The bells of the church slowly ceased their peals as they continued the long walk back to the big house.

  “Captain Porterfield!” Tom punched Alexander’s arm. “You have the nerve to ask that, when you stand as bold as brass every Sunday and read the Articles of War to the ship’s company. How you can recite number twenty-nine without flinching is beyond my understanding.”

  Alexander returned the punch. “And how can you have the audacity to criticise me when you’ve performed that office in my stead when I was sick of a fever? I’ve been told you orated in such a harsh manner it made me look like a simpering maiden. Anyway, I was talking about God’s laws, not man’s.”

  It was Tom’s turn to snort. “We break God’s commandments all the time at sea. Do you not remember that ‘thou shalt not murder’? And yet we kill our enemies because we believe it is right to protect our country. The matter of killing is between me, my conscience and God himself, as is the matter of us.” He stopped, dark eyes twinkling below a fringe of unruly curls. “I’m sorry for sermonising. Take my arm and walk with me on this perfect night—do not spoil it with talk.”

  “Aye, aye.” Alexander smiled, took his lieutenant’s arm and retreated into silence.

  They reached the house tingling with cold and welcoming the glasses of hot mulled wine thrust into their hands. The household and guests were still up enjoying drinks and a light supper, servants and all on this special day. Mr. Anderson—a wrinklier, balder version of his son—bounded over and embraced them both.

  “About to set the dogs out to look for you. Stargazin’ and daydreamin’ again, was he?”

  “No, but not for want of trying.” Alexander nodded, stray auburn wisps from his queue escaping onto his neck. “I’m amazed he hasn’t driven us all to grey hairs.”

  “Why do you think I have so little of mine left?” Mr. Anderson, beaming, ran his hands through his thinning locks.

  “What are you boys up to?” A deep, pleasant female voice announced the arrival of the Mrs. Anderson. “Talking about the sermon? Or was it Drury Lane?”

  “Discussing my faults, mother.!” Tom kissed her cheek. “We could be here till Lammas.”

  She grinned. “The next Lammas but one. Now, tomorrow. No hunting.”

  “Oh, mother, surely...”

  She stifled her son’s argument with a wave of her hand. “I’ve been keeping the local young ladies at bay for you, as you’d wish. Had to use the tactic ‘Injured in action, ship’s surgeon insists on complete rest’. What will they and their mothers think if they see you cavorting on a horse?”

  “But...”

  “No ‘buts’. If you wish to chase the fox, you must risk being chased by the vixens and I’ll offer you no place to go to ground, my boy.” She narrowed her eyes. “And watch what you wear. If you’re done up like a spinsters’ delight, you’ll have to live with the consequences.”

  “We should have you leading the fleet,” Alexander, emboldened by wine and warmth, bowed to his hostess. “Not even Sir Edward Pellew could show such dash.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Mr. Anderson said, raising his glass and proposing the first of many toasts.

  After what seemed an age of “wives and sweethearts” and “confusion to Napoleon”, the post-church party dispersed, and everyone could creep away to bed. Although Alexander had the distinct, disquieting impression his host had said something like, “Those boys. Think of the quantity of feminine guile that will be wasted on them over the years,” as he and Tom had ascended the stairs.

  Once out of sight of the company, past the curtained alcove on the stair where—as snotties and still wet behind the ears—they’d shared their first kiss on English soil, Alexander whispered, “I hope you’re not too tired from the cold air and the hot wine?”

  “Too tired?” Tom squeezed the hand then let it go. “What did you have in mind at this late hour, apart from sleep?”

  “Our talk regarding the Articles of War has made my mind run to broaching one or two of them.” Mr. Anderson’s chance remark still rang in his ears, but they’d learned absolute discretion now.

  Tom grinned. “I suppose we could always start with the one about stripping officers of their clothes and see how far we can make it.”

  As it was, they didn’t even make it to Tom’s bed.

  Afterwards, they managed to find the energy to reach the piece of furniture concerned and curl up under the goose down quilt.

