Marrying the Captain Read online

  “For me, too,” she responded, refusing to be shamed by his cut.

  On the return to Plymouth, Pete tried to dissuade her from taking passage to Spain on the Goldfinch. “As much as I distrust your father, he’ll have to carry through with the exchange. Ye don’t have to be there.”

  She couldn’t explain her own fears to Pete, the ones that had set off such alarms as she listened to her father. “I have to see this whole exchange with my own eyes, Pete,” she told him.

  He looked at her then, with a gaze almost fatherly. Suddenly, she knew he knew.

  “You know there is another reason I wish ye wouldn’t go,” he began. “Nana…”

  “Does Gran know?” she asked quietly.

  He shook his head. “I only discovered it on this fast trip to London, with you trying to keep down your meals.” He smiled at her. “Whether ye know it or not, ye look a little different, too. Ye have a kind of rosy glow, in spite of all the misery around us at present.”

  “I was going to tell you both when I returned from Mrs. Brittle, but then all the bad news came, and we had enough on our plate. Don’t tell Gran,” she begged.

  “It’s not like ye can keep it a deep, dark secret, Nana,” he said, a teasing note in his voice now, which reassured her that he would do as she asked.

  “Just this little while, Pete. When I come back from Spain with Oliver, we’ll tell her.” She sighed. “I can’t have her thinking I am a repetition of my mother.”

  “Remember this—Gran loved your mother, and from what she tells me, Rachel was as sweet and biddable as you are.” It was his turn to sigh. “It’s just that she loved the wrong man. You didn’t make that mistake.”

  She kissed his cheek, then turned her gaze to the highway, as the chaise passed Staines, then Bagshot, to be followed by Hartford Bridge, Basingstone and Whitchurch, on the long road from London to Plymouth.

  The trip to Ferrol Station took five days, where the Gold-finch rendezvoused with the Tireless. Nana’s morning sickness went unnoticed; Lord Ratliffe was even sicker than she was, to everyone’s gratification.

  Wounded because Captain Dennison had insisted on relinquishing his tiny cabin to Nana and not himself, Lord Ratliffe demanded prerogatives impossible to meet on a ship as small as the Goldfinch. He sulked in the even-smaller cabin belonging to the sloop’s only mate, who had been forced to sling his hammock with the sailing master. When winds and currents shot the Goldfinch from Plymouth Sound into the waters of the Channel like a cork from a bottle, he had succumbed to seasickness that incapacitated him through four of the five days.

  “How did he ever manage to serve on a ship of the line?” Nana asked Dennison one afternoon as she sat in a canvas chair he had ordered placed on the deck.

  The wind blew raw, but the deck was more pleasant than the stench of bilge water, tar, revisited food and seldom-washed bodies belowdecks. With a wool scarf wrapped tight, one of Gran’s wheat poultices to protect her ears and her own boat cloak, Nana was content to stare into the distance, impatient to see Spain.

  Dennison stood by her chair, eyes constantly scanning the horizon, where grey water and grey sky joined. “I do not think Lord Ratliffe spent much time at sea” was all he said, and Nana could tell he chose his words carefully.

  “I know little about him.”

  It was easy for her to say that, because it was the truth. For years he had educated her, requiring nothing more from her than a yearly letter, describing her progress, and then the miniature painting once she was twelve. Gran never spoke of him.

  “He began a career at sea,” Dennison said. He squatted on the deck beside her, undignified for a captain, but obviously not wanting his words to carry to the helmsman. “I hear there was scandal in the West Indies, where he and his ship showed a clean pair of heels in a fight, if I can so phrase it.”

  A coward, then; she was hardly surprised. “He still works for the Admiralty?”

  Dennison made a face. “He still has influence, mainly because the king likes him. Oliver and I report to Lord Ratliffe, and he sifts through our messages and sends them—most of them, hopefully—to Lord Mulgrave.”

  She stared at him, then shifted her gaze so he would not wonder. Oliver had never mentioned his connection with her father.

  “Oliver doesn’t trust him,” Dennison said. “He told me I should deliver my messages to Lord Mulgrave.”

