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With care and consideration, Rosamond arranged herself upon the stone bench in the west corner of the garden. Occasionally, a breeze gusted and caused the leaves of the boxwood hedge to rattle. The setting sun tinted the scattered clouds pink as it faded from view. The clock had struck the hour as she passed through the salon's French doors. Soon, tea would be offered. This assured her being searched out by Randwick. She adjusted her gloves and pulled her light cloak closer, and waited.
As she waited, she took pleasure in the remembrance of her earlier manoeuvreing of Pollard Levant. It had been frightfully simple. His mind, so set upon a return to London, had rapidly changed when faced with the proposition of the wonderful opportunities to spend some of his anticipated funds. It was a small triumph, but owing to her isolation while in the rustic environs of Crown Hill, she found it necessary to savour each diversion, no matter how small or trivial.
The approaching evening had cooled the breeze. Just as Rosamond scanned the garden and prepared to seek out a more sheltered spot, she heard a door open. Pinching her cheeks and disarranging her hair just a touch, she prepared to be found.
"Miss Rosamond? Miss Rosamond." Randwick's young tenor carried along the light gusts. It pleased her greatly to hear the concern with which it was tinged.
Pulling a handkerchief from the bosom of her dress, she tossed open the cloak and called, plaintively, "I am here ... Daniel."
In the past, Rosamond had used the boy's Christian name in a playful, teazing manner, never seriously. But now, all things concerning Daniel Randwick were to be taken quite seriously.
"Miss Rosamond ... tea is served. Are you to join me?" he asked, expectantly. Randwick stood looking first at the bench and then to Rosamond. If an invitation to sit were dependent upon his expression of longing, Daniel would be placing himself next to her very shortly.
She too looked at the bench. Then, raising her eyes to meet his, she held his gaze. For a moment, Rosamond was disappointed. The task before her was again, pathetically simple. A puppy-ish boy like Randwick was so easily manipulated, especially when everything about him cried of his slavish devotion to her. But, it was this slavish devotion she was depending upon.
With a wave of her hand, Rosamond invited Daniel to be seated. She nearly laughed. They were the only ones in the garden and he had no competition for the seat. But, in his haste, Daniel looked comically awkward. In his rush, he practically threw himself next to her. As he settled down, he ever so slightly nudged her bruised arm. Rosamond decided to take the advantage, and begin deepening his devotion.
"Ah-h-h ... " Rosamond moaned. Her cloak being open, and her arm exposed, she cringed and protectively covered her injury.
"Good lord -- I am sorry -- I forgot -- !" he cried. Randwick stood quickly and reached towards her and as quickly pulled back, uncertain whether he might do further harm. His mien was genuine sympathy.
"Oh, it is nothing. Please ... sit." With her other hand, she patted the spot he had vacated. "I am not so delicate that I will shatter at a little discomfort." As she said this, she shuddered from the chill of the breeze.
With no hesitation, Daniel removed his coat and gently placed it about Rosamond's shoulders. He took great pains to avoid her bruised arm. With exaggerated care, he retook his seat. The couple sat quietly. She studied the garden while he studied her.
Daniel cleared his throat. "The garden is coming to life, I think. There are a few violas sprouting in the lawn -- over there," and he pointed.
"Yes," said Rosamond. "But this poor garden has been sorely neglected and unless Pollard is willing to spend the time -- and the money -- it will never obtain its former glory."
"True, but it seems that he is willing to stay for a while longer. He just told me that we will be here at least another fortnight."
"A-another fortnight?" she stammered. "He told you that?"
"Yes -- just now. I thought it strange, he has always spoken as though he were quite anxious to return to Town. And while he did not seem overly pleased by the announcement, he is taking it with good grace."
It was now time. Rosamond turned to face Randwick. "Pollard had not told me of his plans, I was not aware of our staying." She shifted and grimaced, clutching her arm. "If we are to stay another fortnight, I feel that I must be honest with you -- Daniel."
He, again, brightened at her intimate address of him. "Certainly, Miss Rosamond, you may always be honest with me."
"A faint smile came to her lips and she averted her gaze slightly. "Please, when we are alone, as we are now," she said as she raised her eyes to fully meet his. "Might we be more, familiar? By now, we are more than acquaintances, dare I hope to name us -- friends?"
Daniel was speechless, and Rosamond again took her advantage.
"And friends are much less formal in their address of one another, are they not?" She moved herself slightly. Closer to him. "Would it be well if, only if you would like it, I were to call you 'Daniel' and you call me 'Rosamond'?"
"Y-yes-s, I would like that very much, Miss -- I mean, R-Rosamond."
As she watched the expression on his face, Rosamond rested her hand upon his lapel. Though her gloves were thick and his suit and waistcoat, worsted wool, she felt his breaths come more quickly.
"But we must only do so when we are alone." Her eyes roved his face. "You see that, don't you?"
Daniel scowled for a moment and then a knowing look came over him. "Oh! You mean Pollard? Yes, yes I see."
"I think," she said, "it will be I who must be the most careful of us. I would not wish him to see ... "
"To see? To see what?"
Rosamond bit her lip. She turned slightly, "I would not wish him to see my growing ... fondness for you. He is exceedingly jealous you know." She turned back and awaited a comment.
"I know ... I have seen him so." His expression was an enigma.
She had expected wonderment at her declaring a fondness for him, but there was none in evidence. She puzzled for a moment, but persisted. "I ... must be ... alert, he might do anything ... hurt anyone who crosses him." She looked down at her arm, hoping the boy might conclude ...
"Did he do that to you?" He gently stroked her wrist with his fingertips.
Satisfied that she had planted her seed, Rosamond looked away.
She felt him move closer to her. He touched her hair. "I would never harm you, Miss ... I mean, Rosamond."
There was an odd quality to his voice and when she turned back, she was surprised to find him closer than she reckoned. And he was rapidly moving nearer. Knowing what he desired, Rosamond closed her eyes, steeling herself for the onslaught. She could hear the ragged quality to Randwick's breath and feel it, warm on her cheek. Their lips met.