  Tom sighed contentedly. “We should count our blessings. If I were your wife I might not see you for months—perhaps years—on end. We have spent more time together in the last six months than most captains have with their wives in the last ten years.”

  “I know. But I worry about how long our luck will last. They’ll give you your own command soon.” Alexander rubbed the back of Tom’s hands with his thumb, as he habitually did when nervous.

  “Then we must hope we’re made brother captains in a fine squadron set for the Indian Ocean. Imagine the sun on our backs and the fine spices in the air.” Tom clearly refused at present to worry about any possible separation. They would manage; they had always managed.

  “Perhaps they would make me the commodore and I’d have to consult you in my great cabin. As often as we could get away with.”

  “And after that, you’ll be made Admiral and I could be your flag captain and we wouldn’t have to give a tinker’s dam about anything. You could kiss me each and every time we met on the quarterdeck should you wish.”

  Alexander refused to rise to the bait, burrowing deep into the downy quilts until the moment he’d have to head for his own, adjoining, room. Tom snuggled close and squeezed his hand.

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Porterfield.”

  “Merry Christmas, my cherub.”

  December 26th, six bells in the forenoon watch, weather dry, cloud building

  As per local custom from time immemorial, the local hunt met on the broad expanse of gravel at the front of the Anderson manor house.

  Alexander was pleased Tom had been banned from riding to hounds as it meant that he could be excused from it too. Horses; he hated them, they disliked him and they demonstrated it at every opportunity. He had dressed in his normal uniform and wasn’t prepared for the grand appearance of Tom in full hunting pinks.

  As the man strode down the steps of the house looking like a Greek God who had taken to English country pursuits, Alexander felt sure he must be turning the same shade as his friend’s coat. Spinsters’ delight? He was the captain’s delight, and tight breeches were no help in hiding one’s feelings.

  Tom had been accosted at the bottom of the steps by a young lady, one who was trying to stand so as to best display her elegant figure. They both turned to face Alexander, the girl probably assuming that the handsome Captain Porterfield’s blush was aimed at her; Tom must have known it was for him and returned the compliment with an elegant bow.

  A hand touched Alexander’s shoulder. He turned to find Lieutenant Clovis—a relative of one of the local landowners—at his side.

  “Is Imogen to hand?” Clovis would be riding with the hunt and clearly wanted everyone to be aware of both his beautiful new costume and excellent horsemanship, especially the daughter of the Anderson household.

  Alexander bridled. “I couldn’t say,” he replied, coldly. None of the Andersons liked the man and he couldn’t see any reason to go against the flow. It didn’t help that their eldest daughter Imogen seemed to approve of him.

  Clovis inclined his head, with an oily smile. “I thought she might be with her brother. And where he goes, you’re usually to be found.”

  A cold, prickly sensation slithered up the back of Alexander’s neck. How much did Clovis know? How much did any of them know? Mr. Anderson’s overheard remark of the night before still nagged at him.

  When he’d first visited the family, a year ago, he’d been under the impression he was being shunted in Imogen’s direction, but that situation had swiftly changed. Had Tom said something? The vigour with which his mother seemed to keep eligible females at bay suggested she wished to save the family the embarrassment of admitting possession of a stallion who’d brook no mares.

  They said that every man was a bachelor past Gibraltar, but lifelong bachelors at home were often a matter of comment, and many a man had taken a wife to further his career. One day somebody would enquire too closely why neither he nor his friend had done so.

  Alexander caught Clovis’s eye. That beady stare seemed ready to penetrate his thoughts and condemn him. Or was that just his own guilty conscience doing the same? Tom looked over the girl’s shoulder, apparently concerned at his captain’s discomfort. Alexander smiled; he’d not have the man worried unduly. Tom had suffered enough in the past.

  “I’m sure Imogen will...” Alexander began, to be interrupted as Mrs. Anderson bounded up, clapping her hands. “Mr. Clovis, my head lad has found you the most spirited mount, just suited to your dash in the saddle. Shall we go and find them?” She beamed at the others and spirited the man away.

