Take, Burn or Destroy, page 12
Wickham and Archer both stood there with glasses up to their eyes.
“Is it a fourth ship?” Hayden asked.
Archer handed his commander his glass, which Hayden fixed on the distant vessel. A moment of careful contemplation.
“That will be the frigate we raked,” Hayden informed Archer and Wickham and saw them relax visibly. He handed the glass back to Archer. “She has returned much more quickly than I hoped. The damage to her rig must have been less than it first appeared.”
At that moment, the hole in the cloud shut and the distant ship appeared to wink out like a snuffed candle.
“She is some way off, sir,” Wickham said, lowering his glass. “Four miles, I should think. She will not close with us this day unless the winds decide to favour the French much more than us.”
Hayden looked around at the sky. The hole in the cloud made him wonder if the gale was blowing through, but there was no other sign of it, the cloud remaining dense and heavy in every direction.
Hayden felt the men around him on the deck waiting. Waiting for him to find a way out of their present predicament, for every man aboard realised that if the French ships ever closed with them they would all be prisoners.
Wickham was looking at him oddly.
“Mr Wickham . . . ?”
“Excuse me, sir, but you appear to be bleeding.” The young man made a motion towards Hayden’s neck.
Hayden reached up a hand and brought his fingers away crimson. The wound he had inflicted upon himself earlier refused to heal.
Five
His love walked upon the ground. Or so Frank Beacher kept repeating to himself. He did not inflate her accomplishments to near genius, nor did he consider her beauty to be above that of all other women. Her wit, though admired by all who knew her, was not greater than several others of his acquaintance. Erudition she possessed, certainly, and an excellent comprehension of various subjects. No one was ever heard to deny her charm, which perhaps was more irresistible than that of most women. But then, he believed he was allowed to inflate at least one of her many gifts—he was in love, after all, and was not that a lover’s prerogative?
Their taking of the air with Henrietta and Cassandra was not proceeding entirely to plan. He and his friend Wilder were walking ahead—though now waiting upon a rise—while the objects of their attention idled along behind, chatting with great animation with Mrs Hertle and Penelope (who had invited herself along), as though unaware that two gentlemen awaited them.
The effect upon the two gentlemen was to make them feel extraneous to, if not unwanted by, the two women with whom they hoped to find some few moments alone.
Elizabeth Hertle looked up, spotted them upon the rise, and waved a gloved hand before returning her attention to her companions.
“Had I realised we would be left to our own company, Beacher, our time would have been better spent in shooting.”
“At least we might have got something for the pot, gaining us acknowledgement from Mrs Carthew.”
The two were silent a moment.
“I have it,” Wilder said suddenly. “You fall down in a dead faint and I will kneel over you and chafe your wrists and fan you with my hat. If neither Miss Cassandra nor Miss Henrietta shows any alarm at this, we will quit this damned house and the Carthew family for ever. What say you?”
“An admirable plan, but I have always been a failure at play-acting. Perhaps you should collapse and I will fan.”
Wilder began a swoon, and Beacher shot out a hand to steady him. “I said it in jest!”
His friend laughed. “So did I!”
“What is it that amuses you gentlemen so?” Elizabeth asked as they approached. They were, all four, pink-cheeked from the sun and exertion of walking up the long hill.
“We were just surmising, Mrs Hertle,” Wilder answered, “that if one of us lay down and pretended to have swooned you would all walk by without taking the least notice.”
The women laughed. “Why, that is utterly unfair to us, Mr Wilder,” Henrietta declared. “If we found one of you lying upon the ground we would assume you had thrown yourself down in a puddle so that we should not soil our hems and we would, one by one, use you as a stepping-stone to cross over. That is how noble we believe you to be.”
“Indeed, Miss Cassandra, we are excessively noble, but as we have not found a single puddle into which we might throw ourselves we are rather desolate. Are we not, Beacher?”
“Inconsolable, really.”
“There is a small stream ahead,” Cassandra offered innocently. “If the bridge is out, you might throw yourselves into it . . .”
“Well, then, let us pray the bridge has been washed away,” Wilder enjoined.
“And the stream is in flood,” added Beacher. “It is not worth doing if our lives are not in danger. That is the thing about puddles, one is only in mortal danger in the very deep ones.”
“In the very deep ones we should have to heap you up, gentlemen, for one of you is not thick enough to keep our hems dry.”
“Then we must eat more, Miss Cassandra, so as to become thicker. We must not risk your hems.”
There continued much teasing and jesting on the matter of hems and puddles as they walked along beneath the overhanging trees. The April day was excessively fair and unseasonably warm, and, as Wilder had observed, the rains had been few, so the ground was dryer than any expected. Bees hummed among the spring flowers and the trees were all in their coats of soft, new green. Nary a cloud ventured forth that day, and a vault of deep azure spread from horizon to horizon almost without interruption. The walking party turned onto a path that branched from the lane and wound up through the trees. This way was so steep that the gentlemen must here or there offer a hand or an arm to one lady or another so that they all might proceed in safety. Wherever possible Beacher tried to offer such assistance to Henrietta, as Wilder did to Cassandra, though the latter was often heard to say, “Why, thank you, Mr Wilder, but your assistance is not required here where it is not so very steep. I intend to climb mountains one day, you know.”