The moment they touched, she was startled by the passion that swelled within her. It was immediately clear that his was not the kiss of a nervous, inexperienced young man, but the kiss of a lover, one skilled and very practiced. The kiss went on for she knew not how long, but for its entirety, Rosamond was lost in him and his arms.
For an instant, she had a notion to take control from him, but it suddenly seemed an eternity since she had been with a man who knew how to please her ...
He drew back. The smiling face she now looked upon was not that of a boy on the edge of manhood, but a man quite satisfied with himself. "I am delighted to see that I did not cause you any discomfort."
"What? Discomfort?" The face, the smile and a previously unknown bearing of assurance and self-confidence, all made for an unsettling feeling. And, to her mortification, for the first time in years, she was so discomposed, she knew not where to place her hands.
He pointed. "Your arm. It seems to have weathered our 'embrace'."
Rosamond glanced at her arm and back at him. "Yes, as I said, I will not shatter." Putting aside the kiss, she asked, "Who are you?"
"Daniel. Your, more than an acquaintance -- familiar friend -- Daniel Randwick." He smiled. The chase was on and both were aware of the fact. This woman was no fool and now that she had composed herself, she would be back to her clever and unperturbable self.
"You may be Daniel Randwick, but you are certainly not the naive, doltish young man we have been entertaining all these evenings."
Clutching at his heart, Daniel said, "Oh, you wound me, ma'am." He straightened his waistcoat. "I had merely been trying for clumsy -- awkward and halting -- not stupid."
"You are a fine actor -- you accomplished both."
"No, obviously not fine enough. I hate that you thought me doltish." He gave her a exaggerated frown. "But, coming from you, that is a compliment of the highest order. I have rarely seen such a skilled and consistent performance from any actress. Your talents, no doubt, are what makes Pollard believe that you are blindly devoted to him -- and completely satisfied by him."
"Satisfied?" Rosamond slapped the young man.
Rubbing his jaw, he said, "Well done, I deserved that." He continued to rub his sore jaw, but his voice became serious. "But, your ... master, he does believe it to be the truth."
For an instant, neither was certain that she would not again slap him. "Mere belief does not determine the truth," she said with decision.
"True." He moved closer. "And the woman I kissed is not satisfied -- is she? Be truthful now."
Rosamond looked away.
"Good."
She turned to glare.
"Now, don't be priggish. No woman -- no matter her reasons for attaching herself -- could be satisfied by anything about that buffoon." He reached for her and pulled her close. "Manoeuvreing me, playing me off Pollard when it suited, and now, trying to make me think that he had caused your injury." He gently took her arm in his hand. "Encouraging me to step into his shoes was the reason for all of this fawning, was it not?" Without asking leave, he kissed her again.
She allowed the kiss, and while not put off in the least, she was not shaken nearly as deeply as with the last. When they parted, she straightened herself and said, "Go on, I am in great anticipation of the rest of your tale."
He admired her ability to keep composed. "I came here with my own motives concerning Pollard." Reaching up, he replaced the shoulder of his greatcoat which had slipped off her shoulder. "I encouraged his 'association'. It was not difficult to take advantage of his pressing need of financial resources. I have given him dribs and drabs to tide him over." Daniel crossed his legs. "Actually, they were just gobbets of fat to keep the cur quiet as I worked things 'round my way."
She studied him. "And your way would be?"
"Through a bit of freakish country whimsy, the Levant holdings cover two seats in Parliament. The Randwick family -- my family -- is quietly cultivating the good-will of seat-holders in this and the surrounding districts. I had thought to oblige Pollard to myself with an open purse, and therefore his seats, but now that you have stepped in and set the Demarests in motion, my plans have changed -- but only slightly."
A knot was forming in Rosamond's stomach. A knot comprised of equal parts fear and anticipation concerning this new Daniel Randwick. She thrilled to realise he was much more than he had let on, and, if what he said was true, he was also connected in ways that she had not dreamed.
"How have I changed your plans?"
"You have not imparted the message that you were sent to deliver." His voice was flat and cold. His eyes held hers.
She pulled the coat closer. "Message?" She looked down to smooth her dress. "Was I sent to deliver a message?"
Flashing a sudden smile, he exclaimed, "Yes, you were, pet!" He reached over and caressed her cheek. "I know that you have not delivered it because a man like Pollard, when faced with paying off or being killed, only knows to do one thing." He smiled, brought her face level with his, and lowered his voice. "Run!"
Rosamond tried to suppress a smile. "You know him very well."
"Yes, I do."
"How do you know about the Demarest's ... 'message'?"
"Rosamond, the Demarests are a very far-thinking family. There are changes coming to Albion and the Demarests are taking it upon themselves to be a part of those changes. These are changes that you may not fully understand, but, in time, will not only understand, but embrace." The expression on his face and the timbre of his voice, charged the air.
"So, they are gambling on what?" She examined her gloves as she spoke. "Perhaps they wish to lead the parade as Napoleon marches on London?"
The tension was broken and Daniel laughed heartily. "No, my dear. Nappy is not much a concern. And, neither is gambling -- though it has proven to be a very convenient cover.." He moved closer. "Rosamond, let us be quite frank with one another. You are prepared to allow the Demarests to ... "
" ... to do away with Pollard. And you think me unconscionable ... "
He interrupted. "No, not unconscionable." He reached up and moved a curl from her forehead. "For one so beautiful, you are a bit more ... brutal than I am used to, but I am a practical man." All the while he spoke, he held her gaze.
His nonchalance shocked even her. He had spoken as though they conversed about a common household matter, not the life of a man. Daniel stood and pulled some shrivelled leaves from the oak covering them. "I have achieved quite a lot in my life ... come quite a long way, you might say ... " he turned towards her, "I think you could help me to achieve even more."
"And how might that be?"
Crushing the leaves, he slowly sprinkled the pieces into the breeze. "A woman like you would be a boon to a man like me -- beautiful, intelligent and ... amoral."
She came and stood next to him, taking her own leaf and crushing it in the same fashion. "Amoral. Is that what you mean by -- practical?"
