The Admiral's Penniless Bride (18 page)

He couldn’t look her in the face, but he had no choice, not unless he wanted to turn away and humiliate her further. Her face was red and so were her breasts, which she was quickly covering now with trembling fingers. Not bothering to button her chemise, she snatched up her old dress. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmured, her voice barely audible. ‘I thought you wanted… Oh, forgive me.’

As he stood there, struck dumb with what Starkey had witnessed and miserable that his own intemperance had
put her in a place where he should be the one making apology, his wife buttoned her dress as quickly as she could with shaking fingers. She looked around for her shoes, which had come off at some point. With another inarticulate cry—this one of shame and not of pleasure—she gave up trying to find them. After a quick glance at his face and one more strangled, ‘So sorry’, she fled the room barefooted. She must have raced to the stairs, because he heard her pounding up them only moments later.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for a blunder as monumental as this one. He stood there in the middle of the sitting room, willing himself to calm. He looked down with shame, as his passion slid away as rapidly as it had come. When his hand was steady again, he buttoned his trousers. He didn’t want to look in the mirror, not and see what horror the experience had probably etched on his face permanently. Trafalgar had turned his hair grey almost overnight; Basque Roads had aged him. He raised his eyes to the mirror, disgusted with himself.

Other than an unnatural pallor on his cheeks, he looked the same. Funny how the worse thing—humiliating the woman he was just about ready to love for ever—left no mark on him. He sat down, his legs unable to support him. Sophie was the injured one. He—they—had assured each other that time needed to pass to consider and reconsider this overnight marriage he had levied on her. He could not overlook that her eagerness to couple equalled his, but still, they needed to think it through. And then he had compounded the matter by his reaction to Starkey. No one could fault him for that; the last thing in the world he wanted was for his dearest girl to realise another had witnessed what was his alone to see.

‘What do I do?’ he asked himself, taking another look in the mirror.

He was momentarily distracted by the painters, rattling their buckets and laughing as they left the room across the hall where they had been working. He listened to them traipse down the hall, probably headed belowdeck for lunch. Good God, who could eat at a time like this?

It was simple what he had to do—talk to Starkey and then lie to Sophie. He had to lie; it would destroy her to know what the servant had seen. He looked in the mirror again and straightened his neckcloth. He had rebuttoned his fallfront trousers wrong, like a young boy in a hurry to get back to play after a call of nature. Vexed with himself, he did them up properly, took a deep breath, then another, and opened the door, Sophie’s two beautiful dresses draped over his arm. He folded them neatly into the pasteboard box and looked up to see one of the housemaids watching them.

‘Please get Minerva and Gladys to help you take these upstairs to Lady Bright,’ he said.

She curtsied and he continued down the hall. As though it were hot to the touch, he stared for a long moment at the doorknob to the servants’ quarters. With another deep breath, he opened it and went down the stairs as if mounting a flight of rude boards to a guillotine. What on earth could he say to Starkey, who had been his confederate in all his agonising over the The Mouse, and his determination to contract a tepid marriage of convenience? That narrowing of his servant’s eyes had contained nothing but contempt. Who could blame him?

Well. I am the master here. I am the admiral
, Charles told himself, as he descended the stairs at glacial speed.
He is my servant and he must bend to my will.

He knew Starkey would be waiting for him in the servants’ hall and he was not disappointed. When Charles opened the door, his longtime servant looked up with an
unreadable expression on his face. Their eyes met and held. With a barely perceptible turn of his head, Charles indicated Starkey’s room. The man rose at once and went to the door, holding it open for him.

There were two chairs in the small sitting room. They both sat down. Knowing it would be folly to avoid looking at his manservant, Charles stared him in the eyes.

‘I wish you had not opened that door.’

Starkey was a long time in replying. ‘Aye, Admiral,’ he said finally, ‘and I must say I wish you had never contracted an alliance with someone you barely know.’

Charles glared at him, startled right down to his shoes at his servant’s impudence. ‘How dare you?’ he demanded.

Starkey leaned forwards, greatly reducing the space between the two men. ‘Admiral, I have known you for twenty years. These past six months, you have been going through considerable perturbation about your meddling sisters.’ He put up his hand. ‘Admiral, those are your very words.’

‘Starkey…’ he began, then stopped. It was true; Starkey had been in his confidence since the beginning of the whole business. He waved his hand. ‘Go on. Tell me what you think.’

His servant sighed. ‘When you settled on Miss Batchthorpe, you at least knew her brother well, and you paid her a respectable visit, spelling things out clearly.’

‘I did.’

