Welcome to 2025 from Writing with Labradors. It’s New Year’s Eve on the Isle of Man and it’s foul weather; high winds and driving rain. After zooming around outside like a lunatic earlier, Oscar is very happy to snooze the afternoon away in my study, snuggled up on the sofa. Sadly for him, his younger brother is bored.
“Muuuuummm! Tell Alfie to stop wrecking the sofa. Look what he’s done to it again.”
“Alfie, don’t do that. It’s not good for the sofa and neither of you can settle properly like that. Down you get and I’ll fix it for you.”
“Sorry Mum. I’m just bored. Can I go outside again.”
“Just for a bit. I’ll get my coat.”
20 minutes later…
“Muuuuummm! Come and speak to the Ginger Sponge again. He’s come in soaking wet and is lying all over me chewing on his bone. It’s ridiculous, there are two sofas in here.”
“Alfie, come and get dried off before you get on the sofa. And give Oscar a bit more space. There’s plenty of room for two on there. Or use the other sofa.”
15 minutes later, I’m immersed in work.
“Muuuuuummm! He’s done it again. Look at the state of this. What’s wrong with him?”
“I think he’s just got the fidgets, Oscar. Alfie, come outside again. We’ll play with the new Christmas shark for a bit.”
“You’re not taking Big Shark out in this weather, Mum. He’ll get soaked and probably blow into next door’s garden. And don’t take Blue Octopus either, he hates the rain. Like me. Take Big Puppy.”
“All right. Come on, Alfie.”
20 minutes later, I’m in the kitchen making a cup of tea and trying to dry out.
“Muuuuummm! Look at what’s happened now. Can’t somebody adopt him when it rains? He can come back when it’s dry.”
“No, Oscar. You’d miss him. Come into the living room and I’ll light the fire. There’s more space in there.”
“All right. And put a blanket over his head. It might work the same as for parrots.”
“I’m not convinced, Oscar, but we’ll give it a try.”
Half an hour later the house is quiet. Working at my desk I can hear the rain against the window panes and the wind blowing somebody’s left-out recycling round the front garden. I can also hear two lots of snoring on the sofa behind me.
“Are you back now, Oscar? Did you get lonely in there?”
“A bit. And look at him – he’s fairly cute when he settles down. Maybe he really is a parrot.”
“Whatever the reason, it’s worked.”
“It was a great idea. I wonder if Anya still has that weighted blanket. That would really do the trick.”
“Don’t even think about it, Oscar.”
Happy New Year from all of us here at Writing with Labradors. It’s been a very strange year in many ways but despite all the difficulties, it’s ended so much better than it began. I started the year with depression and anxiety and the horrible feeling of not knowing where I was going next. I’ve ended it feeling safe and grounded and ready to face anything.
It’s just as well, because physical health hasn’t gone quite so well this year and my osteoarthritis in both hips has got so bad that it’s severely limiting my mobility. I’m also in constant pain. As mentioned in a previous post, I’m off to Lithuania in a week for my first hip replacement operation. I still can’t entirely believe I’m doing it, but if it gets me back to climbing hills and running along the beach with my dogs again it will be so worth it.
There were some work achievements. I wrote and published book nine of the Peninsular War Saga anda Formidable Frontieris proving very popular. I was offered a three book contract by Sapere Booksto write a new Age of Sail series, which I’m working on at present. I published my usual free short stories which my readers seem to have enjoyed. A Provincial Nobody for Valentine’s Day told the story of the first meeting of two well-liked characters from the Manxman series. The Kittiwakeat Halloween was a ghost story with a nautical theme. The French Lieutenant brought a little Christmas cheer into the life of a French prisoner-of-war. And a bonus story, An Ungentlemanly Officertook us back to Paul van Daan’s early days in Portugal.
I’m looking forward to writing more books, more short stories, more blog posts and more tales of Oscar and Alfie in 2025 and onward. Thanks to all my readers for your messages, e-mails and fabulous reviews. Your support means so much to me.
In the meantime, it’s still raining but the boys seem to have decided that the sofa is big enough for the both of them after all.
Welcome to the Kittiwake, my Halloween short story for 2024. As always it’s free, so please share as much as you like. The story is also available as a PDF.
Every year I wonder if I’m going to be able to come up with enough ideas to keep this tradition going and somehow, once I sit down, the story comes. This year I’ve returned to the Isle of Man for my ghost story. It’s also a story of hardship and tragedy.
Most of the places mentioned in this story existed and can be seen today. The Dragon’s Back rocks are an invention of mine, though there were and still are many such dangerous rocks around these shores.
The shipwreck mentioned is fictional but I’ve based the story on several well known historic shipwrecks including that of the Racehorse which went down along this coastline in December 1822. On that occasion, most of the crew were saved but several local men lost their lives going out in small boats on rescue attempts.
In October 1822 Sir William Hillary, a former Liverpool merchant, had taken part in a dangerous rescue operation during a storm in Douglas Bay. He was not present during the sinking of the Racehorse but it was one of a series of events which convinced him of the need for a properly organised lifeboat organisation. The rest, of course, is history.
For those who aren’t familiar with my work, the story of Elijah Winterton’s arrival in the Royal Navy is told in An Inescapable Justice, a previous short story. Captain Luke Winterton made an appearance in This Bloody Shore which is book three of the Manxman series and Mr Thomas Young was the hero of Colby Fair, my Christmas story a few years back.
2024 is the 200th anniversary of the founding of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution. This story is dedicated to the men and women who risk their lives to save others at sea, to those they’ve saved and to those for whom rescue wasn’t possible. They all deserve to be remembered.
The Kittiwake
September 1813
It was raining in Castletown: an autumn mist which was deceptively fine but soaked through cloaks and pelisses as surely as any downpour. The newest clerk in the Harbour Master’s office had stayed late to check some figures regarding a cargo of wine which had been unloaded earlier in the day. It was not really the job of Assistant Clerk Winterton to check the work of the senior clerk, but during the four months of his employment in the Isle of Mann, he had realised that Mr Faragher’s eyesight was fading, along with his memory.
Elijah Winterton quite liked Mr Faragher, who had been kind to his surprising new assistant on his arrival. He also knew that if a mistake was to be found, his two fellow assistant clerks would unhesitatingly cover up for their senior and lay the blame at Elijah’s door. He was new, he was not Manx and as far as they were concerned he was not even English. He was an alien presence in the damp old building which housed the Customs Office and Harbour Master’s department in Castletown and both Watterson and Corlett would be delighted if he was dismissed.
With the work checked and the necessary corrections made, Elijah blotted his work and closed the ledger, then tidied the dusty office before he left. The office building was also officially the Harbour Master’s residence but Mr Charles Cannan and his wife were affluent enough to have their own house out towards Malew. The rooms above these offices were occupied by the widowed Mr Faragher, while the two younger clerks both lived with their families in the town.
Having no family of his own and certainly no friends on the island, Elijah had found lodgings in a narrow lane off Arbory Street. The house was a tiny fisherman’s cottage and the room was a poorly-lit box on the upper floor but Elijah was used to nothing more than a hammock and a sea chest aboard a Royal Navy frigate and found the space perfectly adequate. His landlady had been taken aback on first meeting him but had quickly warmed to him and meals were now included in the very reasonable rent.
Mrs Stowell was lonely and Elijah understood and sympathised. Her husband had been away for more than six months now, picked up by a press gang from a fishing boat. She had a young daughter which prevented her from taking regular employment, so she supported herself with casual work cleaning fish on the quay during the herring season and taking in mending to make up the shortfall during autumn and winter. She looked tired and careworn and she worried about what would happen if her husband did not return.
Elijah suspected she also worried about what might happen if he did return. Taking in a lodger was an acceptable way of earning an income, but he was sure there had been gossip about a married woman of thirty giving board and lodging to an unmarried man of twenty-five, with her husband at sea and no idea when he would be back. The child, who was five, gave some semblance of chaperonage, but Elijah doubted it was enough to silence everybody. What might save Breesha Stowell from being accused of misbehaviour was Elijah himself. He thought that even the most censorious of Castletown gossips would not imagine that a respectable woman would take a former African slave as a lover.
Letting himself out Elijah carefully locked the side door and stowed the key in one of the deep pockets of his waxed cape, pulling the hood up to cover his head. There was a sharp wind which blew the fine mist into his face, stinging his eyes and lips. He could taste salt, as though some of the moisture came from the sea. The tang brought memories of long years on the decks of Royal Navy ships; climbing the rigging, hauling in sail and building a life which he had naively thought would continue exactly as he had planned.
A fierce gust of wind and a moment’s lost concentration had brought it all crashing down. As a master’s mate and particular favourite of the Captain, he no longer had to spend much time on the rigging but Elijah liked to keep his hand in and had chosen to go up when squally weather off the coast of Dalmatia required emergency action. He had fallen part way down and could remember with terrifying clarity the moment he had expected to die.
Youth, strength and being a confident swimmer had saved his life and kept him afloat in the crashing waves until he was hauled into the launch and heard the Captain’s voice sounding frantic with worry, speaking his name.
Elijah was carried to the surgeon, shaking with pain, cold and sheer terror that he was about to lose what was clearly a broken leg. He had missed the deck entirely but his leg had struck a railing on the way down and he was in agony.
Captain Winterton remained beside him, holding firmly to his hand as the surgeon examined the leg and grumbled when forbidden to amputate. It was a bad break, but not hopeless, so he set the bone, gave dire warnings to the Captain and stalked back to his other patients. The Captain allowed him to go with a brief but convincing threat to throw him overboard if Elijah died, then had the master’s mate carried to his own cabin for his servant to take care of.
The break healed slowly and Dr Waterstone reluctantly admitted that it would not be necessary to amputate, but Elijah was in no way fit to resume his duties and would not be for some time. He had no family to go to and the Royal Navy had been his only home since he was twelve-years-old. Employment was essential but a ship was not the place for a man who needed crutches and then a cane to walk.
Captain Winterton had arranged transport and written letters. The position of assistant clerk in Castletown had been obtained through a former commanding officer and although it was not ideal, Elijah was more than able to do the job. He had been given an outstanding education in the Royal Navy, thanks largely to Winterton’s mentoring and there was nothing complicated about the work. Living ashore for the first time since childhood was a lot more difficult however. He was bored and lonely and desperately missed the feeling of a deck beneath his feet and the comradeship of his friends aboard the Wren. Above all, he missed Luke Winterton who had been his mentor and his adopted family for thirteen years and who had given him his surname when Elijah, born a plantation slave, had none of his own.
It was already dark as Elijah set off along the quay. It was only a few minutes walk to Mrs Stowell’s little house but she would not expect him yet. He had developed a routine over these past months of taking a morning and evening walk. At first he could barely make it to the end of the quay, leaning heavily on his cane and sweating with the pain. These days he did not need the cane, although he carried it anyway. He had gradually increased his walks and made them more difficult. Elijah had no intention of making a career in harbour management on this strange little island in the Irish Sea and he wanted to regain his strength.
He did not dislike the place and had found its inhabitants surprisingly kind. There were few Africans living on Mann and most of them were servants, probably former slaves, to the local gentry. He had struck up a casual friendship, based mainly on their shared childhood experiences of slavery, with a Jamaican runaway called Artie Smith; a burly man of around forty who worked in Moore’s boat yard after many years serving on merchantmen.
The people of Mann, for the most part, regarded Elijah with faint but benign curiosity. For a week or two some of the local children took to following him on his evening walks but they quickly lost interest though they would often wave, or call out a cheerful greeting as he passed. Men nodded as they came up from the boats, recognising him from the customs’ office and their wives would sometimes speak to him from doorsteps as they watched their children, swept their step or gossiped with their neighbours. They did not go so far as to invite him to supper, but if he stopped at the Glue Pot or the Anchor for a drink he was not shunned and nobody was rude to him. It was a life; not the life he wanted, but by no means unpleasant.
As part of his extended walk, Elijah had taken to walking out along the shore towards the port of Derbyhaven. From there he could watch the various small vessels coming and going. There were some fishing boats, though the main herring fleets sailed out of Peel Town and Ramsey. There were regular packet boats, merchant ships and privately owned boats. Occasionally there was a Royal Navy vessel, most of them brigs and cutters. Elijah knew the men of Castletown regarded them with wary suspicion, all too aware of the risk of being picked up by a press gang.
Elijah had a letter of exemption, though he knew his walking cane and his limp meant that any sensible press gang would leave him alone. Since he knew that not all press gangs were sensible or commanded by intelligent men, he carried the letter with him at all times and continued to use his cane even when he did not really need it. He was desperate to get back to the navy but had no intention of starting again at the bottom. He was a master’s mate, highly trained and well-thought of and when he returned, he wanted at least the same rating and possibly something more. Winterton’s Master was an older man who spoke sometimes of retirement and an easier job on shore with his wife. Elijah had every intention of being there when Mr Denton finally made up his mind to go.
Sunset was behind him above the hills to the west as he made his way steadily along the shore. During the summer months he had still been able to enjoy the glorious colour of the evening sky but the sun went down early now and in this weather he doubted he would have seen much of it anyway. He passed a row of humble cottages then, catching sight of a sail, scrambled painfully up the steep grassy slope of a bank to watch it passing. Uphill was still difficult but getting better. The bone had healed but his muscles had wasted and needed regular exercise to make them strong again. He needed to strengthen them, no matter how much it hurt because his Captain had promised, should he make a good enough recovery, that he could go back to the Wren; to go home, where he belonged.
This ship was a merchantman heading into Douglas Bay. Its pilot was keeping a wary distance from the rocky shore and Elijah, who had taken the time to study every chart and map he could find of these treacherous waters, approved the line he was taking. It must be almost impossible to see the shore in this misty darkness and there were rocks jutting out into the sea at several points along this coast.
Elijah thought more lighthouses were needed. Each of the towns had their own harbour lights. Castletown’s stood at the end of the quay but it was old and not always well tended. Derbyhaven did not really count as a town: it was more a huddle of buildings built to serve the port, but it boasted two good lights: one at the entrance to the harbour, and one on the south-west end of the breakwater. These at least would serve to guide ships into port and help others to recognise their location, but too many of the rocky hazards along the coast were unmarked.
When the ship had passed, Elijah slid down the bank onto the shore and walked on along the narrow strip of sand, going carefully to avoid stumbling on loose rocks. He could no longer see the edge of the water, though he could hear the whisper of the waves on the beach. Being this close to the sea and yet bound to the land was painful, but he was grateful that his Captain had managed to find him employment this close to the coast. The ebb and flow of the tide was like the beat of his own heart and he could not imagine living out of sight or sound of it.
He paused within sight of the jetty at Derbyhaven, watching the activity as porters completed the unloading of a small, square-rigged ship by lamplight. The lanterns glowed yellow through the mist. If the light had been better, Elijah would have walked down and got into conversation with the men. He had got to know a lot of them over the past months and found them a friendly crew who were always willing to share news over a tankard of ale. He thought they understood, with amused sympathy, his desperate need to stay connected with the maritime comings and goings of the island. It was a link, albeit a tenuous one, to the Wren.
The blurry glow from the lanterns made him realise that he should get back to Castletown before the light faded completely, making the walk difficult and possibly dangerous to a lame man. As he made his way back along the shore he could smell wood smoke and coal fires from the town, along with tar and sawn timbers from the boat yards. There was the faint enticing whiff of supper cooking from dozens of houses and cottages. He was sure he could smell smoked fish. It was a local speciality and he hoped Mrs Stowell had some for his supper. She often did, seeming to enjoy his delight in it.
The misty rain had finally eased and he turned back to look out over the sea where the very faint remains of daylight showed white capped waves which were gradually being whipped up by a rising wind. Unexpectedly he caught movement at the corner of his vision and turned sharply to see somebody else ahead of him on the path. A pale face hovered in the early darkness, wide eyes and well-shaped features, framed by the hood of a dark cloak with wisps of fair hair blowing faintly in the wind.
“Oh my goodness,” the woman said.
Elijah bit back a far more vulgar exclamation, having been just as startled as she was. Instead he gave a little laugh.
“Oh. I’m so sorry, ma’am. I didn’t see you there. You frightened the life out of me.”
“Thank goodness. I thought it was just me. I do apologise. I’d no idea anybody else would be on this path in this weather.”
Elijah kept his distance but made a bow. He realised immediately that a girl alone out here – and this was little more than a girl – had far more reason to be afraid than he had.
“Forgive me. I was taking my evening walk before supper. I don’t usually see anybody out here at this hour, unless it’s a wagon up from the docks. You’re perfectly safe. I was just about to leave. Have you…are you alone?”
“No,” the woman said determinedly. “My maid is quite close by.”
He understood. “Of course. I’m sorry, I wasn’t being impertinent. I just wondered if she’d wandered back to town and you might want to walk alongside me.”
The girl was silent for a long moment. Then she said regally:
“I didn’t bring a maid with me. It grows dark so quickly now. I walked rather further out than I intended. I do not wish to inconvenience you, sir.”
“You won’t. I should go back before the light finally goes; I’m still a little lame. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Winterton; I’m a clerk in the customs’ office. Let’s get back to town and then, if you wish, I’ll escort you to your home.”
She consented to take his arm and they made their way cautiously along the uneven path, concentrating on their footing and not speaking. It was not until they had reached the first lights at the edge of Castletown proper that she said:
“That was kind of you, sir. My name is Gisbourne. I am a widow, currently residing on Queen Street with a companion. I was foolish to walk so far this late. I miss the light evenings. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome ma’am. Please allow me to walk back with you to your lodgings. It isn’t much out of my way.”
She hesitated and he half expected her to refuse. Before she could speak, however, something caught his eye out at sea and made him turn. He stared, wondering if he had imagined it. The wind was picking up, howling across the bay. Elijah peered through the mist and decided he was mistaken.
“There’s something out there. Is it a ship?”
He turned to her in surprise and realised that she too was staring out to sea. He looked back, but could see nothing but white-capped waves and drifting dark clouds. There was no moon tonight. The harbour was cluttered with fishing vessels and one or two of them had covered lanterns hanging up as their owners tidied up after working on their boats. Elijah thought they would all be in soon. It was not going to be a night for sharing a drink with friends on a boat.
“I don’t think so,” he said finally. “Though I thought I saw something for a moment. Come along, let’s get you home. Your people will be worrying.”
He hesitated before offering her his arm again. It was the polite thing to do on these uneven cobbled streets but he did not want to put her in an awkward position if she did not wish to be seen on his arm in the town. He could not work out her social status, though she was well-spoken, but even some of the fisher-girls might object to being seen walking arm-in-arm with him. Eventually he decided to take the chance and to his surprise she rewarded him with a little smile.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, making their way along the quay. Most people were already at home and the rest were hurrying to be so on this miserable evening, so nobody even glanced at them. Eventually she said:
“Have you been on the island long, Mr Winterton?”
“Four months only, ma’am.”
“I was wondering because I am surprised I have not met you. I have dined with Mr Cannan, the Harbour Master and have encountered Mr Faragher and your fellow clerks several times, but not you.”
“I’m not terribly sociable, ma’am.”
“That is a pity,” Mrs Gisbourne said. “I am finding Castletown society rather limited. You’re one of the more interesting gentlemen I have met so far.”
Elijah was startled into frankness. “I’m not really a gentleman, ma’am.”
“One would never know that from your manners, sir. Mr Cannan on the other hand has the status but not the behaviour. It is the first time a man has tried to squeeze my leg under the table with his wife present.”
Elijah was not sure if he was more shocked by the behaviour or by her talking of it. “He did what?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I think I spend too much time alone but I didn’t intend to embarrass you. Please forget it.”
“It’s definitely just as well I didn’t receive an invitation to that particular party,” Elijah said shortly. “I might have disgraced myself and proved them all right.”
She gave a ripple of laughter. “Thank you. I appreciate your championship, even from a distance. Mr Winterton – thank you. I’m so glad we frightened each other out on a windy shore. I have enjoyed your company.”
“I’m glad too, ma’am. Here we are. Goodnight.”
He watched until the door opened, showing a surprised looking maid framed in lamplight. When she was safely inside he set off back to his lodgings and supper. He realised that he was walking with a lighter step and smiling a little. The brief encounter had unaccountably cheered him up. He did not think he would have occasion to speak to Mrs Gisbourne again but it had been nice to have a conversation about something other than paperwork, merchant shipping or the iniquities of the press gang.
***
Katherine Gisbourne listened to the scolding voice of her paid companion with half an ear as she took off her wet cloak and went to change for the evening meal. She did not bother to dress formally as the table would consist of only herself and Mrs Blake. With no guests, she donned a simple white muslin, with a warm shawl because the evenings were chilly and the rented house was draughty. She had one black gown and a lavender silk evening dress to indicate her mourning status, but unless she was invited out she seldom wore them. Nobody knew her here so nobody would care.
The anonymity was lonely but also a huge relief. Katherine had fled to this blustery little island in desperation during the early months of her widowhood. She had heard of the house being available to rent through her husband’s man of business who also acted for its absentee owner, a widowed sea captain. He had spoken of it in jest when Katherine had spoken of wanting time alone, a long way from family and friends and the obligation to share her grief. Mr Bell had spoken of it scornfully when she had asked if he might know of some quiet place where she could retire alone for a while. He had dismissed her request as feminine vapours and assured her heartily that she would feel quite differently once she was at home in Yorkshire.
Katherine had made the arrangements herself, even taking the trouble to hire a respectable female to accompany her. There were various cousins whom she might have asked but instead she had scanned the advertisements in the London newspapers and employed Mrs Blake, a quietly spoken widow in her late thirties who seemed utterly bewildered by Katherine’s behaviour, but too relieved at well-paid employment to complain. Katherine felt a little sorry for the woman at being marooned in this draughty little house on the Isle of Mann with staff whose accent she could barely understand, but it did not deter her. She was running away from home and could let nothing get in her way.
The reality had been nothing like she had imagined, but the difficulties of coping with setting up her household in an unfamiliar place, with none of the support she was used to, had kept her busy. It was only now, almost three months on, that she was beginning to realise how lonely she was. She had made one or two acquaintances. Several ladies had called on her and she had been invited to a number of select parties considered suitable for her mourning status. Other than that she was alone apart from Mrs Blake, free to spend her time as she wished. It was terrifying. It was also liberating.
“I made an interesting acquaintance this evening on my walk,” she said to her companion as they sat down to eat. “I walked out along the shore rather further than I should have and he kindly escorted me home.”
Mrs Blake gave a snort. “I’m surprised you weren’t blown off that path, ma’am. I was at the baker’s earlier and he tells me we can expect much worse than this once winter comes. If you wish to stay so long of course.”
Katherine applied herself to a rather good beefsteak pie. “I have told you my intentions, Mrs Blake. If my plans don’t suit you…”
“No,” the older woman said quickly. “No, ma’am. I’m very well-suited. At least, I would have been better suited in London, but I’d like to stay if you’re satisfied with me.”
“I am.” Katherine smiled. “You’ve been very brave about it, Mrs Blake.”
“I just thought that you would wish to go home for Christmas. To be with your family. I’m sure they have invited you.”
“My family thinks I should go home to live with them,” Katherine said.
“They sound very kind,” Mrs Blake said wistfully. Katherine wondered, not for the first time, how difficult her companion’s own widowhood had been with no apparent family to support her either emotionally or financially.
“They are kind and I love them dearly,” Katherine said. “It’s just that I can’t. Not yet.”
“Grief should be shared,” Mrs Blake said gently.
“I can’t,” Katherine said again.
There was a little silence then the other woman said chattily:
“So tell me about this gentleman, ma’am. Who was he?”
Katherine fought a brief battle with her better self and won. “He was not really a gentleman, I suppose, though you would never know it. He works as a clerk at the customs’ office and…”
Mrs Blake stiffened. “Not the African?” she said in shocked tones.