He took her hand and pulled her behind a large, ancient planting of yews. "You and I, Rosamond, are cut from the same cloth, we want the same things, I think. There is no law higher than what a man can achieve, notions of propriety and morality be d*amned. The likes of Levant have had their time -- the changes coming make everything possible for a man like me," he added, "with your help."
Again, the air was charged.
"In these parts, our fine tillers of the earth know that a horse can far outstrip a man when it comes to pulling a load." Brushing his hands together, he rid himself of the leaves' powdery residue. "They also know that two horses, harnessed in tandem can easily treble, even quadruple the strength of that one horse." He fingered the lapel of his greatcoat. " Do you see my meaning?"
"Yes, I see. And what makes you any different than my last 'ploughmate'?" She took his hands and guided them around her waist.
"You are a cool one, are you not? The old ploughmate is not even to the knacker's yard, and you are already sizing up the new. Well, as I said, I am a -- practical man." He pulled her close. As he moved to take a kiss, he stopped. "Are not the differences between he and I very obvious?"
"Yes, they certainly are." As she put her arms around his neck, his coat slid to a heap on the ground. "But I find I need a bit more ... persuasion."
"Oh, I think that may be arranged," he said, smiling.
Quotation: William Shakespeare, Sonnet LV
Posted on Tuesday, 12 September 2000
" ... and so, how could I refuse him? I put away my pride and accepted as graciously as possible."
Catherine sat before her mirror. She stopped, mid-stroke as she brushed her hair. Her husband had just told her of his brother's generosity. Though he had stopped short of telling her about his dealings with Pollard Levant.
"But, it is so much -- why?" She watched his reflection in the mirror.
"I have no idea, but he was quite determined that I should accept it, no matter the amount. All he would say was that he wished it so." The Rector had not yet risen and was laying with his head resting upon his arms. "And there is another, altogether different account. It is half again as much as what he gave me outright. There is a disturbing codicil to that one -- our receiving it is contingent upon his death." The words came low in tone, flat and devoid of emotion. His brother's death, always a possibility, was made more grim, now that profit was to be had by it.
"Common enough." She tallied the figures as she completed the downward stroke. After counting twice, Catherine swung about as well as her ungainly condition would allow. "Edward, that is over ten thousand pounds! What of his wife?" Her hairbrush again, mid-stroke.
"He assures me that he has seen to her most generously -- and to others as well. I have no reason to question him. Only he knows his true worth and how he wishes it dispersed. And, he of all men knows where his duties lie. He is the last I would ever think would shirk responsibilities."
"Of course, I meant no slight." She turned back to the mirror and set about putting up her hair. Through hairpins, she said, "I knew he was well-to-do, you had said as much, but this ... to be giving you so much outright..."
"Yes, well, I was shocked, to be sure, but there was nothing in him that made me think he was anything but happy to do it. I have to say, this gift relieves me greatly."
"I am sure it does. The harvest was unexceptional at best and the tithes have reflected that I think. This should free you from any anxiety owing to them," she said, as she wrestled a stubborn curl into submission.
"Yes, certainly about the tithes, but in other ways, also." He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. "I know it will sound impious, but no man likes being dependent upon others' obedience or generosity or ... spiritual coercion in some cases," he said. He thought about the poorest of his flock who were, for all those reasons, the bulwark of the parish support. "It is hard to be dependent for your meat and drink," he said, noting the worn spot on the carpet. " ... and that of your family."
He watched Catherine. Her face unconcerned as she busily fussed with her cap. He felt guilty. She had come from a good, well-to-do family and yet, in marrying him, she had doomed herself to such dependence.
Having secured the last of the pins, Catherine leant heavily upon the dressing table and stood. Moving from behind the bench, she turned and came to him. She took his hands and said, quietly, "It is hard. And I have watched you struggle, but," she patted his shoulder, "when you took your orders, you chose to depend upon God and this is His chosen vehicle." She smiled, knowing that his mood would soon pass. There were other, deeper sadnesses assigned to this day; not their feeble mewling over money.
Edward nodded. "I know. But I cannot help feeling free." He tried to pull her to his lap. "I have not been so unencumbered nor rich since my return from the Indies." She resisted. "And I think it will make all the difference in the world. I will be free to stay or go as I please."
Looking with intensity at her husband, Catherine dropped onto his lap. "Now that you have this money, you wish to leave here?"
A smile broke over his face, "No! I love this parish ... and these people! I just mean --" he rested his head against her, "a man in my position -- in the middle as I am, has very few supporters. I mean supporters that can truly sympathize with, and uphold him. Most of the sheep need the Shepherd to be strong and aid them, and those above ... they prefer that I stay silent and out of sight -- never saying anything about their ravaging the flock or their wickedness ... "
Catherine scowled, confused. "I understand perfectly about those of the flock, but those above -- you have always said that Bishop Hardy was one of the finest men of your acquaintance! And now you speak of ravaging and wickedness -- "
"I meant nothing about Hardy, love!" He kept to himself that he meant Pollard Levant in particular and others of his ilk that would profit from the proposed Enclosure of Bramford lands. "Not that there isn't plenty in the Church to speak ill about ... No, I meant others that have a leash on me and men like me."
He embraced her, taking in her scent and warmth. Catherine's acquiescing to sit upon his lap was a happy surprise. In the last weeks, she had told him often enough that any cosseting made her uncomfortable -- she thought herself too-well advanced to be touched or held.
"I just meant that I can now speak freely and not be frightened that my actions would land us, dunnage and all, out on the carriageway."
Catherine allowed his embrace for a short time, but soon rose to her feet. "Father would welcome us, to the Keystone, with open arms, no matter what you may have done. You know that." He nodded in agreement. "Now, I must be downstairs and help with breakfast. Fat sausages and oat cakes with that maple syrup Mrs. Junkins brought us yesterday. It is fortunate she brought more, as I think it has become a favourite of his."
The Junkins had come the day before to bid Frederick a good and safe journey. They had only stayed a little while and as they were leaving, had made a gift of the syrup. It had been a cozy visit, though blessedly short as both the Rector and his wife noticed that Louisa had not been herself.
