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Christmastime,
1808 The captain looked
through the glass and counted five crewmen and two landsmen on deck
of the Baron's Bride. He snapped it closed. "There are
passengers. The damn fool has loaded the hold with enough power to
blow them to kingdom come, and he's taken aboard innocents." The man
next to him continued to write in a small ledger.
He finally finished,
snapped the notebook closed and put his pencil in his breast pocket.
"I saw them earlier. Well-dressed too. Some fellow not wishing at
Christmas to pay the full freight to Dublin, so he looks only at
what he's charged, not having an inkling the ship might be smuggling
something like gun powder." He pulled out his own small glass.
"She's rigged ready to fly at a moments notice. I'll wager Conard
Williams has heard we're in the waters here
about." Frederick Wentworth
again joined Timothy Harville in studying the Bride. "We've
gotten a reputation in just a few days. I told you we went about it
in the right way. Just start plucking them off one-by-one and let
them try and figure out who we are. None of that going around and
laying hints we're interested in joining an established crew." He
studied too the passengers: a smartly dressed, older man and a young
woman in fine heavy cloak. Just then, a maid joined the couple. He
felt no sympathy for those who put themselves in harms way by
stealing and selling the takings. But, he did worry when a smuggler
carried their family, or, in this case, people who had no idea they
were in the midst of an exceedingly dangerous game of
cat-and-mouse. Harville cleared his
throat. "I bow to your masterful reading of our fellow bandits, sir.
You were right as usual." He snapped his glass closed and slipped it
in his pocket. "I'm going below to have some dinner."
He was nearly to the companionway when Wentworth spoke. "So, that's what we're calling it. It makes one long for the days of the Navy and the regularity of rations." Anne Elliot watched the cook's mate emerge from below, a cask of garbage perched on his shoulder. She had watched the man the day before and was fascinated by the lowly process of ridding the ship of its food scraps. It was not the act itself that fascinated her, but the fact that as he crossed the small deck of the Baron's Bride, he gathered an interesting little retinue. There was the little boy who served the captain, and a few older lads who had sneaked away from their duties. They all skipped and hooted, acting as though this daily event was this section of the Irish Sea's version of a Bartholomew Fair. The next set interested was the wheeling seagulls that screamed for their easily won meal. Lastly, there were grown men who would never admit an interest in such a disgusting display, but were interested nonetheless. Elizabeth, her older
sister, joined her at the railing. "Let us go down to our rooms. The
display in the back is disgusting. I really wish they could do it
when we are not about." She turned and started away from the rail.
"It is the stern," She said to her retreating sister. Anne remained at the railing. Her sister and father
felt the cost of their two-day passage should naturally include the
complete reworking of the ship's schedule of duties to suit their
more refined sensibilities. They were not only disturbed by the
physically limited accommodations, but were discommoded by the
constant clanging of the bell to tell the time. Once she grew used
to it, she quickly learned its half-hourly meaning, and now found it
very helpful in counting down the time until they reached their
destination. They also felt that the less attractive members of the
crew should be assigned to areas of the ship not used by the
passengers. Her father was especially was disturbed by some of the
men's less than keen standards of cleanliness. Thus far, neither
father nor daughter had been satisfied in their expectations.
When Anne had asked why
barrel and all were thrown overboard, she was told by one of the
men, "There ain't nothing to be done with it, 'cept 'haps burn it.
But we carry wood for that." Anne watched the man first dump the
garbage, and then toss the cask. The birds disappeared below the
railing and the human audience variously leaned over to watch them,
or wandered away back to their work.
The wake left by the
Bride was a very gentle arch that Anne imagined being a
plough furrow in the sea. "It is not an original idea, but true
nonetheless." Eventually, she saw the cask, bobbing along. It was
nothing now but a dark speck in the white trough. There was
certainly nothing here that would have interested her sister. As she
breathed the cool December twilight, she could not help think of
days past, and what life must be like for those fortunate enough to
live aboard a sailing vessel. A voice above called out
and the deck came alive with the men running and calling. She had
also learnt that when someone in the tops called out, the quiet
rhythm of the ship was broken and everyone moved hurriedly in a
well-practiced reel. Anne stood out of the way and watched the
mayhem. More sails were being employed for speed, and two small cannons were brought to the stern of the ship. Anne was stunned to see that another, smaller ship had come so quickly upon them. Thanks to the added sails, Baron's Bride was picking up speed. The unknown ship's sails seemed tiny in comparison to those just hoisted by the crew. Despite this, the second ship was gaining remarkably fast. It was close enough that she could easily make out two men on the prow, looking through telescopes. The taller of the two lowered his glass and spoke to the other. She could see them more clearly now and turned away when she realized they were looking directly at her.
It took her a moment to
cross the deck. It was then she heard mutterings about "pirates,"
and "smugglers." She took another look at the approaching ship, and
then lurched down the companionway. She entered the room she shared
with Elizabeth to find her father had joined her sister. They were
having tea and speculating yet again on the delights to be had once
they arrived at the ancestral home of the Viscount
Dalrymple. “The Irish are rather
savage as well we know, but one cannot discount the English
influence of the Elliot side of the family.” The Baronet took a
drink of his tea; secure in the wisdom of his declaration and that
the proof of it would be very soon before their eyes when they
landed in Dublin. Elizabeth heartily agreed having nothing to
counter, or to add. They were blissfully
unaware of their predicament until Sir Walter noticed the ship surge
and pick up speed. “The captain surely understands our desire to
arrive in good time and has chosen to speed us on our way.
Anne decided it was time
to inform them of her observations on deck. This was cut short when
the roar of a cannon interrupted her. The blast was followed by the
ship jerking and slowing noticeably. Above their heads the sound of
men running on deck, and shouting was almost deafening. It was only
an instant before the door burst open. Several men entered, filthy
rags tied over their faces. Only their eyes were visible. The sound
of shattering china mingled with Anne and Elizabeth's screams. The
intruders said nothing, but went straight to the ladies, quickly
putting hoods over their heads. Anne could hear her sister's muffled
screams and her father threatening harm to the men if the hood was
not immediately removed. "Silence." The commanding voice had her
attention. The voice continued to speak, and she no longer heard her
father. * *
* Wentworth dealt swiftly
with the captain of Baron's Bride, sending him to the brig.
