Jane Austen Made Me Do It (23 page)

“No.” I shook my head.

“Shame to break it.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins. “Allow me.”

I couldn't think of what to say, could only watch as he paid for my tea and then slid the twenty-pound note back across the counter toward me.

“You ought to keep that,” he said with a wink.

“But I couldn't possibly—”

“You'll need it, when you buy me dinner.” I swear his eyes actually twinkled.

I swallowed and tried to untie my tongue from its myriad knots. “My name really is Elizabeth.” I had no idea where that came from.

He nodded. “I thought so.” He glanced at the line of students behind me. “I'm off in twenty minutes. Maybe by then you'll be done with your tea?”

I had never known that happiness could feel like that, like the sun exploding inside of you. It should have felt corny and ridiculous, but instead it felt like Christmas, birthdays, and summer vacations all rolled into one.

“I like to walk,” I said with a smile of my own. “Maybe you'd like to join me?”

“I would.” He leaned across the counter to whisper in my ear. “I fancy finding out where we end up.”

I resisted the urge to turn my head oh-so-slightly and kiss his cheek. “Me too,” I whispered conspiratorially.

I stepped back, took one last look at him, smiled because I couldn't help myself, and turned away from the counter.

What did I know about him, really, my erstwhile Mr. Darcy? He didn't have much money, but he was generous with what he did have. He was willing to look like a fool to gain my notice. And he had listened to me in a way that no one had in a very long time.

I made my way to a table and settled in with my tea.

My mother had been right after all. Sometimes, only a Darcy will do.

A
steady spring rain pattered against the drawing-room windows as Sophy poured the tea. Admiral Croft passed Anne a cup with his usual courtly manners—“Tea for the bride”—and settled back with his own cup. “This is right; all of us snug by the fire here at Kellynch. This is how it should be.”

Sophy looked at Anne, as if to say: what must she be feeling, a guest in her father's house? But Anne was a dutiful daughter, and would not admit to Sophy—nor even to Frederick—the intense happiness she felt at the warm welcome they had received at Kellynch; so much warmer than she could have expected from her father and sister. Kellynch was home again.

The admiral continued, his eyes on the dancing fire, “It is about time you brought home a nice little wife to Kellynch, Frederick. I wonder why you were so long about it. Miss Anne was there, waiting for you the entire time.”

Captain Wentworth covered his discomfort with a sip of tea, but he could not help directing a guilty glance at Anne, who was very much inclined to laugh.

“After all,” said the admiral, “you never have been behindhand at making matches for others.”

“What is this?” cried Anne. “Are you a matchmaker, Frederick?”

“Indeed not,” said her husband.

“Indeed he is,” said his sister, “and you know it very well.” She turned to Anne. “It was Frederick who brought Admiral Croft and me together. Did you not know that?”

“No,” said Anne, “and I should very much like to hear all about it.”

“If I had anything to do with it,” said Wentworth, “it was accidental.”

“Now I
must
beg you to tell me,” said Anne.

The admiral slapped his leg joyfully. “Yes, yes! This is just the kind of night for sea-stories. But this is Frederick's story, so I will let him tell it.”

Wentworth might have protested further, but looked at his wife's expectant face and knew he was defeated. “It started when I was a midshipman on the
Viper
.”

Harville came into the midshipmen's mess clutching a handful of letters. “Mail,” he said, dropping it on the table.

The mids fell voraciously upon the scattered bundles; when the table had been picked clean, Wentworth was the proud possessor of two letters, one from his uncle and one from his sister. None of the other mids had more than one letter, and several had none; and as Wentworth had only been aboard the
Viper
a little more than a month, they were inclined to grumble over it.

Wentworth ignored them and opened the letter from his uncle, who recommended in a strong, slanting hand that Frederick keep his stockings dry and his person clean, obey his captain, attend Sunday services whenever possible, and pay close attention to his studies. All but the last was unnecessary advice, but he still felt a warm rush of affection for his uncle, his guardian since his father had died the previous year. Dr. Wentworth also sent a guinea under the seal, which was appreciated more than the advice.

He opened the letter from Sophy. She knew better than to send advice to a fifteen-year-old midshipman, and instead filled her letter with gossip and amusing stories about the students and the other teachers at the school. Wentworth smiled as he read it, which attracted the attention of Bailey.

Bailey had not lessened the dignity of his position as senior officer of the mess by joining in the frenzy over the letters. There was no point in doing so, as he had no wife, no family, and no friends, and therefore no correspondents. “What have you there, Wentworth?” he asked.

Wentworth was not inclined to share Sophy's letter with Bailey, so he said, “Letter from my uncle.”

“Full of good advice, no doubt.” He sucked on his pipe and emitted a cloud of malodorous smoke. “Give you tuppence for it.”

“Threepence,” said another mid. Wentworth being new to the
Viper
, his uncle's advice would also be new, and therefore worth more. Some spirited bidding followed, which Bailey carried with a bid of one shilling. Wentworth handed over the letter, thinking that if the condition of Bailey's shirt were evidence, it was likely that the advice about personal hygiene, at least, would fall upon fallow ground.

“What else have you got?” said Bailey. “Who's the other from? Your sweetheart?” He leered at Wentworth, and the other mids leaned forward with interest.

“It is from my sister,” he said.

There were groans of disappointment.