"Speaking of the Junkins', do you think he is well? I thought him pale yesterday."
Fastening on a clean apron, Catherine said, "I did not notice. He was well enough to walk out back with your brother." She came and stood before him, so he could tie her strings. "And Beatrice said nothing. I think she would have said something, were he ill." She turned. "Edward, my darling, you are always looking for the dark side of every cloud. Frederick is leaving today, and I think that is shadowing everything for you just now." She kissed his forehead and began for the door.
Edward caught her hand as she started away. "I am not planning any uprisings -- no defections. I am just a bit giddy with this new freedom, nothing more." He did not wish to cause her worry.
She squeezed his hand. "I know. Just remember from whence your true Freedom comes." Her statement left him puzzling.
The small bedside clock sounded another quarter hour and drew his attention away from the homely noises of the Rector and his wife preparing for the day. This set of bells made four quarters all together, and quite enough in the mind of Frederick Wentworth.
The first quarter hour had been spent between his waking and rising to kindle a fresh fire. The second two quarters had been for the fire itself, and all the calculated racket he could muster without bringing Edward down on him. The fire had caught well and was warming the room admirably. Louisa had now emerged from being completely hidden beneath the blankets, to pushing them well past her shoulders, almost to her waist.
Though he wished her to be awake, he did enjoy his view of her sleeping form. The day before, she had rescued an old, worn nightshirt of his. He had meant it for Catherine's rag bag, as its age made it too thin for any other useful purpose.
"I shall keep it while you are away and even wear it when I am missing you," she had cried. Just to prove her point, she had worn it to bed that very night. It was overly large on her, nearly sweeping the floor, but she proclaimed it wonderful and already much loved. As he watched her sleep, the sun rising confirmed just how worn the poor old dear was. As he continued to admire the scenery, wisdom dictated it best not to crow, but to allow her to discover how thin it had worn in spots.
The last quarter hour had been spent shifting about, purposely causing the bed to creak and moan, in hopes that she would be up. Nothing had disturbed her and so, it was time to take matters into his own hands.
Surveying her position on the pillow, he noted her right hand lay loosely clenched, almost forming a fist. This loose fist rested against her upper lip, with her knuckle just touching her nose. This was a formidable impediment as his objective was her lips and the first, sweet kiss of the day. His chosen weapon -- her own hair.
Since their first time together -- was it just Monday? -- she had simply removed the pins from her hair each night, and had made no pretense of trying to plait it or catch it up by any manner. This worked in his favour this particular morning and made it easy to gently take a few loose strands.
Using the strands, he brushed them across her face. At first, there was little response, save a low moan, or a twitch of her nose. But as the attacks became more calculated and harrying, first her fingers flexed and finally, her entire hand batted at the hair and came to rest back on the pillow, but, well way from her face. The first step of the mission was a success and the Captain was sure, that when all was said and done, he would carry the day.
Even as Frederick had been preparing his target for capture, he took into account that his wife was prone to confusion upon waking. This being the case, for him to pounce, in a fit of passionate kisses, might diminish her warm welcome of him, the conquering hero. And so, the execution of the next stage of action was even more delicate than the first.
Slowly, agonizingly so, Frederick leant over Louisa's face and lightly stroked her cheek with his finger. She moved slightly, but remained facing to her side. Moving in again, he brushed her mouth with is own lips.
A murmur and nothing more. He repeated his actions, each time pressing himself more firmly to her, until she turned slightly, giving him a wide approach to the goal. Gently, but persistently, he applied himself, until there was an indication of surrender.
When she woke, he could feel her start, but just barely. Being a reasonable woman, once she understood the nature of her predicament, she gave up willingly. From that point, it was obvious she welcomed her captor. Her hands made their familiar circuit of his neck and hair, down the front of his shoulders, under his arms, coming to rest upon his back. As these sweet, curious, almost independent creatures travelled their path, they pulled him closer to their mistress.
"Good morning."
"Good morning. I have never been awakened with a kiss before. I like it." Louisa bit her lip at the admission.
He gently brushed her lips with his fingertips and said, "I have been waiting an eternity for you to wake up. Even my getting in and out of this noisy contraption, and knocking wood about the hearth did not disturb your sleep. I was determined to take matters into my own hands -- uh, lips ... " They laughed at the simple-minded joke.
They became quiet again and he said, "You looked like a sleeping princess. You know, like from a story and I decided, though I am only a sea captain and not a prince, I would awaken you with a kiss." He knew that such an admission was ridiculous and not even completely true -- he had not been driven by faerie tales -- but over the past few days, he had felt, and said nothing but the ridiculous. At odd times, he wondered precisely what component of love was able to turn a perfectly rational man, such as himself, into an imbecile, willing to do and say the most nauseating things -- and take great pleasure by them!
Louisa studied his face for a moment. She arranged his hair with her fingertips. "You are far superior to any prince." Tears welled in her eyes. "For a good and kind and loving husband and father are better than all the princes and, pardon me for saying, all the sea captains in the world." She pursed her lips to keep back the tears. This caused her transitory dimple to appear.
In a sudden rush of feeling, he gathered her up, kissed her, and held her tight. "Thank you," he whispered. "Aside from the uniform, there are few who find such noble worth in me."
Savouring the warmth of their embrace, they lay quietly. He thought again about what she said. "For a good and kind and loving husband and father are better than all the princes and ... all the sea captains in the world."
Father. She had said father. Could she possibly know something -- so soon? The thought of a child overwhelmed him. As his departure loomed closer, the thought of leaving her at all was growing more painful, but were she with child ... His breath caught in his chest and he went weak for a moment.
"Are you all right?" she asked. Her concern was obvious. "Frederick?" She drew back and carefully examined his face, searching out the reason for his flagging embrace.
"It is nothing. I ... I ... had a spasm ... in my back." He renewed his hold and buried himself further in her arms.
The couple rose soon after that. He did not trust himself to remain with her in their bed. On this of all days, their late arrival would be noticed at the table.