As Captain Williams was unceremoniously removed from his own cabin,
Harville shrugged by and entered. He pulled down the black silk
scarf covering his face. "The maid was taken to dining room as you
ordered. The other two are in the sick berth."
The captain's fore cabin
was a shambles. When William’s realised that Bride was about
to be boarded, he had endeavoured to destroy incriminating
documents. Wentworth expected they contained the names of fellow
smugglers, buyers, and, perhaps, customs men who were lending a hand
by turning a blind eye to the smuggler’s activities along the coast.
It was the sort of information vital to the success of his and
Harville’s undertaking. Harville looked around,
found some glassed and poured them each a tot from a bottle of wine
sitting open on the desk. "Why is it that smugglers have better
accommodations, and provisions than officer's aboard most King's
ships?" The Captain laughed as
he took the glass. "They steal it all, Timothy. Besides, they are in
the business of making a profit. We were always far more impressed
by glory and our own nobility, I think." He downed the
wine. "Are you sure you wish
to speak to the passengers? I don't see that it will do any
good." "Who knows? Maybe one of
them saw or heard something useful to us." He put down the glass and
paged through one of the logs. "Is that why you
separated them? Do you suppose the maid is more likely to have heard
something from the crew?" He poured himself more
wine. Wentworth shut the log.
"Yes, that is it exactly. She's a servant and the others would not
have had anything to do with common
sailors." "Oh, you never know.
Some of these fashionable nobs like to rub elbows with the common
folk now and then; fancy themselves 'of the people' like the
Americans, you know." "That's not likely for
Sir Walter Elliot." "You know him?" Harville
frowned. Wentworth paused. "No,
but his name was in the log." He picked up his gloves and pulled up
a black scarf he wore. "I'm off to rub elbows with my
betters." Wentworth entered the
sick berth to find the prisoners herded into the centre of the room,
clutching one another as their two rough guards taunted them. One of
the men cuffed the second when he noticed the captain. The jeering
ceased. The sick berth nearly
pitch black, though Wentworth was surprised at its generous size. At
one time, it had likely held several bunks, but they were now torn
from the walls and all the surfaces were covered with dust and the
proof of her last occupation. The Baron's Bride was a fine
ship, surprisingly elegant for a smuggling lugger. Her fall grieved
his sailor's heart. He took a seat at the
table and put his feet up. He contemplated removing his mask for he
was sure neither Sir Walter Elliot nor the eldest daughter would
recognize him. Wentworth was certain that were the man to have a
long clear look at him, the two years separation was enough, and it
was unlikely the Baronet would remember him at all. He leant the
chair on the back legs, pushed his hat back on his forehead, and
then motioned for the hoods to be removed.
Both father and daughter
blinked even in the dim light of the cabin. Immediately, the Baronet
began prating on about his title, the impropriety of their rough
treatment, and demanding an explanation. "You may rest assured I
will be contacting the owner of this vessel and apprising him of
this indignity." He looked Wentworth up and down and with a gesture
designed to show his contempt, looked away to examine a rip in the
seam of his lace cuff. Just as the lady was
about to start in on him, Wentworth stood in a smooth motion that
sent the chair clattering to the floor. The loud crash startled the
Baronet and halted the woman's harangue mid-sentence.
Wentworth pulled at the
tops of his gloves as he walked around the table. As he came closer
to the pair the Baronet stepped back, exchanging places with his
daughter. Elizabeth was about to turn to escape the captain.
Wentworth seized her by the arm and pulled her close. "Coward," he
said, looking directly at Sir Walter. "And do you have anything else
you wish me to know, missy?" Elizabeth looked down and shook her
head. He pushed her to her
father. "Neither of you has asked after the maid. Do you not care
what has become of her?" He was sorely tempted to describe some
imaginary evils that were to befall their
companion. Wentworth could see his
hackles rising. "That is not a maid, she is my younger daughter—"
"Shut up. Such disregard
only makes you less a man." He motioned to the guard at the door.
"Take them back to their cabin. Lock it after them."
Sir Walter tried to
avoid being touched by the sailor, but was eventually in the man's
grasp. "We were taking tea when were so crudely set up—."
Elizabeth had been
following meekly. She broke away and faced him. "Please, let my
sister go." Everything in him disliked the Elliot girl. But, this simple plea was genuinely heartfelt. The playacting was almost regrettable. He took her arm, turned her, and pushed her forward. "Get them out of here."
* * *
The sweet, putrid
smell of the hood was
nearly overpowering. It was of a very coarse weave that scratched
wherever it touched. This made the itching where it was tied at the
neck particularly excruciating. There was little Anne could do as
her hands were tied as well. She endeavoured to think neither of the
physical discomfort, nor the uses it had been put to in its past. If
the hood was not enough of a trial, though she sat in a hard chair,
with her eyes blinded, the sway of the ship made her sick to her
stomach. There were the usual
sounds above on the deck, muffled further through the hood. She
heard voices as well, but could not say how many or from where they
came. A sudden sharp noise
made her jump. She suspected it was inside the room with her, but
had no way of truly knowing. The man, who had brought her to the
room, had told her to stay put. Soon after that, the door had soon
slammed, but she could not be certain he had really left her. She
supposed that most of their actions were to inspire fear. The tactic
had worked wonderfully. Anne decided to risk
trying to remove the hood. The attempt failed miserably when no
matter how she struggled, she could not reach the knot with her
bound hands. Her worst fear was that
no one would come to her aid and that she might die in the hood.