Starkey threw up his hands. ‘And then…and then…you come back here and you’re married to a complete stranger! And what do you tell me that very night, but that it is still a marriage of convenience. Admiral, I have eyes!’

Charles had nothing to say for a long moment. He leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees, so he would not have to look at Starkey, because he felt himself growing
angry at the man’s cheek, this man he had known far, far longer than Sophie Bright, who was probably sobbing her eyes out right now. Still, it would not do to anger his servant, particularly when he was so convinced he was right. He couldn’t placate him; that would be a bigger folly. He would only explain himself once.

‘Starkey, have you—’ he stopped. Asking Starkey if he had ever been in love would only compound his weakness in the eyes of his servant. He was still the master ‘—have you ever had occasion to doubt my judgement?’

It was Starkey’s turn to squirm a bit in his chair. ‘No, sir,’ he said finally.

Charles felt himself on slightly firmer ground. ‘Even when you didn’t understand what my whole intent was, in matters of the fleet?’

‘No, sir, no, indeed! That was none of my—’ He stopped. When he resumed, his voice had a dull tone. ‘—my business. Sir.’

‘Neither is this,’ Charles concluded quietly. He stood up. Starkey remained seated. Charles frowned at this small act of insubordination, but put it down to his servant’s discomfort. ‘We will say nothing more about it. You’ll have to trust me to know what is my business alone, much as you would have trusted me with the ships and men in the fleet.’

Starkey leaped to his feet then, his hands balled into fists. ‘Sir! Begging your pardon, but you don’t know anything about her!’

Charles never thought he would have to dress down this man who had served him so faithfully through nearly an entire war, a man who had never given him cause for anger, so obedient had he always been. With all the force and power of his office, he glared at the man, stared him
down and reduced him to nothing. ‘As you were, Starkey. As you were! Don’t
ever
forget again who you are.’

He turned on his heel and left the room. As he went up the stairs, his heart sore with abusing as faithful a man as any who had ever taken orders from him, Charles could not shake the feeling that he had committed a terrible wrong.
He’s right, you know, no matter how you gloss it
, he forced himself to admit.
You really don’t know her very well.

I
t might have been a bright and glorious summer, but Sophie’s hands were icy. Or maybe her face was so red hot from embarrassment that they seemed cold by comparison. She put her hands to her face and left them there, trying to warm them with her humiliation. Her eyes were dry; she was beyond tears, wondering how she could live in the same house with a man who had rejected all she really had to give him.

She squeezed her eyes shut, replaying in her mind what had happened in the sitting room. He had kissed her first, his lips on her spine, and then his hand on her breast, and more. Surely, after their first coupling when she had burned like tinder, he knew how he aroused her. And then when he turned her around and pulled her so tight against him, it was obvious they had worked each other into a high state.

She put her hands over her eyes, but she could not dismiss that mental picture of him so eager for her that he was ready to take her right there in the middle of the sitting
room. She gasped as her traitor loins began to grow warm again, just thinking about it. There, at luncheon time, in the middle of the sitting room, she would have done anything he asked, because she loved him.

She loved him. She took her hands away from her face and placed them in her lap. Thank goodness she had not said those words to the admiral, especially not when his next gesture had been to thrust her away as though she was a drab from an alley in Plymouth, come to lure him next to a wall for a fast lay worth a brass coin. With some distaste, Andrew had told her about women like that in seaports. Sophie wrapped her arms around her body and shivered.
What must Charles think of me?
she asked herself.

Then why did he begin it? She had no answer to that.

She had huddled herself into a little ball on her bed, unwilling to move, when someone knocked on the door.

‘Mum? Mum?’

It was the little girls. She opened the door to see them standing there with her lovely new clothes, the garments she never wanted to see again.

‘Thank you, my dears,’ she said with what she hoped passed for real gratitude. ‘You may set those in my dressing room.’

They did as she asked; her heart heavy, she watched them through the open door. In spite of her distress, Sophie had to smile when Minerva opened one of the hatboxes and took the tiniest peek. The others gathered around for a look, too, and Gladys even jumped up and down.

‘Lovely, aren’t they?’ she asked, as the little ones came into her bedchamber again. ‘When you go downstairs, please ask Thayn to come up some time this afternoon and put them away.’

They bobbed three uneven curtsies, which made her
smile again. She had to ask. ‘Vivienne, just what
is
Thayn doing downstairs?’

Vivienne came closer, her eyes bright. ‘She’s giving us lessons. Mum, did you know that Vienna is the capital of Austria?’

‘I have heard that whispered about. What else is she doing?’

Vivienne glanced at her confederates. ‘Monsieur Dupuis is teaching her how to cook!’