After the prayer and rather quiet beginning, they all enjoyed a jolly breakfast as Edward and Frederick traded stories about the neighbourhood in which they had resided in Liverpool. It had housed a large and very odd assortment of characters and the brothers seemed to have stories about them all. It was one of brothers' few commonalities that did not involve the sea and at all costs, they avoided the subject of the sea.
After breakfast, Frederick had gone upstairs to recheck his satchel and saddlebags, while Louisa followed Catherine through the house, chattering, to keep her mind from her husband's departure.
The Captain planned to leave mid afternoon, just after dinner. When he was certain of his luggage, he grew restive and elected to take a walk to the Greenhouse, out behind the small apple orchard. During his earlier visit, Edward and he had chosen that spot for several talks and times of quiet, mutual company. It was this place that Frederick elected to go as he now wished to have quiet, and a time of reflection. There was a storm brewing in his soul and he needed to find some peace.
Entering the Greenhouse, he saw that nothing had been altered. Not much time had passed since January's snowy New Year's Eve. But so very much in his heart had changed. Taking one of the rickety chairs, left by the previous occupants of the Rectory, he faced it towards the long wall of glass, rather than towards the small coal burner that stood in one corner. He sat the chair backwards and studied the various patterns the overgrown yews made as they grew, pushed up against the glass.
Over the past few days, there had been times, just odd moments really, when the Captain had looked very much forward to his return to the sea and his beloved Laconia. But, these times were short-lived. Louisa had kept close to him. Just a look or a smile from him would bring her to his side. She demanded nothing of him. No conversation, no stories or entertainments, merely his presence.
A few months previous, her behaviour would have been repellent to him, but now, it was a pleasure. He even found himself catching her eye for the express purpose of bringing her near. It would seem that all that passions he had felt for the sea, were now flowing elsewhere. He wondered if this might be his last time out, might he have lost all desire for the sea and sailing?
Much of his struggle sprung from his own maneuvering to return to duty. It was a bitter pill to swallow, considering he now cared deeply, nay loved his young wife. There was no other to blame. It was as good as his own hand that had placed the Admiralty seal upon the orders. The orders which now took him from her side.
Had the situation befallen another, preferably someone he disliked, the poor devil's wretched state would have amused him no end. And in that amusement, Frederick would have hoisted a glass, toasted the fellow and gleefully savoured the irony. But, as this was a fix of his own making, the irony only grudgingly appealed to his sense of justice, and there was not a crumb of amusement to be had.
In an effort to shift his thoughts, he shifted his seat and changed his view of the bushes. He contemplated his journey and contemplated the hospitality of Uppercross, even for just a night. Out of the blue, came Louisa's comment from the morning.
"For a good and kind and loving husband and father are better than all the princes and, pardon me for saying, all the sea captains in the world."
Though she was not present with him, the comment still caused him to catch his breath. For his part, the Captain had given little thought to their having children. Other than the general notion that they would have some and that he would be their father and Louisa, their mother, thoughts of progeny had been left to more observant members of her family.
At the Wedding Breakfast, there had been his mortifying brush with an ancient aunt of the Hayter clan. The old woman had pointedly watched the Captain the entire morning, and then, before the gathered mob, had made a show of closely observing his features. After this careful examination, the woman had loudly proclaimed that between the two, there would be children of good health, good cheer, of robust constitution and handsome features. Had this been the whole of her pronouncement, Frederick would have raised a glass in toast to such a benign prediction and the party would have proceeded on to as satisfying a conclusion as his then, morbid state of mind would allow. But, alas, much to the embarrassment of both, that was not all the auntie had to say.
The old woman had observed more and she had gone on to report to the entire gathering, that in her considered opinion, the children of the Wentworth-Musgrove union would not only be happy and healthy and all she had stated before, but they would be quite numerous as well! Just by watching the pair, she had clucked, it was plain to see that both were willing and anxious to be fruitful and multiply.
The entire company had burst into laughter and applause. Louisa had looked away in shame, while he had hardened into a block of stone. Other than a vague remembrance of knowing looks, cat calls and congratulatory thumps to his back afterwards, all he could clearly remember was Edward rolling his eyes and burying himself in a large flagon of small beer.
But now, after nearly a fortnight of marriage and a scant three nights of passion, as humiliating as the event had been, he looked on it with considerably less horror. It was still low and showed the vulgar nature of the Hayters. But, try as he might, he could not rid himself of the notion that Old Auntie Hayter, was, perhaps, some sort of seeress and prophetess. She certainly had discerned something in his nature that was only now becoming recognizable to him.
He thought about Louisa's shame at the wedding breakfast. Her appealing mix of hesitation and passion at the beginning of their first night. But mostly, he thought about her courage the next night and how she had sought him out in the nursery and, how each night since, she had been his willing partner. Neither being skilled at intimacy, their explorations had been rather clumsy and fumbling. But, these loving quests were mixed with gentle coaxing, smothered laughter, and a deepening trust. Both had taken care to be kind and gentle with one another. Perhaps this natural progression had resulted in another.
Surely she cannot know so soon -- but women know things -- their mothers tell them things -- don't they? She would say -- perhaps not -- I am leaving -- she can't know anything! She would tell, would she not? The same thoughts went around and around until they made almost no sense at all.
It was all too much to think on and he closed his eyes, resting his head on his arms.
As he quieted his mind, he could see her and he even began to feel her presence.
"A-hem."
Not expecting to hear anyone, much less Louisa, he stood hastily, knocking over the chair and tripping himself in the bargain. "I -- I was thinking, not on watch for anyone."
She stood in the doorway of the Greenhouse, hands together before her. "I am not the enemy," she gently chided. Her pelisse was pushed back, over her shoulders, to reveal her blue dress with the golden braid. And, around her neck, she wore the beads he had given her. This was all surrounded by the silken shawl drawn around her shoulders. "I didn't not mean to frighten you. I went to the wall, by the apple trees. I called for you, but you must not have heard. Then I followed the path back here." Her eyes sparkled as she waited for him to notice her costume.
He heard what she said, but was not particularly interested in how she had come to find him, only that she had, and was now there with him.