The thought began to
consume her, and work on her imagination. Breathing was suddenly
difficult and her hands begin to shake. She stood and tried to
orient herself. "And where do you think
you are going?" The door slammed hard once
again. The deep voice startled
her and she brushed against the chair, startling her. She put out
her hands; sure she was falling. Strong hands took her by the waist,
helped her straighten, and then placed in the chair. The man now
stood directly in front of her. His feet were on either side of
hers. His legs touched hers. "Stand
up." The agony of the hood
was now only surpassed by thoughts of what awaited her at its
removal. Her breath quickened and her hands began to shake even
more. He was too close to allow her to stand comfortably, but there
was nothing she could do but comply. She
stood. Anne held her bound
hands up between them, but still, there was no escaping the warmth
of his body pressing against her. "Please, sir, please remove this
hood. I can't breathe—please." She despised the panic she heard in
her voice, and she knew she must look ridiculous as her hands fumble
about, heedless of the
consequences. His hands took
possession of hers in an instant. The grasp was hard at first and
then slackened. There was a little tug and the rope that bound her
fell free. His larger hands held her by the wrists. He did nothing
for a moment. The torture built when he pulled her even closer. She
tried to jerk away only to stumble against the chair. He pulled her
slowly back to himself before she could even sway.
He then reached behind
her. His hand moved down her back and stopped at her waist. The
movement of the ship still affected her and she had no choice but to
lean against him.
After an uncertain
period, his hand went to the cord and started to untie the hood. He
took his time. He paused and she felt his hand reach under the hood
and touch the collar of her dress.
He released her hands,
but she did not move. His arms were now around her as he began to
pull the hood loose; his fingers grazed her neck. The hood rose
slowly over her head. She closed her eyes and
gulped in the cool air. For a moment she praised God for her
freedom. He cleared his throat.
There was nothing to be done but look at her
captor. When she opened her
eyes, even the dim light of the single candle was overwhelming and
hurt her eyes. She looked straight ahead to see only a black silk
scarf around a man's neck. She raised her
eyes. "Frederick.” The joy and
relief were irresistible. She felt a smile come to her lips. "Thank
God, you have come to rescue
us.” The shock of seeing him
made her stumble against the chair. The legs screeched against the
wooden floor. He caught her and held
her close. * *
* When days earlier,
Harville and Wentworth began hunting their prey, they had observed
the Baron's Bride first from land and then the sea. In a
day's time, they were on the water and scrutinising the captain and
the crew's skill. Immediately upon seeing Anne Elliot, he had
recognised her petite, demure shape. The baronet had been
unmistakeable as well in his ostentatious purple cape and tall
beaver hat. By the way the man tottered while attempting to
promenade, Wentworth suspected he wore fashionable shoes rather than
good solid boots that would give him purchase on slippery wooden
deck. The sister was dressed with the same eye towards vanity in a
thin, deep blue, and very elegant cape that matched a feathery hat.
He was amused that the hat was battered beyond repair by the cold
wind in just a few moments. She too skidded about as though an
unpractised child skating on a millpond. When Anne had joined them,
thought attired in a sensible heavy wool pelisse and boots, he’d
never once thought her to be the maid as he’d told Harville. From
that moment on, he knew their mission was in jeopardy. Not only was
the scheme from the outset quite literally an explosive and
dangerous business, but now, added to it was an insidious anger that
he had laboured to conquer for over two
years. When Anne Elliot had
turned him away two years previous, Frederick Wentworth had been
determined to prove himself to her and to the world. As they had
quickly grown acquainted, she had nodded and smiled whenever he
opened his heart to her, and shared his plans to “use this excellent
brain that God has given me to gain wealth and position as an
officer of the navy.” On being applied to by
Wentworth, Sir Walter had not denied consent, but did act astonished
that such an idea could spring into the young man's mind. If they
did make such a ridiculous blunder of marrying, the pair would have
no financial support. "This union is unsupportable, and that the
union did not even deserve the notice of the family. "There will be
nothing gained by conniving and grasping at an attachment with the
good name of Elliot, sir," had been the baronet's parting comment.
The whole exchange had
angered Wentworth to be sure, but he was equally amused that the
silly old fop had thought the approval of the locals, along with the
old and elegant money of the Elliots had any attraction for him. Why
would it? Wentworth fully intended to create his very own, very
large, golden pile with a ship he was positive would be his soon.
There was no need of support from Sir Walter Elliot. Therefore, the
idea that he wanted Anne for such a trifling thing as alliance was
too laughable to even discuss with her.
When told generally of
her father’s disinterest, Anne had made all the right noises and
consoled him with honeyed words, and pronouncements aplenty of her
love for him. She had told him that her father's disapproval meant
nothing to her, and that their love would eventually be rewarded. It
had only taken a few days for the tune to change.
She came to a few days
later. The explanation was she was pale and weary from lack of sleep
and appetite. There were tears at the ready to give emphasis to the
laments of familial disapproval. (This state of affairs seemed to
him to be no more relevant now, days later, than it had been earlier
in the week.) Before he could say as much, feigning heartache and
grief he suspected, she said she must break the engagement.
"You doubt
me." "No, Frederick. It is
not that." "Then why do you break
the engagement?" "What else can I do?
Without Father's consent, we cannot
marry." "Your father did not
withhold his consent. He merely stated that he did not like it, and
that he would do nothing for us in the way of support. I
shall do what is necessary for our
support." "I know that. I have
faith that apart from of the impropriety of the
match—" "Impropriety. What is
there improper here?" He did not allow her to finish. "Oh I see, the
impropriety is that the son of a merchant—and not a very successful
merchant at that—would be spoiling the exalted bloodlines of the
Elliot family if he were to join with one of the daughters." Her
pause was so brief as to almost be no pause at all, but it was
enough. "I see how it is. The uniform shows well enough at the
dinners and parties, but don't examine him too closely. He's too
rough and lacks the refinement necessary for Miss Anne Elliot of
Kellynch Hall."