Katherine gave her a look. “I believe so,” she said frostily. “You know of him?”
“Mrs Cannan spoke of him a little when we dined there. It seems there was some discussion about whether he could be invited to dine when the other clerks do so. So awkward for her. Gentlemen don’t understand these things.”
“For once I am with the gentlemen,” Katherine said. “He was very polite and well-spoken, though his accent was different. I rather liked it.”
“He cannot be a suitable acquaintance, my dear.”
“He’s probably a lot more suitable than one or two others I’ve met recently, but let us not quarrel over that. I doubt I’ll meet him again.”
***
Busy with a flurry of paperwork over some suspicious activity which made Mr Faragher wonder if a smuggling vessel was trying its luck in Manx waters, Elijah forgot all about the ship he thought he had seen struggling around Langness Point. There was no longer much organised smuggling done in the Isle of Mann, but it was not unknown for a local fishing boat to take an opportunity to run in goods on some dark night, by way of supplementing a meagre income.
Elijah realised that the locals, including the other clerks, thought little of it and he wondered if Watterson and Corlett, or possibly even Mr Faragher would not be above accepting some illicit brandy or rum as an incentive to look the other way. Elijah did not share their views, though he was careful not to say so. He knew that some smugglers dealt in more than luxury goods and were a valuable source of local intelligence to their French counterparts, as well as a means of transferring English gold to the enemy coffers. As a navy man he loathed the practice.
He decided on this occasion, after scrutinising the log-book and other paperwork taken from the Magnolia, that he was being over-cautious and that any gaps were due to incompetence rather than criminality and there would be no need to send a message to the revenue service. He gathered the papers together, tied them into a neat bundle and set them aside to be returned to the boat’s indignant owner.
The wilder weather had eased for a few days but as September drifted into October it worsened again and Elijah found himself curtailing his evening walks on several occasions. When he did make it out, he tried hard not to watch for the slender figure in the dark cloak but could not help it. He did not see her and presumed her companion had managed to convince her to remain at home for reasons of both safety and propriety.
Halfway through the second week he was bored and restless, missing the exercise and worrying about losing strength in his leg if he did not continue to exercise it regularly. Eventually he gave in and took himself to a dim little shop on Malew Street which sold both new and second-hand clothing to the local seafaring men. Elijah had been saving his money as much as possible in case he needed it for travel to wherever he might be able to join his ship once he was fit again but he needed better protection against this lashing rain and biting wind and he did not want to wear his uniform around town. He came away with a warm knitted tunic, some good woollen trousers and thick stockings and having found the prices surprisingly low, replenished his small stock of shirts and underclothing at half the price he would have paid in an English port.
Fully equipped, he donned his waxed cape, pulled a knitted hat over his short curly hair and set off after work down the shore path. Winter was fast approaching and it was already dark as he left the customs’ building. It had rained earlier in the day and the streets were still wet, cobbles shining ahead of Elijah’s closed lantern. He had bought it at the chandler’s, along with a supply of oil and hoped that carefully used, it would make it possible for him to stay out later.
The wind was so strong that the lantern swung madly in his hand, but it was a good design, meant for small boats, and it did not break. Elijah fought his way into the wind, reflecting that he would probably move a lot faster on the way back. The tide was in and huge waves dashed against the low rocks, surging up over the high bank and dousing him with cold salt spray. It reminded him of wild nights on deck, fighting to bring in sail in an unexpected storm and he lifted his face into it, laughing in sheer exhilaration.
He met nobody on the path tonight and was not surprised. Nobody would be out sailing for pleasure in this and all sensible masters would have found somewhere safe to anchor and weather the storm. He was alone with the wind and the sea and he loved it. Almost for the first time, he was beginning to feel himself strong again and he wondered if he was ready to write to Captain Winterton and ask that his necessary but painful exile be brought to an end. He wondered where they were now, and how long it would take a letter to reach them. He thought that he might go back to his dim little room and write it tonight.
Elijah reached Derbyhaven dock; quiet this evening with workers and travellers safe at home. He stood for a while on the quay, tasting the salt spray on his lips until he began to feel cold and realised it was time to go back. There was stew for supper and he had promised to watch little Morag while her mother did an evening shift at the Glue Pot. He had grown fond of the child and would miss her when he left.
With the wind at his back he made better time on his return and he walked quickly, allowing it to push him along. He was enjoying it so much that he remained on the shore as he came into Castletown, crossing the Silverburn by the rickety old wooden footbridge and wandering along a little way towards Scarlett.
Remembering his child minding duties made him stop eventually and he turned reluctantly up towards the town. He had barely made it off the shore path however when he was surprised to see a figure in a long dark cloak hurrying down towards him. Looking up he realised that he had turned up from the beach directly opposite the narrow house occupied by Mrs Gisbourne and it was the lady herself approaching him.
Elijah stopped and bowed, feeling a little lift of happiness. “Mrs Gisbourne. A happy coincidence, ma’am. I hope you are not just setting out on your walk. It really isn’t…”
He stopped abruptly, taking in the alarm on her face. She caught hold of his arm without ceremony.
“Thank God you are here. I had no idea what to do, but then I saw you walking up and recognised you immediately. Mr Winterton, there’s a ship in trouble. I think it may be grounded on some rocks. I was at my bedroom window and can see it clearly. There are lights – I think they’re trying to signal for help.”
Elijah whirled, staring out to sea. He could see nothing but the white foam of the raging surf but that meant nothing. The houses were not particularly tall but she would have had a far better view from up there.
“Forgive me but I need to see for myself.”
“Of course. This way.”
The house was warm inside with the mouth-watering smell of food cooking. A woman, presumably the widow’s companion, hovered in a doorway looking anxious. Mrs Gisbourne admonished her sharply to stay where she was and led the way up a curved stairway to a short landing with several doors leading off it and another, smaller stair going on up to the top.
“Up here. It’s where the servants sleep but there are windows and we’ll get a better view.”
He followed her at speed into a neat plain room. She struggled with a rusty iron catch on the small window and he took it from her and forced it open. They stood side by side, gasping at the sudden blast of cold air and she pointed.
“Look.”
He could see it immediately, a dark shape above the boiling inky waves. From this distance he could hear nothing but there were clearly lights and as he watched he saw what looked like a flare shooting up into the night. He was surprised he did not hear it and puzzled as to why they were not making more noise. Even merchant ships usually carried some kind of gun to fire signals in an emergency. There was no point in standing around speculating. Elijah slammed the window shut and turned to her.
“Thank God you saw it. I can’t think why none of the houses up on that road haven’t called for help yet, but God willing we can do so now. Look stay here. I’m going to run to Mr Faragher and then up to the Cannan house. They’ll know what to do and will probably have some idea what ship it might be.”
“I want to come.”
“You’ll slow me down.” Elijah reached out and took her hand, squeezing it a little to take the sting from his words. “I’ll come back and tell you when I can. Thank you ma’am. You’ve saved lives this night.”
The next hour was a frantic blur of running from one place to another, delivering messages and urging speed. Mr Cannan seemed unwilling to believe it, but he was at dinner with several local gentlemen and one in particular, a badly scarred man with an air of unconscious authority that screamed former officer to Elijah, very quickly took command. Mr Young rattled off a series of orders which sent men running and when finally Elijah had time to breathe he had the relieved sense that help would be mobilised and that there would be some attempt to reach the stranded ship. He found himself briefly alone back at the customs’ office and sat in his regular chair for a while, calming his jangling nerves.
Eventually he decided that even if he could not take part in the rescue he could walk out to see what was happening and got up, reaching for his cape and searching for the door key in his pocket. Before he got any further the door opened and three men entered. Mr Cannan and Mr Faragher were grim faced and angry. Mr Young’s expression was hard to read but that may have been because his scar immobilised one side of his face.
“So what the bloody hell was this about, Winterton?” Faragher barked furiously. “Is this some kind of practical joke? Half the men of Castletown out of their beds and we were beginning to wake up Derbyhaven as well and for what? Nothing, man.”
Elijah stared at him in utter bewilderment. “Nothing? You mean we were too late, sir? The ship has gone?”
“Gone? It was never bloody there, boy,” Cannan roared. “Christ, I should have known better than to let Hugh Kelly talk me into employing a half-literate African slave with an over-active imagination and look at the result. You’ve made a fool of me before the entire town and…”
Elijah lost his temper. “I am both fully literate and a free man, sir,” he shouted back. “I do not understand. I saw that ship from Mrs Gisbourne’s window with my own eyes. Whatever has happened was not deliberate, but I will not hear Captain Kelly insulted and…”
“Nor will I,” Mr Young said with quiet authority. “It’s been a frustrating evening, Mr Cannan, that’s for sure, but I would be surprised if Mr Winterton here intended any ill. I can see that you’re upset. Why don’t you get back to your guests and your wife. Please give my apologies to mine, though she’s used to me by now. Mr Faragher you’re tired and must be wanting your bed. Let me talk to Mr Winterton here and we’ll see if we can work out what went wrong. Goodnight gentlemen.”
They moved away eventually, grumbling quietly but looking forward to moving on with their evening. Mr Young waited until the room was empty then looked at Elijah. Elijah looked back defiantly, ready to punch the next man that insulted him. Young gave a very faint smile.
“I have been told that you’re a navy man, Winterton.”
“Master’s mate aboard the Wren, sir.”
“Under a captain who’s name you bear.” Young’s smile widened. The effect on his scarred face was slightly alarming. “Luke Winterton and the Wren have made quite a name for themselves.”
“He allowed me to take his name when my slavery ended, sir.”
“I was at Trafalgar and then employed by the revenue service until I married. I’m not from Mann either, though my wife is Manx to the core. It takes a while for them to get used to us.”
“I do not think they will ever get used to me, sir.”
Young indicated the appalling ruin of his face. “They’re still not used to me either but we’re working on it. Climb down off your high horse, Winterton. I don’t suppose you’re intending to stay here are you?”
“I intend to return to my ship as soon as it may be arranged, sir.” Belatedly, Elijah realised this man was being very civil and rather kind. “I am sorry. I’m angry. I did see this thing.”
“I believe you saw something, but I’ve been out on the shore. There’s nothing there. You spoke of a Mrs Gisbourne. I don’t know the lady. Could you introduce me?”
The next hour was a blur of embarrassed misery. Katherine Gisbourne was rigidly polite to the former naval officer and Elijah could not fault his respectful treatment of her, but he could see that she shared his fury at being disbelieved. She took Young up to the window and explained what they had seen. Young listened seriously, asked sensible questions and did his best to soothe the lady’s annoyance.
When they were outside again in the blustery cold of the street, Young pulled his coat up around his neck and shivered.
“I’m sorry, Winterton. I wish I could do more. I’m not sure what happened. It must have been some weird trick of the light. Look don’t worry about it. I’ll deal with Cannan and Faragher for you. From what you’ve told me, this posting is only temporary anyway. The way you moved tonight in this crisis, I think you’re more than ready to go back to sea. Write to your Captain and if you need any further help, here’s my card. And…it might seem impertinent, but what’s the story with Mrs Gisbourne? What in God’s name is she doing here?”
Elijah realised he had no idea and it bothered him. “I don’t know sir. We’re mere acquaintances. Running away, perhaps?”
Young gave an unexpected smile. “Now that I do understand. Say no more. I’ll ask my wife to call on her to make sure she’s all right. Don’t fret about this, Winterton. I absolutely believe you acted in good faith. If they give you any trouble, send me a message. I might be new to the island but I’ve fairly good connections. Goodnight.”
***
On the day after the wholly imaginary shipwreck, Katherine endured several infuriating interviews with men who had already decided that she was an over-imaginative female who had lured the customs clerk into sharing her fantasy. Mr Cannan, who did not like her, went so far as to suggest that she might have lied about the entire thing to gain attention. Halfway through their conversation, Katherine suddenly remembered that she did not have to be polite to this man and threw him out.
Afterwards she went up to her room, telling her anxious companion that she needed to rest. She was not at all tired but she was weary of Mrs Blake’s flustered attempts to make her feel better. Nothing was likely to make her feel better after Cannan’s humiliating questions. Hovering behind them was a hint of unpleasant curiosity about her acquaintance with Elijah Winterton.
Katherine wished they had more of an acquaintance in reality because Winterton was the only person she wanted to see. He alone had seen what she had seen and believed what she told him. She was anxious that his quick action might have cost him his job, or at least a severe reprimand, and she felt very guilty.
Knowing that he might be in trouble, she did not expect to see Winterton again and was astonished when her companion appeared in the parlour immediately after dinner to announce a caller. Mrs Blake’s face was a picture of frozen disapproval and she frowned heavily when Katherine put down her embroidery immediately and stood up.
“Mr Winterton?”
“I told him this was no hour to be calling on a lady and suggested he return tomorrow. Not that I think he should be calling at all, ma’am. He is not…”
“Where is he?” Katherine interrupted. “You have not sent him away?”
“I did my best but he insisted that I inform you that he was here. In fact he refused to leave. He is waiting outside.”
“In this weather?” Katherine said indignantly. “Bring him through immediately.”
“Ma’am, you cannot. People will know. The maids will talk and it will be all over the island that…”
“I do not care if the news reaches the Emperor of France, Mrs Blake. I am tired of being treated like a child. Please show Mr Winterton in and then you may leave us. Since you have made it perfectly plain you neither believe my story or trust my intelligence, you have no place in this conversation.”
Elijah Winterton looked cold and tired and a little surprised at finding himself in a cosy parlour with a crackling fire and a decanter of Spanish sherry with two glasses set out on a table. Mrs Blake closed the door with a disapproving click and Katherine noticed with irritation that she had not asked the maid to take his cape or hat. She took them herself, almost pushed him into a chair before the fire and stopped his protests by handing him a glass of sherry.
“Please don’t argue with me, Mr Winterton. I spent an hour being alternately patronised and insulted by Mr Cannan earlier and it was quite enough. I am not sure if he suspects me of being a deliberate liar or a hysterical female subject to nervous disorders.”
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. What did you…I mean how did you…”
“I threw him out,” Katherine said crisply. Even the memory of it made her feel better. “He had gone quite red in the face, and was halfway through interrogating me about my family. Who was my husband, who is my father, why am I here alone.”
Winterton looked satisfyingly angry. “It seems to me, ma’am, that’s none of his business.”
“That is so true,” Katherine said. “The trouble is, I have not been accustomed to saying such things to gentlemen. I was such a good child and have been such a well-behaved woman. I learned everything a lady should know, never asked any awkward questions, bowed to every rule of polite feminine behaviour and made an excellent marriage at exactly the right moment. My parents were so proud of me.”
“If I had a daughter like you, ma’am, I’d be proud too.”
“Well you should not be,” Katherine said shortly. “I have a sister. She is two years younger than I am and did nothing right. She fought and argued her way through childhood, which meant that she was allowed to share my brothers’ lessons and is far better educated than I am. She was wilful and fiercely independent and so beautiful that it hurt to look at her. All through our growing years, all she had to do was smile and everyone around her fell at her feet. And at times I almost hated her for that.”
Winterton looked utterly bewildered and Katherine did not blame him. She had no idea why she was saying this, but telling him could do no harm at all since he would never meet any of the people involved. He was a safe confidante and Katherine realised she desperately needed one of those.
“I’m not sure I would have liked her as much as I like you, ma’am.”
Katherine felt silly tears at his kindness. She blinked them back. “Yes you would. She’s lovely. She was the best sister in the world and we had a wonderful time growing up. She married young and my parents didn’t approve. It didn’t go well. He was a soldier and he was killed but she has remarried and my parents are delighted. She seems very happy. She has children now.”
“Do you hear from her?”
“Not that often. We should write more but we drifted apart. She is in Spain with her second husband. She has spent these years doing so much and I have done…nothing.”
“That can’t be true, ma’am.”
“Yes it is. I married a man whose life consisted of ledgers and letter writing and seeking the next Government post. We lived in London, went to every party where he might meet a useful connection and I had no real friends. We had no children, we had no conversation once the wedding was over and all the empty promises he made to me vanished in a faint cloud of indifference. I realise now that I had constructed a romance based on nothing. He was not bad or unkind. When he died I tried desperately to find grief. All I could find was guilt, and a sense of hopelessness. I fled here because I was worried that if I went home, my parents would surround me with love and kindness and then find me another man just like him.”
Winterton said nothing for a while. He finished his sherry and Katherine topped up both glasses. She realised she would not mind finishing the bottle. Eventually he stirred.
“Why did you tell me this now?”
The question surprised her. “Oh. I think because of my sister. I have thought of her a lot recently. It occurred to me that she might be the one person I could really talk to about this. The one person I could trust. Then I found myself in a room with Mr Cannan, looking at his smug, round, red face and realising that he thought it was perfectly acceptable to be rude about you and to insult me. And I had a sudden thought.”
“Which was?”
“What would Nan do?” Katherine sipped her sherry, trying to do so in a ladylike manner. “And then I did it. The results were extraordinarily satisfying. I don’t think he will call on me again.”
To her surprise, Winterton laughed. Their irrelevant conversation seemed to have made him more relaxed and he was no longer perched on the edge of his chair. Katherine thought wistfully that it would be so much easier to negotiate the world if more men were like this pleasant, ordinary young clerk whose background was anything but ordinary. He set his glass down on the table and studied her from serious dark eyes.
“I shouldn’t really have called on you, ma’am, but I was worried about you. I’m sorry this happened. Are you going to be all right?”
“Yes, of course. I was more concerned about you, sir. That unpleasant man is just the kind of arrogant bully who might dismiss you. Do you think he will?”
“No. I got this post through a local gentleman who was captain of the first ship I ever served on. He and Captain Winterton are friends. Captain Kelly is an important man locally and Mr Cannan won’t want to get on the wrong side of him, especially as I’ll be leaving soon anyway.”
“You’re going back to your ship?”
“Yes. I’m ready. As Mr Young pointed out, sprinting around town chasing up rescue boats for a ghost ship wasn’t a problem for me. I’ve just finished writing to Captain Winterton. It will probably take a couple of months to arrange everything and I’ll have to wait to catch a ship going out to the Adriatic, but there are always supply ships and packet boats. I hope to be back with him early next year.”
She noticed the unconscious phrasing which made his close relationship with his Captain very plain and found herself wishing she could meet the navy officer who inspired such admiration and loyalty in a man like Elijah Winterton. She also suddenly noticed something else he had said.
“Ghost ship?”
“Is that what I said?”
“Yes.” Katherine stared at him but he gave no further explanation. She thought some of his earlier discomfort had returned. “Is that what you think this was, Mr Winterton.”
“No, of course not. How could it be? As Mr Young said it must have been some strange trick of the light.”
“What light?” Katherine demanded. “It was as dark as Hades out there. The only lights I could see were from the houses along the seafront and from that ship, way out on the rocks. There wasn’t even a moon.”
“I don’t know, ma’am. Perhaps some reflection from lights on the quay?”
He sounded both defensive and slightly desperate and Katherine knew he badly wanted her to drop the subject. She realised she could not. The experience had shaken her. She had never thought herself particularly imaginative and she had spent all night lying awake trying to come up with some reasonable explanation as to how two rational adults had seen something which was invisible to everyone else.
“It was too far out,” she said eventually. “I’m sorry. I can see you don’t want to talk about this. It’s just what you said…is that what you really believe? A ghost?”
“Who believes in such things, ma’am?”
“Clearly somebody did at some point in history, Mr Winterton, or there wouldn’t be so much written about them. This is a very superstitious island, I’ve discovered. Did you know that many people here still believe in fairies?”
“The little people? Or are you talking about the fynoderee?” He gave a slight smile at her surprise. “My landlady tells stories to her little girl. I enjoy them too. Back on the plantation, my mother used to tell me all kinds of strange tales that she remembered from her girlhood in an African village. I’m very comfortable with ghost stories but I realised very quickly that many people aren’t.”
She was temporarily distracted by his casual mention of his former slavery and then realised suddenly that there was something very personal for him in this matter. He was clearly not keen to talk about it and she felt guilty for pressing him, but two of them had seen that stranded ship and she needed to know.
“Have you ever seen a ghost, Mr Winterton?”
He did not speak for a long time, but stared into the fire, apparently lost in some memory. She was just about to repeat the question when he looked up.
“I think so. And now I might have seen another. That’s too many for one man, don’t you think?”
Katherine met his eyes, hoping she could manage to convey how grateful she was for his honesty. “Not for a man like you, Mr Winterton. I think you’re a man who is able to believe what he sees and hears, even if that’s difficult. I can understand why your Captain values you so much.”
He smiled then, and it lit up his rather serious face. “Ma’am, he’s been looking after me since I was twelve years old. Sometimes I think he still sees me that way. Look, it’s not a pretty story but I’ll tell you if you like.”
“I’d be grateful. This seems very strange to me.”
“It’s not going to get any less strange with this tale, ma’am. I don’t want to go into too much detail- it’s upsetting. I was twelve years old when I arrived on the Royal Navy frigate the Herne. I was a born a plantation slave and my mother had died. Before you ask, I never even knew my father’s name and given how light my skin is, I never wanted to.”
Katherine felt herself blush a little and wished she had not. He must have noticed but made no comment.
“Losing Ma nearly broke me. It also set me free. I could never have taken the risk if she’d still been alive. It was talked about in the slave compounds that if you could get yourself taken on by a Royal Navy ship, you’d be legally free. That’s how I joined HMS Herne.”
Katherine listened as he talked of his first weeks aboard ship. Unconsciously, his voice had taken on a storytelling tone and he told the tale well. She was so interested in this insight into the workings of a Royal Navy frigate and the relationships between officers and crew that she was almost shocked when the story shifted abruptly to describe his involvement with a troubled crew member who had eventually killed himself.
“That’s horrible. You were so young.”
“I’ve never forgotten it. But not really because of poor Reid. Later I found out he was a wanted mutineer and it was assumed that he’d committed suicide from guilt. But it was more than that. He’d been seeing things. The image of a man he’d murdered. It drove him to his death but the thing was…I saw it too.”
Katherine caught her breath. She sat staring at him in mute horror. After a moment, he reached for the decanter and refilled their glasses.
“Thank you for not asking if I am sure that I didn’t imagine it.”
“I’m hardly likely to, sir. I’ve heard that question more than enough today. But I do have questions.”
“Please ask.”
“Were you sure back then? What you’d seen? And did anyone believe you?”
He thought about it and sighed. “I’ve always been sure. And no, they didn’t believe me, though Captain Winterton was kind enough to pretend that he did. They all thought I was an over-imaginative boy who’d survived an appalling childhood then a dangerous escape and was now having to adjust to a whole new life. And said like that, it makes sense. But I know what I saw then and I know how furious I was that I couldn’t make them believe me. And I had exactly the same feeling last night and today. They either think I’m a liar or I’m crazy. Perhaps both. And I’m neither.”
“You’re neither,” Katherine agreed. “Unless I am too. Because that ship was there.”
“There was no ship there. Mr Young even took a boat out today, given that the weather had calmed a lot. There was no wreckage. Nothing.”
Katherine studied him consideringly. “Not now, anyway. But there must have been once.”
He stopped, his glass almost at his lips, then set it down quickly. “Do you mean…?”
“I am not an expert in hauntings, Mr Winterton. But this ghost of yours aboard the Herne made sense. The man was a murderer and his victim haunted him. Whatever you think of the supernatural, that began with a real event that could be traced.”
His expression had changed, his interest clearly caught. “And if you and I are not going mad and we did see something out there…”
“Then there must have been a ship caught on those rocks once. Just not last night.”
“It could have been at any time, though. Beyond living memory.”
“Perhaps. My ignorance of ships of all kind means that I can’t say. But you should be able to; you’re a navy man. Did anything about that ship strike you as odd when we stood at the window looking at it?”