Penelope seemed to require the assistance of Beacher at every turn, until her sisters began to tease her, saying things such as, “Why, Pen, I believe you require Mr Beacher’s hand almost constantly. What could have made you so feeble of a sudden, I wonder?”
In less than half an hour, they reached the top and laid blankets upon the greening grass with a view to the distant south. A picnic was spread out and enjoyed, with many jests about the thickening of the men present and many an insistence that they eat more as the stream might be in flood and the bridge gone.
As they ate, the conversation turned to other matters, such as the doings of the neighbours. When it was mentioned that one young woman of their acquaintance was soon to be married, Wilder ventured to ask a question of all the ladies.
“How long an acquaintance must a young couple require before the man should speak?”
“Most men should never speak, as they have so little to say,” Cassandra replied.
“You have a very low opinion of men,” Wilder said.
“Not at all. Women are far worse. Most have nothing to say at all. Present company excepted, of course.”
“We Carthews all have too much to say,” Henrietta observed.
“My question was asked in earnest,” Wilder insisted.
“Seven years,” Henrietta replied quickly. “Not a moment sooner.”
“Mrs Hertle, you must have a considered answer to my question, though everyone else seems to think it in jest?”
“It depends upon the couple, Mr Wilder. It would be rather foolish for a gentleman to speak before he had attached a woman’s feelings. But if, once that has been accomplished, he hesitates too long, then the poor girl doubts his attachment and may withdraw her own affection.”
“You are saying neither too soon nor too late?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.”
“But how is a gentleman to know when the moment is right?” Beacher asked rather anxiously. “I have known many instances where the man assumed that the woman returned his feelings only to have his suit rebuffed when he did speak, much to his pain and mortification.”
“Any gentleman of an age to be married—and I do not speak of years—will know the right moment,” Cassandra declared. “What would you have a woman do? Wear a white ribbon in her hair when the moment is perfect?”
“That would be much appreciated,” Wilder said. “If you would please do so, all of the male sex would be for ever grateful.”
“We will do no such thing,” Henrietta said firmly. “It is not seemly for young women to go about signalling their readiness like . . . like . . . mares!”
“Hear, Henrietta,” Elizabeth agreed. “I am of one mind with Cassandra; a man who is not able to read a woman’s heart is not ready for marriage, as marriage much depends upon one’s ability to penetrate the heart and mind of one’s husband or wife. A man who cannot recognise when a woman’s feelings have turned towards him is far too young for the gales and calms of marriage.”
“But what if a man never knows?” Beacher lamented. “Are such men doomed to remain always alone?”
“They should never marry,” Elizabeth asserted. “Unfortunately, there are interfering busybodies about who will steer them or give them a shove at the right moment, and they will speak and the poor girl in question is herself too young to realise that the boy is unsuited to the long, demanding years of marriage. We have all seen such unhappy unions. I dare say spinsterhood is preferable.” She shuddered visibly.
“Then you are all in agreement that sensing the right moment is a test of a man’s suitability for marriage?”
“In a way, yes, though it is certainly not the only thing that makes a man suitable.”
“What are the others, pray, Mrs Hertle?”
“I do not know if I will say more, sir. To what purpose do you ask these questions?”
“With only honourable intentions, madam. Mr Beacher and myself hope one day to marry and therefore need to understand what will make us suitable prospects and then what aspects of our character we must nurture to be exemplary husbands and fathers. We have no intention but that, and would never dream of using anything you might say to take the least advantage of any young woman. And though I am a near stranger to you, Mr Beacher you have known all your lives and you must therefore have the highest opinion of his character. I hope he will vouch the same for me.”
“What say you, Mr Beacher?” Cassandra asked.
“Wilder is an untrustworthy rogue. The young women of London cast themselves at his feet and he but walks upon their hearts like so many stepping-stones.”
“Beacher!” Wilder said, pretending to be offended.
“I jest. He is as good-hearted as a girl of six, and I say this as a compliment. He is as honest and considerate and amiable as a man of four and twenty might be. There is many a mother out there scheming to have him for her own daughter, but Wilder is a romantic and waiting for the mate of his soul.”
“Well then, Mr Wilder, as Frank has given you such a good character, and Frank is our dearest confidant and brother, I will answer your question. First, he must be a man, not a boy. He must know his own mind, have the respect of others, be charitable when it is appropriate and decisive when needed. Confident but never arrogant. He must listen to the opinions of others, even if the final decision falls upon him. Amiable, of course, lively, of good humour, and he must laugh readily and not become downhearted when things turn against him, for life will test everyone sooner or later.” Mrs Hertle stopped then, considering, perhaps, other qualities to add to her catalogue, but Cassandra took it up.
“No young woman wants a man who is a despot in his own home and believes everyone must bend to his will and can never make the least accommodation for others.”