  Dennison returned to his duties then and Nana continued her contemplation of the horizon. She thanked God no one knew the viscount was her father. He is a coward, she thought. I know he is a thief, because he took £10,000 from me. I wonder what else he is?

  She found out that night at dinner. The sloop’s wardroom was tiny, and they sat even more elbow-to-elbow, because Lord Ratliffe had decided he felt well enough to join them. The viscount looked with some disfavor to see someone as common at Pete Carter at the table, but said nothing.

  He seemed to have recovered from both his seasickness and his pique at being assigned a cabin far unworthy of him. He made no objection to the cask beef and hard bread on his plate, even choosing the occasion to reminisce on his few years at sea.

  “I am certain they were glorious ones,” Dennison commented dryly.

  “Indeed they were,” Lord Ratliffe replied.

  Dennison made no comment, but merely glanced at Nana and winked.

  “And now we go to release a real hero from his detainment,” Dennison said a few minutes later.

  True to the credo of all self-involved men, Lord Ratliffe either had no idea Dennison’s comment was a gibe at his own less-than-stellar career with the fleet, or grandly chose to overlook it. “Indeed we do,” he said, generously including himself in any honors that might appertain to springing Captain Worthy from prison.

  Nana saw the disgust on Dennison’s face as he returned his attention to the wooden beef in front of him. She glanced at her father, who seemed unable to decide if Dennison had insulted him, or not.

  She had thought to rush in with a comment of her own, to deflect attention from the captain, but Dennison’s mate beat her to the punch.

  “My Lord, who is it you are exchanging for Captain Worthy?”

  “A real prize, which is probably why we had to further sweeten the pot with thirty thousand pounds,” Lord Ratliffe replied. “A captain’s only a captain, after all.”

  Well, that’s a cut to me, Nana thought. Oliver is worth a hundred times whatever paltry sum Whitehall is paying.

  “We are exchanging General Charles Lefebvre-Desnouettes.”

  Nana gasped. She could not help herself. A split second later, Pete Carter trod deliberately on her foot.

  It was too late; all eyes were on her.

  “Do you know him?” Lord Ratliffe condescended to ask, in a tone of voice that indicated nothing could be further from the realm of possibility.

  Think, Nana, she ordered herself. She looked at her father with what she hoped was sufficient calm. “Oh, no, my lord.” She managed a shiver. “A rat just ran across my foot.”

  The men around the table laughed. “That is more than likely, Mrs. Worthy,” Dennison said. “Even the rats are crowded in a sloop of war. Tell us more, Lord Ratliffe.”

  Preening in the attention, he told them of Lefebvre-Desnoutte’s capture at Benevente in 1808 and his parole to Cheltenham. “The emperor would like him back, naturally,” Ratliffe concluded, “and we need whatever information Worthy might possess. After the captain returns to England, I am to escort the general to France under a flag of truce. Beyond that, I cannot say.” He looked around, triumphant.

  Nana finished her dinner in silence, but with a burning desire to speak to Pete as soon as she could decently leave the table and claim a turn on deck would do her good.

  The moment came soon enough. Bells sounded and Dennison’s mate rose, hoisted to his feet like a marionette by the sound. “My watch,” he said cheerfully, bowing to Lord Ratliffe and Nana.

  It was the signal for the dinner party—such
as it was—to disperse. Nana escaped to the deck, after a fierce look at Pete.

  He followed her to the rail, where she rounded on him. “I want to know what’s going on, Pete,” she demanded.

  He put up his hands, as if to ward her off. “I’m as fair blinded as you by that news,” he said. “How many Lefebvres can England support?”

  “Do you think our Mr. Lefebvre was giving secrets to the Lefebvre in Cheltenham?” she asked. She thought a moment. “My word, there he was, sketching everything in Plymouth’s harbors!” She looked at Pete, who was having trouble meeting her eyes. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

  His answer seemed to be extracted by pincers. “Not until your husband told me. Then we decided to have him pressed and put aboard that merchantman bound for India.” It came out in a rush of words.

  “You two might have trusted me” was all Nana could think of to say.

  “Nana, it happened so fast.”

  “I suppose it did,” she said grudgingly, after a pause long enough to restore some of her dignity. “I may have to give my husband a generous helping of my mind. And why did he never tell me he knew Lord Ratliffe?”

