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likenessofwolf-blog · 7 years ago

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1851

“Rob!”

Frederick stirred and the hold of his arm, looping about the small of her back to clutch a hand at her hip, tightened. He had not dreamt of them in years. Years. With time and practice they were all easier to bear, but those two – they stung. He buried them deep, and tried to forget. Without the trappings and landmarks of modern day as a connection to remind him, that wasn’t so hard to do.

It was Cora that brought it all back with a few drowsily mumbled words.

“Rob! Over here!”

She saw him first. His eyes had been down and he had been lost in thoughts that largely swirled around her, but he hadn’t expected her at the docks. It was no place for a lady; he’d told her so before. He told her again during the slow, continuous stream of correspondence which they exchanged in the months during which he was half a world away anchored off shore in the Black Sea. He would come to her, he’d said. It did not matter at all how much time had passed since her last letter reached him or where her family had taken her off to on holiday this time. He would track her down and they would spend his leave together.

It had turned into eight months rather than six and the exchange had never stopped. He had prepared to send the first letter, thinking reasonably she would not know where to post them to without his instruction. His surprise had played on his face so plainly when her letter was delivered to him before he’d ever managed to pen his to her that Bulk, his mate since they were boys as well as a man who lived up to his name, asked if he’d seen a ghost with a look of real concern.

Both men were new to their roles and moved into them in part by necessity. Robert had only known he was to be Captain days before meeting her. Both he and Bulk (First Lieutenant Bulkeley from then on) had given a curt ceremony below deck in the prior Captains private cabin and issued new uniforms. He’d been handed a horse shortly thereafter with little regard for how he felt about the creatures and told to get to the business of preparing (now) his ship to set off.

It was never a question of if he was ready or what would come of him and his men if he was not. He had his orders; his future was set. Robert – Rob only to those closest to him – was comfortable with that. He had been working towards that moment, impromptu as it turned out to be, for the entirety of his adult life. Captaining his own ship directly into the fray was the reward. It was not until the day that Lady Charlotte Spencer trembled with fury at him and stomped her feet in the mud.

The spent the evening together first on the beach and the on the long walk to Holkam Hall. He stumbled through asking if he could see her again, and her earnest, bright eyed acceptance left him floating the entire way back. The following morning was Sunday. He never attended services, but made an exception to sit in the pews behind her and her family. They stole looks at each other with her blushing and grinning beneath her bonnet and then shared a few furtive moments speaking in close quarters in the grassy courtyard behind the rectory where the skies opened up and all the rain which he’d promised was coming arrived at once to her shrieks and giggling surprise. In another day he was off. They’d made plans to write, but he knew too well how fleeting affection of a woman could be when there was an ocean in the way to expect.

Her letters came were drenched in poetry written in girlish script. Even the paper smelled of her. Often there would be pressed flowers folded into the pages. Limonium vulgare was a frequent star. She spoke unreservedly of great emotional depths and then turned on a dime to speak excitedly about seeing a hare bounce across her path on her walk instead. He could read every word in her voice, which was the greatest comfort.

His penmanship was practiced to the point of nearly mechanical and he was quicker to the point, but she said it had a sort of poetry too. In the first few exchanges, he spoke of everything but the imminent conflict which had drawn the Navy into that part of the world to begin with. When the conversation did turn, he was surprised by how easily it came. She took it all in stride and with an open, disarming interest. It was strange, and wonderful. He said more to her than he had to anyone to that point.

His evenings were spent writing at his desk by candle light after most of the crew was asleep. She preoccupied his mornings too. He had less interest letters coming from distant commanders than he did waiting for another one of hers to arrive in the rowboat of deliveries from shore. The months passed so slowly and mail was intermittent. He kept every one, folded with clinging petals still preserved against the paper, in wooden chest from a long ago Indian voyage which was carved with intricate patterns of paisley swirls and blooming jasmine – and that lived with him in the sleeping quarters of his cabin where the letters would be within reach on those nights where nightmares and dreamscapes left him restless. He passed the time by reading and re-reading what she’d written, pining. For the first time, his future felt less than certain. Sailing no longer felt like the most important thing.

“Rob!”

“Rob! Over here!”

He was in full regalia. Wool uniform, gold epaulets, and tricorn on legs stiff from too much time on open waters. She was in a periwinkle dress that made him think of flowers on a gray morning. He knew the sound anywhere and locked on eyes while still coming down the wood planks to the dock. She was hopping in place to be seen above the crowd and waving an arm over her head, beaming. The young Captain tried, but he broke into a run when she did and swept her into his arms, taking her right off her feet. The pale scarf drawn modestly over her shoulders caught in the seaside wind. She gasped, but snatched it before it could escape in a stream flying over past his shoulder. His head snapped to follow the motion, and when he turned back he was nearly nose to nose with her smiling face.

“I know told you not to come, but I’m so relieved you are here.”

Rob felt the looks their public display was drawing, ignored them, and drew whispers to ignore as well. There were more important things. Namely, the compression of their chests breathing together, the blue of her eyes paler and more mercurial than his, and the big, lit up and satisfied spread of a grin his admission received. So much of those first few months was spent at a distance that it was hard to trust the sensation of holding her to him.

“I’ve been here!” She laughed, shaking her head at how very silly he was. Robert could not be sure if she only meant waiting at the docks for him to disembark. “It’s about time you are too.”

This is another dream, he thought, until she leaned forward bolding to kiss him and he could taste her breath on his tongue before their lips brushed. His heart seized. This was real.

