Leaning her head to one side, she brought her hair over her shoulder and combed it through.
"Perhaps it is lack of trust, or he is just protecting his own interest. That coach and those six horses are most likely all he has to provide for his family. What a thief would steal merely becomes one man's ill-gotten gain; for Trimble, the loss could put his family in the poor-house."
Thinking on what he had said about Trimble, she nodded, "You are right, I've not lived much in the world and so don't tend to think about things like that. Of course he is willing to sacrifice so much for something I take quite for granted." Pondering their exchange for a time, she turned her attentions to the rest of her hair, and said, "And I must thank you again . . . this inn is lovely. Though, you must be careful, sir. I may become quite spoiled by your . . . indulgence."
"As I said earlier, you deserve it for being so gracious on Monday night. I have come to think that the Blushing Maiden blushes for shame at how far she has fallen," he said taking a drink.
"Well, she was . . . memorable," Louisa said as she tousled her hair before the fire.
Putting down the glass emphatically, Frederick chuckled, "Oh, come now! Our Irish 'messmates,' . . . no fire . . . no maid and to cap the night . . .no linens! Face it, girl . . . memorable though she was, she was also a chaotic mess! But I honour you for your good cheer and gracious touch in the face of such adversity. " He lifted his glass to her.
"Thank you, but this evening more that makes up for it, though . . . if you continue to spend so freely, I wonder that you shall keep any of your fortune!"
"You needn't worry on that score, I have had more than my fair share of scrapes with poverty and am determined enough to keep far from it again! You'll not go lacking . . . I promise."
"I was not worried so much for us, but one day . . ." She trailed off, leaving unsaid what she was thinking.
"A-hem, yes . . . I have made provision for my responsibilities," he said thoughtfully, his tone lightening as he continued, "Anywise, you deserve twice this luxury for having such good humour about it, others might not have been so . . . generous. I salute you, Madam!"
She raised her head and looked at him with a pleased smile. Their eyes met and for just a moment, there was something they both could feel, but neither could name. Louisa looked away nervously and he attended to his wine.
Offering to pour her a glass that she might join him, she declined, saying that she wished none. So he continued to drink his wine alone and in silence, unable to think of anything on which they might converse. There was nothing left to him but listening to the crackle of the fire and the quiet sounds of his wife drying her hair.
After a while, he found himself in the midst of personal wrangling. A deep, honey-colour, I believe, he thought with finality . As he watched her, he had tried to determine just what the colour of her hair truly was. But then again. . . with only candlelight, it is very dark, though . . . in the bright sun, it is more golden . . . and yet . . . the fire shining through makes it a bit red. Odd colour her hair. No matter, I shall stay to a deep honey-colour. At this, he drained the glass and poured himself a little more.
While he had meditated on her colouring, she had turned away to dry her frontmost hair. She could hear him behind her, pouring himself more wine, setting his glass down, his shifting in the chair. Knowing that he watched her, turning around to face him, Louisa said with a smile, "The water I left is not too filthy . . . if you would care to bathe. I think it is really too late to order more heated."
"Not too filthy, aye? Are you saying that I need to bathe? Has the trip left me so frowsy that you are offended?" he asked, feigning indignation.
"Oh no! . . . No! I am not saying any such thing!" Afraid that she had carelessly offended, Louisa scrambled to frame an apology when a thought came to her, "If you feel no need to bathe, then is your tone intended to make me know that I was in need?" She looked at him with wide eyes and pursed lips.
"Oh lord! I'm dished now! No, you were nowhere near the need as . . . say . . . Charles after a particularly lo-o-ong and unproductive hunt." He watched her over the rim of the wine glass. Now what will you toss in rebuttal, girl?
Just as he was lowering the glass, the towel hit him in the face and coming to rest upon his shoulder. Carefully setting down the wine glass, with as stern a face as he could muster, and with great precision, he folded the cloth and laid it gently on the table. Taking up the glass again, he took another drink.