She cried her tears and
sounded convincing enough in her denials. When she took his hand and
kissed it, claiming he could not be more wrong about her feelings,
she almost changed his mind. Almost. "You allowed me to go to far
and now you see this as your opportunity to disentangle yourself.
And to do it with no blame for yourself. It is all Sir Walter's
fault, and none for dear little
Annie." "No, Frederick, it is
not like that. It is not! Please see it from my side." She held his
hand to her cheek and sobbed. He pulled it slowly
away. "It is just like that. You have a right to refuse me, Miss
Anne, but you haven't the right to make me like
it." In two days, he was away
from Somersetshire. The hurt and anger of
that summer rekindled afresh seeing her first through his glass, and
then sprang to a full blaze when having to deal with her stupid and
repellent father. He had tarried below
deck after leaving Sir Walter. No matter how she had treated him,
she was of the weaker sex and he took a little time to steady
himself before meeting her again. When he had dismissed the guard
and looked upon her, his anger had not disappeared, but was dealt a
serious blow when he realised she was now bound, blind, and
completely helpless. And all by his
command. His hand trembled as he
raised the hood to uncover her face. He was relieved that her deep
brown eyes were closed when she was exposed. There was quiet instant
for him to gaze. Her face was dusty face from the hood. Her cheeks
were ruddy and her chestnut hair was a mare's nest tumbling over her
shoulders. It was over when she
opened her eyes. The burst of recognition surprised him. Not that
she would not know him, but the expression of happiness at seeing
him seemed to be genuine, and in no way contrived.
The moment was pure
felicity on his part. As for the overall circumstance, it made what
must follow more difficult, but every bit as necessary as if she had
been a stranger to him. Still, he relished the
feel of her sweet frame in his arms. He had not forgotten the
pleasure he had previously taken in her embraces. He only wished it
could go on indefinitely. She raised her head,
still smiling. “I saw no navy ship, only the smugglers." She laid
her head on his soiled neck cloth for a moment. While it was still
possible, he allowed himself to touch her hair, and refresh the
memory of the feel of her willingly pressed against him. He knew in
a short time all these little delights would
vanish. She steeped back and
looked up. "You are the last person
I would have expected to see—" Her look of joy began to fade. She
stepped farther away, staring not at his face, but at the black silk
scarf around his neck. She was beginning to
suspect the truth of matter. "No, my ship was a little ways off. We
needed to make a sudden appearance. Anne, I must ask you some
questions." He hoped the simplicity of the lie would draw her mind
away from the direction it was heading. He motioned for her to take
a seat. Whether he had made a
mistake concerning her belief about the scarf, or that she would
rather be diverted for reasons of her own, she would cooperate and
sat down. "Where are my father and
Elizabeth?" It did her credit that
she took the time ask about the absurd pair. "They are being well
looked after. You will join them when we have finished." He hated
the notion that he would have to send her
away. “Commander Wentworth,
what do you need of me? I know nothing about ships and sailing, as
you know." She looked down to her hands. They had gotten dirty in
the scuffling. She folded them in her
lap. "No, I need no
information about the ship, per se, but I do wish to know how
you and your family came to be aboard the Bride. And I am
‘Captain Wentworth’ now." She smiled and nodded at the information.
He was just made into the rank, and it was quite wrenching that a
uniform, with its one golden epaulette perched on his left shoulder,
was not require on this particular
voyage. "We are bound for Dublin
for Christmas. A distant cousin extended the invitation. There was a
falling out some time ago, around the time of my mother's death, but
it has obviously been mended." She sighed and shifted in the chair.
"Your father, he does
not know the owner of the ship?" "No. It was my father's
man of business, his lawyer Mr John Shepherd who arranged
everything. He told father he knew of a ship that was always
crossing over to Ireland, and that he could get us passage quickly,
and—quite—economically." Wentworth made a note of
John Shepherd. It was only one of many names he had come to think
might be important to their task. It was interesting, and he thought
very unusual that a country lawyer would know of a regular packet
for Ireland. "From where did you set sail?"
She frowned and seemed
to expect that each new question would be personal rather than
interrogative. "We travelled to a small place called Burnham on Sea,
boarded the ship and then anchored in Minehead for the night. We
stopped several places along the way. I suppose that is why the
passage is so reasonable. It was not promised to be a swift journey.
But it has been interesting to see the workings of the
ship—" "I'm sure. Who did you
say was your cousin in Dublin?" Anne was growing frustrated by his
rudeness. “We are to be met at the
dock in the morning by a carriage sent by the Dowager Viscountess
Dalrymple. Her husband, the Viscount, was a cousin to my father. He
died several years ago—“ It irritated Wentworth
that she took great care to speak the woman's full title, as if to
remind him she was well-connected while he was not. “Yes, you said
already it was about the time your mother passed away." Anne shrank
back immediately at his rebuke. Her retreat reminded him the death
of her mother was a tragedy from which she had never fully
recovered. She gathered herself and
spoke. “I heard someone say something about smugglers when I was
above. Surely you do not suspect that my family, the Viscountess no
less, could be involved in smuggling.” The expression of
astonishment on her face was lovely.
He forgave the precision of her remarks about the woman's rank. Clearly, Anne meant no conceit, merely an unmistakable grasp of the circumstances. He laughed for the first time. “No, no, to be sure, I have no idea that someone as exalted as a viscountess is involved in the movement of contraband.” Anne's expression lightened and she joined him in the joke.
The smile on his face
was like that of the past. It could be summer again when they would
walk the grounds of a fine old estate, admiring the gardens as he
made witty, and sometimes scathing observations of the guests
assembled. It could be, but for the chaos above their heads, the
hood, and the black kerchief around his neck. "When did you decide
that your duty to the Crown, and to your country was of no value?"