“No,” Winterton said slowly. “At least…yes. I mean of course. I couldn’t hear it. They’d sent up flares. I could hear the wind and the rain and the sound of the waves crashing over the sea wall down there. But sound carries and we should have been able to hear something.”
“What about the ship?”
He seemed to be visualising it, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he said:
“It wasn’t that big. It’s difficult because one of the masts was down – the aft mast, I think. Which also looked like the main mast. It must have been a brig.”
“A historic one?”
He was shaking his head, fully engaged now. “Definitely not. That design is used everywhere to this day. In the navy she’d be a fifth-rater but I don’t think this was a navy ship. I don’t think she had the guns. But those square-rigged brigs are used as merchant ships, particularly for the coastal trade. A man I served with on the Wren used to crew coal boats up and down the English coast.”
“So we are looking for a wrecked merchant ship, probably within the last twenty years?”
He looked up at her with a quick smile. “Make that fifty. Though I think you’ll be right, it will be more recent than that. I hope so anyway, because I think I’ll have to start by asking a lot of questions of the locals.”
“I can do the same. Since the gentlemen already think I am an empty-headed, over-imaginative female I shall be very wide-eyed and ask a great many stupid questions.”
“You wouldn’t fool me like that, ma’am.”
She was pleasantly aware of the admiration in his voice. “Thank you. I am not as well-educated as my younger sister but I don’t think I’m stupid. Though I’ve never really been asked to put that to the test. I am rather looking forward to doing so.”
He smiled and rose, leaving the rest of his sherry untouched. “I should go before your poor companion has a fit of the vapours about the amount of time you’ve been closeted alone with a former slave who works as a lowly customs clerk. Are you sure you want to help with this? Because whatever we find out, I don’t think they’ll believe us anyway.”
“Neither do I,” Katherine said, getting up. “But we will know what really happened and I think that will make me feel rather better. Besides, I am very curious. Do you happen to know which rocks those are, by the way?”
“No, and it would help. I wonder if I can find a boat to take me out there, if the weather improves? My landlady might be able to find someone, though it will cost me.”
“I will pay, providing I can accompany you.”
He looked astonished. “Ma’am, you can’t.”
“Why not?”
“First of all because a small boat out there at this time of year isn’t without risk. And secondly, because you can’t be seen out with me in public, especially without a chaperone.”
“What utter nonsense. I am an adult woman with a very respectable fortune and I can do whatever I like. If my sister can nurse wounded men in the middle of a battle, which I’m told she does, I can risk a little discomfort in a very good cause.”
“Well…let me see what I can find, then.”
Katherine walked into the hall with him and waited as the shocked maid retrieved his cape and hat. She noticed with grim amusement that the girl’s disapproval melted when Winterton gave her a warm smile as he thanked her. Betsy retreated to the kitchen regions blushing very prettily and he turned to Katherine.
“I’ll let you know about the boat. I might not be able to find a man willing to do it.”
“And I will begin making enquiries about past shipwrecks. It may enliven a very boring dinner party with the Rector on Tuesday. Thank you, Mr Winterton. I feel better.”
“So do I. Ma’am…what do you think your sister would make of this? If she was here.”
Katherine thought about it and grinned. “I cannot imagine Nan encountering a ghost. She is the most practical girl in the world and would probably tell it to go away and stop annoying her. But the mystery? She would be rubbing her hands together and rolling up her sleeves to help. In some ways I wish she was here. In others, I’m glad she’s not. She would take over and manage the whole thing and I would let her.”
“Well I think you’re more like her than you realise, ma’am. I’m certainly letting you manage me. Good night.”
***
It was almost a week before he found a man willing to take him out to inspect what might possibly have been the site of a previous shipwreck. By then, Elijah had started to believe that he really must have imagined the whole thing. He had thought it would be relatively easy. Mariners loved to talk and most of the families in Castletown and the surrounding villages had lived there for generations. Shipwrecks were not uncommon on the hazardous rocky shores of the Isle of Mann.
He was offered shipwrecks in plenty and reflected that the number and severity of the tragedies he heard about would have put a less experienced man off ever going to sea again. He was told about every possible disaster, from two men drowned in a rowing boat the previous year to the loss of all hands when the Derbyhaven packet went down in a storm fifteen years earlier. Some of the older fishermen enjoyed his interest so much they invited him to join them in the nearest ale house.
Elijah bought his round, listened to the stories and told one or two of his own from his years with the Wren. He could sense that they were warming to him now that they knew more about him and he wondered if some of his isolation since he arrived on the island had been of his own making. He enjoyed the convivial evening and promised to return another day but he was none the wiser about the mysterious shipwreck. A brief consultation with Katherine told him she was having no more luck than he was.
Mrs Stowell introduced him to her cousin Jack Shimmin, a sturdy fisherman of eighteen who did not blink when informed that he was required to ferry not only the customs clerk but a lady out to inspect the rocky shore. Elijah had prepared a complicated story and discovered he did not need it at all. Shimmin was monumentally uninterested in why they wanted to go sailing on a calm but freezing October morning so long as he was paid.
There was a rare frost on the grass when Elijah collected Katherine Gisbourne. He ran his eyes over her clothing and approved the warm lined cloak, woollen gloves and surprisingly sturdy boots. He thought he had been subtle but as they made their way along the stone quay, she said:
“Did you think I would arrive wearing my summer muslin, sir?”
Elijah felt his face grow warm. “No of course not. I just didn’t think you’d have anything suitable.”
“They’re riding boots. Not appropriate for fashionable London I’m afraid, but I was raised in the wilds of Yorkshire and I hate having cold feet. The cloak as well. My stepmother always taught us to dress properly for any occasion and she didn’t mean it in purely a social sense.”
The boat was small enough for a man to manage alone, with four oars and a sail. Elijah settled Katherine on the bench and took the second pair of oars without asking. As the boat cut smoothly through the water, their taciturn companion gave what sounded as though it might be a grunt of approval.
“Navy man, were you?”
“I am a navy man. I’m going back soon.”
There was another grunt. “Well if you run into that useless bastard Stowell when you get there, tell him to get back here and look after his wife and child.”
Elijah could not help smiling. He glanced at Katherine but as far as he could see she was not upset by Shimmin’s language. She looked rather amused.
“The navy’s fairly big, but I’ll keep an eye out. He was pressed though wasn’t he? Not really his fault.”
Shimmin’s snort was derisive this time. It seemed to be his favourite means of communication. “That idle bugger trips over a press gang more easily than any other man on this island and never sends a penny home in pay. She’d starve if it weren’t for the family. And your rent. She says you’ve been good to her and the brat and given her no trouble. Hold up. We’ll take it by sail from here.”
That seemed to be the end of Shimmin’s conversation. Elijah sensed that it had been something he had wanted to say and now that he had said it there would be no further need to talk. Elijah had wondered what Mrs Stowell’s extended family had thought of her decision to take in such an unusual lodger and he was glad and a little touched that they had apparently decided to approve. He worried about how she would manage when he left.
The wind picked up considerably away from shore. Elijah watched Shimmin arrange his sail with practiced skill and tried to hide how much he yearned to do it himself. There was no comparison between what was little more than a one-man jolly boat and the beautiful lines of a fast frigate but he had been on shore for so long that any form of sail would have satisfied him. He was glad to see how easily Shimmin handled the craft and turned his attention to Katherine.
She was looking around her in apparent enjoyment. “I cannot believe how fast we’re moving. I’ve never been on a boat like this before. Well apart from a rowing boat on a lake of course, which is not at all the same thing.”
“You’re not feeling nauseous?” Elijah asked anxiously.
“Not at all. It’s exhilarating. I love it.”
Reassured, he twisted around on his seat to face her. “I don’t know these waters at all, but Shimmin says he’s going to take us along the coast towards Scarlett Point then across the mouth of the bay and back round the Langness Peninsula. That will take us close to where we want to go. If the weather changes suddenly, and we know it does that a lot here, we’ll have to go straight back in. I’m not risking your safety.”
“Would you, if you were alone?”
“It would depend on how bad it got. I’d take more chances for myself than for you but…”
“We’ll go back when I say,” Shimmin said unexpectedly. “This boat’s my living. Not risking it for either of you two.”
Elijah turned to glare at him but Katherine gave a splutter of laughter. “Quite right, Mr Shimmin. I’m grateful you agreed to take us at all.”
The younger man shot her a surprised glance. “You’re paying me,” he said simply. After a moment he added generously:
“And you’re no trouble, I must say.”
Elijah could think of nothing to say. He shot her a glance and realised she was trying hard not to giggle. He looked away, firmly suppressing his own laughter.
They swept briskly along the coast, the spray settling in a fine sheen on the dark wool of her cloak. She was looking out over the dull grey-green waves, capped with white. Elijah did not think it was a particularly appealing view but she looked relaxed despite the cold and very happy. Almost for the first time he thought what a pretty woman she was.
The difference in their respective social positions was so great that he had not thought of her in those terms before. Elijah liked women and generally got on very well with them. A life at sea gave little opportunity to form any lasting connection but there had been periods of shore leave. He had become very attached to a girl called Agnes who worked as a barmaid in a tavern in Southampton and had almost been tempted to ask her to marry him during a long spell ashore several years ago. He thought she might have said yes, but he had dithered too long and she had accepted a proposal from the bosun of a third-rater currently under repair in the dockyard.
Since then there had been other girls; casual but affectionate affairs with liking and respect on both sides. This woman from another world could have nothing to do with them, but Elijah decided that he liked her anyway and was glad that this strange matter had thrown them together for this short time.
Up past Scarlett Point they tacked around and made their way across the mouth of the small bay. The rocky shore of the Langness Peninsula was easily visible in the bright winter sunlight. A collection of seals lounged on some rocks but slid into the water as the boat drew closer. It was well into the pupping season and one mother with her pup remained high up on the rocks watching them warily.
“Is that what I think it is?” Katherine breathed.
“Seal pup, lady,” Shimmin agreed. “Quite a young ‘un. She’ll be right, we won’t go in close. If you look over there you’ll see her mates having a good look.”
They were in the water quite close to the boat: half a dozen sleek dark heads bobbing above the water, watching with apparent interest. Elijah heard Katherine make a little sound of sheer happiness. She watched the seals with shining eyes and they looked back, unafraid. Elijah realised he had not felt this happy since he had left the Wren.
The Langness Peninsula was a T-shaped piece of land to the south-east of Castletown which jutted out into the Irish Sea. At the northern end was St Michael’s Isle, connected to the mainland by a narrow causeway. Langness was mostly wilderness, though Elijah could see sheep and cattle grazing and one or two stone buildings which might have been small farms or perhaps feed sheds. It looked like a wild, inhospitable place whipped by cold sea winds. There were strong currents off this coast and Elijah watched Shimmin carefully but the boy seemed utterly confident in his handling of his small vessel.
“It must have been about here,” Katherine said very quietly.
Elijah realised she had stopped watching the wildlife and was looking over to the shore of Castletown. She had a good eye. One of the row of houses he could see must be hers and, looking from the attic window, this would have been the approximate location of the shipwreck.
He looked around him. The shore itself was rocky and dangerous and there was no sign of a lighthouse or even a harbour light on the point. He had thought several times during his enquiries about local shipwrecks that the island needed more lighthouses or at the very least more effective harbour and quayside lights. Sailors trying to find their way through darkness or fog up this treacherous shore could easily mistake a lit up house for an important landmark with disastrous results.
Elijah studied the shore thoughtfully, trying to imagine what would happen here if a ship was blown off course or simply mistook her way in a storm. The rocky outcrops would definitely cause a ship to become stuck if she was driven aground but it would also be relatively easy for a crew to scramble ashore. Besides, the land mass was surely big enough to be seen on all but the worst night.
He glanced at Katherine. She had fallen silent after her delight at the antics of the seals and for the first time he thought she looked cold, though perhaps she was shivering at the recollection of that evening. He gave her a reassuring smile and she attempted a wan response. Then he turned back and surveyed the choppy waters around him.
Up ahead he caught a glimpse of what he thought was the sleek dark head of another seal. He stared at it, waiting for it to reappear. Before it did so, Shimmin was up and busy with the sail. Elijah shot him a questioning glance. The wind was stronger here and the canvas made a sharp cracking sound as Shimmin hauled on the rope.
“Just drawing her out. There’s a line of rocks just here. You can’t easily see them except at low tide.”
Elijah felt himself freeze. He looked back at the dark line in the water which had not been a seal at all.
“Let me do that,” he said. “You can steer. You know it better than I do.”
Shimmin did not argue, moving to the rudder. For a few minutes the two men concentrated on changing course away from the rocks. When he was free to relax, Elijah sat down on the bench. He felt strangely shaky. Katherine was watching him.
“Are you all right, Mr Winterton?”
“Yes, perfectly. Are you, ma’am? You look a bit cold.”
“I am.” She was looking around her. “Is this the place?”
“I think it might be. Far enough out from shore and impossible to see if you didn’t know it was there. They need a lighthouse out here; it’s criminal. Any ship could run aground on that, and in a storm…”
“Would that be the Kittiwake you’re talking about?”
Shimmin spoke in a conversational tone. His hand was on the tiller and his eyes on the sea ahead as he steered the boat back towards Castletown. Both Elijah and Katherine stared at him. Then Katherine said brightly:
“The Kittiwake, Mr Shimmin? That was a shipwreck wasn’t it?”
Elijah clamped his mouth shut and waited, admiring her quick wits. Shimmin glanced around at her.
“Aye. You’ve heard of it then?”
“Only a little,” Katherine said confidingly. “You might not have heard about this, but I found myself rather embarrassed this week. I thought I saw a ship in trouble from my window. It was nothing and I felt bad that I had caused a fuss but I was asking about local shipwrecks afterwards and somebody mentioned the Kittiwake. Did it happen out here?”
“Aye, right there on the Dragon’s Back rocks.” Shimmin flashed her a sardonic grin. “I’d give a lot to know who let that cat out of the bag. It’s not spoken about round here. Ever.”
“I’d certainly not heard of it, and I’ve heard a few tales of shipwrecks,” Elijah said lightly. “What happened?”
“They’d have my guts for garters if they knew I’ve talked about it to a couple of off-islanders,” Shimmin said with grim amusement. “But that’s all bollocks, that is. Everybody knew at the time and it was in the papers and everything. Only then the gentry got it into their empty bloody heads that it’d put merchant shipping off the island. Blood ridiculous. Money is what matters here. They don’t give a damn about the lives of seamen.”
Elijah was beginning to understand. “Will you tell us?”
“Why not? Might be better talked about to make sure it never happens again. It were this time of year – end of October if I remember. Ten years back or thereabouts. I was a lad then, just starting to go out on calm days to learn how to handle a boat with my Da. It was a rare squall. Four or five vessels in Douglas Harbour were damaged and one was wrecked. A few fishing boats got into trouble and the Malew Lady went down off Peel Town with six men gone. A bad night.”
“It sounds horrible,” Katherine said. “What happened to the Kittiwake?”
“She was coming up from Liverpool with a cargo of wine, brandy and luxury goods. Silks, spices and elegant foodstuffs for the gentry. She hit the rocks late in the evening and the crew couldn’t bring her off. They were being buffeted by the worst of the storm and they sent off every form of distress signal they could manage. It wouldn’t have been easily seen inland in that light but cottages along the coast must have seen it.”
Elijah felt a little chill that had nothing to do with the cold sea breeze. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened, sir. She was wrecked. No boats were launched, no rescue parties formed. Sometimes that happens, if there’s nobody in authority to organise it. But usually there’s a few local fishermen will make an effort. That night, nobody did. The next morning news came in to the harbour master and once it calmed down they sent out a few boats, but there was nothing left but the wreckage. They found bodies both in the sea and washed up ashore. They buried them in Malew Churchyard.”
“Did nobody see it?” Katherine asked. Elijah shot her an agonised glance, knowing what was coming.
“Oh yes, they saw it. Rumour has it that they knew what was coming in. Men lined the shore and the cliffs that night, watching as the ship broke up. Maybe they could have saved some with a few boats but none went out. Instead they brought hand carts and gigs where they had them and they waited along the shore for that cargo to wash up. It had been a bad wet summer and crops had failed. Families were struggling and men were desperate. They made a choice to put their own needs above the lives of strangers.”
“Oh dear God,” Katherine said. Her distress was obvious and Elijah reached out and took her hand.
“I’m sorry. I had begun to wonder. It isn’t unheard of. Poverty and desperation will make beasts of even honest men.”
“That’s true enough, sir. That cargo fed whole families through a miserable winter. Everybody local knew of course. The gentry were caught with their pants down, they hadn’t a clue. Though I do wonder if one or two of them might have gone along with it for a few casks of brandy. Still, afterwards I think the district was ashamed. Insurance paid out, I suppose families mourned and the whole thing was set to one side. They weren’t Manx families. But I think there’s guilt. I think it was a bad thing for our people. They still feel the shame.”
“But you don’t,” Elijah said quietly.
“Me? I was a little lad at the time. Only remember it through my Da’s tales. He wasn’t there, he was off at his Ma’s house. She was sick. But I think he felt it anyway. Always wondered what he’d have done if he’d had to make the choice. I don’t think we should bury it any more. Best accept it and move on.”
The wind picked up on the way back in to Castletown and Elijah took to the oars and tried not to worry about the dangerously powerful swell. When they were safely back, he watched as Katherine paid Shimmin and spoke quietly to him for a while. Then he escorted her back up to the house on the shore.
“Will you come inside for a few minutes, Mr Winterton?”
Elijah hesitated. “Do you mind if I don’t, ma’am? I…this is very strange. I’d like time to think about it. I could call tomorrow after work?”
He thought she looked relieved. “Yes of course. I’m very tired. Thank you for letting me come with you though. I would have hated to miss it.”
***
Katherine spent a restless night dreaming of storms and shipwrecks. She was quiet at breakfast, trying not to respond irritably to Mrs Blake’s fussing. Her companion had roundly condemned her sailing trip and repeatedly declared her belief that Katherine had caught a chill and that the cold wind had probably given her a headache. Eventually Katherine put down her tea cup unnecessarily loudly.
“If I am developing a headache, Mrs Blake, it’s because of your constant complaining. I’m perfectly fine; I just have a lot to think about. I believe I shall take a trip to Douglas tomorrow. Will you ask Billy to take a message to Mr Qualtrough at the Crown to ask if I may hire the gig for the day?”
“Certainly, ma’am. What time should I say? Will we be remaining there for an early dinner? I could ask Mr Qualtrough to send one of the grooms with a note to the landlord of the Queen’s Head to bespeak a table…”
“I don’t need you to come with me, Mrs Blake. I have some business at the office of the Manx Advertiser which may take a little time. I’ll take Ellen with me.”
Mrs Blake stared at her in horror for a long moment then abruptly her lip quivered.
“I see. Is this a prelude to my dismissal, ma’am?”
Katherine felt a rush of sympathy. “No of course it is not. But just at the moment I’m engaged on something that is important to me and it is very obvious how much you disapprove. Don’t look so distressed, ma’am. After this week everything will go back to normal again.”
“I apologise if I have offended you, Mrs Gisbourne,” Mrs Blake said stiffly. “I thought…I believed it was my duty to take care of you and to offer advice if I thought you were…if it seemed likely that any innocent action of yours might lead people to draw conclusions which…”
Katherine realised that this sentence was going to go on for longer than she could bear. She folded her napkin and put it down.
“Please, ma’am, that is enough,” she said, trying to speak gently. “I collect that you are speaking of my acquaintance with Mr Winterton. I know perfectly well the likelihood is that ill-disposed persons will turn an innocent friendship into something it is not, but I refuse to live my life in fear of stupid gossip. Very soon Mr Winterton will return to his ship and I will go home to my family and it is very probable that we will never see each other again, but I will always think of him with liking and respect. I don’t know if it is his social standing or the colour of his skin that you struggle with so badly and I don’t care. Please don’t speak of it again.”
Katherine’s visit to the newspaper office was not wasted, although she found the report of the sinking of the Kittiwake frustratingly brief. Mr Jefferson was attentive, bringing the pile of papers she requested and leaving her alone to peruse them. The wreck was mentioned in two editions: the first reporting on the sinking itself and the second giving details of the burials in Malew Churchyard. Nothing was said about the cargo or the lack of a rescue attempt. It was difficult to read anything into this however as most news reports in this publication were equally brief. The main purpose of the newspaper was advertising and it took up almost every page. What it did give her was the exact date and approximate time.
Winterton called when his working day was over and she described the result of her search. He sat quietly after she had finished, sipping his sherry and thinking it over. Finally he said:
“Shimmin was right about the time of year. The last day of October.”
“All Hallows Eve,” Katherine said. “A perfect night for a ghost story.”
“I was just thinking that. They call it Hop tu Naa over here. My landlady tells me that it’s the time when the veil between worlds is very thin, and spirits can cross over.”
“I’m very tempted to remain in my room with the curtains closed all evening until it is past,” Katherine said. He looked up with a quick smile.
“Of course. I think you should, ma’am. You’ve no need to be involved any further. Thank you so much for all you’ve done.”
“Why do I suspect that you won’t be remaining at home with the curtains closed, sir?”
He flashed her one of his sudden grins. “Because you’ve spent too much time around me recently and are coming to know me. No. I’ve been varying my evening walks and I’ve found a spot on the rocks out towards Scarlett Point where I think I’ll be able to see.”
“Why do you want to?”
“Because they were sailors. Like me. Because there should be a witness. After that, it’s over and I’ll be able to leave it and go back to my ship.”
Katherine was silent for a moment. Then she said:
“Will you call for me on your way up?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Let’s see it through together. After that, like you, I think I’ll be ready to go home.”
***
The shore path was deserted as they walked out towards Scarlett Point. There was little out this way apart from one or two isolated farms, a few cottages built well back from the shore and the impressive lines of Scarlett House which was set within walled gardens. Beyond that there was nothing for several miles but the rocky coastline.
It was a clear, dry night with the usual strong breeze. The moon was in its final phase but the sky was so clear that it gave a good light. Elijah took his companion’s hand to steady her over the rougher ground and remembered how hesitant he had been to offer her his arm on that first meeting. They had moved quickly these past weeks from awkward strangers to comfortable friends.
He had noticed, as he passed the last row of cottages overlooking the sea on the edge of Castletown, that every window was dark with either drawn curtains or closed shutters. It made him wonder. Up in the town there had been small groups of young people wandering about, planning some mischief on the night of Hop tu Naa, but down here it felt as though the residents were hunkering down early for the night. Elijah wondered for the first time if he and Katherine were really the only people to have seen this. Rather savagely, he hoped those people who had failed to help for their own gain had to put up with this every year.
Darkness gathered around them as they stood shivering at the point. Both had brought a lantern and these provided a pool of yellow light, though it did nothing to illuminate the sea before them which was lit only faintly by the moonlight. He could hear the steady rush of waves on the shore.
They did not need to illuminate the ship when it appeared because it was well lit. They watched it approaching the Dragon’s Back, eerily silent as before. There was no sound of the crash as it struck the rocks, no shouted orders or cries of fear. On a night such as this, those would have been clearly audible on shore but Elijah wondered if anybody would have heard them through a raging storm.
The Kittiwake was firmly stuck, buffeted by huge waves, wind and rain. The contrast between that and the relative calm of the October night around Elijah and Katherine was very disturbing. They stood watching the tragedy unfolding in silence but he realised suddenly that she was crying very quietly. He put his arm about her shoulders and drew her closer, his own face wet with tears too.
It was impossible to see what was going on aboard the merchantman but Elijah could guess. They would be manning the pumps, desperately hoping to keep her afloat for long enough for help to arrive. Men would be deployed to fire signal guns and flares into the dark night. He could see the flares going up and the flashes from the guns, but the eerie silence remained.