  I’d rather give him a big kiss and a huge hug, she thought that night, as she swung lightly in Captain Dennison’s sleeping cot. All I really want is to know he is safe. She rested her hands on her belly—something she always did now, as she composed herself for sleep—and closed her eyes.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Next morning, the Goldfinch hailed the Tireless, swinging at her anchor off Corunna like a puppy waiting for its master. The sea was calm, but Dennison was taking no chances with his cargo. He ordered his crew to rig a bosun’s chair.

  “Lord Ratliffe can drop in the water, for all I care,” he told Nana, “but Oliver would tack my…um…ears to the deck if you even got your feet wet.” He helped her into the canvas sling and secured her with a rope. He kissed her cheek. “Just hold tight to your bandbox and think of Oliver, Nana!”

  And don’t look down, she added to herself as the crew swung her overhead on the line secured aboard Oliver’s frigate. She was let down on the deck of the Tireless as gently as an egg. Mr. Ramseur himself helped her out of the chair, which swung back to take her father, and then Pete.

  Nana went to the rail and waved to Captain Dennison, who laughed and blew her a kiss. “He’s a scoundrel,” she told Mr. Ramseur, who grinned and turned predictably red.

  Once all were on board, the Goldfinch stood off from the Tireless, then made enough sail to be safely distant, but not out of sight.

  “He’s going to watch here until Captain Worthy is back aboard,” Mr. Ramseur told her, as he escorted her belowdecks himself, to her husband’s cabin.

  Lord Ratliffe threw the expected tantrum, demanding to know why he was not assigned to Oliver’s cabin. Mr. Ramseur turned pale under his tirade, but lost none of his resolution. “My lord, you may take this up with Captain Worthy, when he returns,” he said, his voice firm. “You will be in the late Mr. Proudy’s cabin. Follow me, please.”

  Pete remained with Nana. “I’ll have them make me a pallet in the main cabin,” he told Nana, as he watched Lord Ratliffe’s retreating form. “I don’t trust the man at all.”

  She had no objections. A marine stood sentry duty outside Oliver’s quarters, but having Pete close by was a reassurance. All she wanted to do now was lie down and hope this current wave of nausea would pass soon enough, as the others had.

  The door to her husband’s sleeping compartment opened inside the main cabin, which stretched across the stern of the Tireless and contained his chartroom and lavatory, as well: life in miniature aboard a warship.

  With a sigh, she crawled into his sleeping cot and covered herself with a blanket that smelled of her husband and threatened to bring on tears. She probably could have resisted tears, if she had not turned onto her back and looked at the deck beams, where two sketches of her were tacked.

  “Oh, my darling,” she whispered, as she looked at the sketch Lefebvre had made of her on the guildhall steps. It was the other one that startled her, the one she remembered Lefebvre drawing when he drew Sal. Oliver must have asked for it before he sailed the first time.

  She knew herself—and Oliver now—well enough to know that her husband loved her, but that additional sketch filled her eyes with tears, as she began to comprehend the depths of his devotion. Before he had even convinced himself that he would ever dare love her, he had wanted her with him.

  “And there I will be, my love,” she said, as she swung in the cot, cried and committed herself even more deeply to him than she ever could have thought possible. No matter how short or long their future together might be, she was his always.

  Mr. Ramseur wasted no time in preparing to take Lord Ratliffe and the ransom ashore. He had not expected Nana’s order that she accompany the frigate’s little jolly boat to land.

  No one had. Even Pete looked surprised, and ready to argue. She ignored him.

  “I insist, Mr. Ramseur,” she said. “There is nothing you can do that will dissuade me, not if you remonstrate and argue until you turn blue.”

  It was spoken quietly but plainly; she could hardly believe her own ears. Biddable, kind, gentle, self-effacing Nana politely stepped aside for Eleanor Massie Worthy, the wife of one of England’s finest post captains, who would no more take no for an answer than the captain himself.

  “Don’t even try me, Mr. Ramseur,” she added, digging her toes into the deck. She meant every word.

  She found an ally from a surprising source.