“I could never marry a man who did not love music,” Penelope declared passionately. “Such a man must be dead to all finer feelings.”
“Well said,” Cassandra agreed. “Never marry a man who is dead.”
“I did not say ‘dead’!” Pen protested. “‘Dead to all finer feelings.’”
“And that as well. A man dead in any way at all is to be avoided.”
“Miss Henrietta,” Wilder addressed her, “have you nothing to add to this growing catalogue?”
“Honesty, Mr Wilder. Above all things, honesty.”
“And loyalty,” Beacher added.
“I am not soliciting your opinion, Beacher. We are enquiring into the female mind on such matters.”
“Yes, the male mind is too well known. ‘Beauty,’” Cassandra announced. “Men desire beauty and little more.”
“I do think that is somewhat unfair,” Wilder addressed her. “I for one am seeking a woman who does not fit into the common mould, who does not desire only a house and children and a comfortable income. Someone with a sense of adventure.”
“Sandra intends to climb mountains and see every corner of the world, Mr Wilder. Perhaps we should arrange a marriage for you.”
“I am perfectly capable of arranging my own affairs, thank you,” Cassandra told them firmly. “And I am certain that Mr Wilder does not desire a woman as headstrong as I am. Leave the poor man in peace.”
“Every woman—but Cassandra, of course—desires a home and a secure life in which to raise her children. It is part of the female character, I think.” Elizabeth looked around at her cousins to see if they did not agree.
“So we might add a house and a comfortable income to the inventory of merits a man must have?”
“By all means, add whatever merits to this list that you wish,” Henrietta agreed, “but we will lose our hearts to whom we lose our hearts. Some might choose not to marry for love, but for those who do . . .” She lifted her hands and shrugged helplessly. “We may only pray that the man who steals our heart is good and kind. Beyond that, wish for anything you desire, but do not put too much store in it.”
“You are saying the heart will make its own decision and not consult the head?”
“I fear so, Mr Wilder. And all of our fancies and hopes shall be set aside and we shall have to make the best of the situation we find ourselves in.”
“The heart shows little wisdom in these matters, Miss Henrietta,” Wilder said. “At least, that is what I have observed.”
“Can one not fall in love with another because of the qualities we have listed?” Mrs Hertle proposed. “That is to say, those are the very things that draw our own feelings?”
“Such as a house and a comfortable income?”
“Those are material things, Mr Wilder. I was speaking of human traits.”
“That seems rather mature, Mrs Hertle. Is anyone’s heart formed of such seasoned wood?”
“Elizabeth’s is,” Henrietta informed the others. “It has never been swayed by a handsome face or a thin veneer of charm. No, she fell in love with Captain Hertle because he was like her, dependable no matter what the situation.”
“I am rather more romantic than that, Henri!” her cousin protested.
“Are you, my dear? Then only you and Captain Hertle know of it.”
“Which is as it should be,” Elizabeth replied.
When the men had been sufficiently “thickened” and the women had attempted to eat as to achieve the opposite, the group broke up, Elizabeth taking Pen off somewhat against her will to appreciate the views towards the north. Cassandra and Wilder walked to the hill’s very crest to enjoy both the views and to see the locally famous oak that was said to have been planted there on the birth day of Queen Elizabeth, though no one quite believed it. It was, however, very suitably gnarled and excessively broad across the bole.
Henrietta and Beacher were left alone on the blanket, enjoying the new warmth of the April sun. It took Beacher a moment to work up his nerve, but then he said:
“Henri?”
She was tilting her face to the sun, eyes closed, a tiny smile upon her lips.
“Hmm?”
“Last night, when you enquired after your father’s health—I mean after dinner . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, I did imagine that you meant to say something else but had a change of heart . . .”
“Oh, that.” Henrietta gave a little laugh. “Elizabeth had this absurd idea—I am almost embarrassed to say it. Please promise not to laugh?”
“I do promise.”
“She had this idea that your feelings for me were . . . rather more romantic than brotherly, and I had come to put my mind to rest on that matter. But then I realised it could not be so. We have been sister and brother all our lives. It would be almost . . . indecent for either of us to feel any other way.” She smiled as though to say, “See how foolish I was.”
“But I do, Henrietta,” Beacher forced out, almost a whisper.
Henrietta’s eyes came fully open now, and she stared at him in the greatest possible surprise.
“You do what?”
“Have feelings for you . . . I have had for . . . for ever, it seems.”
“Frank, do not make a jest of such things.”
“I am utterly sincere.”
“Oh, Frank”—she put a hand to her mouth—“this will never do. We are destined to be siblings. That is what I have always believed—that we would be brother and sister into our old age.”
“But I . . . I have thought otherwise. That your feelings for me, in time, would change. That you would see I am devoted to you in both heart and soul and have been since we were very young.”
“I can hardly think what to say,” Henrietta stammered.
“You need not reply or say anything at all. I simply could not go on without telling you. Earlier you said that you valued honesty above all other virtues—I have been honest.” Frank rose up. “I shall go and see how the views look to the north this day. Will you accompany me?”