Caught on rocks on the edge of an isolated stretch of coast, the Captain must have realised help might not come and the ship was breaking up fast. Two boats were launched. It must have been an appallingly hazardous operation in the churning sea with the ship coming apart, but both made it out into the water, laden with drenched men. The Captain would not be among them and nor would his officers. They would have sent the boys and the men with families. They would have prayed that they would make it to shore in time to get help.
Time ran out very quickly for the Kittiwake. The first of the boats, which looked like a small cutter, was almost immediately swamped by massive waves breaking over the side. The men managed to keep it upright for another fifteen minutes or so, then it was gone, the sail floating ghostly pale in the water. Elijah could not see the men who had been thrown into the churning waves, though he strained his eyes trying. Some of them would have been unable to swim. Others might have struck out for the coast but it was too far in those conditions and they would either have been pulled under or dashed to pieces on the rocks.
The second boat was a galley and even with every man aboard rowing for his life, it would have taken an hour or more to reach the shore. Elijah did not see it go down. One minute it was there, appearing at the crest of a huge wave, then suddenly it was gone and he could see nothing to tell him of its fate.
After that it was over very quickly. There were no more flares or flashes of light and the various lanterns aboard the Kittiwake were abruptly doused. With the disappearance of the ship, all vestiges of the storm vanished. The water was calm again, lapping against the shore in the light of a dying moon. The huge waves and swirling wind had gone. They had never really been there.
“Elijah, I want to go home.”
He turned to her and gathered her into his arms. She clung to him, her tear-streaked face buried in his shoulder. Her voice was choked with tears. He let her cry for a bit, looking over the top of her head out at the calm sea. Eventually she stirred and drew back, wiping her eyes with her gloved hand.
“Are you all right, ma’am? You shouldn’t have come.”
“Yes, I should. You were right. Those poor men deserved someone to witness this and someone to grieve for them.”
“I’m sure their friends and families mourned them.”
“And those carefully shuttered houses along the shore?”
He had not realised she had noticed. “I feel sorry for them,” he said, surprised to find that it was true. “They’re not bad people, but poverty breeds desperation. If they’d manned their fishing boats and gone out to try to help, they might well have gone down too. That happened very quickly and neither of the ship’s boats made it to shore. There would have been even more families who had lost their bread winner and been left to starve.”
“The trouble is, they didn’t try and they must always wonder,” Katherine said softly. “I think I feel sorry for them too. Let’s get back. I’m very cold.”
***
She appeared at the shipping office the day before her departure for England. Elijah, who was in the final weeks of this posting, collected his cape and hat with only the briefest apology to Faragher and walked with her down to the shore and out towards Scarlett Point. They had made it their regular evening walk these past few weeks. They spoke little of the events of that Hop tu Naa night. Instead she talked of her family home in Yorkshire and her imminent return. He spoke of his ship and his Captain and his longing to be back where he felt he belonged.
“All packed?” he asked as they drew level with the final house on the shore.
“Yes. Mrs Blake is beside herself with happiness. I’ve asked her to stay on, to come to Yorkshire with me. I honestly don’t need a companion or a chaperone there; my stepmother will be with me. But when it came to it I couldn’t bring myself to pay her off and send her out into the wilderness to look for another post. We’ll find her something useful to do. There is talk of a visit from Nan’s step-children which is probably going to require extra hands on deck.”
He laughed. “I’ve news of my own. The letter only came this morning. It seems the Wren is back in England. They took heavy damage in an encounter with a French frigate off Lissa and have sailed home for repairs.”
“So you’ll be back far sooner than you expected. That’s wonderful news.”
“It is. I’ve booked my passage for the week after next. I could have gone sooner but to my surprise Cannan asked me stay on to train my replacement.”
“Really? I’m surprised you were willing to do that man any favours.”
“I said no initially but he’s sweetened it with a surprisingly good bonus. I wonder if he actually knows how useless the other two are?”
“Perhaps he’s just realising.” She stopped and turned to him, smiling. “Elijah, I’m not going to drag this out. We need to catch the early tide so I won’t be out for a walk tonight. I wanted to say goodbye and thank you.”
He grinned. “For frightening the life out of you with ghost ships and causing half the island to think you’re a scandalous woman?”
“For being my friend. I don’t know if we’ll ever meet again. I’d like to think we might one day. But even if we don’t, I’ll never forget you. You’re a man who is accustomed to taking orders, so I’m giving you one. You are to take care of yourself and come through this war alive and well. I’m not going to extract a promise to write, since you’ll be far too busy and besides it would probably send polite society into some kind of fit. But I would like to hear when you get your master’s warrant.”
“I promise I’ll let you know, ma’am. Though I’ve been thinking about it recently and to be honest, I’ve wondered if I’m selling myself short. There’s been at least one mixed-race post-captain in his Majesty’s Royal Navy. I thought I might see if I can make that two.”
Her smile broadened. “If you decide to do it, Mr Winterton, I have no doubt you’ll succeed. Good luck.”
“Good luck to you as well, ma’am. I’ve something to give you.”
He held out a small package wrapped in brown paper. Her eyes widened.
“You shouldn’t have.”
“Oh it cost me nothing. There was an old man back on the Herne who was a wonderful wood carver. He taught me when I was a boy and left me his tools when he died. It’s a hobby of mine. I found a piece of timber caught between some rocks one morning down on the shore. It’s definitely from a ship and it’s been there a while. I’ve been drying it out.”
She caught his thought as he had known she would. “Do you think it might be possible?”
“Who knows? Too many ships have been wrecked along this shore. But it could be and that’s what matters. I made this for you. I made a matching one for myself as well. Something to remember the crew of the Kittiwake.”
She opened it and ran her fingers over the smooth, sanded wood. The little ship was perfect, with stylised wooden sails. The name on its side was so tiny that he had carved it with a pin. She looked up at him with shining eyes.
“Thank you. I’ll treasure it always. Goodbye, Elijah.”
He stood watching her as she walked back up towards her rented house for the last time. When she was no longer in sight, he turned and walked back to the customs’ office, the thought of their friendship making him smile.
Welcome to A Provincial Nobody, my Valentine’s Day story for 2024. As always, it’s freely available on my website and as a pdf so please share as much as you like.
I’m particularly pleased to have managed a Valentine’s story this year. As my regular readers will know, I’ve not been particularly well and work has been a struggle. Writing a light-hearted and thoroughly romantic tale has been the perfect way to ease myself back in to writing and I’m hoping that book nine of the Peninsular War Saga will move along at a good pace now.
My readers love my short stories to have links to the books and so far I’ve done very well with that. As we move into the final phase of the Peninsular War however, it’s becoming more complicated. There are a number of characters with interesting stories to tell, but I can’t tell them without giving away huge spoilers.
Instead, I’m trying to go back in time. My Christmas story, the Yule Log, told the story of Paul van Daan’s parents and proved very popular. In this one I’ve explored the back story of two recurring and well-liked characters from the Manxman series. The story takes place in 1808-09 between the events of An Unwilling Alliance and This Blighted Expedition.
Happy Valentine’s Day to all my readers. In difficult times, I’m especially grateful for your support and enthusiasm for my books and my characters.
Thank you also to my editor, Heather Paisley from Dieudonne Editorial Services who reminded me in her edits for this story that I’d forgotten to mention how fabulous she is. Readers, she’s fabulous.
On the evening after Mr Benjamin Thurlow’s maiden speech in Parliament, he was invited to a ball. The gentleman who had enabled him to become MP for the town of Allingford advised him to go along and enjoy himself.
“If it goes well, you’ll have something to celebrate,” Sir Anthony Edwards said in matter-of-fact tones. “If it’s a disaster, don’t worry about it; go out and enjoy yourself. Far better to get the thing over with early. Then it don’t matter if you sit like a mute for a couple of years. At least you know you can do it at need.”
Benjamin was trying not to resent his patron’s insistence that he speak on the subject of the trade blockades currently being imposed by Bonaparte. It was a matter on which he was well informed, having recently taken over as chairman of the Thurlow Trading Company on the death of his father. He had also inherited his father’s seat in Parliament, thanks to the support of Sir Anthony, who held the controlling interest in the little market town of Allingford. Benjamin had never really given much thought to a political career but when Edwards made the offer he did not hesitate. He knew his father would have wanted him to say yes, and his personal political views naturally leaned towards the Whig interests supported by Sir Anthony.
Sir Anthony had promised him considerable freedom in his opinions and voting behaviour but his one, rather eccentric, demand was that Benjamin make his maiden speech as early as possible. He had found a credible topic and coached the younger man well. Benjamin complied reluctantly. He had so much to be grateful for and he suspected his late and much missed father would have approved of the decision. He was also terrified that he would make a fool of himself.
It went better than he had expected and he was gratified when a number of fellow MPs paused to offer congratulations as he left the House. On his patron’s advice he had kept the speech simple and spoken only of what he knew. It was well received and as he settled to sleep in the early hours, Benjamin acknowledged that his wily old sponsor had been right. The next time he wanted to speak, possibly on a matter of more significance, it would not be as terrifying.
The ball was one of the earliest of the Season, hosted by the Earl of Rockcliffe, and the rooms were already crowded by the time Benjamin arrived. He greeted his host, an austere gentleman in his sixties and his hostess who was the Earl’s sister. His duty done, he went in search of his particular friends with a sense of relief. It had been a long week preparing for the speech and he was thankful to be free of it. Tonight he had nothing to do but enjoy himself and tomorrow he would go back to his desk and his business affairs.
His friends teased him a little about his successful debut and Benjamin smiled, drank champagne and let their raillery wash over him. At thirty-two he was very much at home in London society, though he was better known in Parliamentary and trade circles than in the privileged ranks of the aristocracy. All the same, his name appeared on the invitation list of every hostess during the London Season, not because of his pedigree but because he was a wealthy man and was neither married nor betrothed.
Benjamin knew that his unmarried status was the subject of much curiosity. It was generally accepted that a gentleman should not marry until his position in the world was financially secure, but Benjamin had inherited a prosperous merchant company, trading mainly in spices, silk and luxury goods and he could have married years ago if he chose. The loss of both parents within three years had provided a very good excuse but he was out of mourning now and he suspected that this Season he was likely find himself very popular.
His closest friends did not hesitate to inform him that the matchmaking ladies of the Ton had come up with a variety of imaginary reasons for his failure to take a wife. These ranged from a carefully hidden broken heart from a youthful love affair to the refusal of his stern father to allow him to set up his own household. Both of these reasons seemed utterly ridiculous to Benjamin. He had never come across a lady who had tempted him into a declaration and his father had been the most easy-going of parents and would have been delighted to welcome a daughter-in-law. It was one of Benjamin’s only regrets that he had delayed too long to present his parents with grandchildren, but William, his clergyman brother, had already obliged with two, so he did not feel as guilty as he might have.
William was not present tonight, but his youngest brother arrived after dining at his club. Benjamin watched his approach across the ballroom with a faint smile. As always, Edwin was at the centre of a noisy group of gentlemen in red coats. He was half a head taller than Benjamin and had inherited his mother’s gregarious nature along with her startling good looks. Female heads turned to follow Edwin’s progress across the room. Benjamin was used to it and had long stopped resenting it. He greeted his brother cheerfully and Edwin slapped him on the back enthusiastically.
“I’ve been hearing how splendidly you did yesterday, brother. Congratulations. The old man would have exploded with pride. Wish he could have seen it.”
“So do I,” Benjamin admitted. “Though of course if he’d been here I wouldn’t have been doing it in the first place. How are you, Ed? I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight. Didn’t you say you were on duty?”
“I was but I swapped with Spencer. He’s got some sort of dreary family dinner next week that he can’t get out of. We dined at the Shorncliffe before we came on here. It was Spence who told me how your speech went. His father was there of course.”
“Yes, he spoke to me afterwards. How is Spence doing these days?”
“Furious that he’s missed joining the show in Spain. He did his best to convince the surgeon that his arm was as good as new but you can’t bamboozle old Fletcher. He reckons another six weeks at least.”
Benjamin regarded his brother with a tolerant eye. “And what did old Fletcher say about you, little brother?”
Edwin attempted a glare and then laughed aloud. “You know me too well. He said the same. He tells me when I can dance all night without my ankle giving out, I’ll probably be fit to run across a battlefield again. I warn you I intend to do my best to prove him wrong tonight.”
“You’re an idiot, Ed. There’ll be plenty of opportunity for glory; this war isn’t going to end any time soon. Give yourself time.”
“I feel as though I have nothing but time,” Edwin said gloomily. “It seemed such an insignificant wound when it happened. I walked off the field for God’s sake.”
“According to Captain Mayhew you limped off the field and couldn’t mount your horse when it was brought up. You were lucky they didn’t have to amputate.”
“They probably would have if they hadn’t had so many worse injuries to deal with,” Edwin said. “Thank God for the eternal lack of surgeons on a battlefield. Anyway, it’s mended very well and I’m hoping I’ll be able to join Moore in the New Year. In the meantime, I intend to find myself a partner. Are you not dancing, Ben?”
“I will when I’m ready,” Benjamin said with a smile. His brother grinned broadly.
“Playing it close are you, brother? I don’t blame you at all. Nobody is going to expect a declaration from the feckless youngest son in a red coat. You, on the other hand are now the Chairman of the Board. I can see the matchmaking Mamas licking their lips. You take care.”
“If you don’t go away, you’ll get worse from me than the French gave you at Vimeiro. Who is your intended victim this evening? Don’t break her heart will you?”
“I am promised to Miss Middleton for the cotillion and one of the country dances. Have you met her? Seventeen and just out. She’s utterly charming and since we both know her father wouldn’t consider a younger son we can flirt as much as we like. I’m also very taken with Lady Clarissa Flood, though I suspect she’s a bit serious for my tastes. Still, the same applies. I’m perfectly safe, Ben. What about you?”
“I am also perfectly safe, Ed, providing I don’t absent-mindedly propose to somebody. Which I’m not likely to do, by the way.”
Edwin regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “Why don’t you, Ben? I mean I know why I don’t. But you? Father never really understood what was stopping you, you know.”
Benjamin felt a little pain around his heart. “I know. But Mother did. It’s not complicated, Ed. I just haven’t yet met a woman I want to marry and I’m very happy in my bachelor state. If it happens, all well and good. If not, I trust you and Will to provide me with plenty of heirs. Go on, get out of here and enjoy yourself.”
Edwin threw an impudent salute and retreated in search of his dance partner and Benjamin returned to his own party, smiling. The evening proceeded as he had expected. He danced with several of his friends’ wives then stood up with a selection of younger girls, mostly daughters of his father’s friends. He had known most of them for years and had no fear that an invitation to dance would be misinterpreted. He suspected that he was being closely observed by a number of interested parents but he had become an expert in light, social chit chat without the slightest hint of flirtation.
He did not speak to his brother again until just before the supper dance; although he saw him frequently, dancing with a series of pretty girls. Benjamin stopped to watch him affectionately. Edwin seemed to be moving very easily with no sign of the limp which had dogged him since an unlucky shot from a spent ball had sent him home from Portugal two months ago.
Benjamin was discussing the composition of his supper table with several of his friends when his brother made him jump with a friendly slap on the shoulder. Benjamin rubbed the afflicted spot and turned to give him a look.
“Try to remember I’m a civilian, Ed. That might be the usual greeting in army circles but you nearly broke my shoulder.”
“Rubbish; you’re not that delicate. Look Ben, I need a favour. It’s an emergency. Will you join my party for supper? We’ve grabbed a table.”
Benjamin raised his eyebrows. “What’s the emergency? Are you dodging an enraged parent or trying to seduce somebody’s daughter?”
“Neither, you blighted puritan. At least, not exactly. I have met a girl.”
“Just one?”
To his surprise, Edwin flushed a little. “There’s no need for that. Her name is Miss Harcourt. We were introduced by Sir Joseph Garrow earlier. Her mother has given me permission to take her in to supper providing her cousin can accompany her. The cousin is staying with them for the Season. Her second Season.”
“Do I know this cousin?”
“No, I’m about to introduce you. Perhaps you could invite her to stand up for the supper dance if you’re not already engaged.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Miss Quayle and she is an absolute provincial nobody from some outlandish island off Scotland or somewhere. I don’t know anything more about her apart from the fact that she’s a dashed nuisance right now. I was hoping Barney Caldicott would help me out but he turned me down flat. Apparently he remembers the Quayle girl from last year and he says she’s terrifying. Come on, Ben, please. This girl…Miss Harcourt…she’s very nice.”
Benjamin thought of a number of things he would have liked to say about his brother’s earlier assertion that he was in no danger of developing a serious interest in any girl but he stopped himself. This sudden enthusiasm was unusual for Edwin and he was curious to see the girl who had caught his eye. He sighed.
“Wait there. I’ll have to give my apologies to the Wainwrights and then you may introduce me to this Gorgon. If she turns me to stone, you’ll be entirely responsible and I’ll haunt you.”
“I don’t know if you can haunt people if you’re a piece of sculpture.”
“Trust me, I’ll manage it. You owe me for this, little brother.”
“I’ll find a way to pay you back, I promise you. You’re a thoroughly good sort, Ben. After this I will find you a very nice partner for the next two dances who will not turn you to stone at all. Get on with it before she thinks I’ve changed my mind.”
Miss Felicity Harcourt proved to be a dainty girl of eighteen with rich brown curls and a shy smile. Benjamin inspected her as they approached. She was certainly pretty enough in flowing white muslin trimmed with tiny pink rosebuds, but there was nothing in her appearance to explain why his brother had formed such a sudden liking for her. Still, he bowed politely at Edwin’s introduction and turned to the lady beside her.
“Mr Thurlow, this is my cousin Miss Quayle. She is spending the Season with us but her home is on the Isle of Mann.”
With an effort, Benjamin refrained from a scathing comment on his brother’s appalling ignorance of geography. He wondered if it was ever a problem on campaign but supposed that Lieutenant Thurlow only had to follow the march and probably did not care what the next town was called as long as it had a dry billet. He took the woman’s outstretched hand and bowed.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Quayle. You’ve travelled a long way. Have you been in London long?”
“For a few weeks. My aunt insisted that I arrive in plenty of time for dress fittings. She doesn’t trust any dressmaker north of Harrow. Every time I visit she seems surprised that I don’t appear in rags.”
Miss Harcourt blushed. “Maria,” she said, in gentle reproof. Her cousin shot her a look of amused exasperation.
“I’m sorry, Felicity. You should remember that it can take weeks before I manage to adjust my manners to London standards. I’ll try not to embarrass you.”
Benjamin was struggling not to laugh aloud. “Please don’t guard your tongue on my account, Miss Quayle. I come from a family of plain speakers. I was wondering if you were engaged for the supper dance?”
Intelligent blue eyes surveyed him, then the young woman smiled.
“That is kind of you, Mr Thurlow. I should be delighted. Though possibly not as delighted as my cousin and your brother.”
Benjamin took her hand firmly and led her into the set before she could make Miss Harcourt blush any further. When they were in position and waiting for the music to start, he risked another look. She was watching him with detached amusement as though waiting for him to reprimand her. Benjamin decided that he would not have dared to do so. There was something about this girl which suggested that she would be quite capable of telling him exactly what she thought of him.
Maria Quayle was not at all what he had been expecting from Edwin’s naïve description. She was probably not much above twenty but she had the poise of a girl accustomed to moving freely in society even if it was not in London society. She was very attractive with a good complexion and well-shaped blue eyes. Her hair was the colour of ripe gold wheat and she wore it in a smooth braided arrangement instead of the usual fashionable curls. Benjamin thought it was lovely and made the girl stand out. The blue gown was more suited to a young married woman rather than a girl in her first or second Season, but she looked beautiful in it. He wondered if it had been her aunt’s choice and thought probably not. Miss Quayle did not give the impression of being a girl who would allow her relative to dictate her choice of clothing.
The orchestra played the opening bars of an energetic country dance involving frequent changes of partner. It allowed brief snatches of conversation but no real chance to talk properly. Benjamin was pleased that Miss Quayle did not try, although she smiled pleasantly at him when the dance brought them together. He could see that Edwin and Miss Harcourt were far more enterprising in their attempts to converse, though from the girl’s frequent blushes, he suspected that most of their exchanges consisted of extravagant compliments. He wondered what Miss Harcourt’s situation was and whether her mother was watching with complaisant approval or making swift plans to separate the couple as soon as supper was over.
The dance ended and Benjamin smiled at his partner and offered his arm. “Thank you, Miss Quayle, I enjoyed that. You’re a very good dancer.”
“Thank you, sir. I own it is a lot easier when one doesn’t have to concentrate on talking, breathing and dancing the right steps all at once.”
He shot her a startled look, wondering if she was twitting him on his lack of conversation. She seemed to realise that she had blundered. The pale skin flushed a little.
“I’m sorry, that sounded rude. I didn’t mean it that way at all. It really is easier. I love to dance.”
Benjamin was unexpectedly charmed. He gave a broad smile. “It showed. I thought I was accustomed to plain speaking, ma’am, but I’m beginning to think I am a mere amateur. Do you always say just what you mean?”
She laughed. “Far more often than I should. I used to pride myself on my social graces but I realised when I came to London last year that I had a lot to learn. At home, I am constantly in company with people I’ve known since childhood. There isn’t the same need to guard my tongue. I forget sometimes.”
Benjamin ran his eyes around the room and spotted Edwin and Miss Harcourt at a small table near a long window. He guided his companion across the room, seated her on a blue velvet chair and joined his brother in search of food and champagne. As they surveyed the buffet table, Edwin said:
“What do you think of her?”
Benjamin selected cold chicken and some thinly sliced ham. “Which one?”
“Miss Harcourt of course.”
“She’s very pretty, Ed and she seems very sweet. A bit shy, but I’d expect that in a girl barely out of the schoolroom.” Benjamin looked around and located a waiter. He summoned him and requested champagne. After a moment’s thought he asked for lemonade as well. When he looked back, his brother was watching him, a full plate in each hand.
“Are you making a point about how young she is, Ben?”
“No, you ass. I’m giving you the opportunity to impress her mama with how well you’re taking care of her ewe lamb. Plying a girl with champagne in her first Season is a terrible idea.”
“I hadn’t thought of that. Well done, brother. Is the lemonade for Miss Quayle as well?”
“That will be entirely up to Miss Quayle. I shouldn’t have the nerve to tell her what to eat or drink. Come on or we’ll find our seats and our partners stolen by a couple of Hussars dripping gold braid. I shall take my life in my hands and converse with your Gorgon while you flirt with the pretty cousin.”
“She didn’t seem as much of a Gorgon when she was dancing with you,” Edwin said meditatively. “She actually looked as though she was enjoying herself.”
“I think she was,” Benjamin said. “Actually, so was I.”
Miss Quayle accepted champagne, with charming thanks. She ate a good selection of the delicacies on her plate, sipped the wine at a sensible pace and kept a discreet eye on her younger cousin with a tact that Benjamin thoroughly approved of. He decided that Miss Quayle had been much maligned. She was very direct but not rude and she appeared to have a ready sense of humour. Benjamin asked her about her home and she made him laugh with several stories about the parochial nature of island life.
In return, she asked him about his newly established Parliamentary career, which she had clearly heard about from Edwin. It led Benjamin to talk about his father’s death at the beginning of the year and his patron’s suggestion that he should step into the vacant seat. She listened and asked several intelligent questions. Benjamin realised he could not remember the exact political status of the distant Isle of Mann. Fortunately he was not obliged to expose his ignorance, but he made a mental note to inform himself before his next meeting with the likeable Miss Maria Quayle.
They danced together again after supper and she introduced Benjamin to her aunt. Mrs Harcourt was a stately widow in her fifties, dressed in half-mourning. She was gracious to both Benjamin and his brother, which suggested that his brother’s interest was cautiously welcomed. Benjamin wondered how serious Edwin was about the girl. It was impossible to be sure after a single meeting but he could not remember his light-hearted brother taking this much trouble over a girl before.