After throwing the towel, Louisa had stopped combing her hair and sat holding her breath as she watched him. His actions were meticulous and his face impossible to read. She feared the ease she was beginning to feel with him had deceived her and that now her playfulness had over stepped its proper boundaries. "I . . . I . . . I'm sorry . . . I," she stuttered out as she rose to retrieve the towel.
He quickly saw that she was taking his severe front to heart. She was retreating, unlike she had done at Kellynch when he had been overly harsh about her leaving no word as to her going to Winthrop. As she reached for the folded cloth, he took hold of her hand. A smile crept to his lips, "No, Louisa, it is I who am sorry. You've not made me angry. I just wanted to teaze with you a bit." He picked up the towel and handed it to her. "Though, I think I must remember not to teaze you when there are sharp or heavy objects at hand. So . . . what shall we discuss now?"
Taking the towel and giving him an embarrassed smile, Louisa said, "For my part, I think all conversation should cease and I should attend to my hair . . . I seem to invite trouble otherwise." Turning quickly, she disappeared into the dressing room, returning soon with a brush. Standing before the fire, she took long strokes as she worked to look more adult after her childish behaviour. Putting that aside, she thought about other, more pleasant parts of the evening, the days' travelling and how there were only a few hours left until they arrived at their destination.
Frederick watched as she brushed out her hair. He was relieved that the look on her face betrayed thought, but nothing troubling, their last exchange had been taken as intended. As she brushed, the swaying caused her robe to open slightly and her nightdress peeped out now and then. He noticed it to be a pale pink, not the same white as the one she had worn the past nights.
When she finished, she lay the brush down on the mantelshelf and began dividing her hair for its nightly braid. His watching is most unsettling . . . he can still make my hands shake . . . oh how silly of me, I should be accustomed to his looks by now, she thought as she began for the second time on the braid.
On her third try, he could see that she was again dropping and missing sizeable portions of hair. Standing, he walked over to her and picked up the brush, saying, "Come, allow me." Steering her to the credenza and a large branch of candles for light, he took out the little she had begun. "You missed quite a lot." Giving her hair another thorough brushing out, he divided it. As he accomplished this, he thought how wonderfully soft her hair felt; much different than any of his shipmate's all those years ago.
It took her a moment to fully realise what was happening: that he was touching her hair, he himself was brushing it, his hands were preparing it to braid. "I . . .I have never had a man dress my hair before . . . what do you know of braiding, may I ask?" She was discomposed by his actions and could think of nothing else to say.
"Well . . . quite a lot actually. Before coming to Kellynch in the fall, I had a six-year queue," he talked as he took his time braiding. " . . . a good foot past my shoulders. I never had it cut, you see. Being thrown ashore and seeing the styles had changed a bit . . . I determined to be fashionable for once. And as for knowing how to braid, well . . . on board ship each fellow has what is called a 'tiemate' . . . a friend who braids you for divisions and special occasions." He continued taking his own time braiding and keeping the strands ordered. " . . . and so some of my distinguishment in the King's Service was as a first class tiemate. But this was years ago, before I was in command and had a steward to do such things for me . . . it has been quite a long time since I had a tiemate of my own . . . or was anyone else's."
As he talked and slowly braided, Louisa purposefully picked through a dish of sweet-meats that had been placed on the credenza after the supper dishes had been taken up. She was not interested in eating any, it was more a ploy to keep her hands occupied as she tried to concentrate on his talk of tiemates and special occasions, for it was becoming more and more difficult not to take notice when his fingers would occasionally brush her neck; the tremours his touch aroused were lovely, but very distracting.
He bent closer to say jokingly, "Head up, tiemate!" She realised, try as she might, she had allowed herself to be lost in his touch and was not attending as she ought. Smiling, she savoured that he had called her his tiemate; perhaps he was beginning to think of her as a friend . . . even if he was distant from her in other ways.
"You certainly take your time . . . tiemate. I wish I could truly be that for you, but since you seem to have no need of me . . . I don't know what I am."