  “Miss Logan, I believe that your father is trying to catch your attention,” Tom motioned with his hand.

  “Oh, I am sorry to have to break up our tête-à-tête, Mr. Anderson,” the girl simpered. “I do hope that we will be able to talk again later.” Tom bowed low. “Tête-à-tête my elbow,” he hissed once she was out of earshot, “it was like a full broadside from a ship of the line. ‘I am such a poor rider, Mr. Anderson, I wish that I had you by my side to reassure me. I’m afraid this riding habit does not suit my colouring as much as I would like. My hair shall be quite ruined in this wind.’ I hope she lands in a ditch.”

  “Are we to actually watch the hunt, Tom?” Alexander was quite enthusiastic to see the spectacle, so long as he was out of the saddle.

  “Of course! Come and see what mother has rigged up.”

  December the twenty sixth, three bells in the afternoon watch, storms on the horizon

  Mrs. Anderson summed up the situation eloquently. “When they were handing out brains, Thomas, did you think they meant drains and say ‘Oh no, I don’t require any, thank you’? How can you be the only person injured today and not even have been on horseback?”

  Tom lay on the sofa, his leg bandaged and his pride bruised. They had followed the hunt in a splendid open carriage; when it had stopped to view the kill, instead of opening the little door, he had leapt theatrically over it, misjudging the height and ending up in a heap on the ground.

  The injury, while bloody and painful, was insufficient either to threaten his return to his ship or to engender sympathy from anyone except Alexander, who had fussed over him like a mother hen, to the point of nearly being thrown out of the room by the patient’s actual mother.

  She had eventually left them alone with Tom’s medicine (a bottle of excellent wine and two glasses) and a piece of her mind. “If you’re ever going to learn your lesson, then an hour or two of being fussed over might prove an excellent tutor. How you two ever acquired your reputations in battle is a complete mystery to me.”

  “I think you do it deliberately to upset me,” Alexander hissed, as his hostess closed the door behind her.

  “Do what deliberately?”

  “Get yourself hurt. Throw yourself off carriages and in front of swords.”

  Tom sighed resignedly. “I hate to disillusion you, Alexander, but not all of my actions are performed with you primarily in mind. I am too fond of my own body to purposefully risk it just for the pleasure of seeing you put out.”

  They sipped their wine in thoughtful silence until Alexander announced, “I don’t like Lieutenant Clovis.”

  “No-one likes Mr. Clovis, except for Imogen. He’s only tolerated here because she’s taken such a fancy to him and because my parents indulge their children quite shamelessly.”

  “He seems incredibly conceited about his attire. I have never seen a man so vain about a new suit of clothes.” Alexander sniffed.

  The contents of Tom’s glass travelled rapidly from his mouth via the back of his throat and out through his nasal passages, showering the front of his waistcoat with, thank goodness, hock rather than claret.

  “Don’t you remember what you were like when you were first kitted out in your Lieutenant’s uniform? You were gorgeous and you knew it. Don’t deny it,” Tom held up his hand in command, “you also knew the effect it would have on me. I seem to remember the consequences making themselves known very shortly afterwards in your cabin—and in the cable tier—and…”

  “Tom! Somebody might hear,” Alexander warned, through gritted teeth. He walked over to the window, perhaps trying to work out whether they’d now be able to enjoy their shore leave in the usual way with Tom making such a fuss over his shin.

  “You look like you’re trying calculate our exact longitude. Are you planning how we’ll make our entertainment tonight, now that I can barely walk on this leg?” Tom raised his eyebrow.

  Alexander patently ignored the reading of his mind. “Can barely walk on your leg, my arse—you were up and about on it soon enough when Miss Logan offered you her ministrations. I think a night of ‘no entertainment at all’ might begin to cure you of your over exuberant behaviour.”

  Tom, sighed, all facetiousness suddenly gone. “I’m truly sorry I’m such a fool on occasions. You would have to deny me all ‘entertainment’ for a long time to cure me of my idiocy.”