He made a point of finding Miss Quayle before taking his leave of his hostess. She was seated at the side of the room watching her cousin dance. Miss Harcourt had been engaged far more often than her cousin. Benjamin wondered about that but presumed it was simply that Miss Harcourt had more London acquaintances. He found himself regretting the rule which prohibited a debutante from standing up more than twice with the same gentleman.
“Are you leaving, Mr Thurlow? We are going ourselves presently, if we can ever get Felicity off the dance floor. This is only her second full ball and I think she has been a great success, don’t you?”
“Very much so. Yes, I’m making my departure. I have a full day of meetings tomorrow and a Parliamentary sitting tomorrow night. Good night, Miss Quayle. Thank you for two enjoyable dances and for sharing supper with me. Are you in Town for the whole Season?”
“Oh yes. I think my aunt is beginning to despair of me, but she acknowledges that I am a very useful companion for Felicity. This way she can safely disappear into the card room with her cronies and rely on me to scare off any suitors I don’t like the look of.”
Benjamin smiled. “If that’s your job, you were very kind to my brother, ma’am. Thank you for that. His courage in battle is undisputed but he is easily crushed by a harsh word.”
“It isn’t difficult to be kind to your brother, sir. Do not think I am unaware that I have developed something of a fierce reputation, but with Lieutenant Thurlow it would be like kicking a puppy.”
Benjamin gave a splutter of laughter. “How I wish I could tell him you said that. I can’t though; he’d be mortified.”
She was laughing with him. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think I could trust you. You’re a good brother, sir. Thank you for this evening. I enjoyed it very much.”
“What is your next engagement, do you know?”
“Oh heavens. We are invited to the theatre tomorrow evening and then we are going on to a reception at the Grenvilles’. The following day we make our first appearance at Almack’s. I did not receive vouchers last year because nobody had heard of me, but thanks to Felicity’s debut I have the honour this year.”
“You’re going to hate it.”
“I already hate it and I haven’t been yet but Felicity should be seen there. Then on the following day there is some kind of military review and we are invited to dinner afterwards. It is hosted by one of the gentleman’s clubs though of course it is not taking place on those hallowed premises.”
“Of course not. Ladies are not permitted across the threshold of the Shorncliffe Club. Colonel Sir George Cavendish and his lady are hosting it. I’m not sure about my plans for the next few days but I’m invited to that on account of Edwin. I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”
He was absurdly flattered when her face brightened. “Oh yes – I’ll look forward to it as well. Good night, Mr Thurlow.”
“Good night, Miss Quayle.”
***
Breakfast in Wimpole Street was eaten late and Mrs Harcourt seldom made it to the table, preferring to take her first meal in her room. It was an informal meal and the two young ladies served themselves from covered dishes on the sideboard while a parlour maid served a choice of tea or chocolate.
The first part of the meal was entirely taken up by Miss Harcourt rhapsodising over her new acquaintance. Maria listened abstractedly while filling her plate with ham and eggs. She cut bread for herself and her cousin, having seen Felicity’s attempts with a bread knife before.
“Do you think he likes me, Maria?”
“Who, darling?” Maria settled down opposite her cousin, saw her face and relented. “The handsome Lieutenant Thurlow? I am sure he does, Felicity. And I don’t need to ask if you liked him.”
“Mama thinks he is very charming. And from a very respectable family. Mr Benjamin Thurlow controls the company of course but both the younger brothers inherited a share, so he has independent means. Other than his army pay of course, which is next to nothing. Mama says she would not disapprove of the match at some point in the future but that she will not allow an engagement when I am so young. I have told her that it is not at all unusual for a lady to be betrothed at eighteen or even younger. I can think of at least half a dozen cases in the very best families. Perhaps she will change her mind if she realises how very suitable he is.”
Maria accepted tea and dismissed the goggling parlour maid firmly. “Has Lieutenant Thurlow proposed, Felicity?”
Her cousin gave her a look. After a moment, she giggled. “Of course he hasn’t. We’ve only just met. I collect you are trying to tell me that I am getting ahead of myself.”
“Just a little, my sweet. Don’t think I disapprove. He’s a very charming young man, he has excellent manners and he’s very handsome. But you can’t be sure of his intentions or your own feelings after one evening’s acquaintance. I hate to say it, but your Mama is right to advise caution. Just enjoy your debut and try not to wear your heart on your sleeve. I’ve seen that done before and it can lead to a lot of heartache. Lieutenant Thurlow is only twenty-two and cannot be hanging out for a wife. If he forms an attachment to you, it’s because of who you are, not because he’s been told to get on with it by an overbearing parent. And you’re lucky that my aunt feels the same way. She won’t allow you to rush into anything and she is right.”
Felicity pulled a face. “I cannot imagine how you became so stuffy, Maria. You were not used to be so.”
Maria tried not to show that her cousin’s remark had stung her. “Experience,” she said lightly. “Just be thankful that I’m here. I’m a far more lenient chaperone than my aunt.”
“You aren’t supposed to be chaperoning me at all. You’re supposed to be finding a husband. Do you think you will do so this Season?”
“Goodness, I have no idea.”
“Mama says you will have to live down what happened last Season first.”
Maria felt her face flush a little and she was furious that her feelings showed. “You should not repeat what your Mama says about me, Felicity.”
“Don’t tell me she hasn’t said the same to your face, Maria.”
Maria acknowledged the hit with a faint smile. “Of course she has. I have been a great disappointment to her. My own Mama was quite surprised that she agreed to have me back for a second Season but we both suspect it was because she wanted me here for your debut.”
“I’m sure that you are right. Though I still think she has hopes of a good marriage for you, cousin. If only you would apply yourself to the business.”
It was an excellent impersonation of her aunt and Maria laughed and put her hand on Felicity’s. “She will be far too busy ensuring that you make the right impression this year, Felicity, to be worried about me.”
They ate in silence for a while. Maria thought that her cousin had returned to her own dreams of romance but then Felicity said:
“Do you regret it?”
“Regret what?”
“Refusing Lord Calverton’s offer earlier this year?”
Maria sighed and put down her knife. “Felicity, I’m not sure that I should talk about this. I don’t know that my aunt would like me to.”
“Mama has talked about it freely enough,” Felicity said pointedly. “I don’t see that she can object to my asking for your perspective. She was so excited when he approached her asking for permission to pay his addresses. It didn’t occur to her that you would refuse.”
“It didn’t occur to him either,” Maria said. “Really, I think they had already discussed the date and location of the wedding without any reference to me.”
“Did you not like him?”
“I did not dislike him.”
“Did he…did he say or do something you did not like?”
“No of course not.”
“Was he not wealthy enough? You would have been Lady Calverton.”
“I didn’t want to be Lady Calverton.”
Felicity looked down at her empty plate. “My mother says that some people think that you had higher expectations. That you were aiming for a better title. That you were aiming too high.”
“A Royal Duke or an Earl perhaps?” Maria said dryly. Her cousin looked up guiltily.
“No, of course not. I do not think it myself…only I cannot help but hear the gossip sometimes.”
“It’s not your fault, Felicity.”
“It makes me angry that I am not allowed to tell them what I think of them. I heard Lady Fawcett telling Mama that she was surprised that you had come back this year.”
“I am sure that what she actually said was that she was surprised that I had the audacity to show my face here again this year.”
“Yes.” Felicity met her gaze. Her cousin had very pretty eyes, a warm clear hazel colour. Maria was not at all surprised at how much time Lieutenant Thurlow had spent gazing into them the previous evening. “I told Mama afterwards that I thought you were very brave. Another girl would have stayed at home. Why did you come back, Maria?”
Maria squeezed her hand. “Because I wanted to be here for your debut, love. I knew you were bound to be a success and I wanted to see it.”
“But there’s another reason.”
“Yes. I wanted to prove that I had not run away. I don’t really care that much about the London gossips, Felicity. To be honest, most of them don’t care about me either. I’m not important enough. A few ladies and one or two gentlemen – mostly friends of his Lordship – seem to have decided that I was an ungrateful wretch to have turned down the best offer of marriage that a provincial little Manx girl could possibly have hoped for. I needed to show them – no, to show myself – that I had done nothing wrong and that I had nothing to be ashamed of. Once I’ve done that I’ll go home with my head held high.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Felicity said in a small voice. “I wish you would stay. Mann is too far.”
Maria’s heart melted. “Felicity, don’t think about this again. I’m going nowhere until the end of this Season and if you want me back next year and my aunt allows it, I will come, I promise you. Perhaps you will marry your handsome Lieutenant and have very beautiful babies and I will be a doting aunt to them. Or rather cousin.”
“You still haven’t told me why you wouldn’t marry him,” Felicity pointed out.
Maria hesitated then decided that her cousin’s persistence deserved the truth.
“Because I didn’t love him,” she said. “And that is the only thing that matters to me. Please don’t tell your Mama I said that. She thinks I am being very foolish and will only scold me all over again. Have you finished your breakfast? Shall we walk in the park this morning? It’s such a fine day.”
***
It was a bright sunny day for the review. Maria knew nothing of military matters but she had attended a number of similar reviews during her previous Season in London. She had been astonished and vastly amused by the huge difference between the scarlet-coated troops parading outside Horse Guards or in Hyde Park and the rather lackadaisical manoeuvres of the Manx Regiment on the parade ground on the cliffs in the south of the island.
There was an added interest to this particular review because of the presence of Lieutenant Edwin Thurlow at the head of a scratch company of the 43rd. The rest of his battalion was in Spain with Sir John Moore but Thurlow had been given temporary command of eighty men. Some were new recruits and others were men ready to return from sick leave. Maria had heard Lieutenant Thurlow talking of being wounded at the Battle of Vimeiro. It was obvious that he was longing to re-join his regiment.
Maria wondered if her cousin had really considered what it might mean to be married to a soldier during wartime. One of her own friends had married a Royal Navy captain and had spent the early months of her marriage with him in Gibraltar. The birth of a son had obliged her to return home to Mann and Maria knew that she spent her time waiting for letters and praying for his safety. Maria could remember her own girlish yearnings after a red coat but she was not sure that she had the temperament to be an army wife.
Afterwards the carriages conveyed them to the elegant house in Harley Street which was the London residence of General Sir George and Lady Cavendish. The dinner guests gathered in the drawing room to drink sherry and madeira before the meal. It was a warm autumn afternoon and her Ladyship had opened the long windows onto the terrace, which overlooked a well-designed walled garden. Most of the guests were military men and their wives which made the sprinkling of gentlemen in civilian dress stand out. It was easy for Maria to spot Mr Benjamin Thurlow. He was talking to his brother and several other officers at the far end of the terrace as Lady Cavendish escorted Maria, her aunt and her cousin outside and summoned a servant with drinks. Mrs Harcourt took sherry but Maria was thirsty and chose the mild fruit punch that her cousin was drinking.
Lady Cavendish handed them over to General Thorne, who was an old friend of Mrs Harcourt and the reason they had been invited today. The General was an inveterate gossip but Maria did not know half of the people he was talking about and her attention quickly drifted. She was gazing out over the garden admiring the rich autumn colours when she became aware that a nearby group of young gentlemen were becoming very drunk on Lady Cavendish’s excellent madeira.
At their centre was a dark-haired, expensively-dressed young man of about Maria’s own age. His companions were all officers and Maria was becoming uncomfortably aware that she and her cousin were the subject of their conversation. There was a good deal of laughter and whispering and a lot of very open staring.
Maria glanced at her aunt. Mrs Harcourt seemed oblivious, but it was obvious that Felicity had noticed and was embarrassed. Her face was very flushed and she had turned her back on the group.
“Maria, may we not go back inside? I do not like…I am not enjoying it here.”
“Neither am I. Drunken idiots. Wait a moment, Felicity, I’ll speak to your Mama and we’ll go in.”
“Please don’t make a fuss. I know I’m too easily embarrassed.”
“It’s not you. I’m not enjoying it either.”
Maria turned towards her aunt. If she had been at home, in an environment she had felt sure of, she would have dealt with the arrogant young officers herself but she could hardly create a scene in the middle of a London party. She positioned herself where she could catch her aunt’s eye and waited. Her aunt did not seem to notice her at all and Maria was about to interrupt more forcibly when she heard a pleasant voice behind her.
“Miss Quayle. When did you arrive? I only just noticed you. Will you and your cousin join us? There are one or two people I’d like you to meet. Miss Harcourt, your servant. My brother has sent me with very specific instructions to collect you.”
Maria felt a rush of gratitude. She wondered if Thurlow had noticed their discomfort or if his intervention was pure coincidence. As he escorted her past the noisy group, she saw him give a considering glance in their direction and decided he had definitely noticed. She allowed herself to be introduced around his group of friends, watched Felicity shyly talking to Lieutenant Thurlow and two other young officers and turned to Thurlow with a warm smile.
“Thank you so much. We were feeling a little awkward. Who is…do you happen to know the name of the gentleman in the dark suit?”
“Indeed I do, ma’am. It’s the young Lord Lowther, Lord Lonsdale’s heir. He has a penchant for military society. His younger brother is with the 7th Hussars in Spain at present and appears to have inherited whatever charm and good manners are available in that family. We don’t want a scene at Lady Cavendish’s dinner party which is why I removed you both before my brother lost his temper. He’s such a polite soul in civilian life but if he gets angry I am suddenly reminded that his job is to kill the enemy. He was becoming rapidly enraged at how Lowther was looking at you and your cousin. I’m sorry; the man is a boor.”
Maria was conscious of a warm feeling. “Thank you both so much. I was just about to ask my aunt to take us inside.”
“You’ll forgive me for plain speaking, ma’am, since I know you favour it yourself. It’s a good thing your cousin has you with her this year because your aunt is a poor chaperone. Was she that casual with you last year?”
Maria froze, picking up on his tone rather than his words. “Heavens. Has somebody been gossiping, sir?”
“No. I’ve been asking.”
“About my cousin’s suitability as a friend for your brother?”
“No, that’s entirely his own affair. It’s very early days but it’s clear that she’s charming. And very nice. That’s a compliment by the way. No, I was making enquiries about you.”
Maria was so shocked she could hardly speak. When she recovered her voice, she said in low tones:
“You are impertinent, sir.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t intending to be. I really enjoyed meeting you and at first I couldn’t understand how I’d missed you so entirely last Season but I realised it’s because I was in London very little due to my father’s last illness. Will you forgive my frankness, ma’am?”
“I can hardly stop you, Mr Thurlow, given how frank you have already been. I feel quite upstaged.”
He gave a choke of laughter. “That takes some doing, Miss Quayle. You’re awake on every point. You know there’s been gossip about you. When my brother first introduced you to me, he was under the impression that you were some kind of terrifying Amazon. Instead, we both very quickly realised that you were a very charming young woman. I was curious where that story came from.”
Maria could not help smiling. His forthright admission was utterly irresistible.
“I know where it came from.”
“Lord Calverton.”
“Or at least his friends.”
“Did you know he has recently married? A young widow I believe. It was all very fast. The gossips say that you broke his heart.”
“I wounded his pride. I wish he’d asked me first, before he told half of London he’d decided to honour me with his hand. I was sorry that he was so offended but if he had managed the matter more discreetly, nobody else need ever have known.”
Thurlow smiled. “I think you’re absolutely right, ma’am. A man should always be sure of a lady before involving anybody else.”
“Are you speaking from painful experience?”
“I’ve no experience at all. I’ve never been married or even betrothed.”
“Why not?”
He hesitated. Eventually he said:
“Natural caution. And…my parents had an unusually happy marriage, I’ve always thought. It was arranged in the usual manner but somehow they came together very well. I think it has given all three of us a reluctance to settle for anything less. My middle brother found it very easy. He married his childhood sweetheart. It has taken me rather longer, but I’m hopeful. And if I don’t find what I’m looking for, I’m perfectly happy on my own.”
Maria felt as though her heart had stopped in her breast. She looked up at him. He was possibly one of the least romantic figures she had ever met: squarely built in a well-cut but plain suit. His dark hair was tied back with a simple velvet ribbon and his only exceptional feature was a pair of warm brown eyes. She had never before met a man who had so openly declared his requirement for personal happiness in marriage without excuse or apology. It was a revelation.
“I feel the same way,” she said abruptly.
Thurlow said nothing for a moment. Then he said:
“Do you like to ride?”
“Very much. I’m Manx; it’s often the only way of getting around, given the state of our roads. But my aunt has no stabling in London.”
“That’s all right. My father always kept a good stable. I’ll call on your aunt later in the week if I may and we’ll see if we can find something suitable for you and your cousin. I’d like to take you riding in the Row.”
Maria could not help laughing. “That sounds extremely daunting for a provincial nobody from a distant island,” she said.
“I have a notion you will take to it very well,” Thurlow responded with one of his sudden smiles. “I had better take you back to your aunt. They are calling us in to dinner.”
***
It was likely that at any military dinner there would be more gentlemen than ladies, making the table arrangements uneven. Lady Cavendish had done her best and Benjamin suspected that the inclusion of Mrs Harcourt’s two young charges had been intended to even up the numbers a little. General Thorne was charged with escorting Mrs Harcourt into dinner and the rest of the company paired up under the gentle orders of Sir George and Lady Cavendish who circled the room ahead of the dinner gong.
Thurlow was partnered with the wife of Captain Jackson. They were still talking to their hostess when Lady Cavendish unexpectedly froze, staring across the drawing room.
“Oh my goodness, whatever is the General thinking? He has made a mistake. Where is Draper? Draper, come over here. What has happened with Lord Lowther?”
The butler gave a deep bow, with the air of a man disclaiming all responsibility.
“My apologies, my Lady. I apprised Sir George of the change in the table plan when I noticed it earlier. I hope that was correct?”
“What change in the table plan? I didn’t change anything.”
The butler frowned. “Well somebody did, ma’am. I noticed when I made a final check of the table earlier. Mrs Hetherington and Miss Quayle’s places have been swapped. Naturally I told Sir George and he asked Lord Lowther to take Miss Quayle into dinner.”
Benjamin felt his stomach lurch in discomfort. He looked over at Lord Lowther, whose rank placed him ahead of most of the other diners present. He was bowing over Maria Quayle’s hand with a decided smirk.
“Oh dear,” Lady Cavendish said. “There has been a mistake. I cannot think how it happened. Or what to do.”
“I do not see that you can do anything at present, my Lady.”
“I think somebody has played a practical joke, ma’am,” Benjamin said quietly. “Your man is right; there’s not much you can do now without causing embarrassment all round.”
Lady Cavendish lifted worried eyes to his face. “You are right of course. But I would not have chosen to seat his Lordship next to…well it is not…”
She broke off in some confusion. Benjamin decided to be frank.
“I would not have chosen to seat his Lordship beside any young unmarried female, ma’am, particularly when he has clearly been drinking. I’m sitting opposite. I’ll keep an eye on them and do my best to intervene if anything looks likely to become awkward.”
“Mr Thurlow you are such a comfort,” Lady Cavendish breathed. “You are right of course; it will be those young idiots. When my husband finds out who it is – and he will – I will have a good deal to say about it. Thank you, sir. By the way I should have asked you earlier…your brother made a very specific request to be seated next to Miss Harcourt and I could not see any harm. I hope you do not mind?”
“Not at all. I’m rather impressed. He’s a much better planner than I am. If I’d been as quick we wouldn’t be in this rather awkward situation right now.”
He saw by her startled expression that she had understood his meaning and felt a brief satisfaction as he led his dinner partner through into the long dining room in Lord Lowther’s wake. Benjamin was generally tolerant of his fellow man but he was feeling decidedly unsympathetic towards the gossipmongers of his native city this afternoon.
***
It was immediately obvious to Maria from the reactions of those around her that she had been the victim of a practical joke. She took her place beside Lord Lowther in silent protest, aware of a mixture of disapproval, apologetic embarrassment and subdued hilarity from around the table. Further along, beside General Thorne, her aunt looked as though she wanted to cry. Maria realised with miserable understanding, that Thurlow had been right. If Mrs Harcourt had been paying attention, she would have realised that something was wrong and drawn Lady Cavendish’s attention to it before Lord Lowther had time to claim his prize.
It was far too late to do anything about it. Maria decided to adopt an attitude of frozen politeness. His Lordship treated her with exaggerated courtesy under the delighted gaze of his acolytes. He placed her napkin upon her lap with far too much familiarity, directed the footman to pour wine when she asked for cordial and drew her attention to every proffered dish as though it was his personal provision.
“It’s dashed good to have a chance to get to know you better, Miss Quayle. I’ve admired you from a distance for a long time, don’t you know? Didn’t get near you last Season of course. Poor old Calverton and whatnot. But that’s all done and dusted now of course. The dear old fellow is leg shackled to a very pretty widow and we’ve not been able to get him up to Town at all this Season.” Lowther drained his wine glass and signalled for more. “Dash it, he’s probably hardly been out of bed. Got an heir to father after all, and she looks like an enthusiastic female.”
Maria felt herself colour to the roots of her hair and cursed her fair skin. She was not sure how much of Lowther’s appallingly inappropriate conversation could be heard around the table but she was sure that people were watching her reactions with interest. She did not trouble to reply but pretended to be enjoying her soup although she could taste nothing and she wondered if her churning stomach would betray her.
For a time, Lowther talked about hunting. It was boring but very straightforward. Maria spoke when she needed to but did not discourage the topic. If she could get through the various courses with tedious descriptions of every fox his Lordship had ever run to earth, she could escape with the ladies and tell her aunt that she felt unwell and needed to go home. Judging by the miserable expression on Mrs Harcourt’s face she would be only too glad to leave.
Maria shot a glance down the table at her cousin. Felicity was perfectly placed between Lieutenant Thurlow and one of his officer friends. Both were going out of their way to entertain her and Maria wished her cousin could relax and enjoy it but she was clearly concerned about Maria and could not prevent herself from looking along the table every few minutes.
Benjamin Thurlow was seated almost opposite her. Maria deliberately did not look at him. After the brief happiness of their conversation earlier she felt embarrassed and humiliated. She did not know if he realised how she had been manoeuvred into this position but she felt as though every person in the room was waiting for her to show herself up by making a deliberate attempt to attach Lord Lowther. Maria could think of nothing worse. He was an arrogant boy and the expression on his face as he leaned towards her in conversation made her feel rather sick.
The first course was removed and the presence of the servants obliged his Lordship to draw back a little. Maria risked raising her eyes and to her surprise she found Thurlow looking directly at her. She met his gaze defiantly. He did not look away. Instead he gave a little smile and silently mouthed the words:
“Are you all right?”
Maria felt herself flush a little. She managed an answering smile and he gave an approving nod.
“Good girl.”
Beside her, Lowther gave a snort of irritation and she realised he had observed the little byplay although she did not think he would have understood what Thurlow had said unless he was directly opposite as she was. She lowered her eyes to her plate, which Lowther was filling with food she did not want.
“You’re not drinking, Miss Quayle. Here, I insist.”
She took the wine glass because if she had not intercepted it she would have ended up wearing its contents. Lowther toasted her with mocking courtesy and she gave a brief polite nod and took a tiny sip, setting the glass down. There was roast duck on her plate and she managed to eat a small slice. Beside her, Lowther was eating greedily.
“You ain’t eating, Miss Quayle. You need to eat or you’ll get too thin. A man don’t want a skinny waif of a girl. We like something rounded to hang on to.”
Incredibly she felt his hand on her thigh under the table. She shot him a furious glance and he grinned back at her and squeezed, massaging her flesh through the fine silk of her gown. Maria looked around her in agonised embarrassment. As far as she could tell, nobody could see what he was doing but she could not find her voice or think of any way to tell him to stop.