To realise he was so changed pained her greatly. It broke her heart
to give such knowledge voice. It took a moment for
Anne’s question to penetrate. When it did, his eyes immediately
shifted from the tender hazel she remembered, to the colour of a
bare wood, frosted over in the early winter. The change in him
shocked Anne nearly as much as the calm in her own
voice. Fear suddenly won over
reason and good breeding. "You are not here to rescue us…" Her hand flailed,
groping for the chair. He did not touch her,
but pulled the chair within her reach. "I'm sorry I had to do this
to you. I have no choice." His voice was barely audible.
Through the shock and
rage, she studied this black-hearted smuggler who put her family in
jeopardy. Rather than freedom for herself and them, all she wanted
was for him to take in her his arms and kiss her deeply.
Perhaps he felt the same
and rather than give in, he turned and walked to a bank of
windows. She followed him. She
dared to touch his sleeve. "You are not a thief."
He moved a step away. "I
was not getting rich in the Navy. This afforded me
more—opportunities." He finally turned.
His hair was in dirty
and in disarray, he had not shaved in some time. It did not matter
for he was as handsome as ever to her. Lamentably, he was beginning
to look upon her with the same anger that had surrounded him when he
left her last. "When I left Somerset all those years ago, I
possessed supreme confidence that my duty to the service that would
give me everything I wanted. But over time, I have re-examined my
naïve loyalty, and found it … absurd." He looked away from
her. The young man she who
won her heart in 1806 was obviously dead. He had been dazzling in
his blue and gold uniform, straight, tall and more handsome than any
other man. This new man was shabby, filthy, and clothed in nothing
more than rags. The only bit of clothes that looked decent was the
heavy cloak he wore. Against it, the black silk scarf around his
neck stood out markedly, and spoke volumes. It represented a man
fallen from his former glory. All honour was now gone. Frederick
Wentworth was merely a outlaw and liar.
There were shouts above.
He listened but was not alarmed by them. She was about to speak when
the door opened. A man entered and Anne recognised his coat as
belonging to the man who had been with Wentworth on the prow of the
other ship. She thought it odd that he had the manners to
acknowledge her as he approached Frederick. "The frigate,
Abraham draws near." The stranger looked back at
her. Wentworth's expression
hardened further. He seemed to study her, but she realised that his
eyes had merely come to rest on her as he considered this new
intelligence. "Get the documents. Take them and yourself to one of
the small boats." “Aye, Captain.” He
ignored her this time as he passed out to the companionway.
Wentworth stared at the door for a moment and then came to her.
"Remain here—bolt the door in fact. The Abraham is a King's
ship. They will see you all safely to Dublin." A cannon fired close
by. The Bride answered with the roar of two shots. The
violent shaking of the older ship threw Anne into the chair, and
then to the floor. Instantly he was kneeling beside, helping her to
her feet. The confusion of men’s
shouts and screams replaced the thunder of the cannon. The pounding
of running feet intensified above. He made no sign that he noticed
any of it. He took her gently by the shoulders. "Remember, stay down
here. Please." His grip on her tightened. Anne could feel his eyes
examining every inch of her face. She wanted to believe he had
something more to say, or something he wanted to do for her, but he
soon released her, turned, and
disappeared. To obey him would likely
assure her own safety, and eventually satisfy her need to know about
the safety of her sister and father. Again, the roar of the cannon
was just above her. She covered her ears, and began to panic. To
leave the room foolhardy. The voices and unknown noises grew more
severe. She ran out the door and up the companionway to find
Frederick. It was completely dark
but bedlam nonetheless reigned. Precious few lanterns swayed wildly
from their anchors; men running here and there carried several
others. A mist had risen she thought at first. She realised by the
smell, it was smoke from the cannons. No matter what it was,
everything took on a dull, subdued quality because of it. She stood
still and attempted to focus her eyes. The acrid air made it
difficult. She was able to make out a much larger ship alongside the
Bride. It must be the Abraham. Uniformed men were
jumping from the railing of the taller, higher ship, onto their
smaller one. She looked about and saw Frederick going over the side
just feet from where she stood. A popping sound commenced and the
lanterns each went dark. A dull popping commenced. It was a mystery
as to what it was, but she knew she could not stay where she
was. She groped her way
along. Splinters stabbed her fingers and palms. The railing
disappeared under her hand and she fell forward. Before she fell,
she caught herself. That was when she saw Frederick and his partner
in a little boat, preparing to row away.
"Frederick." His name
had come to her without her even
thinking. He raised the lantern.
His tender look returned. "Go back, Annie." The boat dipped and he
was thrown a little off balance. "Go back below. You'll be
shot." She was seized with fear
at the warning. It was merely feet back to the companionway, but
now, knowing there was shooting; her only escape might as well have
been miles away. "I can't. I can't see anything. All is dark." Her
only hope was for him to take her back
down. "We've got to get out of
here, Captain. If Harvey Fitzwilliam takes us, the whole plot is
bust." The man took a seat and grabbed an
oar. Frederick looked back
up. He looked her in the eye. He would not return to help her she
knew that. He was bent on his own
escape. As Frederick Wentworth
did not choose to see her safely back below, away from the danger on
deck, fate seemed bent on taking a hand that
night. * *
* The dim light of the
dark-lantern shone a sickly yellow light on Anne's face. Her eyes
were huge with fear. Her normally lovely mouth was twisted with the
same fear, and the calling of his name. If only she would do as she
was told and go back below, she would be safe. Captain Fitzwilliam
of the Abraham was a decent sort of man who knew his duty and
would be very pleased to assist a titled gentleman and his
attractive daughters to their destination. He would not be so
lenient if he caught Wentworth and
Harville. "Row, Timothy. We'll plot our course when we are out of sight." The sound of his name in
her strangled, panicked voice would haunt him forever. Soon, the
sickening sound was completely demolished by the sound of something
splashing in the water. He opened the doors of
the lantern fully and raised it to see her head slip under right the
dark surface of the water next to the ship. If she flailed about,
she might hit her head, or even be trapped as she rose. He dropped
the lantern and pulled off his cloak. He could hear the oars clatter
to the bottom of the boat. Timothy grabbed the lantern, their only
source of light, and held it up for him. "Make it quick, Captain. We
can't be caught." He dove in. The freezing water shocked him
momentarily. He pulled himself back to the task by again demanding
that God should keep Anne safe. "Annie," he called
quietly. "Annie." She broke through the dark surface, thrashing and
gasping. He caught her hand and quickly turned her to face away. "I
have you—" She screamed his name.