He said nothing. It was a sentiment for which he had no answer. Turning his thoughts elsewhere, he realised that from the time he had begun to braid her hair, he had been catching snatches of the same scent he had first smelled at the Blushing Maiden Inn. The sweet, spicy scent was Louisa. I knew it couldn't have been that place, he thought. Leaning close, he breathed it in, trying not to be obvious.
Louisa could feel him closer to her. She tried not to take notice, not wishing to raise her own expectations. But he was standing much closer than when they had begun.
"May . . . a-hem, may I have the tie?" he said, clearing his throat. His voice was a bit strangled; the scent was clouding his thoughts. As when he had helped her to undress, he could again feel the warmth of her, and as he braided her hair, he could not help but feel its softness as it fell against his wrists and his occasional touching her neck as his fingers worked the hair was not unpleasant.
"Oh . . . here." She began to hand him the few walnuts she held, she quickly realised her mistake. "Sorry, wrong hand. Here," she said, holding up the short length of pink ribbon to him.
He took the silky trim she held out and tied the braid off. He fingered it for a moment, it matched the little bit of night gown he had spied. Drawing himself back to the moment, he laid the plait over her shoulder for inspection. His hand lingered there as he said, "See, I know what I'm about when it comes to a braid. So, have I the position?"
Feeling the weight of his hand, the warmth of it and the anticipation it excited in her, she closed her eyes and thought, Oh, girl . . . don't make a fool of yourself. Bracing herself on the credenza, she cleared her throat and murmured, "And what position would that be, sir?"
Breathing deeply of her scent, he murmured in return, "Tiemate . . . your tiemate, Loua. 'Ave a little pity on a poor sailor . . . thrown ashore . . . without any employment?" The warmth of the room and the closeness of her worked on his senses as he tried to bring some order to himself, but all he could think to ask was, "What is that scent? I caught a whiff of it days ago and . . . and I just now realise it to be you." He had come so close that he was able to speak quite softly into her ear. His other hand had settled itself on her other shoulder.
He was warm against her back and so close to her face, she could feel his chin brush against her temple and his breath upon her cheek. Her eyes closed . . . he had called her the name only those closest to her used. Perhaps he was preparing them both, perhaps he was making ready to take her as his wife. Were that so, she could give herself fully to him, he wanted her.
Remembering that he had asked her something, she worked to give him an intelligible answer. "Um . . . it . . . it is elderbloom. Mama makes a lotion for me, for my hands and face . . . they dry so in winter . . . I suppose I have gotten it . . .mmm . . . gotten it on my clothes and . . . things." He had begun to lightly kiss her neck and behind her ear. Can this finally be happening? Oh please . . . please.
"Turn around." he said, hoarsely. She did as he told her and stood before him, waiting. Taking her in his arms, he began to kiss her jaw and moved to her cheek, finally coming to her mouth. He seemed uncertain at first, barely touching her lips to his, but finding her willing, he continued with surety. The kisses were gentle at first and as each gave more of themselves, their passion grew.
"What is this, here?" he breathed, his hand at her waist. Not losing an opportunity, he kissed her neck as he awaited an answer.
With difficulty, she put her mind to what he was talking about and suddenly realised what it was he meant. "It must be the robe sash . . . I'll undo it." In a rush, both reached for it, their hands colliding. Louisa drew hers back and allowed him to draw it open. He pushed aside the robe and slipped his hand underneath; she felt him place it gently on her back and pull her closer still.
Allowing himself to openly express more of his own desire, Frederick realised that she had followed his leading with some reserve, but now showed little fear of his passion nor would it seem, her own. He was astonished how trusting of him she was proving to be . . . so willing and open to him. The Captain knew he was losing himself in something he had thought he could not do, something he had told himself would be impossible.
Author's Note: The characters of Beatrice and Joshua Junkins were introduced in the fan fiction story, "A Brother is Born For Adversity."
© 1999, 2000 Copyright held by the author.