“That’s very nice,” Lowther said in a husky undertone. “Shame there’s so many people about. Keep still, now. No reason to make a scene.”
Maria remained silent. Suddenly she realised that embarrassment had been replaced by sheer fury. It was not the first time she had been subjected to the lecherous behaviour of a drunken man but she had been at home on the previous occasion and known exactly how to deal with it. She realised that she had been drawn into a false sense of panic. She knew exactly how to deal with it here as well.
She speared another slice of duck with her fork, put it into her mouth and chewed, then casually dropped her fork. It fell to the floor in front of Lowther. Maria gave an exclamation of dismay, removed her napkin and pushed back her chair a little. Lowther hastily removed his hand.
“I’m so sorry, my Lord. How clumsy of me.”
She bent swiftly, deliberately giving him an excellent view down the front of her gown. She did not need to look at him to know that he was making the most of it. A man like Lowther would always make the most of it.
His gaze riveted on her breasts, he did not see her pick up the fork. The first he knew of it was when she drove it hard into his leg through his pantaloons and silk stocking. He gave an agonised squawk and jumped to his feet. Maria set the fork back upon the table and looked up at him in astonishment.
“Are you quite well, my Lord?”
“I…you…you…”
The entire table had fallen silent. Everybody was staring at Lowther. Maria did the same, assuming a puzzled expression. After a long silence, General Sir George Cavendish said politely:
“Are you feeling unwell, my Lord?”
“I…yes. Yes. Feeling a trifle unwell, as you say. Please excuse me, sir. Ladies.”
He left the room at speed. Maria drew in her chair properly and looked at her plate, deciding that she had eaten enough. She reached for her wine glass and took a fortifying drink, feeling that it was probably safe to do so now. Returning the glass to the table she took a surreptitious glance at the polished floor. Several spots of blood marked Lord Lowther’s path from the room. Maria suddenly felt much better.
Conversation had gradually resumed around the table, though it was far more subdued. Maria risked a look at Benjamin Thurlow. She found him looking directly back at her. His mouth was grave but his eyes were smiling at her in an expression of pure delight. After a moment, Maria allowed her lips to curve in a proper smile. He responded immediately. She sat in pleasant silence, with no obligation to speak to anybody at all, smiling back at the most interesting man she had ever met.
***
“You stabbed him in the leg?” Benjamin said in disbelief.
They were riding side by side in the row. Ahead of them, Felicity was mounted on a pretty bay mare. Maria’s own horse was a silvery grey gelding. He was a little large for her but very well-mannered and she felt relaxed and at home.
“I had to do something. He was being very objectionable.”
“I’d worked that out. I was trying to decide how to intervene without causing a scene. I was hoping you’d fake a swoon or some such thing.”
“I did consider it but then I realised that wouldn’t have caused him any pain at all. I wondered if I could manage to be sick on him, but that would have been horrible for everybody else and my reputation in Town would have been beyond repair. Really, this was much better. Have I shocked you?”
“You’ve rather impressed me to be honest. Are you in the habit of stabbing any gentleman who offends you? I’m wondering if it’s a Manx custom. I’d like to be on my guard.”
Maria gave a peal of laughter. She had been dreading a backlash after the dreadful dinner party in Harley Street but to her surprise nobody mentioned it at all. Mr Thurlow had called the following day to ask her aunt for permission to take the two young ladies riding and Maria had spent an afternoon getting her cousin’s second riding habit altered to fit her.
They had ridden out several times since then. They had also been to both the theatre and the opera as his guest and had joined a party at Vauxhall. She had danced with him, decorously, for the regulation two dances at more than a dozen balls. She had discovered that he liked music and reading and was utterly uninterested in art and interior decorating. Felicity and Lieutenant Thurlow spent every social occasion floating on a cloud of happiness. Maria felt that her own cloud was wholly invisible. She was not at all sure if it was even real, but she wanted it to be; so badly that it hurt.
Thurlow had not mentioned Lord Lowther at all until today, for which Maria was deeply grateful. She was not sure why he had done so now. Either his curiosity had got the better of him or he felt that their friendship had become comfortable enough for him to raise an awkward subject. She was surprised to realise that he was right. She did not feel embarrassed at all.
“It isn’t generally done in polite society, even on our provincial little island. But I’ll admit it isn’t the first time I’ve had to deal with an over-familiar gentleman. I was once obliged to slap Mr Orry Gelling for trying to kiss me at a Christmas party and I once tipped lemonade over Robert Callister’s brand new yellow pantaloons because he made an offensive remark about the cut of my gown.”
“He insulted your fashion sense?”
“No, he expressed inappropriate enthusiasm for the height of my neckline. It was a valuable lesson for both of us. I realised that there was a reason my mother told me it was too low and he learned to drink less at St Catherine’s Fair. Rob was harmless enough. Just very young and stupid. Gelling was genuinely unpleasant but he never gave me much trouble.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all. I hope you won’t be offended, ma’am, but I’ve spoken to Lowther about his behaviour that day.”
Maria looked at him in astonishment. “What on earth did you say? Was that appropriate, sir? He’s a lord and…”
“He’s a drunken young idiot. I’m ten years his senior and in no way dependent on his patronage or his goodwill. I don’t give a d… a hoot about his rank. I’ve informed him that the next time I see him annoying a respectable girl I’m going to take the trouble to speak to his father very specifically about it. That’s if he’s lucky. If he’s unlucky my brother will get to him first.”
Maria laughed. She felt warm and secure and very happy. “Your brother has a very good reason for wanting to remain in my good books, sir.”
He grinned. “That’s very true. But he likes you for yourself, ma’am. Look, I’ve something to ask you. I should really speak to your aunt first but a very sensible woman I once knew assured me that a gentleman should never assume anything. Don’t panic, I’m not about to propose. But I wondered what your aunt has planned for Christmas? People are already beginning to leave Town and within a week or so it will be deserted until Parliament resumes in January. Do you have plans?”
Maria shook her head. “No, we’ll spend it quietly at home. My aunt has a small country estate in Wiltshire but she rents it out. She doesn’t usually entertain much. She’ll probably invite one or two old friends for dinner.”
“It sounds very dull.”
“It will be very peaceful. I’m not sure I’ll mind, after the past two months. What of you, sir?”
“That’s why I’m asking. We usually go home to Comerby. It’s our country home in Kent, just north of Dover. My brother Will holds the living at the Parish Church in the village. It’ll be the first Christmas without my father and the last we’ll see of Ed for a while. He’s been told that he’ll be recalled to duty early next year.”
“Surely not with Sir John Moore? I read that his army is in retreat.”
“We don’t really know what’s happening with Moore yet, though the rumour in the House is that it’s nothing good. In the meantime they’re wasting time and energy with this inquiry into the Cintra treaty when we should be…” Thurlow stopped and took a deep breath. “I’m becoming distracted.”
“I’m interested.”
“I know you are, ma’am and I’d love to talk further with you about it. And about so many other things. I was wondering…we’ll probably spend two or three weeks at Comerby. It won’t be a big party though I believe Ed has invited Lieutenant Spencer and the Jacksons will be joining us. My brother is very well aware that he’s running out of time and it would make so much difference if your aunt would consider joining us this Christmas.”
Maria’s heart was beating unevenly. She raised her eyes to meet his. They were smiling hopefully at her.
“You should ask my aunt, Mr Thurlow. It will be her decision.”
“I’m hoping you’ll support it.”
“Of course I will. I have no idea if my aunt will agree to a formal betrothal. Felicity is still very young. But I know how much she likes your brother.”
“I agree with Mrs Harcourt, ma’am and I’ve told Ed so. They’re both far too young for anything formal. I think they’re very well-suited both in position and temperament but he has a career to build and she’s only been out of the schoolroom for five minutes. If Christmas goes well and they’re both of the same mind by the time he’s called back to the front, I’m going to suggest an informal agreement between the two families. That way, they can write to each other and get to know each other better.”
“That’s a very good idea.”
“I thought so,” he said rather smugly. “It’ll give him the chance to decide if he’s really ready to settle down and it’ll give her the chance to understand what it means to marry an army officer without committing to anything publicly. Much easier and kinder this way, if one of them wants to withdraw.”
“If only Lord Calverton had thought of that,” Maria said wistfully and enjoyed the gleam of amusement in his eyes.
“He clearly needed good advice from his friends, ma’am.”
“Or an ounce of common sense,” Maria said scathingly. “I approve of your idea, sir and I think my aunt will agree. I own it will be much nicer to spend Christmas in the country with friends instead of in Town. All the same, the gossips are going to assume this means you approve of your brother paying his addresses to Felicity and that you’ve invited us for that reason.”
Mr Thurlow gave one of his pleasantly neutral smiles but his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Let them assume what they like, ma’am. My motives are none of their business. Unfortunately I think we’re going to have to turn back. The wind is picking up and I suspect it’s going to rain. Also I have a mountain of paperwork awaiting me on my desk. Shall I see you at Almack’s tomorrow?”
“Almack’s?” Maria stared at him in astonishment. “Are you quite well, Mr Thurlow? You never attend Almack’s. You once told me it was the most insipid entertainment you’ve ever experienced in your life.”
“I wasn’t wrong either, was I?”
She gave a gurgle of laughter and shook her head reprovingly. “No. It is dreadful. But so very good for Felicity to be seen there.”
“Which is why my brother insists on going. I’ve told him I disapprove and I intend to go tomorrow to check that he isn’t getting into bad company there.”
“Bad company at Almack’s? I only wish it were possible.”
“It’s definitely possible ma’am, since I believe they’ll even admit Lord Lowther providing he’s wearing the regulation knee breeches.”
“Do you even possess a pair of knee breeches?”
“Just one. I save them for special occasions. Do you think the gossips are going to question my motives for making an appearance at Almack’s as well, ma’am?”
“Dear sir, I think they’re going to assume you have gone mad.”
His smile made her heart lift with simple happiness. “Perhaps I have,” he said. “But I’ve never enjoyed myself this much in my life. Come on, we’ll need to canter if we’re to avoid a soaking. Let me call my idiot brother. Honestly, when he’s with your cousin he wouldn’t notice an earthquake.”
***
They spent Christmas very happily, their pleasure marred only by the dreadful news coming in from Portugal. Sir John Moore’s army had been forced into an ignominious and dangerous retreat to Corunna across the mountains in winter. Benjamin allowed his brother to read the news aloud, including the ladies in the party. Observing Felicity Harcourt’s white face as she watched Edwin’s set, grim expression, he thought that this was the first time she had seriously had to imagine what her future husband might face on campaign. It might also give her an insight into the agony of a woman waiting at home for news.
Benjamin liked Felicity Harcourt very much and loved his brother. He did not want either of them hurt by finding themselves trapped in an unhappy marriage. After considerable discussion over the Christmas season, it had been agreed that the young couple would be permitted to enter into an informal engagement but that no announcement would be made until Felicity was twenty. Both had railed against such a lengthy period of time but Benjamin had privately pointed out to his brother that long engagements could easily be shortened if both parties agreed and proved the constancy of their affection. He understood Mrs Harcourt’s reluctance to agree to anything more binding while her daughter was so young and while Edwin was overseas. He also thought Edwin was too young to be sure of his feelings but he had more tact than to say so.
The party broke up in January and Mrs Harcourt and her charges travelled back to London to sift their way through a pile of invitations for the remainder of the Season. Benjamin caught up with his correspondence and a collection of business matters, dined with several friends and took his place in the House of Commons. Mr Wainwright in particular, made several pointed remarks about how distracted he was. Benjamin knew perfectly well that his old friend was fishing for information. He declined to give any.
Lieutenant Thurlow was shocked into silence at the news of the battle which had taken place on the shores of Corunna, where Sir John Moore gave his life to keep the French at bay. The ragged remains of the British army embarked for home leaving their stores and equipment, their pride and too many of their dead comrades behind. London whispered that the war was lost and that Bonaparte would surely turn his attention to England again once he had time to build up his navy.
Benjamin discounted any such rumours but the mood in both the House and the City was gloomy and newspapers wrote of Corunna as a defeat. Journalists were equally scathing when the inquiry into the Cintra peace treaty returned a favourable verdict for all three generals involved. Edwin ranted over the breakfast table at the corruption of politicians and Benjamin poured more coffee and pushed it towards him.
“Try not to sound like an idiot, Ed, when I know you’re not one. They could never have censured men with the rank and experience of Burrard and Dalrymple. It would be bad for morale, especially at the moment. As for Sir Arthur Wellesley, there are rumours he’s to be given the command in Portugal.”
“I’d heard rumours they were thinking of calling up the Earl of Chatham,” Edwin said glumly.
“Don’t listen to gossip. Chatham wouldn’t want it anyway. Apart from anything else, his wife is still far from well and he doesn’t want to be that far away from her. They’ll give it to Wellesley because everybody knows he was responsible for the victories at Vimeiro and Rolica and the government will want to concentrate public opinion on those and away from the Corunna debacle. Wellesley is perfect for their needs. He’s an experienced general, he’s still fairly young and he has excellent family connections. On the other hand, he’s not so well-connected that they can’t ditch him if it goes wrong. I wonder if he knows that?”
Edwin drained his cup. He looked suddenly more cheerful. “Have you met him, Ben?”
“Not personally, though I’ve seen him around of course. I think I was once introduced to his brother.”
“Well if you had, you’d realise he’s not an idiot either. I hope he gets it. We might be able to do something under Wellesley. Look Ben, I haven’t mentioned it to Felicity yet, but I’ve received my orders. I need to get my kit and uniform organised and report to barracks in four weeks.”
Benjamin felt a hollow sense of sickness. “Do you know where?”
“Not yet. They’re placing bets at the Shorncliffe Club. Odds are favouring a return to Portugal, which fits in with what you’ve been told about Wellesley. There are outside odds on South America, India, Cape Town and some kind of expedition to the Scheldt.”
Benjamin’s attention sharpened. “The Scheldt? Where the hell did you hear that?”
Edwin looked surprised, then his eyes narrowed and he leaned back in his chair. “Not from you, brother. What do you know?”
“I don’t know anything; it’s just an idea that seems to pop up from time to time. According to Sir Anthony it goes back to Pitt’s day. I occasionally hear it rumbling around and I was just curious.”
“Sorry, I know nothing. Do you need me for anything today? I’d like to call on Felicity. I want to speak to her alone about this before she hears it from somebody else.”
“Your time is your own. If you want to catch her alone I’d go this afternoon. I happen to know that Miss Quayle won’t be at home and I’m sure Mrs Harcourt won’t mind giving you a bit of time with your girl.”
As he had expected, his brother eyed him with amused interest. “You’re very well informed about the movements of Miss Quayle, brother. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. At least, there is but it’s of no interest to you. Miss Quayle expressed an interest in seeing the House of Commons so I’ve arranged to take her on a private tour.”
“Private?”
“I’m sure she’ll bring her maid with her.”
“It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t, she’ll be perfectly safe with you, Ben. Depressingly so.”
“What do you mean?” Benjamin said indignantly.
“I was so bloody sure you’d ask her over Christmas. Felicity certainly was. When you didn’t, I thought you’d changed your mind and decided you wouldn’t suit after all. Which would be a pity because I think you would suit very well. But here you are inviting her on tedious tours. What’s going on, Ben?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Mind your own bloody business.”
Edwin raised his eyebrows. “Do you want to marry the girl or not?”
“Yes.” Benjamin said.
“Well why the hell didn’t you ask her? You had two weeks of perfect opportunities.”
“I couldn’t find the right moment.”
“What in God’s name do you mean, you couldn’t find the right moment? You had more than fourteen days. Twelve or more waking hours in each day. Sixty minutes in each of those hours. Sixty seconds in each of those minutes. How long do you need? Look, I’ll show you. I’ll time it.”
To Benjamin’s immense irritation he took out his pocket watch and laid it on the table then clasped his hand dramatically to his heart.
“Miss Quayle – dearest Maria. I love you. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?” Edwin picked up the watch and waved it at him. “Ten seconds. Without the pause for effect, you could do it in five. Do you love her?”
“Of course I bloody love her.”
“Well why didn’t you ask her then? I thought that was the point of the whole house party and that Felicity and I were just a smoke screen.”
“You were.”
“And?”
“I lost my nerve,” Ben ground out.
His younger brother sat staring at him in complete astonishment. “You lost your nerve? What, for two weeks? How many times during that period did you try to propose to her, Ben?”
“Seventeen.”
“Seventeen?” Edwin’s voice was hushed; almost awed. “You nearly proposed to her seventeen times in fourteen days?”
“Yes.”
“You counted?”
“Yes.”
“Christ, brother! Thank God you never joined the army. You’d have run like a rabbit at the first sight of a Frenchman.”
“I’m not normally this much of a coward. I’m worried that I’ve spoiled my chances, Ed. Since we got back I’ve not had a chance to speak to her alone. That’s why I thought this tour was a good idea. Do you think there’s any chance she realised that I was thinking of asking her over Christmas and then didn’t?”
Edwin looked like a man driven beyond reasonable endurance. “Seventeen times? Ben, I’m surprised she hasn’t hit you with a brick. The poor girl must have convinced herself that you’ve thought better of the whole thing. Either that or she’ll think you’ve got a nervous tic of some kind.”
“I thought if we do this tour first…”
“Stop right there. There will be no tour. She doesn’t want a bloody tour of the Houses of Parliament, Benjamin. Go and get changed. Wear something more interesting than those boring suits of yours. A decent cravat at the very least. Go over to Wimpole Street. Ask to speak to her alone and tell her you want to marry her.”
“What if she says no?”
“Then it will serve you bloody well right. She’s not going to say no, Ben. She watches you as if you’re a combination of Sir Lancelot and St George rolled into one, though God knows why. Ask the girl to marry you and put us all out of our misery.”
“What if I lose my nerve again?”
“You won’t. I know this because I’m coming with you and I’ll be waiting outside. If you walk out that door and you’re not betrothed to Miss Quayle I am going to throw you into the Serpentine.”
“That’s a bit of a walk.”
“I’ll make the bloody effort. Get moving.”
***
Maria was writing letters in the parlour when the housemaid announced Mr Thurlow. She rose and went forward to greet him, wondering if she had mistaken the time. He was two hours early.
“Mr Thurlow, how do you do? I was not expecting you so soon. Have I made a mistake, or are you about to tell me that we must postpone our visit?”
Thurlow looked back at her. He seemed temporarily bereft of speech. Maria waited for a moment and decided that he was trying to frame his excuses. She quashed her disappointment firmly and indicated a chair.
“Do sit down. My aunt is with my cousin at present; she has a dress fitting. I expect she will be down soon.”
Thurlow sat. Maria did the same. She was surprised when he immediately got to his feet again.
“Miss Quayle, do you remember when we first met? I had just given my maiden speech in the House.”
Maria smiled. “Of course I remember,” she said warmly. “I have been told many times how well you did.”
“It was extremely nerve-wracking but once it was done, I can remember telling myself that I would never again be that nervous about making a speech. It was a satisfying thought.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“It was also completely erroneous. I’m trying to make a speech now and I can’t get to the end of a simple sentence. I feel as though I’ve been trying to say this one sentence for weeks. Months. Forever.”
“Mr Thurlow, please sit down and don’t upset yourself. We’re friends. There’s nothing you can’t say to me.”
He paused, staring at her. Maria was becoming a little concerned about the slightly wild expression in the brown eyes. She wondered, not for the first time recently, if he was unwell.
“Yes,” he said finally, in heavy tones. “Yes there is. There is one thing that I absolutely can’t bring myself to say to you, ma’am.”
“Heavens, what on earth is it? Surely it cannot be that bad.”
“It is very bad. For me, at least. I cannot, no matter how hard I try, bring myself to the point of asking you to marry me. It’s been at least a month since my first attempt and I’m becoming exhausted.”
There was a long and painful silence in the room, broken only by the loud ticking of the carriage clock. Maria decided after a while that he was not going to speak again. She did not think he was capable of speech. At this moment neither was she. Her entire world was suddenly flooded with happiness. She looked at her love and understood that he did not yet realise that he had finally managed to say the words.
Maria decided that she was going to have to intervene. She got up, walked over, took his hand and led him to the padded window seat then pushed him down and sat beside him, not letting go of his hand.
“Mr Thurlow – did you really mean to say that?”
“Yes,” he said fervently. “Oh God yes. I really said it, didn’t I?”
Maria thought about it. “Actually, I think you told me that you could not say it.”
“But I did tell you what I’ve been unable to say?”
She was beginning to feel laughter bubbling up. He was studying her hopefully and he reminded her unaccountably of one of her father’s favourite spaniels.
“You did.”
“Now that I’ve said it…Maria, do you think you could?”
Happiness spilled over into laughter. She reached out and cupped his beloved face in one hand.
“Benjamin, let me reassure you that if you ever manage to get up the nerve to ask me to marry you, I am going to say yes. But you were so right to check with me first.”
He was beginning to laugh as well, the tension draining out of him. He covered her hand with his big square one and leaned forward to kiss her. Maria closed her eyes. For all the uncertainty of his words, there was nothing at all uncertain about his kiss. They remained locked together for a long time. When he finally drew back, he was smiling at her.
“Marry me, Maria Quayle. I need you to manage me; I’m utterly hopeless.”
“No you’re not. And I would love to marry you, Benjamin Thurlow. Did I ever tell you that I came to London specifically to fall in love?”
“You didn’t. I wish you’d mentioned it sooner, sweetheart. It would have made this so much easier. We should tell your aunt and your cousin. And I must write to your father for permission. First though, do you mind if I let Edwin in? He’s on the doorstep.”
Maria was bewildered. “Of course. But whatever is he doing out there?”
Benjamin kissed her again and got up. “Guard duty,” he said, and went to admit his brother.
(Or how I can find a Napoleonic connection literally ANYWHERE)
I’ve mentioned before on this blog that I have something of a passion for old churches. One of my favourites is Kirk Braddan; not the newer Victorian building which houses the current congregation although that is very attractive. Inevitably though, I’m drawn to the older church next door. It’s no longer used regularly but services are still held there occasionally. For me, it has the atmosphere of the period I love most. It also has one or two interesting Napoleonic tombs.
I found myself at Old Kirk Braddan earlier this week when I had an hour to kill before meeting my editor and it wasn’t worth going home first. I went initially to explore the ancient churchyard, which I love, especially at this time of year when the snowdrops and crocuses are just coming into bloom. Once there, I couldn’t resist popping into the church. It’s quiet and very lovely, with the slightly musty smell that I associate with old buildings that are seldom used.
There has been some form of religious worship on this site for fourteen centuries and stones from the first Celtic Keeill (Chapel) can be dated back to around 400 AD. Old Kirk Braddan was rebuilt on the site of an older church in 1777 and is dedicated to Saint Brendan or Braddan. Unlike many other eighteenth century churches, it was never updated during the Victorian era and retains its original box pews, gallery and a three decker pulpit, with a lectern, minister’s pew and pulpit above. It remained the parish church until 1876 when it was replaced by the new church.
The church contains a number of Celtic and Norse crosses from the period 800-1265, which were found around the parish. Several of these bear a ring chain design which is associated with the sculptor, Gaut, son of Bjorn, who came from the island of Coll in the Hebrides and settled on the Isle of Man. Gaut is considered one of the best carvers of his time which was between 950 and 1040 AD. One of the crosses bearing his designs has been translated as “Gaut created this and all in Mann”. His carvings are of a style seen in many Celtic and later Scandinavian crosses.
Beyond the Manx crosses, towards the altar, there’s an impressive memorial up on the wall, looking surprisingly elaborate for such a simple church.