  “I could never do that. It would punish me far more than it would you. I don’t find you indispensable just upon my quarterdeck, Mr. Anderson.” Alexander buried his nose in his glass, clearly ashamed at his outburst of candour. Neither man was comfortable touching on things too deep, such as how Tom put on a fine facade at times to cover the doubts and fears. Two years as a midshipman under a sadistic, unpredictable captain was enough to have left anyone scarred.

  Tom drew himself up, slowly and painfully. “Do you think that anyone in this house would have enough sympathy to ask the servants to draw me a bath? I feel stiff all over.”

  “Your mother certainly wouldn’t, you having disgraced yourself so mightily in front of all present. Especially when you indulge in such rough talk—and before you deny that, I saw the glint in your eye when you said ‘stiff’. I could try to intercede with your father if you wish.” Alexander rose to leave, clearly trying to present a picture of resigned dignity.

  Tom eyed him, sidelong. “I shall need someone to help me in and out the tub. And scrub the places I can’t reach, of course.”

  “Perhaps your father can spare one of the stable lads—they’re used to dealing with awkward brutes. I might advise him to bring his crop.” He favoured Tom with a severe look.

  “Better if you asked him to lend you the crop, Alexander.”

  The captain left the room, unable to stop the severe look turning into a huge grin.

  December the thirtieth, seven bells in the first watch

  “Come on in here quickly, before we’re seen.” Tom bundled his captain into a dark storeroom, locking the door swiftly behind them.

  “Where exactly are we?”

  “Somewhere the family hardly use. By a strange chance of acoustics, you can hear the music from the ballroom clearly. We used to sneak in here when we were children, so that we could pretend to be grown up and join in with the dances.”

  The New Year’s Eve dance was an abiding Anderson tradition. Not so grand as a formal ball, the family simply inviting the people they most liked, be they landed gentry or humble villager. A boisterous, joyous occasion and one that Alexander had dreaded as someone was bound to expect him to dance. But Tom, using his badly grazed shin as an excuse for his own non-appearance on the dance floor, had at the first opportunity whisked his friend off down a seeming rabbit warren of passages at the back of the house and into this little room.

  Mischief afoot, I suppose. Although it didn’t turn out to be the type of naughtiness he expected.

  “You really need to learn to dance and while my leg would prevent me taking to the floor with anyone else, it’s recovered well enough for me to instruct you. Don’t look so horrified, no one will know what goes on here. It’s easy. Just go with the beat of the music—like the rhythm of firing a gun.”

  Tom waited for the musicians to start up again and began to pace out an easy sequence of steps. “This is the first one we learned as children. Not so complicated as what will be attempted in there,” he inclined his head to the source of the noise, “but it’s a start.”

  Alexander closed his eyes and grimaced, opening them to find Tom grinning at him. “Come on, follow me. If you do well enough, you can take Augusta for a turn around the floor.”

  If this had been an instance of the captain following his first lieutenant through a gunnery exercise, then at least half his gun crew would have been maimed and the cannon left running amok on deck.

  “Stop.” Alexander insisted. “I’d hate to cripple your younger sister in the cause of marking her dance card. Can’t we try something easier?”

  “There isn’t anything easier.” Tom gave a theatrical roll of the eyes. “Although we could try something different. What if you pretended to be the girl and you could perhaps mirror what I do? You can start by wiping that grimace off your face.”

  Alexander had been convinced from the start that this was a stupid idea, but his friend had been so enthusiastic that he had continued to acquiesce. He’d make sure he’d pay for it one way or another though; preferably in a bed.

  “Please pay attention, Alexander! My mother says that my feet are one of my finest parts and I don’t wish to have them mangled.”

  After their fifth stab at a dance, Tom gave up. “You really are completely hopeless, aren’t you? Come here.” He pulled Alexander close to him, his arms round his friend’s waist and his head resting in the curve of the man’s neck. They gave up attempting any sequence of steps and simply moved very slowly together to the beat of the music. Alexander felt that, at last, this was the sort of dancing that he could happily take part in.

 

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