Righting the chair, he hurriedly wiped it with his pocket handkerchief. "Please, sit with me. I was just thinking about ... things. Nothing important." He had pulled the second chair close and sat. Before Louisa could speak, he said, "So, so you think you will wear my nightshirt again tonight." He watched to see how she would respond. He had not helped her to dress that morning, as was their usual habit, and so was ignorant of how she viewed herself in the nightshirt by daylight.
Louisa coloured awfully, but refused to turn away. She nervously chewed her lip and then said, "No, I do not think I shall wear it any more. You were right, it is a bit too ... flimsy for daily use. But I do intend to fold it and keep it beneath your pillow. Then when I miss too much, I may reach out and touch it." She looked away for an embarrassed moment and then turned back. "You think me silly for that, I am sure," she said, more cheerfully.
The idea that she would keep it so close was touching. "Yes, flimsy is a good term for it. The only reason I was able to keep it for so long was my steward, Michaelson's genius. I believe that the man could launder a spider's web were I but to ask." He moved his chair closer and took her hands. "And no, I do not think you silly. In fact, I think that you and I are cut from the same cloth -- thin as it might be." Both smiled.
"How so? That we are from the same cloth?"
"You want to keep a threadbare nightshirt -- to remind yourself of me. I have kept many useless mementos of my past. I call them my talismans, and hide behind the superstitious nature of sailors, but they are really just the tokens of a sentimental man. So, you see, we are very much a like, you and I."
"I am glad." Her smile widened. "I like the idea that we are much the same. Then perhaps ... " her voice trailed off.
"Perhaps what?"
She took a deep breath and again found her voice. "You leave me here, sick in love with you and perhaps -- just perhaps -- if we are very much alike, you too will be a little ill from missing me." She looked up. "Am I wicked to wish for such a thing?"
He pulled her to him. Whispering in her ear, he said, "No, not wicked at all, I will be sick for you."
He drew back and they studied one another. Her face was sadness itself, but she smiled nonetheless. Louisa lay her head on his shoulder. "I have never had anyone so saddened over my leaving." Some part of him rebelled as he said this, but for the most part, it was the truth. "Am I wicked to say that I am gratified that I shall be so missed?"
He could feel her shake her head, but she said nothing in response. He kissed her temple and then her cheek. She raised her head and offered her mouth in a kiss.
"Louisa, I will miss you. I have never felt so wretched about leaving. I normally am all anticipation, but you have ruined this return for me -- the sea is not nearly as dear as she was." She stopped his mouth with another kiss.
"I am glad. I am sorry, I know you are born to her, but I am glad -- " This time, it was he who ended their talking.
"Loua, I know I have not said anything, I know I have not said the words, but I l -- "
"Frederick! Louisa! Where are you?" the voice was Edward's.
They drew apart, flushed with emotion and embarrassed at nearly being found in such a way. Each looked aside, and then back to the other. They were drawn to look again.
"There you are! Did you not hear me calling? Dinner is ready. I thought you would be in by now. I sent Louisa some time ... ago." He looked first to one, then to the other. He knew immediately that he had interrupted. Flushing, he hurriedly turned and called back, "Be quick, you two. Catherine will have all our hides!" He walked up the path without a backwards glance.
"We had better go in -- dinner."
"Yes, dinner." Neither knew what to say or do. The magic of the previous moment was broken and gone, leaving them with much unsaid. "We had best get on."
"Yes." Louisa pulled her pelisse closed over her dress and shawl. He had not noticed. She moved towards the door of the Greenhouse.
"Wait," he said, catching up to her side. "Let me have your hand." She offered him one. "No, the other," he said, taking it. He stripped off her glove and removing his own, he took her hand in his and slid them both into his own pocket. "I saw someone do this once and I rather fancied it," he said.
Leaning her head upon his shoulder as they walked, she sighed, "I think that I do too." The slowly made their way up the path, and to the house for their last dinner together.
"Here, your supper, brother." Edward said, holding out a sack to Frederick.
He took it and looking inside, he found the promised bread, cheese, raisins and a banana, along with a small jug of beer. Tying it up again, he hooked it over the pommel of his saddle and said, "Thank Catherine for me. I told her that I was capable of feeding myself along the way, but I could see that it was important that I accept." Rearranging the contents of the bag so that the jug did not crush the banana, he continued, "I expected Louisa would bring it to me." He hoped that his brother did not hear the tinge of disappointment that he was feeling.
Testing and prodding the various bags and cases hanging from the saddle, he said, "Sorry. She was half out the door when I asked if I might bring it to you. I think she could see that I wanted to talk with you and she graciously allowed me the honour." At this, he tugged on the cords tied around the crate which contained the crystal vase destined for the future Mr and Mrs. Charles Hayter. He was not surprised to find that the knots were securely and perfectly tied.
For the second time, Frederick checked the buckles of the bridle and was starting on the girth. "You wish to talk. We have talked quite a lot over the past days -- weeks really. It has not been so long that I was here before. And we did little but talk that time 'round." He did not mind a talk with Edward, but this departure was different from all the rest. The Captain was more unsettled than usual, but not for the same reasons.
Resting his arms over the cantle of the saddle, Edward smiled. Since Frederick's arrival in December, the brothers had certainly come to a new understanding of one another. This made his departure doubly painful, as both had new lives that were just beginning.
"Well, I just wanted to thank you for the money. I have told Catherine and she is very grateful as well."
"Ah, hence the banana." He glanced at Edward and grinned.
"Yes, no doubt. A token of her gratitude. But really, thank you again. It means a lot, especially because of Levant. I may secure the living, but -- "
Frederick straightened. "But what?"
"I may not be able to keep it. You know how I talk. I might find myself in the stew over ... lots of things. I may have to use the money to move on. Who is to say?"
Again, he grinned at his brother. "You would never move on. You might be removed as the rector here, but you would find a way to stay and see that everyone is cared for. Let us not talk about it any more. Talk of money bores me at present." He gave the stirrup a hard tug.