He put his hand over her mouth. "You must be quiet." He struggled to
kick hard enough to keep them afloat. "Trust me. I will get you in
the boat." He removed his hand and she gulped in deep breaths.
"Quietly, dear," he cooed in her ear. As soon as he touched the side
of the small boat, Timothy reached down and grabbed her by the
shoulder. Wentworth made his way around to face her. He groped to
find her waist. The fabric of her dress slipped, but he finally got
a sound grip on her. "Take her up, Tim."
Harville pulled her up
and over the side. Wentworth clung to the side, watching. “Get her
covered." He was soon in the boat alongside her. She was already
shivering violently. He buttoned his boat cloak at her neck, tucked
the folds of heavy wool around her himself, and saw her as
comfortable between the thwarts of the boat as possible. The boat
dipped with the waves coming from the ships. The motion, along with
a stiffening breeze, plastered his wet shirt against him. He could
not stop the violent shaking that began to overtake him. He moved to
the oars. Timothy was already in position. They began to pull
together. They smoothly moved out
of the broadening arch of light slopping over the side of the ship.
Thus far, they were not discovered. He began to hope their escape
would come off without incident. His heart went out to
Anne. She was sitting at his feet, staring off into the darkness.
And though completely enveloped by the massive cloak, her teeth
chattered and she visibly shook. "Why in God's name did you jump?"
The words came out in little batches, and with a tone more sharp
than he intended. She looked up. It took
her a moment to focus. He wondered if she had been
injured. "I did not jump. I was
pushed, or someone crashed into me. I did not mean to fall in." She
sobbed and hid her face in the
cloak. Of course she had not
jumped. Anne Elliot was a young woman whose only bit of disobedience
that night was in leaving the room. Her fall into the water was
nothing more than a dreadful accident, for Anne was a woman who
usually did precisely as she was told. She would obey, even if her
actions brought grief and heartbreak to herself and
others. * *
* She lost all sense of
time. The steady motions of the tiny boat may well have gone on for
hours as far as Anne could tell. All she could feel was the ache of
her cold muscles and the pain in her jaw from clinching her teeth to
keep them from chattering. Things changed only when their forward
motion ended with a jolt. The men got out and hauled the boat out of
the water. The sound of the wood grating against the rocks of the
shingle was extraordinarily loud and she wondered if such a racket
might draw attention to them, and they would be spotted. Pain shot
through her neck as she raised her head to look about. There would
be no one disturbed by the noise, for they were on a deserted bit of
beach. The only light, aside from their own lantern, looked to be
miles away. The surf relentlessly battering the rocks was the only
sound. The chill wind stung her face and she dropped her head back
down under his coat. She was too stiff and cold to move. If
Frederick wanted her out of the boat, he would have to lift her out
himself. * *
* “She is in no condition to walk. To even try would be foolhardy. Where is the hide?” Wentworth looked towards the boat. Anne had not stirred. Not that he had expected her to. Harville held up the lantern. The light made a pathetic effort to pierce the darkness. He rose from his place on the boat’s gunwale and began to walk inland. "Are you sure it’s
around here, Harville?" Wentworth rubbed his arms hard to ward off
the cold and keep from
shivering. "Sure as I am able to be
with this infernal light. Look, the smuggler's hole he showed me is
just up behind those rocks." They climbed a small hill and looked
about. "Here it is." He knelt and pushed aside a board covering an
iron ring anchored in a wooden hatch. He looked quickly over his
shoulder. "Are you certain that you should keep her with you?"
Harville handed the lantern to Wentworth, brushed aside sand from
the handle, and revealed the hide. He took back the lantern and
examined the hole. Wentworth joined
Harville. "Do you fear for her virtue?" He leant farther into the
hole to measure its size. He also looked to see if animals had used,
or might still be using it for a den. He mostly hoped to find it
contained useful to him. Harville handed him the
lantern. "Perhaps I am too cold, but, no. Besides, the girl's virtue
is none of my concern. I am concerned that with this stick thrown
into the wheels, you will be distracted." Both men sat
upright. He ignored his friends
statement. "You'll have no trouble finding another place, out of
this weather?" Harville smiled. "No.
You did well sending me off to reconnoitre this part of the
shoreline. I found a couple of other hidey-holes a little farther up
the way. We'll meet at the Lock and Key the day after
tomorrow." "Terrible way to spend
Christmas." They rose and started back down the little
hill. "Yes, well, I've managed
to be away for the past three, why would this one be different? For
glory and nobility, eh?" Harville went straight to the boat. "Miss?"
He touched the captain's coat and shook it a little. "Miss, we've
arrived." "I shall see to Miss
Elliot." Wentworth jumped the side of the boat, barely moving it. He
crouched near Anne and tried to get out of the wind. "Annie. I need
you to get up. We've got to walk just a little
way." She looked up. The light
from the lantern cast terrible shadows across her face. "I can't
move." Harville and Wentworth
exchanged glances. It was unspoken between them, but each knew she
must move to warm her limbs. “You must. It’s our only chance. We
can’t stay out in this weather.” He reached out, guessing where all
her parts were, and stood, bringing her up with him. “Help her out,
Tim.” The two men lifted her out and got her standing on the rocks.
He put his arm around her waist. “Lead us on, Harville.” They staggered their way away from the shore.