They giggled and Sophie had to smile again. ‘I think there is more to this story!’ she declared. ‘Go ahead now. If Etienne can spare a moment, please tell him I would prefer to have luncheon in my room and not on the terrace.’

‘I cannot face the admiral,’ she whispered, as the door closed. ‘Not as long as I live.’

She had seldom felt less like eating. She sat in the window seat, looking out at the ocean and wondering why on earth she had ever agreed to marry Charles Bright. She was a practical woman and the answer was quickly obvious. ‘You were persuasive and I was desperate,’ she told a pair of seagulls, squabbling on the terrace banister.

She wrapped her arms around herself.
I would be in the workhouse now, if it weren’t for Charles Bright
, she reminded herself. It was true; despite the irregularity of the whole business, she was legally married to a man who had made certain requests in return for his protection. She was to keep his sisters at bay with her presence, or at least until they had resigned themselves and meddled no more. She had decided on her own to occupy the admiral with his memoirs. He had not asked her to become Lady Bountiful to the neighbours, or entertain a houseful of hopeful guests seeking a vacation on the Devonshire coast. He expected her to run his household and offer no particular impediments.

Sophie considered the matter in her rational way and decided she could manage the situation on one condition: the admiral had to remember what he had asked of her in St Andrew’s Church, when she was at her worst.

She put her face down into her knees.
I still don’t want to look him in the eyes for ten years at least
, she thought.
Maybe twenty.

She raised her head and leaned back, thinking of Andrew.
Devil take the man! I had a comfortable husband once, who made no demands.
Still… She looked out at the ocean again. Andrew was tidy, meticulous in his duties, which involved columns and columns of figures and items. He was quiet, predictable and as ordinary as she was, until ruin faced him, and he could not exert himself to fight harder, even when he was completely in the right.
What’s done is done
, she reminded herself.
I will do what is asked of me.

A course of action, once decided upon, always put heart in her body, and it did so now, or at least until there was a metallic tap on her door. She felt her heart race again. If he had tapped on the door with his hook, that was because he carried something in his other hand. Oh, Lord, it was probably her luncheon.
If I do not open the door for him, there is no way he can get in
, she thought. It would be too hard to set down a tray one-handed without dropping it. She sat where she was and he rapped again.

‘Sophie? I come bearing food and there is even a scone you can throw at me.’

Lord, what a hopeless man. I still don’t want to see him.
She sat where she was for a moment more, then the traitor better angel of her nature, as alluded to by St Matthew, gave her a prod. As the crow flies, the door was about fifteen miles from the window seat, but she traversed the distance and opened it.

‘I was coming up anyway, and Etienne was using up all the help in the kitchen.’

He looked her in the eye and she had no choice but to return his gaze, not if she expected to continue living in his house. She was relieved to see no maddening half-smile on his face, but only real contrition, which brought the tears bubbling to the surface again. She sobbed out loud, put her hand to her mouth and retreated fifteen miles to the window seat again.

Charles set the tray down on the table between the chairs, steadying it with his hook. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes to see him pick up a scone and carry it to the window seat, where he offered it to her. ‘Here. If Etienne were a terrible cook, it would be rock hard. It’s damned fluffy, but you’re welcome to throw it. Come on.’

She snatched the wretched biscuit from his hand and threw it at him. She missed, which made him laugh.

‘That’s all the chance you get, Sophie dear.’ He reached in his pocket. ‘Here’s another handkerchief. Blow your nose, wipe your eyes and forgive me. You can do that in any order you prefer. Defer it, if you want, but I recommend a good snort.’

She glared at him and blew her nose.
Better get it over
, she thought. ‘I thought you wanted me in the sitting room.’

‘I did,’ he replied with no hesitation, even though his face reddened. ‘Sophie, didn’t you hear those painters rattling down the hall with their buckets? I was fair terrified one of them would look in the room.’

She couldn’t remember any noise from the painters. Of course, she hadn’t been precisely listening by then, not with his over-eager carcass pressed so meaningfully against hers. Another moment or two, and she would have
been down on the sofa in an activity not common in most sitting rooms.

‘I…I don’t recall any noise, but really, Admiral, perhaps we need to examine just what a marriage of convenience is.’

There. She had said it. She was almost afraid to look into his eyes. When she did, there was only a thoughtful expression.

‘You’re right, of course.’ He scratched his head with his hook, which never failed to make her smile, even though she looked away this time, so he would not see it. ‘I haven’t been doing too well.’

Best be generous. ‘I haven’t either,’ she said in a whisper. ‘It just all seems rather sudden.’

‘No argument there.’ He sat down in the window seat, too.

‘You don’t know me very well.’