“Lady Spencer.” The voice was refined, but under lain with what Robert recognized immediately as false domesticity. A lion posing as a housecat. He stopped short of the lip-lock that the better part of him ached to be part of to look its way, and then so did she.

The man was not dressed like a coachman and carried himself with a barely conceived air of authority that did not speak of a page. He had dark, sharp features and stood eye level with the Captain still and unflinching irrespective of the silent appraisal he received in return. The white, starch collar shirt he wore made his suit seem truer coal black. Though he was in a crowd full of people and he drew deeply from a thin, hand-rolled cigarillo which smelled of clove and other, fainter floral scents Robert could not identify.

“Godfrey!” Charlotte was surprised. She had not expected him to be there, prowling out like a stalking predator through the reeds. Reluctantly, Robert Let her to her feet and loosened his hold. She remained at his side. Refusing for the moment to show she was shaken. He could hear the attempt for sunniness in her voice, despite the surprise. “Did you follow me here?”

“My lady, your father sent me to retrieve you.” Curt. Correcting in its cut without raising his voice. He used the proper language, but the meaning shifted beneath his influence. “You’ll follow me. The coach is waiting.” And he exhaled a plume of pale smoke. It was as if Rob was not there, or it didn’t matter that he was.

“Now see here…” The Captain put booted foot forward and out ahead of her, inserting himself and suddenly defensive.

“Rob, dearest.” Charlotte’s hand steadying hand was on his arm and sliding down to take hold of his hand. He stopped. “This is Godfrey, my father’s steward.”

“Captain Wright.” The man’s eyes had a faint, sickly yellow muddled in with their green. He nodded, bowing head and shoulders as he spoke Robert’s name and confirmed he knew he was there, and knew him, after all. Robert extended his hand instead. Godfrey, to his credit, concealed his surprise. Lord Spencer of Holkam Hall was stratospherically above such gestures with a servant, but he and Rob came from different worlds. A moment after their palms clapped together he was glad for his gloves. He had the odd thought that he was shaking hands with the devil.

“Godfrey, is it?”

“Yes, sir.” He sounded annoyed. Good, thought Rob.

“And Lord Spencer, he is back at Holkam Hall anxiously waiting for Lady Charlotte’s return? Let’s all go then, shall we? I’d like a word with him myself. It’s past time.” He could feel Charlotte’s look, but kept his gaze fixed forward on the steward.

“Very well. Let’s.” Tension masked as polite agreement or amusement. Another falsehood.

In the coach, they sat side by side while Godfrey rode up front with the driver. He removed his gloves, pocketing them in his coat before closing his hand over hers. She had not fought him on it while they were in mixed company, but he could feel the nerves radiating from her then. Their sides were molded together in a manner that was not strictly proper and it did not matter at all to him. It had been too many bloody long months. He had to be close to her more than he felt he had to keep in the good graces of his father’s man.

Charlotte was even talkative in letters. She could prattle on at length about anything and took as much pleasure in sharing it all with him as he had come to with her. That was love, he supposed, smiling a bit her way despite the tension. It’s going to be alright, the look said, reassuringly to the angel in golden ringlets at who held his hand with the same care she did his heart. She could talk about anything and she told him everything. He thought. Robert knew the name of their housekeeper and cook. He’d known about the nanny who had more of a hand in her raising than her mother ever had and how she still missed the woman after she’d moved on to care for the little ones of another household. He even knew about the scullery maid who she caught smuggling stale bread from the kitchen and had since been slipping apples and trinkets alike with conspiratorial grins.

He’d never heard Godfrey’s name until that day.

“He means well,” Charlotte explained at a whisper, not wanting to be overheard above the noise of the horses and traffic. “It’ll be fine. They will absolutely love you. Who wouldn’t love you?”

Did the duties of stewards normally include chasing after wayward children? He supposed they could though he sensed something discomfortingly familiar about the interaction. If he knew her father, he would have felt better about voicing his distaste. As it stood, it did not seem like his place. He nodded, looking to the narrow window up to the driver’s seat. The hairs along the back of his neck stood on end.

“I don’t think he does much.”

Frederick Kennelly stirred and made a face of disgust. The part of him still consciously aware of the wrap of his arm and her breath against his neck had faded back. They’d been asleep nearly the entire hour and most of it had been peaceful. When the darkness came to settle in, its cold shadow could be felt by both of them.

Holkam Hall was beyond grand. It was practically a palace that stretched grand staircases into labyrinth twists lined with more flowers than he’d ever seen and massive chandeliers in nearly every room. Miss Seidel - he had been told during the carriage ride - had succumbed to Cholera and was in her sick bed. The family doctor had seen to her and confirmed the symptoms, He’d said the prognosis was grim. How did a governess in a clean and well-appointed estate manage to contract such a thing?

A new girl in tight bun and white apron had whisked Charlotte off the moment they were through the doors. Rob was passed off to another servant and lead in the opposite direction. As it turned out, Lord Spencer had his mind set on keeping him waiting. He stood alone in a cavernous study with hands clasped together behind the deep blue jacket of his uniform. He mapped the stars to keep his mind busy. Even with all the advantages of modern naval cartography, he fell back on them during more voyages than not and found the practice soothing when his nerves were frayed.

Frederick flinched and his breathing fell into shallow draws. He did not cast her off with a toss, but his entire body went taut in anticipation. Some part of him knew what was coming even if the him in his dream did not. It was the first in a long series of hostilities, but one Robert Wright never forgot.

In his own sprawling office with Cora still serenely resting against him, he was reciting the stars out loud a crisp argot that was not his own.

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