Even with Frederick’s
help—he was practically carrying her—each step was a torment. Both
of them were unsteady as they lurched and slipped their way up what
seemed to be a mountain of hard, sharp stones, punctuated by the
occasional stretch of slippery sand. Her attention was required for
each and every step. So much so, Anne could not attend to the
bantering of the two men and their voices were lost in the sound of
the waves and her own laboured breathing.
They halted suddenly.
She was grateful for the rest. Frederick’s arm was about her waist
and shook as much as his voice. "I thought the only hole in the
ground I'd ever go into was a grave." Anne knew she ought to be
alarmed by the mention of a grave, but her aching body refused to
allow her to do more than lightly consider the
prospect. Harville lifted the
lantern and gestured with his hand. "Your accommodations for the
night." They stood at the edge of a hole about four feet deep. "Just
be glad Providence saw fit not to put any of us in a grave tonight,
Captain." There was nothing to see
even with the light. She was too exhausted to give rational
consideration to sleeping in a hole in the
ground. Harville bent and looked
around. "Did you see anything besides this bale of wool?"
Frederick saw Anne
seated on the edge and jumped in. He took the lantern and crouched.
"I saw—these." He held up another lantern and a wine bottle. "G-give
us a light." Using some dried grass they managed to feed enough of a
flame to light the second lantern. "Help Miss Elliot and then be on
your way." Harville did little; it
was Frederick who lifted her down. "Is there anything else?"
"There is little, but a
partial bottle of wine and a couple of empty
crates." Harville lifted the
hatch, ready to close it. "The wind's picking up."
Wentworth crouched and pulled Anne down to a crouch. "Close us in then. Remember. Day after tomorrow at the Keystone." "And you're buying,
Captain." Harville laughed a little and then closed the
hatch. "What is this place?" Anne was just realising she was out of the weather. "It's a hide. They're
dug out by hand to give us a place to secrete a haul. Most of the
time boats make signals and are met on the beach by those living
nearby, but if the weather is too dirty, like it is tonight, we
leave the goods in a hide like this." He looked around and found a
place to hang the lantern. A burst of wind screamed overhead. She
could feel a breeze across her cheek. He shivered. "We've got to get
settled for the night." Anne could see no place for them to lie down
and sleep. He crawled by her and
pushed a bale of wool, wrapped in coarse cloth, towards one corner
of the hole. There." He tested his handiwork. "This should keep off
any wind that leaks in." The idea of cool air sent a chill through
her. She crawled to him.
"Where will we sleep?" There was no room for them to stretch out,
even side-by-side. He had removed his coat and was now unbuttoning
his waistcoat. She dreaded what more he might remove. “What do you
think you are you doing? He easily slipped out of
his waistcoat, and arranged it and the coat on the bale. “The cold
and wet naturally draw all the warmth from the body. The sooner we
get out of our wet clothes, the better." He now struggled to loosen
the knot in his neck cloth. "You will be wonderfully surprised how
well that tiny flame will warm this small space.” It finally joined
the other things. He did not remove his shirt, or anything else, to
her great relief. His next move was to
seat himself and remove his boots and stockings. "You should remove
yours as well. It is amazing how cold, wet feet make you miserable."
She sat back so that he would not catch her in the mouth with his
elbow. "My boots will not likely be dry by morning, but your small
shoes should easily be." He held out his hand. "I'll put them closer
to the lantern." She said nothing, but
rearranged the skirt of her dress over her
feet. Frederick scowled and
moved close. His fingers brushed her ankle as he took the hem of her
skirt and lifted it. "Where are your shoes?" He looked up and his
scowl deepened as he awaited her
answer. She wanted to pull her
cold feet back out of his view. His tone and gaze accused her as
though she were a careless child. "I lost them when I fell in." She
expected an exasperated sigh, or to hear him click his tongue at her
sloppiness. Instead of a scolding,
the scowl disappeared. "Of course they did." He said it more to
himself as he took her left foot in his large hands and rubbed at
the spots of mud around her ankle and the soiled sole. He pulled his
hand away, looked at it, and then with a jerk turned her foot
awkwardly. This surprised and
angered her, but before she could speak, he put her foot down gently
and looked at the sole of the other. He then crawled to his
clothing. Anne looked at her feet.
Large spots of Blood-soaked stocking conjoined to cover most of both
soles. She felt suddenly ill and panicked. She looked to see was
Frederick was about. He was examining the
interior of his waistcoat; tossing it aside, he picked up his coat
and did the same. She saw him smile a little and then heard the
sound of ripping fabric as he began to tear the lining from it.
After a bit of a struggle to pull out the lining of the sleeves, he
glanced around, leaned back, reaching for something near the bale of
wool. With the bottle of wine in hand, he returned to her side.
"You must remove your
stocking." He was ripping the sleeves from the rest of the coat's
lining. Anne untied the
stockings and pushed them down, he removed them and took the ribbons
that had held them up. "These will do very nicely." He put
everything aside, poured some wine in his hand, and began to clean
the wounds. The wine stung a great deal but she did everything in
her power to keep still. He took one of the stockings and began to
wipe her foot, carefully daubing at the wound. "fortunately, the
stockings kept the worst of that sand out, but the wounds are still
filthy." Again, this was more to himself than to her. He next took
the sleeve lining and began to wrap it around her
foot. "Why did you keep quiet?
I would have carried you rather than make you walk up those cruel
rocks. I thought you had shoes." He finished by tying the ribbon
around the sleeve. When he released her foot, she pulled it
back. She put out her other
foot. "Of course you did not do it on purpose. No caring person
would do that to another. To be honest, I did not even notice they
were gone. I was just so cold." She pulled his great coat closer at
the thought of the water. * *
* The tone of her voice
was sad and resigned. She at least recognised that while he may be
thoughtless in not enquiring about her shoes, he did not take her up
the slop on purpose. He began the ministrations on her and was
determined to distract them both. "Both the heat and cold are wicked
indeed. However, while the heat makes every bit of you
uncomfortable—especially of there have been biting insects at you—"
He smiled at her. "—the cold has a special brutality of separating
your mind from your body." Wentworth though he'd very much welcome
some of heat at the moment. Anne cried out and drew
her foot away suddenly. "I'm sorry, it hurt very much." Of her own
accord, he put her foot back in his hand. "So, you have experienced
both great heat and cold?" She grimaced as he
continued. He looked more closely
at her left foot. She'd likely stepped on a shard of a shell and
gotten deeper cuts on it than the other. "Oh yes. When I was first
at sea, I was here on the Irish coast for a time. Though—" he looked
up, "I never took a swim in the winter." She smiled at this. "I have
seen men so cold they did not know they've been desperately injured.