He frowned at her words, as though remembering something. ‘No, I don’t. To be fair, you don’t know me, either.’

But I do
, she thought.
You’re kind and charming, and probably all the man I could ever want.

The realisation startled her.
Sophie, are you the easiest trollop in England or does love sometimes work in odd ways?
she asked herself. ‘What a wretched state of affairs this is!’ she burst out. ‘Please, sir, no memoirs this afternoon.’

She hadn’t wanted to say that, because she knew it hurt him. She didn’t know if she would have had the courage to face him so soon after such an embarrassing blunder, but there he was, trying to make amends.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice softer this time. ‘I don’t quite know what to do.’

He stood up then and patted her head. ‘Never mind,
Sophie. I need to pay a visit to Lord Brimley this afternoon and thank him for his under-steward. Tomorrow, maybe?’

She nodded. ‘And…and if Lord Brimley invites you to dine with him tonight, don’t tell him no.’

She did hurt him then; she could see it in his eyes. He left the room without a backwards glance, closing the door firmly behind him.

They didn’t resume the memoirs for a week. By the end of it, Sophie was hard pressed to remember a longer stretch of days. It was as though the astronomer royal had found an error in celestial accounting and chosen that week to even out the whole universe. Charles still brought her tea each morning, but he merely set it on her night table, spoke a few pleasantries that sounded rehearsed, then left it to her to drink alone.

She still spent her mornings with Rivka Brustein, going so far as to sob her heart out on her knees by the bed. The old woman’s gentle hand on her head had been Sophie’s balm in Gilead. She had not told Rivka what had brought about this gust of tears, and it hadn’t mattered. ‘Men are a separate species,’ was Rivka’s comment. ‘It will pass. Look at me. Married forty years.’

Lunch on the terrace was better. There was always something to comment on, considering that the repairs on their wretched house seemed to grow exponentially with every new revelation of real estate felonies and misdemeanors.

‘There is a name for a house like this,’ he told her over lunch on the terrace, at the end of that awful week. ‘Money pit. I’m pouring pounds sterling down a rat hole.’

Sophie could commiserate. She felt like apologising for the leaky roof, the crumbling chimneys, the squeaks in the stairs and the way the water puddled in the laundry
room—why must women apologise for everything?—but resisted the impulse. She hadn’t bought the place.

‘Tear it down and begin again,’ she suggested.

‘Where would we live?’

There was something in the way the sentence came out of his mouth that bathed her face like a gentle rain storm in summer. He was thinking of her, even as she was sulking.

‘Under a downspout in the Barbican,’ she said, which made him smile, and then laugh.

Impulsively, she picked up a scone and threw it at him, hitting him this time. He threw one back at her and missed, which made her laugh for the first time in what seemed like eons.

They took up the memoirs again that afternoon.

August was a strange month, spent anticipating Charles’s knock on the door each morning. He had taken to sitting with her again while she sipped her tea. First he drew up a chair beside the bed, and then, towards the end of the month, she patted the space beside her on the bed and he sat there again, careful not to touch her.

He accompanied her a few times to the Brusteins’ estate, even visiting Rivka, when Sophie told him over dinner that she particularly wished to hear his stories of the war. Sophie tried to buttress him against Rivka’s growing frailty, but even her caution had not prepared him for the feeble woman who lay there, scarcely able to raise her hand when he came into the room.

‘She has altered since we first visited,’ was his comment as they left the house, arm in arm.

‘I tried to prepare you,’ Sophie said.

‘It is hard to ever do that adequately, isn’t it?’ he replied. ‘Jacob seemed to be holding up.’

Sophie nodded, but with no conviction. ‘Charles, people just show their best face for company.’

‘Do we do that?’ he asked her.

She didn’t reply. Of course they did. A week earlier, they had been visited by several of his former frigate captains from the Blue Fleet. Shy at first, but not concerned that any of them would know her, Sophie had made herself small about the place. By the evening meal, served on the terrace because the weather was still so fine, she was laughing at their stories and basking in her own glow when Charles insisted on reading portions of his memoir to them, and pointed her out as the real author.

‘I just tell her a few old stories, and some home truths about life in the fleet, and she makes me look so good,’ he declared. ‘Every vain, peacocky admiral should have such an amanuensis.’ He raised his wine glass to her. ‘Wrong word, I suppose. She is the true author of my life.’

The way he said it made her blush, and then steal looks at him throughout dinner.
I am the author of your life?
she thought that night as she prepared for bed. He couldn’t have really meant that. His own life had been so exciting, so vital to England’s very life. What did she do but put his thoughts and words on paper? Still, she had difficulty getting to sleep that night, warm with his praise and wanting more.