"Uh, there is something else." Edward left the horse and moved to the hay bin and snatched up a handful. "At your age you would not know about these matters, but -- " He let all the straws drop, save one. "As you grow older, you begin to greet each year as though it might be your last. I shall be forty-eight soon and I am already one of the oldest men in the parish. I feel it acutely." He had worked the straw soft and pliable. Frederick had finished with the horse and was watching his brother. "The money relieves me greatly because now I will not leave Catherine -- and our son -- "
"It is a boy? You can know this?" Frederick asked with great interest of his own.
Edward smiled. "No. No, I do not know it to be a boy, I merely hope and pray. I tell Catherine otherwise, but I do wish a son." He looked at Frederick. He hoped this would not insult his brother. Frederick had always held a son's place in Edward's heart.
"Even if ... something were to happen to you, Catherine's family would take her back with no trouble. There should be no worry on that score," Frederick said.
"Certainly not. I have had no worries for their physical well-being." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I have realised that the way someone is raised makes a great deal of difference, and by that I mean the influences in them. Their parents, the Church, the people in their village. All this plays a part. But the major part is their family. The Keyes are wonderful people and I would be proud for them to be a great influence over my children, but -- "
"But?"
"I wish -- " the words caught in Edward's throat. He turned away and steadied himself. Turning back, he continued. "I wish, that if anything happens to me while you are gone, that you do everything in your power to help raise my son -- or daughter, but most especially a son. I can think of no one else I would wish to do that." The Rector turned away and wiped his eyes. He had not anticipated such emotion.
Frederick stood stunned. He had expected Edward to assure him that Louisa was a welcome addition to household and that they would care for her well. He had not expect this.
Without turning, Edward said, "I understand Father more, the older I grow. Not his cruelty, certainly, but his desire that he give us something of himself. For him it was that d*amnable warehouse. Neither of us would have been happy there, we both know that." He turned. "But -- it was something of himself and to pass that to your children is the most vital thing in the world! Else, no one ever knows that you've been alive!"
The import of his words struck Frederick like a hammer. It was true. Other than a few papers inscribed with his name, once he was dead, there was no living proof that he had ever existed. He was suddenly taken with an urge to find and ask Louisa if his suspicions were true.
Edward stood looking at Frederick. His look was incomprehensible. Perhaps he was forming a polite refusal of the charge laid before him. The Rector had not thought there might be disinclination on his brother's part.
The Rector was about to retract his request when Frederick spoke. "I accept your charge. I only hope I can do justice to your faith in me. I have not, of late, comported myself very well -- about Louisa and An -- "
"Nonsense! Your comportment in this matter is the very thing that makes me ask."
"What? After all the impropriety and confusion and hurt I have caused? Certainly that is not what you wish a child to learn."
"He will learn all that on his own, I am afraid. Man comes to all that quite naturally, we both know that." He paused. "Frederick, you have always had a high sense of honour, but it has always manifest itself in your rank and career and such as that. It has not really been in anything to do with you, with your heart. But this -- this was quite different. You put aside your desires and the perfect notions you had held precious. You put them aside and did what was proper and right to do. And instead of going about here as one under a pall of duty, you have cared well for her, and been a true husband. I cannot help but admire that."
"Does it count against me that I do care for her -- that I love her now? Perhaps that puts my honourable nature in danger, for this is not the sacrifice that I had expected."
Edward smiled. "No, it endangers nothing of my opinion, for you would not have come to this, had you not done the other first."
Frederick looked away, back to Belle's bridle." I will accept and do as you wish in this, if you will do the same for me," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on a small buckle.
"Of course, but you have no children."
... a good husband and father ... Redoing the buckle, he said, "I might be leaving my wife with a child, who knows? And of we two, my occupation is certainly the one which nearly guarantees death." Frederick looked frankly at his brother. "I can think of no other man who I would wish to influence my child -- a son especially."
The brothers first shook hands and then, reluctantly embraced. Both knew this might be the last time for such things and each held tight to the other.
"It is time, Frederick." Louisa's voice came from behind them.
The Rector and the Captain parted, embarrassed by the display. Edward clapped his brother on the arm and said, "I shall fetch Catherine." He smiled at Louisa as he left them for the house.
"Did the two of you speak, he seemed anxious when I gave him your supper."
"Yes, we spoke," he said, gathering the reins. "We had a fine conversation. So, it is time, eh?" He looked at her.
She gave him a weak smile and a too vigourous nod. She came to him as he opened the doors to lead out Belle. Taking his hand, she said, "I swore to myself that I would not be a fool and blubber, but I can't help myself. I -- I...," she dissolved into tears.
They held one another for a long time. She cried the tears she had held back and he blinked back many of his own. The noise of the back door opening brought her around and she wiped her cheeks with a corner of her apron.
Frederick touched her face and hair. He bent close to her face and said, quietly, "It is gratifying to know that I warrant such a display. And it is not foolish -- Belle is very understanding of such matters." They looked at the horse and laughed a little.
They all stood gathered around Frederick and Belle. Both he and Louisa knew they were being watched, both knew that propriety called for restraint.
Leaning down, Frederick kissed Louisa's cheek. She did likewise and whispered, "I shall miss you ... I love you, Frederick."
Grazing her cheek with his, he whispered back, "I shall miss you, Loua. I love you."
Drawing apart, even through her tears, her smile was wide. He knew that his words had done this. She opened her mouth, but he interrupted her.
"Remember that -- that I love you."
"Of course, I will revel in the knowledge -- "
He took her by the arms and looked intently. "No -- remember it ... put it deep inside yourself. Put somewhere that no one can dissuade you, that nothing can shake you from the knowledge."
His intensity nearly frightened her. "I -- I will do that, I swear."
He pulled her close and she hid herself in the lapel of his coat for the last time. Reluctantly, he let her go. Before completely separating, he squeezed her hands hard, and smiled. "I love you, remember that." She nodded. "I must be off ... Edward ... thank you," he said, shaking his hand.
"You are most welcome, brother, you know that. Safe journeying and come home soon."
As soon as possible, I assure you. Catherine ... take care, and write as soon as my nephew is born." He glanced quickly at a smiling Edward.
"I will, Frederick. Return to us the moment you are able ... we will be waiting." She kissed his cheek and nodded.