Not until they see the blood—" He looked away and resumed his
work. "You must think me
ridiculous. I did not go into the water on purpose, I swear
it." "Of course you did not.
No rational creature willingly jumps into the Irish Sea in December.
And you, above all things, are a rational creature." He finished
tying the ribbon around her foot and studies it for a moment.
She was so small and
delicate. He'd forgotten that about her. Everything he'd done this
evening took advantage of her inferior size and frailer nature. The
ribbons were blue and uncannily matched the lining of his coat. The
frayed ends were tied to prevent the advance. Had things gone
differently, she might have been lost to the sea that night. Had
Providence chosen such a course, he wasn't sure that he'd not have
given up and gone to the bottom with
her. The thought disturbed
him greatly. Over the past two years, he'd entertained anger,
bitterness, jealousy, and glimpses of relief at not having the
Baronet for a father-in-law, but he'd never given a thought to
self-murder. The shock of seeing her again, the violent interruption
of his plan for the Baron's Bride, her being forced into his
care, and now, their close proximity was playing havoc with his
normally sanguine temperament and good judgement. He was completely
knackered and knew she was likely more so. He released her foot and
said, "We should settle in for the night."
He edged into the space
past her. The walls were rough and as he rested against various
parts of them, yet found no place comfortable. A small, somewhat
smooth section was reluctantly chosen. "Take off my coat." He sat up
and reached towards her to unbutton it, but saw that his hands were
shaking. He stopped. She looked confused, but
began to unbutton the coat as she was told.
"Hand it
over." She removed the coat and
handed it to him. He arranged the coat to cover them. When he looked
up to summon her, she was removing her outer clothes.
“What do you think you
are doing?” She was struggling to
remove a close-fitting jacket. “What you said about the cold and our
clothing made a great deal of sense. This spencer is unfashionably
thick and will take some time to dry. The ship was cold and I always
wore this. Father was quite put out with me. ‘I am very tired of
seeing it, Anne,’ he said.” She was finally free and spread it on
the bale along with his things. He couldn't help but
smile at the For a moment they sat perfectly still, looking at one
another. There was nothing left for them to do but make the final
sleeping arrangements. He held out a hand to her. "Now you."
* *
* His intentions were
clear. "I hardly think that the two of us sleeping one next to the
other is anything approaching appropriate, Captain." Perhaps
appealing to his past honour would make him see
sense. Frederick looked at her
for a moment. He had the advantage; she stood before him in her wet
dress, icy errant breezes inveigling their way under the wooden lid
of the hide causing her entire frame to tense with cold. "With those
wet clothes, I hardly think you will survive otherwise." He held out
his hand again. The hope of being warm
was most persuasive. The thought of being so close to him again was
enticing, but frightening as well. "I will
not." He pulled back his hand,
tossed away the coat, and placed himself next to her. "If you'll let
me pass, you may go lay down. I'll cover you." His eyes were
unreadable in the gloom. "Then you will be cold.
We are both wet." She would not be intimidated and continued to meet
what she was certain was his severe
gaze. "True. Nevertheless,
there is only one cloak. Either we both use it, or you alone use it.
You make the choice." Frederick turned at a sound outside. The
lantern was struggling to give off more than just a flicker of
light, and his stern face was colder than the wind. He was serious
that he would remain exposed in order for her to be
warm. Anne shook her head. "Go
back. I'll join you." He nodded to her and
struggled back. "We shall be warm in no time. As I said, the candle
will put off a surprising amount of heat." He arranged the coat and
himself and offered her his
hand. It was suddenly all too much.
Just seeing him again so unexpectedly would have been sickening
enough, but to see him in his now corrupted state was an even worse
shock. Then, to be thrust into the midst of his crimes, and now
expected to depend upon him for warmth, and sleep with him in this
place that was little more than an animal's den, was the last
straw. Before Anne knew what
was happening, he pulled her to him and held her tightly. "Don't
make too much of this." He shifted to accommodate
her. She now shifted. "You
need not hold me so closely. I've nowhere to run." A breeze touched
her back. He adjusted the coat.
Warmth replaced the chill air. "Not that you could. There is nothing
nefarious in this, but the closer we are, the warmer we will be."
There was more adjusting. Soon they were
quiet. The wind continued to
blow above them. The space was arming and the scent of the earth was
growing almost pleasant. He now and then chaffed her arms to warm
her more quickly. She endeavoured to remain awake and keep as much
of her dignity as possible by not allowing herself to relax too
much. Even with such
precautions, she occasionally let go—though quickly resuming her
posture of caution—and grew warm at his touch.
"Really Anne, you are
taut as a bow string. Please, relax, or neither of us will ever
sleep." He did not sound angry, merely a little out of sorts. "If it
eases your mind, let me assure you that I am not in the least
pleased to have you back in my arms again." He said this in almost a
whisper. He could be serious, or
he could be teasing her. Or he could be telling her something she
longed to hear. The weariness forced her to allow her muscles to
ease. Though it annoyed her greatly, she enjoyed melting into his
grasp. The sound of the wind soon disappeared and was replaced by
the rhythm of his breathing and the steady tattoo of his heart. It
was not long before she began to drift off, and regardless of how he
might genuinely feel, she was happy to be in his arms once again.
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