Sacred to the memory of the Honourable Richard Murray Son of the late Lord Henry Murray Nephew to the late John Duke of Atholl and formerly Lieut. Col. of Her Majesty’s Coldstream Guards. Having honourably served his country in India And subsequently on the continent of Europe under Field Marshal the Duke of Wellington. He retired to the Isle of Man where he was elected a Member of the House of Keys, and in that capacity long and zealously exerted himself to promote the welfare of the Island. He departed this life October 16th 1843, aged 55 years.
Also to the memory of his son Richard Green Murray Who died February 15th 1856 aged 15 years
This monument is erected by his Widow, as a small but sincere token of regard for the memory of a most considerate husband, and a most amiable child.
For I know that thou wilt bring me to death; and to the house appointed for all living. Job xxx.23
It appears that Richard Murray was first married to Catherine Bacon, the daughter of John Joseph Bacon, in 1811. After she died in 1817 he remarried in 1819 to Margaret Tenison, daughter of William Barton Tenison of Lough Bawn, Co. Monaghan. Margaret died in 1864 and her monument is on the opposite wall to that of her husband and son.
Naturally the sight of Wellington’s name in a local church was enough to get me excited. I’ve not been able to do much research yet about Richard Murray’s career in the army, but I will get back to you all once I’ve done so. It feels satisfyingly familiar though, to be reading the memorial to one of Wellington’s officers in my home town, where if there is a memorial at all, it tends to be for the navy rather than the army. Hugh Kelly would fit in here whereas Paul van Daan would be a bit of an anomaly.
I was aware of another memorial in the churchyard which is known locally as the Atholl monument. Since Murray was the name of the local Dukes of Atholl I went scrambling around among the overgrown graves. It took some time because the place is beautiful; a tangle of greenery dotted with moss covered stones. This is no modern, neatly laid out graveyard, but a piece of history. Many of the graves are sadly difficult to read but one or two are clear enough to give an indication of the long history of Kirk Braddan.
The Atholl monument turned out to be a large obelisk in the centre of the churchyard in honour of Lord Henry Murray, fourth son of John 3rd Duke of Atholl who was born in 1767 and died in the December of 1805. Lord Henry was the Lieutenant-Colone Commandant of His Majesty’s Regiment of Royal Manx Fencibles.
Henry Murray was appointed Colonel of the newly formed Royal Manx Fencibles in September 1795. In 1786 he married Eliza Kent and they had one son and five daughters. In 1796 the regiment was deployed to Derry because of unrest which led to the the Irish Rebellion of 1798 and in June of that year Murray ordered the burning of Ballymoney in reprisal for the rebellion. In February 1802 he went to Bath to recover from an attack of gout and later that year, following the Peace of Amiens, his regiment was disbanded. From 1804 Murray acted as Lieutenant-Governor and Deputy to his brother, John Murray, 4th Duke of Atholl, in his role as Governor of the Isle of Man.
Henry Murray died only a year later. His monument in Kirk Braddan Churchyard bears the inscription “This sincere testimonial of affection and deep regret for their commander and their friend is erected by the officers of the Regiment.” It was an age when tombs were expected to express sentimental feelings, but there is something rather touching about that very simple sentiment. Henry Murray was only thirty-eight when he died and may well have been a popular commander of the short-lived Fencibles, however unpopular he made himself in Ireland. Richard, his son, would have been seventeen when his father died and it is probable that an army career felt inevitable for him.
In researching this post I discovered that one of Henry Murray’s daughters made a marriage that really brought me close to my comfort zone in the Peninsular War of the early nineteenth century. In 1829 Amelia Jane Murray (usually known as Emily) married General Sir John Oswald. She was twenty-nine and he was a widower of fifty-eight who had previously been married to her cousin.
I’m very familiar with Oswald from the Peninsular War Saga. Oswald was born in Fife and educated in France, which meant he spoke good French and had close connections with the French aristocracy. Understandably he loathed the excesses of the French Revolution and wasn’t much keener on Bonaparte’s Empire. He served in the West Indies, the Netherlands, Malta, Italy, Egypt, the Adriatic and finally the Peninsular War under Wellington. He had a distinguished military career and his two marriages into the family of the Duke of Atholl clearly gave him a long connection to the Isle of Man.
In book eight of the Peninsular War Saga which I’m currently writing, Oswald is about to have a difficult time at the siege of San Sebastian. I’m delighted I’ve found out about this now as it will give me a different sense of connection to the man. Incidentally, his second wife had a distinguished career of her own as a Victorian artist who specialised in fairies – a terribly Manx thing to do. I’d heard of her many times and seen her work but I had no idea she was married to one of Wellington’s generals. It’s like discovering that two old friends know each other.
Back out in the churchyard, I wandered around admiring the snowdrops and making up stories in my head about some of the older graves. I wish more of them were legible. There are no neat paths laid out between the stones in this graveyard. It’s a little sad but also very beautiful compared to the neat rows of stones in a modern cemetery. As I was on a historic tour there was one more grave I wanted to see, also from my era but very different. Fortunately this one is well labelled now and the inscription very plainly copied.
“An African slave of St Helena died the 28th of May 1822 aged 18 years. Born a slave and exposed in early life to the corrupt influence of that unhappy state, he became a model of truth and probity for the more fortunate of any country or condition. This stone erected by a grateful Master to the memory of a faithful servant who repaid the boon of Liberty with unbounded attachment.”
I know no more than that about Samuel Ally and his master and thus far I’ve not made an attempt to dig any further. Perhaps there is nothing more to find. I like the fact that this grave is marked and easy to find in Kirk Braddan Churchyard though. One one level it’s a rather lovely tribute from a master to a young servant. On another, it’s an important reminder of the significant involvement of the Isle of Man in the slave trade. There are probably a lot more such reminders scattered around the island. I’m fascinated by the topic and if I ever managed to drag myself to the other side of my two Napoleonic war sagas I’d like to find out more about it. There’s one book that I’ve found so far, which is informative but a bit dry and I know the museum has produced some material but I have a feeling there’s a lot more to be discovered.
With time running out, I made my way back to the car, careful not to trip over a fallen gravestone in the tangle of grass and plants. I love ancient churches and graveyards and I’ve a feeling there are a few more I’ve not yet properly explored on the island so expect further posts. I especially love those which would have been here, an important part of island community life when my Manx sea captain and his wife first met in 1806 or returned to visit in 1811. Standing in these quiet places imagining those people gives me a very real sense of history.
NaNoWriMo with Labradors – the first week has gone better than I ever expected. There’s something very motivating about sitting down each day knowing that you’re not going to give up until you’ve at least come close to your word count.
As I’ve said before, I discovered when I came back to this book that I’d written more than I realised, although it was a bit all over the place, with a series of unconnected scenes. They weren’t all bad though. In fact I was really happy with some of them. Others were interesting but just not right for this book. I quickly realised that the first two chapters were probably the reason I found it so difficult to progress when I first started to work on this book last year. They slowed the book down unbearably from the beginning and kept impinging on the action later on as I had to justify their existence by keeping those narratives going. I’ve scrapped them completely and rewritten the following chapters to fit in and I’m now very happy with the start of this book.
Including the remaining excerpts which will either be scrapped or incorporated into the book when I get to them, I’ve now got seventy-nine thousand words, which is probably more than half the book. It’s going incredibly well. I’ve sent the first four chapters to my editor, just to read through, and she loves it, so I think I’m on the right track. To complete a first draft before the end of May I need to write an average of three to four thousand words a day, and I think I can probably manage that. After that will be a major edit, but I’m hopeful this book will be out before the end of the year, which makes me very happy after the disasters of the previous two years.
I love writing about Hugh Kelly and Alfred Durrell but in order to be able to tell the full story of the siege of Tarragona I needed men on the ground. As with the storming of Castro Urdiales in An Unmerciful Incursion, the British army wasn’t involved in this campaign. In that book, I solved the problem by giving some of my regular characters a reason to be in the town at the time of the siege. At Tarragona, I found that there were several published narratives written by men on the ground. Both General Suchet and General Contreras wrote their own accounts of what happened at Tarragona giving me some excellent source material to put alongside the account of Captain Codrington of the Royal Navy.
Accordingly, this will be the first outing for the French Captain Gabriel Bonnet of the 30th légère who later makes an appearance in An Indomitable Brigade. From the Spanish side, I’ve introduced a brand new character who is presenting me with an interesting challenge. Captain Bruno Ángel Cortez, ADC to General Contreras who commanded the Spanish garrison in Tarragona is a complex individual who is not always likeable and not easy to write. I’ll be interested to see how this one goes.
It’s the start of a new week. I’ll keep you updated on progress on my Facebook page, so keep an eye out for posts there. I’m very excited to see where this book takes me next.
Oscar and Alfie are excited as well, as you can see…
In the meantime, I’ll leave you with an excerpt from the early part of the voyage to Tarragona. Enjoy.
Hugh turned his attention to his sextant. It was a bright clear day, making the readings easy. Beside him Manby worked out his latitude in a small notebook and there was silence over the group of observers who were suddenly intent on their work. When the master had finished, he walked aft to where Lieutenant Pryce, the officer of the watch waited. Pryce accepted his report of noon along with the degrees and minutes of the latitude observed.
Hugh watched, hiding his smile, as Pryce approached him to make the same report. Manby had needed to walk past him to reach Pryce, but it would not have occurred to the master to report directly to Hugh and Hugh would not have asked him to do so. The daily rituals of shipboard life were important, not because of routine days such as this when Hugh was present and available, but for the one day when he would not be, and a crisis might occur.
Pryce saluted, announced that it was twelve o’clock and gave the latitude which Hugh already knew. Hugh nodded.
“Make it twelve, Mr Pryce.”
“Aye, sir.” Pryce raised his voice to the mate of the watch. “Make it twelve, Sanders.”
“Aye, sir.” Petty Officer Sanders turned to the waiting quarter-master. “Sound eight bells.”
The quarter-master stepped onto the ladder and called below. “Turn the glass and strike the bell.”
As the first stroke of the bell rang out, Pryce turned to where Geordie Armstrong waited, his whistle ready. “Pipe to dinner, Bosun.”
Hugh stood watching as officers and men dispersed. The officers dined in the wardroom at one o’clock and then Hugh dined an hour later, theoretically in solitary splendour. In practice, if he had no other guests, Hugh dined with his first lieutenant. He knew that one or two of his other officers during the past few years had looked askance at his close friendship with Durrell. There had been mutterings of favouritism, particularly after Walcheren when Hugh had stood by Durrell against all attempts to put him on half-pay.
Hugh could see Durrell now, his long form leaning against a grating. He was demonstrating something in a notebook to two of the midshipmen, waving his pencil in the air as he explained. Hugh had no idea what he was teaching them, but he knew it would be accurate, very well-explained and incredibly detailed. Hugh had received many such lectures from his junior and at times they had driven him mad, but he had also learned a great deal. He stood waiting for Durrell to finish, watching the midshipmen. Mr Clarke was staring into space, looking as though he would rather be somewhere else. His companion, one of the new boys by the name of Holland, was scribbling frantically in his own notebook, looking up every now and again with something like hero-worship at Durrell’s oblivious form. Hugh made a mental note to spend some time with Mr Holland and came forward.
“Mr Durrell. As it’s our first day at sea, I’ve invited the other officers to join us for dinner.”
Durrell smiled. “We’re very grateful, sir.”
“I’m sure you’ll be willing to act as my second host. And I’d be grateful if you’d do the same tomorrow when I’m hosting the midshipmen. I may need help with that.”
Durrell laughed aloud. “I’d be delighted, sir. I’m sure the young gentlemen will be on their best behaviour.”
“They’d better be.” Hugh surveyed Durrell’s two pupils. “Mr Clarke, I hope you’re studying hard. Mr Holland, you’re new to us. How are you enjoying your lessons?”
“Very much, Captain.”
“Excellent. You were taking notes there.”
“Yes, sir. Mr Durrell was explaining the difference between various instruments when making calculations and how they…” Holland stopped suddenly and blushed scarlet. “It was very interesting,” he said lamely.
“It’s fascinating,” Hugh said, amused. “I applaud your ability to rein in your enthusiasm but don’t do it with me, you’re exactly the kind of young officer I’m looking for. I’d like to get to know you better, you’ll sit beside me tomorrow at dinner. Now go and get your own dinner before your messmates eat it all.”
He watched as the younger men raced away to their meal then turned to Durrell. “Are you sure you’re ready to help me at this dinner tomorrow?”
“Of course I am, sir. There are one or two very promising men among the new midshipmen, but Mr Holland is my favourite so far.”
“I can see why. If he’s as good as he seems, why don’t you find him some extra duties that will give you a chance to work with him?”
Hugh saw his first lieutenant’s eyes light up. “Thank you, sir. I’d like that.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you at dinner. As my clerk is struck down with sea-sickness, I intend to spend the next hour setting out my accounts book.”
Hugh heard the gloom in his own voice. Durrell laughed. “Would you like me to do it, sir?”
“Yes, but you’re not going to, you take on far too many duties that are not yours, including schooling the midshipmen. I…”
Hugh broke off at the sound of raised voices from the gangway. Before he could move, Durrell was ahead of him. Hugh watched as his first lieutenant crossed the deck and barked an order. Three boys scrambled up onto the deck and lined up before him and Durrell looked them over unsmiling.
“Mr Oakley, Mr Bristow. Can you explain to me why you’re brawling with Lewis when you should be on your way to dinner?”
“Not a brawl, sir. Just joking around.”
Durrell said nothing. He let the silence lengthen until the boys were shuffling their feet. Hugh could feel their discomfort and he did not blame them. Durrell’s withering expression was enough to discompose even the liveliest midshipman.
Eventually, Durrell moved his gaze to the third boy. Teddy Lewis was a wiry ex-pickpocket from Southwark who had been pressed as a landsman and had chosen to remain as a volunteer, acting as Durrell’s servant. He was sixteen and smaller than most of the boys but made up for it with a belligerent willingness to fight even the biggest of them. Durrell glared at Lewis for a full minute then looked back at the other two boys.
“Aboard a Royal Navy vessel, a midshipman is considered a young gentleman. I happen to know that you both qualify by birth if not behaviour. Repeatedly picking on one who is both smaller and below you in rank because you think he cannot fight back is not the act of a gentleman or a future officer, it is the act of a snivelling coward. Please do not be under the misapprehension that because you joined this ship as midshipman, you will necessarily remain so. If you persist in bullying the other boys I will have you broken to common seaman, and you’ll find that below decks the men will be unimpressed with your status. Now get to your dinner. I will see you at four o’clock after the watch is called and we will spend some time improving your mathematics.”
“But sir, study time is over then,” Bristow said in appalled tones.
“Not for you, Mr Bristow, since it appears that you struggle to find constructive ways to spend your leisure. Dismissed. Not you, Lewis.”
When the other boys had gone, Durrell regarded his servant thoughtfully. “Are you hurt?”
“No, sir.”
“Did they take anything?”
Lewis hesitated and Hugh could see him considering whether he could get away with a lie.
“I will find out, Lewis, and you will regret it.”
“My lesson book, sir.”
“Did you get it back?”
“It’s spoiled, sir. In the animal pen, it’s covered in shit…I mean dung, sir.”
Durrell did not speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was pleasant and even. Hugh could tell that he was furious.
“Go to the purser after dinner and get another one, with my authorisation. When you’re not using it, you have my permission to keep it in my cabin. The money will be deducted from their pay. In the meantime, Lewis, in addition to practicing your reading and penmanship, I would like you to practice walking away. If you spend your time defending every inch of your dignity you’ll never rise above able seaman and that would be a shame, because you are more intelligent than either of them. Now go and get your dinner.”
NaNoWriMo with Labradors appeared in my brain when I was trying to get back to sleep at 3.45am. I often struggle with sleep due to back problems, but I do try not to actually think when I’m awake. Thinking is fatal as I have the kind of brain which, once it’s fired up, sets off a series of ideas like a row of fireworks going off. This is really useful when creating fictional plots but a complete pain in the early hours of the morning. Let’s just say I’m going to be tired today.
Those of you who have grown old waiting for the release of An Indomitable Brigade will know that I’ve been struggling to be productive since the beginning of the pandemic. I was absolutely delighted to finally publish book seven of the Peninsular War Saga and even more pleased at how well it’s been received so far. This has given me a really good push to get on with the next book.
This Bloody Shore is book three in the Manxmanseries and is centred around the Siege of Tarragona in 1811. I started to write this book immediately after the publication of An Unmerciful Incursion in July 2020 and made a good start, but after a while I stalled and simply couldn’t get moving with it. Eventually I decided to set it aside and move back to the 110th in Spain. Hugh and Durrell have waited ever since, fairly patiently for them, until last week when I hauled them off half-pay and back aboard the Iris, setting sail for the Mediterranean.
I realised I’d written a lot more of this book than I thought, which was excellent news. Even better, most of it is very good with the exception of the first two chapters which were utterly superfluous to requirements and probably explain why I struggled with this book first time around. I’ve come up with some new ideas, done some more research, invented a useful new character (with major links to the other series, incidentally) and am ready to go.
That’s when I came up with this mad idea. I’ve never seriously done NaNoWriMo. Partly it’s because I write all the time anyway and have never felt the need to do a particular push like that. Partly it’s because the allocated month is November and that’s not generally the best time for me to be going all out on a novel. I’ve always quite liked the idea of a determined push like that, though, and as I’d really like to get another book out this year, it occurred to me that I could do my very own NaNoWriMo to try to get at least the first draft of this book finished.
For those of you who don’t know, NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month which usually takes place every November. Writers can register on the website and log their daily word count, as well as receiving encouragement and finding writing buddies. It’s a great resource and I suspect an amazing way to get people started. I’ve made a couple of half-hearted attempts at it, but the timing has just never been right for me.
So, my plan is, starting tomorrow, to write between four and five thousand words a day between now and the end of May. That’s probably going to be quite variable, because life will get in the way, but we’ll see how it goes. I’ll post regularly giving my word count and to let you all know how I’m getting on.
My notebook is ready, my laptop is fired up and the desk army and navy are ready to offer support. This book is happening people…
Oscar and Alfie are excited about this new initiative at Writing With Labradors, as long as it doesn’t interfere with walks, playtime and mealtimes.
This Bloody Shore: Book 3 of the Manxman series.
It is 1811.
A desperate struggle takes place on the Eastern coast of Spain. The French are threatening the coastal town of Tarragona and Bonaparte holds out the glittering prize of a Marshal’s baton if General Suchet can capture the town.
Far from Wellington’s theatre of war, the town is held by Spanish forces under the Marquis of Campoverde. Supporting them is a small Royal Navy squadron, including the 74-gun third rater, HMS Iris.
After the frustration and political wrangling of the Walcheren campaign, Captain Hugh Kelly is missing Roseen but is relieved to be back at sea under the command of a man he trusts even though the situation in Tarragona is more complicated than it appears. Lieutenant Alfred Durrell is keen to put his family troubles behind him, but an unexpected encounter in London has left him feeling unsettled.
On shore, two very different men face each other across the walls of Tarragona. Captain Gabriel Bonnet, a scarred cynical veteran discovers a surprising sympathy for one particular victim of war. Captain Bruno Ángel Cortez is a former Spanish Bonapartist but the atrocities he has seen have turned him into an implacable enemy of the French.
Meanwhile in England, Faith Collingwood’s long months of banishment are ended by an event which will change her life forever.
As Suchet’s troops creep ever closer to the walls, the armies, the navy and the townspeople are swept up in a brutal conflict which ends on the bloody shores of Tarragona.
Here comes 2022 at Writing with Labradors, though it’s arriving a little late. Many apologies, and Happy New Year to you all. In many ways, though, the fact that I’m late with my usual New Year’s greeting is in keeping with the whole of the past year. I had such big plans for 2021 and very few of them came to fruition. Mired down in the misery of restrictions, and beset by family difficulties, it’s been a slow year here at Writing with Labradors and at times, I’ve felt like a complete disaster. Still, things are steadily improving and it’s good to look back because it reminds me there have been some highs as well as lows during this year.
#Low. Restrictions didn’t go away. Instead, we had more lockdowns and vaccine passports
#High. Vaccines mostly work.
#Low. My sister became very ill after her vaccine, and I couldn’t go to see her.
#High. She’s slowly improving, and I’ve seen her now.
#Low. Three of the five members of my family had covid at different times despite being vaccinated.
#High. None of them were really ill.
#Low. All my planned research trips were cancelled due to restrictions.
#High. Once I could travel to the UK, I organised my very own writer’s retreat which was absolutely brilliant and improved everything.
#Low. I didn’t manage to publish a book last year, for the first time since I began publishing.
#High. I finished book 7 of the Peninsular War Saga and it’s currently with my editor, so will be out very soon.
#Low. Writing this year has been difficult.
#High. I published my usual three free short stories this year, plus a bonus one in the spring. For Valentine’s Day, we had A Winter in Cadiz, a romance set during Lord Wellington’s brief trip to Cadiz in the winter of 1812-13. My spring story was The Pressed Man, a story of the fourteen-year-old Paul van Daan’s impressment into the Royal Navy. For Halloween, there was an Inescapable Justice, a ghostly tale of bloody mutiny set aboard a Royal Navy frigate. And for Christmas, a favourite Peninsular War Saga character discovers a new responsibility and the merest hint of a future romance, in The Gift.
#Low. I’ve been struggling with chronic pain due to arthritis, and in the current situation, there isn’t a chance of any treatment.
#High. For the first time I have published a short story in an anthology. Hauntings is a collection of ghost stories by writers from the Historical Writers Forum and came out for Halloween last year. (Yes, I did have to come up with two ghost stories in one year. Don’t judge me.) My offering, An Unquiet Dream, is a spooky tale set in an army hospital in Elvas in 1812 and features a regular minor character from the Peninsular War Saga.
#High. I was also asked to be part of an anthology of short stories edited by Tom Williams (author of the Burke novels and the Williamson books) which will be published this year. The story is called The Recruit and is set in Ireland during the 1798 rebellion. (I see my regulars with their ears pricking up there. “Really? Who could that be about?”)
#High. My immediate family are great and doing very well. My son and his girlfriend are settled in their jobs and looking to move out soon. My daughter is in her final year studying history at the University of York and is getting firsts so far.
#High. Alfie. After a long period of Oscar holding the fort alone at Writing with Labradors and doing a splendid job, we welcomed our new baby into the family in May, and despite his well-deserved nickname of the Chaos Demon, he has proved to be a valued and much adored member of staff.
#High. I had a great time with the Historical Writers Forum last year, including taking part in a panel to talk about writing battles in historical fiction.
#High. Oscar. Still my baby, and possibly the most well-behaved Labrador in the country.
#High. You see, this is why it’s really good to actually write out a list of highs and lows of the past year. Because I ran out of lows, which pretty much proved that despite everything, my life is good.
There’s one very big low that I’ve not included as part of the list because it would be crass to do so. In August, after several years of watching them struggle and a year of frantic anxiety during Covid restrictions, we finally managed to persuade my in-laws to move to the Isle of Man on a trial basis.
Sadly, it didn’t go as we’d hoped. They’d left it too late, and it was very quickly clear that my mother-in-law’s dementia had got significantly worse, while my father-in-law was very unwell. Malcolm died suddenly on 30th October, of a massive heart attack, and after a difficult period, Irene returned to London to go into a care home near her daughter. The funeral was held just two weeks before Christmas.
I miss Malcolm. He was only here for a few months, but I got very used to him being around. From the earliest days of my relationship with Richard, almost thirty years ago now, Malcolm and I had a special bond. He shared my enthusiasm for history, and years ago, before I’d ever published, he bought me my first biography of Wellington, the Longford one, from a second-hand book shop. He got on well with my parents, although they didn’t meet that often, and he adored his grandchildren. He loved books and music and was interested in current affairs. He also loved technology, especially cars, and when he was younger, he could fix anything. Before I was even married, he took me for a day out to Silverstone, to watch a Formula One Grand Prix, and we had a fabulous time.