“Oh, your
sister
,” said Harville. “Never mind. I've enough sisters of my own to write to me.”

Bailey was still interested. “Is she pretty?” he asked.

Wentworth thought about Sophy, about her bright eyes and curling brown hair and merry laugh. He was not accustomed to thinking of his sister as pretty, so he repeated what his uncle had said of her. “She is handsome enough.”

“Hold,” said Bailey, “is she the trim little piece who brought you to the dock in Portsmouth and waved her hanky as you were rowed out? I'll give you sixpence for the letter.”

This occasioned surprised murmurs among the midshipmen, as letters from sisters were generally not considered worth more than a penny. Bailey was a noted connoisseur; Wentworth's sister must be pretty indeed.

“I doubt you have so much money,” said Wentworth, “since you have boasted that you spent your entire leave in Portsmouth drinking wine and keeping company with doxies.”

The mess erupted in a chorus of “Ooohs” and laughter, quickly choked off.

Bailey said, “Keep your letter, then,” and Wentworth knew he would avenge himself in some sneaking way: a foot placed to trip him on the quarterdeck, his hammock strings cut, his shirts slashed. That was the sort of petty retribution exacted by a man like Bailey. Wentworth tucked Sophy's letter into his pocket and thought the punishment well worth it; and looking around at the admiring glances of his messmates, realized they thought it, too.

Wentworth sighted the horizon through the eyepiece of his sextant. The midshipmen of the
Viper
were taking the noon angle of the sun as practice for calculating latitude. After five years at sea,
Wentworth could take a sextant reading without thinking very much about it. Bailey, with a decade more experience, needed the practice, but instead he whispered a steady stream of abuse at the other mids.

Bailey was still angry with Wentworth for refusing to sell him Sophy's letter, and had broken into Wentworth's sea-chest and tumbled the contents looking for it. He no longer wished to read the letter, but like a small child thwarted in his desire for a toy, wanted it because it had been denied him; and he wanted to get it by cunning, so that he could taunt Wentworth with it. Wentworth kept the letter carefully in his coat pocket, and even tucked it into his shirt while he was sleeping. Bailey was universally disliked among the midshipmen, and they were inclined to help Wentworth keep his property. The more Bailey was thwarted, the more abusive he became.

“You know I will get that letter,” he said now. “And when I do, I will make you all pay, by God. See if I don't.”

Wentworth noted down the angle of the sun in his logbook. Bailey, irritated at being ignored, snatched at the logbook, Wentworth fought to keep it, and a struggle ensued.

“What are you about there?” cried the first lieutenant, Mr. O'Brien. “Belay that, or I will have you both at the mast-head; yes, you, too, Mr. Bailey. If you cannot behave as gentlemen on the quarterdeck, perhaps you can aloft.”

Bailey would not release the logbook, and Wentworth was not about to give it up; the struggle continued, and Lieutenant O'Brien crossed the deck and said, “Give that to me.”

There was no choice now, and they surrendered it. Mr. O'Brien opened the book and saw “M'man F. Wentworth, R.N.” written neatly on the first leaf. “Mr. Bailey, as you are so eager to acquire what belongs to Mr. Wentworth, you may stand his watch
tonight. If I see or hear of you trying to take another officer's property, there will be further consequences.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bailey, sending a murderous look at Wentworth as soon as the lieutenant's back was turned. Wentworth tucked his logbook back in his pocket and bent to pick up his pencil, which had been dropped in the struggle. He straightened up and touched the brim of his hat when he saw Captain Croft walking towards him.

The captain touched his own brim and nodded in response. “Good morning, Mr. Wentworth.”

“Good morning, Captain,” Wentworth murmured.

“A fine day for sailing, is not it? And if we are lucky, the French will stop skulking about and come out boldly to meet us, and then we shall have a fine battle.”

Some of the other midshipmen, overhearing, joined in Wentworth's reply of “Aye aye, sir!” The
Viper
was part of the blockade of Brest; a week before, the admiral, Lord Bridport, had spread out the fleet off the coast of Ushant, having received intelligence that French troopships were trying to break through the blockade and invade Ireland. The
Viper
ranged back and forth along the blockade, ferrying men and information among the fleet, but the promised Frenchmen had not appeared.

Captain Croft beamed at their enthusiasm. “Ha, yes! That is right, gentlemen! That is what I like to hear. We will get our chance. In the meantime, be attentive to your duty. Remember your friends back home, for whom we fight. I hope you are writing to them regularly, and telling them of your adventures.”

“Mr. Wentworth writes to his sister, Captain,” said Bailey. “He gets letters from her all the time.”

“Your sister!” cried the captain, turning a kindly gaze upon Wentworth. “That is right; that is well. We men come to sea to
protect England, and the ladies keep our homes warm for us until we return. I am glad to hear that you are attentive to your sister, Mr. Wentworth.”

“Any man would be attentive to Mr. Wentworth's sister, Captain,” said Bailey. “A trim little ketch, sir; prominent in the bow, if you follow me,” the last accompanied by a suggestive hand motion.

Captain Croft turned a look upon Bailey as if he were observing a curious animal in a zoo. “Mr. Bailey, I do not like to hear ladies spoken of disrespectfully, particularly a lady belonging to a brother officer. I hope I will hear no talk of that sort from you in future.”