Looking back to Louisa, he came to her and said, "I know that you wanted no scenes of blubbering, but I can't help myself." Taking her in his arms, he held her tight and kissed her.
Edward handed his wife a handkerchief as she began to cry. He thought to himself that things had worked out much better than he had ever thought possible.
"You ... must ... go ... Frederick," Louisa said through their kisses.
"I ... know. As I told you ... you have ... quite ... spoiled ... things for me!" Giving her one last kiss, he let her go and forced himself to mount.
"I shall write as soon as I have arrived," he said, bringing the mare to a stand. "Brother ... Sister, farewell," he waved. "Good bye, my girl ... I love you!" Louisa came to him. He touched her hair and she caressed his hand. With that, he touched the horses flanks and was off towards the carriageway.
Louisa watched him round the house. Not wishing to let him go just yet, she followed his path and ran to the side of the road, where she stood watching as he cantered toward the curve that would take him out of sight. She waved, though he had not turned to look.
"You didn't do this the last time he left us," Edward said putting his arm about his wife.
Catherine pursed her lips and tersely said, "The last time, he had the courtesy to sneak away ... he did not force me to this! Go fetch her ... if I go, I shall make her cry which will make me cry and then we shall cause a spectacle out on the road." Dabbing her eyes, she turned tot he house. "I shall see to some tea, I think we all need some tea." Giving him the handkerchief, she went inside.
Frederick had slowed as he came to the curve and Louisa began to wave harder, hoping that he could see her. "Here ... wave this. He'll see it clearly." She looked to see the Rector, hand extending, offering her his handkerchief. Smiling thanks, she took it and waved with renewed vigour.
"He sees it! He can see it ... he waves back!" Louisa cried excitedly. Watching and waving until he disappeared around the bend, she finally lowered her aching arm. "He saw me ... he knows I waved," she said quietly. Her voice cracked.
Edward took her arm and began to guide her back to the house. Other than an occasional look down the carriageway, she went willingly, for she was too emotional to do much of anything else. "Catherine went on into the house and we shall have some refreshments. Good byes are always hard ... I personally wish they were not necessary. But," he patted his sister-in-law's hand, "we have you here to cheer us and we shall do our best to cheer you."
Taking one last, impossible look, she said, "I will not be very cheerful ... and I am not certain that I will be of much use in cheering you -- "
A man on horseback had been watching as the Captain gained the carriageway and when he had seen Louisa and then the Rector come around the house to continue waving him off, he had held himself well away. When there was no danger of his being seen by the Captain, Pollard Levant urged his horse forward. "Ho! Rector, where might your brother be off to?"
Edward stiffened as he realised to whom the voice belonged. He again patted his sister's hand as he turned and faced his benefactor.
"Mr Levant, good afternoon."
Touching his hat to Mrs. Wentworth, Levant said, "I hope the Captain shall not be gone from us for too long a time."
"He is returning to duty in Plymouth," Edward said.
"Ah, that explains the luggage. What a shame for the family -- to have one off to what looks to be a certain war! And what a blow to you Mrs. Wentworth, his having to leave so soon after your marriage. I offer my condolences."
Louisa's look was one of surprise. She nodded and turned away. Edward seethed. "Mr Levant, we need to return to the house. Thank you for stopping and ... chatting." Edward began to move Louisa to the house.
"Certainly, uh, by the bye, Wentworth, I got your note. I look forward to seeing you first thing Monday. First thing, mind you. I very much wish to conclude our business, but I am a busy man."
"Certainly. I wish to conclude our business as well. I shall be at the Hall first thing. I assure you."
Gathering the reins, he jerked the horse's head, causing it to start and turn. Cursing and beating it about the withers, Levant brought it finally to a standstill. The man was out of breath, but said, "Stupid beast! There! Again, Mrs. Wentworth, I hope that the Captain is spared in his every endeavour." He touched his hat, signalling the end of the conversation. "Rector. First thing Monday."
The Rector nodded and waved him away. They again started for the house. Everything had taken on a grey cast and seemed unreasonably quiet.
"I hope you do not think ill of me, Rector, but I do not like him. I have met him now three times and each meeting has been more off-putting than the last."
Edward could not help agree, but his religious position would not allow him to pursue the comment. "I understand you perfectly. But, he is the Lord of the Manor." He sighed and gave a fleeting thought to the money in his desk.
"I suppose you must take those sorts of things into consideration."
No matter how unpleasant the brush with Pollard Levant, he would not allow it to add to their sorrow. "Well, as I was saying when we were so rudely interrupted, our only alternative is gossip."
"Gossip?"
"Oh yes. Vicious gossip about ... Frederick"
Louisa looked shocked. A clergyman suggesting such a thing! Gossip as a diversion! But upon more careful examination, she could see that the Rector was not serious. Around his eyes was the same look as Frederick when he teased her.
Louisa had never spoken much with the Rector, but if his face took on the same expressions as Frederick's, perhaps he had the same humourous inclinations. "Well, maybe a bit of gossip would not hurt ... but must it be viscous?" She gave the Rector an innocent look.
Surprised that she caught his meaning so quickly, he said calmly, "I suppose that cruel gossip is out of the question ... his just having left and all. But, I do have some embarrassing childhood tales you might find amusing." He leaned in conspiratorially, "Things which would make him howl were he to know I was telling!" He straightened and made a face.
"What is it? She asked, anxious.
"My dear, these are things that might make you regret marrying into the family!" His look was as solemn as Sunday.
Louisa laughed. She had not noticed, but in many ways, not just looks, the Rector bore a remarkable resemblance to her husband. The way he would whisper something absurd, giving it an importance it did not deserve. His air when a situation was sad or serious. All these things were so like Frederick. Or rather, Frederick was so like his brother. "You will not allow me to be sad, will you?"
"No, dear ... not in my presence. You will do enough grieving when you are alone. No, when we are all together, we shall do whatever we must to cheer ourselves!" Opening the door for her, he said, "You are a part of the family now, my dear. For better or worse, you are a Wentworth."
And so, with Frederick's leaving Louisa and Shropshire, we end Volume 3 of Love Suffers Long and Is Kind.