Malcolm was kind and funny and was unbelievably proud to have a daughter-in-law who was an author. One of his last acts was to blag a free copy of An Unconventional Officer for a doctor at Nobles Hospital who had been good to him during a recent stay. His favourite spot, when visiting, was my reading corner in my study. He loved the armchair and would sneak in when he got the chance and take an afternoon nap or browse through one of my books while I was working.
Richard and I went to London with a van to collect some of their possessions when we still thought they might make a go of living over here. I rather fell in love with a beautiful collection of wooden boats that Malcolm had in his study and mentioned how much I liked them as we were unpacking. To my surprise and delight, he insisted on giving them to me, to go with my wooden model of the Victory in my study. They look beautiful, and I feel as though there’s a little part of him sharing my workspace still. I’m working on a proper obituary for Malcolm. He had an interesting life, and I’d love to share it with people.
The end of the year was sad, and it wasn’t helped with two family members having covid over Christmas, though neither had anything more than cold symptoms. By New Year’s Eve, both were clear, which meant we could host what is rapidly becoming our traditional young people’s New Year Party. The kids all had a great time and we drank a toast to Malcolm at midnight.
And now it’s 2022 and we’re still struggling to sort out care homes and financial matters for Richard’s mum, which is even harder long distance. I’m trying to look ahead into 2022 and be hopeful, but I think I’m a lot more cautious than I was at the beginning of 2021. I think back then, with the vaccine in the offing, I was naively hopeful that the world would begin to calm down. This year, I’m less sanguine. The wounds left by the past few years are going to take a while to heal but heal they will. History suggests they always do eventually.
I’m hopeful for myself, though. I feel as though I’ve got my enthusiasm back for my writing, and my brain is teeming with ideas. I’m looking forward to Tom’s anthology coming out, and I’m excited for the publication of An Indomitable Brigade. Currently I’m finishing the edits for the rest of the paperbacks, and then I’m returning to This Bloody Shore, which is book three in the Manxmanseries.
At the beginning of last year, I had a long list of things I wanted to achieve during the year. This year, I’m reluctant to come up with a list, and yet looking at this blog post, although I didn’t manage to get the book out, I was very close, and I did manage quite a lot in very difficult circumstances.
So here goes. This year, I’d like to finish the paperback edits once and for all. I’ve got An Indomitable Brigade coming out very soon, and Tom’s anthology, and I’m determined to finish This Bloody Shore by the end of the year. I’ll be writing my usual three free short stories, and I’ve been asked to write another episode from Paul van Daan’s boyhood, which I’d love to do. I also have an invitation to write a story for another anthology which is completely out of my period and out of my comfort zone. It will be a challenge, but I’d quite like to give it a go, so we’ll see if it comes off.
I’d like to travel again. I dream of going to Castro Urdiales or Tarragona or Santander or Gibraltar, but I’m not prepared to book until I’m very confident I won’t be caught up in some last-minute lockdown. This year I suspect I’ll confine my travels to the UK, and possibly Ireland. After the restrictions of the last two years, even that will seem like a blessing.
In the meantime, Happy New Year from all of us at Writing with Labradors. I know all of you will have had your highs and lows this year, and many will be a lot worse than mine. Thank you all so much for your support and enthusiasm and your sheer love of the books, the characters and the history. Let’s hope things improve steadily through 2022.
It’s been very quiet here at Writing With Labradors, but I’m delighted to tell you that I’m kicking off a new season of blog posts with Angry White Popham Duck II.
I know that since I wrote the original post which conclusively identified Angry White Duck from our local duck pond as a quackers reincarnation of our hero Sir Home Riggs Popham, many of you will have wondered how Popham Duck has been getting on.
Popham Duck has been absent from time to time as we wandered through the winter months and into spring. For a while, he moved into the second pond, and seemed to have decided to live a quieter lifestyle with his new friends. Oscar and I quite enjoyed the break, without him yelling his litany of complaints as we passed.
Both lockdowns brought Popham back into the main pond, though. The kids were off school ( again) and that meant an endless supply of loot (bread) from bored children and desperate parents. Popham loved it, and was to be heard vocally demanding more than his fair share, protesting about the injustice of other ducks taking what was rightfully his and yelling in sheer rage any time a dog was seen in the vicinity. Even Oscar, who saved him from being eaten by a runaway dog called Nero, was not exempt from his relentless, aggressive quacking.
Since the arrival of Alfie, we’ve not spent much time up by the pond. Occasionally I’ll take Oscar up there for his solo walk, but as Alfie gets bigger we like to include him as much as possible, and I’ve been a bit wary of how he’ll be if a large white duck starts calling him rude names. Not all dogs are as placid as Oscar, and as Alfie is still very much a novice in terms of lead walking, I didn’t want to find myself jumping in the pond after him.
Today we set off for a short walk as it was a warm afternoon. I didn’t consciously think about heading for the ponds but Oscar paused by the path leading up that way, looking at me hopefully. Alfie was being particularly good on the lead today, so I decided to be brave and go for it.
The walk up to the ponds was fairly uneventful, apart from a delightful moment when three small children playing in a front garden managed to kick their football into the road. Mum must have been in the house and the kids were very well trained and knew they shouldn’t go after it. They stood staring at it, trying to work out what to do as we came past. There were no cars passing, so I crossed the road towards them, and allowed Oscar to push the ball back to them with his nose. I could hear one of them running shrieking with excitement into the house, shouting that a lovely dog had brought their ball back for them. Oscar strutted away, looking proud.
As we arrived at the pond, it was very quiet. There weren’t even any kids in the play park, I’ve no idea where everybody was this afternoon. I approached the edge of the main pond very carefully, and there he was. Initially, he was sitting on Duck Island dozing with his friends, but Popham Duck has a special dog warning sensor (probably invented by him, and better than all other dog warning sensors, because he’s a genius) and was very quickly in the water and swimming towards us to check us out.
Oscar stopped to watch the ducks. Alfie was initially fascinated by the smells on the grass beside the pond, probably because it smelt mostly of duck droppings. Eventually though, he realised that something interesting was afoot and went to join Oscar in observing the approach of Angry White Popham Duck. I took a very firm hold of both leads and waited.
Popham came on. It was very clear that he had seen the lurking dogs. Alfie’s tail was wagging furiously, but he said nothing. I was holding my breath. Most puppies will bark when they see a new creature, out of sheer excitement. Alfie couldn’t take his eyes from Popham but he still made no sound. He glanced sideways at Oscar a few times, maybe for reassurance. Oscar was his usual calm self and it worked. Alfie watched Popham for a bit longer then settled down for a rest.
Popham swam up and down for a bit, but strangely, he didn’t say a word. I was baffled. It’s so unlike our belligerent hero not to make his views known that I was beginning to wonder if one of the residents of the nearby houses had buckled under the strain and had his quack surgically removed.
It wasn’t until we walked further round the pond, that Popham gave a few quacks. They were nothing like his usual aggressive yelling. It was more like a friendly warning not to get too close. And I could suddenly see why. There were ducklings, swimming frantically around their mother.
We stood and watched them for a while, since I am a sucker for ducklings. Popham swam backwards and forwards, clearly on sentry patrol. After a bit, Alfie started to get restless so we set off on the last part of our walk. He didn’t bark once. I’m very proud of my little boy.
I’ve no idea why Angry White Popham Duck was so unusually mellow today. Maybe it’s the warm weather or perhaps he had an enormous shipment of bread today and is too stuffed to quack. Perhaps those ducklings are related to him, and he’s looking out for their welfare. I did wonder about that, as there were an awful lot of them and we know the Pophams ran to big families…
Alternatively of course, it might be that there is a worn out and angry mother duck on that pond, who has been up every night for two weeks, guarding her babies from passing seagulls and visiting Assassin Cats. Many of us would understand her feelings when her brood finally settles down for a nap and are immediately woken up by Angry White Popham Duck giving his all on the subject of a passing poodle.
“Popham, is it you making that racket?”
“It is indeed, Madam. I was made aware of an approaching threat in the form of two spaniels from the east and a white poodle from the south, and I felt it was my duty to warn you all, before seeing them off in fine style. No need to thank me…”
“Thank you? Listen to me you noisy, overbearing, meddlesome duck, if you do that once more when my ducklings are trying to sleep and I’m just catching a nap myself, you are going to find yourself locked inside the rusty shopping trolley in the second pond with half a ton of duckweed tied around your enormous webbed feet! Have I made myself clear?
“Admirably so, ma’am. Although I was only trying to help…”
“Don’t.”
“And I thought that if your ducklings were in danger…”
“They’re not. You will be, if you do that again.”
“Well. Very well. If that is your idea of gratitude, I shall keep perfectly silent from now on.”
Whatever the story, it was certainly a pleasant introduction to the duck pond for Alfie. It was quite a long walk for him at this stage, and on a warm afternoon as well.
“Did you enjoy meeting the ducks, Alfie?”
“I did, Mum. And seeing all those people, and the cars and the trees and the flowers…zzzzzzzzzz”
“Did you enjoy it, Oscar?”
“I loved it, Mum. Reminds me of when I used to go out with Joey. He’s pretty good on the lead now, isn’t he? Alfie, I mean.”
“He is. I’m looking forward to many more walks with you both, baby boy.”
“Looks as though Alfie is taking a nap before dinner. I might just join him…”
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading Angry White Popham Duck II. Check in again with Writing With Labradors for further adventures of Oscar and Alfie, history posts both silly and sensible, travel posts, free short stories and plenty of news about my books. You can follow me on social media for more updates.
The adventures of Angry White Duck have been a regular feature on my Twitter feed for quite some time. During the working week, I tend to take Oscar out on a local walk every day and we often walk past the local duck ponds. There is a collection of ducks who inhabit these two small areas of water, and most of them are peaceful creatures who spend their time swimming about, gobbling up bread from the local kids and cleaning their feathers.
Then there is Angry White Duck. A photograph of Angry White Duck doesn’t really do this chap justice and I’ve never managed a successful video of him in action. This is because it’s hard to take a video with a lively Labrador on a lead, and Angry White Duck only kicks off when he sees a dog. He hates dogs. This must be exhausting for him, because the pond is in the middle of a busy estate where dogs go past all the time.
I’m assuming that at some point in his life, Angry White Duck had a bad experience with a dog. That dog was not my dog. Oscar is angelic around ducks and I can walk him right past them on the lead and he doesn’t even bark. By now all the other ducks on the pond are used to him and don’t even bother to jump back in the water as we pass. This is Oscar, they seem to say, and Oscar is all right. Oscar likes to watch the ducks and if it’s not too cold we sit on our favourite bench for a bit to observe that all is well in duck world. But the moment Angry White Duck sees Oscar, all hell breaks loose. That duck has the loudest quack I have ever heard, and it’s incredibly aggressive. The minute he sees a dog he will swim backwards and forwards or sometimes perch on Duck Island, quacking furiously until somebody takes the four-legged fiend away. Often, we can still hear him yelling after us into the distance.
Can we see a resemblance?
During a recent discussion on Twitter, my friends came up with a number of theories about why Angry White Duck is so furious. Given that this is Napoleonic Twitter, where literally anything can happen, it quickly became established that Angry White Duck was probably a duck reincarnation of Sir Home Riggs Popham who wants to vent about the unfair treatment he gets from the other ducks and how they don’t appreciate his genius. Since then, Angry White Duck has been formally renamed Popham.
A few weeks ago, Oscar and I went out later than usual It was dusk when we reached the pond. Popham was sitting on one of the two little islands in the middle of the main pond, looking important. It was too cold to sit, so we made our way past, grateful that in the fading light, Popham did not seem to be able to see us. For once he was quiet, cleaning his feathers and preening himself. There was nobody about and it was a pretty evening.
Suddenly, without warning, there was an almighty noise of barking, followed by a great deal of ineffectual screeching. Something very fast went past us, and then there was an enormous splash. A woman ran past shrieking:
“Nero! Nero!”
Nero appeared to be a fairly young and very large dog who had pulled away from his owner and dived into the pond. Dogs aren’t allowed in the duck pond, but Nero didn’t care about that. Nero had seen the ducks and he had a plan. Clearly he was a naval chap, and he was swimming strongly towards the ducks. In the background, his owner screeched a lot and waved her arms in the air.
The ducks weren’t happy. They all kicked off. For once, it wasn’t just Popham expressing his views. There was a lot of quacking. Popham the Angry but Aggressively Handsome and Resourceful Duck stood atop Duck Island, louder than any of the other ducks in his squadron. But the other ducks quickly realised it was time to retreat. They left the islands and began to swim towards the opposite shore. Pretty damned fast.
Popham Duck was horrified. The cowards! It was just like the Red Sea all over again. Only, you know, different obviously. By now, it was clear that Nero the Dog was in the employ of Lord St Vincent, Popham’s arch enemy. Popham Duck stood his ground, quacking even louder. He was not going to retreat.
At this point, I was beginning to think that Popham Duck might be about to join his long-departed namesake in the history hall of fame. But there was a new hero.
Oscar had been staring at the chaos in stunned silence up to this point, but he suddenly discovered his inner policeman. Oscar knows that there are places you swim and there are places you don’t. And the duck pond is one of the latter. Oscar began to bark furiously, something he very seldom does, and it was clear that in dog language, he was yelling:
“Get out of that pond, you numpty.”
Nero took no notice at all. His eyes were on the prize and he was getting closer to Popham Duck. At this point, Oscar realised he needed to intervene personally. After all, Popham Duck might be annoying, but a trusty Labrador can’t stand by and see him murdered. He took off at speed. Oscar has never done this before, and it turns out he’s a lot stronger than I am. I let go. It was better than being dragged into the pond.
Oscar ran into the pond and then stopped and barked at Nero. Nero turned in some surprise. Oscar barked again. To my amazement, Nero abandoned his assault on Duck Island, changed direction and swam back to join Oscar. Both dogs trotted out onto the bank and had a good sniff at each other. I retrieved Oscar and Nero’s sobbing owner retrieved him with heaps of thanks. I don’t know why, I didn’t do a thing. I just smiled.
Popham Duck stood alone on his island glaring at the other ducks. You could see that he was thinking that they weren’t getting a share of the prize money (bread) as they’d done nothing to earn it. As Nero left, he quacked a few more times then settled down for a snooze. Oscar and I walked home, and I gave him a treat for saving Popham Duck even if he didn’t deserve it.
Continuing with the Popham theme, and in conversation with our Popham expert, Dr Jacqueline Reiter, we have come up with the theory that if Angry White Duck is Popham in this scenario, and Nero was clearly hired by Lord St Vincent to make this cowardly attack on our hero, then is it possible that Popham Duck sees Oscar as Lord Melville, his long-time patron. This would make perfect sense, if all that aggressive quacking were not Popham complaining about Oscar, but Popham complaining TO Oscar, giving him a long list of problems that need solving.
Presumably, after this traumatic event, Popham Duck went off to compose a lengthy explanatory memorandum about the incident which he recited to Oscar next time we’re passing. To me, this sounded like a highly aggressive version of:
But according to Dr Reiter, who knows about this stuff, it really means:
“When I was totally minding my own business doing something great and secret (see attached letter from Lord Grenville, which is totally unrelated but shows how much trusted I have been by high-ranking people who can crush my enemies like a gnat, especially savage dogs with no manners), an agent of Lord St Vincent came charging at me and it was only by the skin of my beak that I survived at all. Now, sirs, let me continue at great length about how persecuted I have been by…etc, etc, etc.”
We didn’t see Popham Duck for about a week after that and I was a bit worried, although reassured by the expert that he’d probably just popped off to mount an illegal invasion of South America and would be back on Thursday. This proved to be the case. Popham Duck shows no gratitude to his brave rescuer and still recites a long list of complaints every time we walk past.
I’m in two minds as to the motives behind Oscar’s rescue mission. It’s possible that he just snapped because Popham was getting on his nerves and he wanted him to shut up, or maybe he really did feel obliged to help. Myself, I think there was a policeman element to it.
“Now then, my lad, you can’t go around scaring the ducks in this pond, it’s just not on. I know that one’s irritating, but you just have to learn to ignore him.” Probably the real Lord Melville felt the same way about the real Popham.
With Popham Duck back in his rightful place, things have continued as usual on our walks and up on the duck pond until today. With this blog post in mind, I wanted to try to get a couple of photos of Popham Duck, so I stopped off on the way back from the post office and Oscar wasn’t with me. Just as well, as it turns out, because the policeman in him would certainly have objected to THIS.
Clearly, after the failure of Nero to deal with the most irritating duck in the world, Lord St Vincent found a new and far more subtle agent. Assassin Cat strolled out of the bushes just as I was snapping a few sneaky photos of Popham, gave me a swish of the tail, then sauntered down to the water’s edge.
Astonishingly, Assassin Cat seemed to have no fear of the water. He paddled daintily in the shallows and had a drink. I could tell that this was a ploy to throw our hero off his guard and I’m sorry to say that it worked a treat. Popham Duck clearly thought that compared to Nero, this was a negligible threat, and made straight for the intruder, quacking furiously. He wasn’t the only one. Once again, all the other ducks (the ones with brains) swam AWAY from Assassin Cat, quacking loudly. I don’t speak duck, but even I could translate this.
“What are you doing? Popham, you bleeding idiot, come away from there! He’s a cat, he’s not going to jump in and swim, but DON’T GET OUT OF THE WATER!!!”
Popham ignored them. He always does. He swam closer and closer, and Assassin Cat pretended not to look. I wasn’t fooled. That cat had his orders, and he was prepared to carry them out. I wasn’t sure who I was worried about. Popham is a good sized duck, and that cat wasn’t very big. One thing was certain though. Somebody was going to get hurt unless I intervened.
Before Popham got to the edge, I went to stroke Assassin Cat. Being a typical feline, it wasn’t hard to distract him. A few compliments and a tickle under the chin, and he was following me back up the bank. Behind me, I could hear Popham’s enraged quacking.
“Come back here, you furry coward! I’m not afraid of you. You’re looking at the duck who once guided the entire navy through treacherous waters into the safety of a place that they weren’t supposed to be. You don’t scare me.”
I am hoping that with Assassin Cat out of the way, the ducks of Popham’s squadron will manage to explain to him that when you’ve got an advantage, you don’t squander it by making an unnecessary attack. If they don’t, sooner or later, that duck is going to get himself into a situation he can’t get out of. Who knows what will happen then, possibly an unwelcome posting to India or the West Indies.
In the meantime, I think Oscar has become so used to Angry White Popham Duck, that he quite enjoys his regular rants. He looks over at the pond as we go past, knowing that at any moment, the litany of complaints are going to begin.
“Maybe we should bring him some bread tomorrow, see if it will cheer him up. And a treat for me, of course.”
“Why not. You’re a very good boy, Oscar.”
“Thanks, Mum. You’re a good girl, too.”
My thanks to John Haines who came up with the original identification of Angry White Duck as Popham and Jacqui Reiter who contributed to the rest of the story. Maybe we’ve all been in lockdown for too long…
When I began these posts I wasn’t sure if I was going to continue them all the way through lockdown. I didn’t really have a plan when I started, I was just trying to cheer myself – and any readers – up a bit. It did work to begin with, but after a few days I experienced a bit of a lockdown slump, and that is definitely not something I wanted to share with my poor readers.
I wanted to come back to this though, now that it’s over. We’re back to where we were before as from today, with life returning to normal in our lovely little bubble, apart from closed borders and even more stringent quarantine restrictions for anybody who leaves and wants to return. And the vaccine of course, which is being rolled out gradually, and which we hope one day will allow us to make choices about our own lives again.
At least daily walks with Oscar should get easier. After a few days of experimenting with the best way of walking Oscar in lockdown, I decided that driving to somewhere a bit less busy is a good idea. Usually in the week I just walk him from our front door, but the streets have been much more crowded through lockdown with people getting their daily exercise. Some of the pavements and footpaths are very narrow, and some people are more nervous than others. Add dogs into that mix and it’s just good to find some space. Accordingly my daughter and I have been taking him to the beach or down to St Michael’s Isle where it’s relatively empty and he can run around, swim and jump in puddles without upsetting anybody.
It’s been a joy to have my daughter on our daily walks and I’m going to miss her dreadfully when she goes back to University, which she’s decided to do this weekend. There will be on online teaching of course, and the library is still closed, but now that she can travel, she wants to be back in her student house with her friends, even if they can’t see anybody else. She’s already left home in her head and these weeks of uncertainty and not knowing when she can go back have been miserable. I’ll miss her, but I understand.
Covid rules do odd things to people. I heard a story from somebody I know about being yelled at for not wearing a mask in the street. From the other side of the road. Needless to say there were no rules about wearing masks out on a walk, and there is no way to know if somebody has a good reason for not doing so anyway. It’s extraordinary how this crisis brings out the best in so many people and the worst in others.
I’ve set myself some difficult writing goals for this year, but since I’m unlikely to be interrupted very much by inconvenient holidays or family visits, I’ve decided to go for it. I’m currently four chapters in to book three of the Manxman series, which is called This Bloody Shore and it’s going very well. I struggled this time to decide which book to write next. Technically, it should be the Manxman, as I tend to alternate the two series, but when I finished An Unmerciful Incursion I was so immersed in the world of the 110th that I began book seven straight away. For a few weeks I worked on both, then Hugh and Durrell began to demand my attention and point out that it was their turn.
For the first time in a few years, I’m aiming to get two books out this year. Both of these are already well planned out, and as the subject of book seven is relatively easy to research (although the plotline is difficult) I think I might well manage it. Certainly it will keep me very busy and that’s a good thing. I’m incredibly lucky to have a job that I love so much that I can completely immerse myself in it. I am not convinced that life in 1811 would have been much fun, but writing about it is a wonderful way of removing myself from the current situation.
It’s good to know that we have a measure of freedom again, although I think I’m very aware of how fragile that can be. I really hope that my friends elsewhere in the world can achieve the same thing soon. I miss you all very much.
I miss travel and libraries and seeing my sister. I miss planning research trips and going to conferences. I miss big things like my holidays and I miss silly things like watching football on the TV and seeing real fans at Old Trafford. I miss my daughter being able to come and go from Uni freely, without worrying. I miss new films at the cinema, and shows coming over from the UK at the theatre and being able to look ahead and plan. I think we all miss different things, and I don’t think we should feel guilty about it. Whatever the awfulness in the world, it’s natural and normal to miss things that have been taken away from us. The key is to try to find other things to make us happy.
In the meantime, some lessons from Lockdown with Oscar: the End.
I really hate lockdown
Oscar really loves lockdown. “All my people are here!!!”
Reading the news in lockdown is a form of self-harm
So is talking to people about lockdown, Covid or Brexit
Talking to people about history is great
Also dogs
I’m not good at rules
Or being locked up
Given 7 and 8, probably best not to take to a life of crime
Dogs don’t understand social distancing
Sensible creatures
I love my study and my own desk with a deep and abiding passion
I’m incredibly lucky
The Isle of Man is pretty good at working together when it has a common aim
Even if the aim is to go out and get blind drunk in the pubs on Saturday night
I’m sort of proud of us
Did I mention I hate lockdown?
The phrases “covidiot” “stay safe” and “new normal” cause actual psychic trauma by now every time I read or hear them
I’m pretty odd though
My family are great and I adore them
My friends, both local and online are also great and keep me sane
So I need them all to stay safe.
Can’t believe I just said that.
I want this to be over for everybody.
“Mum. Mum. What are you going on about, you said this would be a short post and then we’d go out.”
“Just coming, Oscar.”
“Is it true I can play with all my friends again?”
“Yep.”
“And their humans won’t be wearing muzzles?”
“That’s right, Oscar.”
“That sounds great to me. Let’s go to Derbyhaven Beach.”