  “I say she goes, too,” Lord Ratliffe said. “We have a white flag, and the colonel—or whoever commands the garrison—is expecting a considerable sum of money. Would you keep him waiting?”

  Poor Mr. Ramseur. He hadn’t a chance. She could see he was weighing his captain’s displeasure at his wife in a small boat heading to an enemy shore against the odds that he might be greatly relieved to see her. And there was the glowering Admiralty officer to consider, as well.

  “Aye, then, my lord,” the acting first mate said, although he did not say it gladly. He turned to the rail and looked down into the jolly boat, where its crew rode the waves. He nodded to the men on deck, who had already hoisted the ransom chest toward the midship rail. “Lower away, and handsomely now!” he shouted.

  The box went over the side, to be released by the men below into the center of the jolly boat. Pete went over the side next, assuring Mr. Ramseur that he still knew how to climb down main chains.

  Mr. Ramseur had the bosun rig a knot for Nana to step into. He even brought her a length of rope to tie around her skirts. “No sense in giving anyone below a glimpse,” he mumbled, as she voiced her appreciation.

  “Hang on now,” he said practically into her ear. “Sit straight and let the ropes do the work.”

  She took a deep breath and did as he said, as she rose first to clear the rail, and then dropped slowly and carefully into the jolly boat. Hands reached for her and released her from the ropes as efficiently as if they did that for captains’ wives every day. She untied her skirts and Pete escorted her toward the rear of the jolly boat, where she wrapped her cloak tight around her.

  She looked up, waiting for Lord Ratliffe to be swung below next. They all waited. Nothing happened. She and Pete were looking at each other when they heard “Jolly boat away!” in a loud voice that wasn’t Mr. Ramseur’s.

  The men at their oars looked at each other, then back at her, but did not push away from the ship.

  Then the rope tethering them to the Tireless shot down into the jolly boat. “Jolly boat now, Admiralty orders!” bellowed the voice again. “Disobey at peril of death!”

  “My God,” Pete said, as the crew still sat. “Ratliffe is a coward, too, and he must not care who knows it.”

  Still the men looked at Nana, as if waiting to hear what she said. Thank God I am braver than my father, she thought. She sat up straighter. “I won’t have you risk death on my behalf,
” she told the crew. “Do as he says.”

  Did I just say that? she asked herself as the jolly boat swung away from the Tireless. The bosun’s mate at the tiller couldn’t help himself. “You’re a rum one, Mrs. Worthy,” he said, even though Pete glowered at him.

  When the jolly boat was away from the ship, the oars were stowed and the sail went up, flying a white flag, with the Union Jack below. Nana forced herself to breathe in and out and swallow the gorge that rose in her, more from fear this time than morning sickness.

  She looked back once at the Tireless. Mr. Ramseur stood on the quarterdeck, his telescope trained on them. She waved to him and he waved his hat at her. She could see no sign of Lord Ratliffe. What a coward he is, she thought. He is even too afraid to conduct what must be a mundane piece of work. What country at war wouldn’t want £20,000 with so little exertion? Plus a general of cavalry who, for all she knew, would be carrying back sketches from Plymouth, drawn by another Lefebvre. I will tell him what I think, when I see him again later this afternoon.

  “What a mess this is,” she said to no one in particular, as the jolly boat raced along. The sailors sitting nearest to her laughed, which made her smile. She knew she was in good hands. As sure as they were in a mess, she knew these men would defend her to the death.

  The jolly boat sailed into the small harbor, escorted by a French cutter. Waiting onshore was an officer in full dress uniform.

  The crewman in the bow of the Tireless’s jolly boat tossed the line to his French counterpart, who snugged it tight, and then snugged in the line from the stern. They were tight against the dock. As the crew waited, a French sailor, unable to hide his disbelief at seeing an Englishwoman, steadied Nana as she held out her hand to him, and helped her over the gunwale, and then up the steps. The crew followed her, with the ransom chest carried between them. Pete brought up the rear.

  Now what? she thought. The colonel gaped at her, before recovering himself enough to bow. She curtseyed as calmly as though she spent every afternoon of the week landing on enemy territory with a fortune. To her amusement, the colonel unbent enough to stride to the dock and look down into the boat, as if expecting someone else to materialize.