The Admiral's Penniless Bride (19 page)

All was going well belowstairs. Thayn had been quick to organise her beautiful clothes, putting her skill for precision and propriety to good use in the dressing room. Sophie could see that her heart was in the kitchen. At first she thought it was for her little pupils, for that is what Miss Thayn called them. The principal maid had proved to be an excellent choice and she willingly put Minerva
and Gladys to work, teaching them how to work. Vivienne was reserved for Etienne, who delighted in teaching her his skills.

But it was obvious to anyone with eyes that Etienne’s principal student was Miss Thayn herself. Even Charles noticed it. ‘Sophie dear, I think my chef is in love,’ he mentioned over dinner a few nights after the frigate captains had left.

‘I am certain of it,’ Sophie replied.

‘Should I say anything? Do anything?’

‘No, Charlie. Trust the French,’ had been her calm reply, which made him shout with laughter and rub her head—she hadn’t been able to cure him of that.

There was a fly in the ointment. To be truthful, Sophie might have been imagining the matter; perhaps she was too sensitive. It seemed to her that Starkey had given himself leave to turn a cold shoulder to her. Not that she minded; there were moments when he seemed to give her long, measuring stares that caused unease to grow within her.

Perhaps she was interfering with his role as overseer of the manor and its domestics. She screwed up her courage one morning to apologise to him, if she was assuming a role in the management of the household that stepped on his toes.

‘No, Lady Bright, you are not encroaching,’ he had replied. Something in his words made her gulp and wonder if he meant precisely the opposite.

‘If I am, please let me know,’ she had managed to say, even as she sensed his unspoken condemnation, ‘I wouldn’t for the world usurp your place here.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ he murmured. She felt her cheeks burn, because this wasn’t the Starkey who had greeted her in May.

‘Certainly not,’ she said, relieved then when Charles called him away for some trifling service. The measuring look he gave her as he left made her blood run in chunks. She decided Starkey was not a servant to cross and tried to avoid him.

Sophie debated whether to mention the matter to Charles. After chewing it over in her mind, she chose not to. After all, master and servant had been in each other’s company and confidence for years and years before she arrived so unexpectedly on the scene. She resolved to give Starkey no reason to feel any disgust.

As August turned to September, with its shorter days and hints of glorious autumn on the horizon, Sophie contented herself with the knowledge that she was well and truly in love with Charles Bright. Since their disastrous encounter in the sitting room, he had taken no liberties with her body, beyond touching her arm, or rubbing her head, which only made her laugh. She had begun to touch him, too, just a gentle hand on his arm. He made no mention of it, but she saw how his eyes seemed to grow warm when she touched him.

Maybe it was her idea, maybe it was his, but they had taken to walking along the shore after dinner. He told her more about his world-ranging career—some of the foolish things he had done as a young gentleman, or maybe as a midshipman, of the peal the sailing master had wrung over his head when he miscalculated sextant readings.

They often walked hand in hand as he told her of foreign ports and strange scenes she could only imagine. When she hesitantly began to tell him of her childhood in Dundrennan, he had kissed her hand and then tucked it closer to his body.

‘You’ve never told me much about yourself, Sophie,’ he said. ‘I’d like to know more.’

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about Andrew Daviess, and his horrible falling out with the victualling board. Some part of her reasoned that she could probably keep it a secret for ever and he would be none the wiser. The other part of her, the part that was growing in love as each day passed, assured her that keeping such a secret from the man she adored was a betrayal.

The matter rested until the afternoon he embarked on another side of his career. They had sailed on all the seas by now, and were approaching the end of the endless war. He sat on the other side of the desk from her, his feet propped on the edge of it, leaning back in the chair. The first time Starkey had caught him doing that, the servant had sucked in his breath, then glared at her, as though she had led the admiral astray from his typical impeccable posture.

‘Should I include some of my less unpleasant duties?’ he asked.

She leaned forwards across the desk, laughing. ‘Charlie, I haven’t thought any of your life story has been as casual as that of a country squire! There is
worse
?’

‘Yes, to my mind,’ he replied. ‘My duties occasionally included courts-martial, or other wicked dealings exposing the frailties of men who should have known better.’

She listened and took notes, asking a few questions, as he recalled some of the more colourful courts-martial. ‘Some were repentant, others less so. Now and then a poor sod would protest his total innocence, even though all evidence weighed against him.’

He moved his feet from the desk and leaned towards her. ‘I suppose I disliked them the most.’

‘Care to add an example, or shall we move on?’

He was in a reminiscing mood. ‘There was one case, rather a famous one. Perhaps you have heard of it. The superintendent of the royal victualling yard in Portsmouth was caught knowingly kegging up bad food to feed to unsuspecting seamen on long voyages.’

The pencil slipped from Sophie’s fingers. She managed to stifle her gasp as she searched under the desk for it.

He stopped, his voice casual. ‘Did you find the pesky devil? I shall ask Starkey to cut you some new pencils for tomorrow. Well, as I was saying, this was a truly egregious case. This fleet was heading to the Caribbean. The men on the three ships with the bad food dropped like flies. Nearly the entire squadron was devastated.’ He peered at the bare sheet of paper in front of her. ‘Am I going too fast?’

Numb, she shook her head. Her breath started to come in little gasps and she felt herself going light in the head. He looked closer at her, a frown on his face.

‘My dear, you look as though you’ve had a bit of bad beef yourself!’

‘It—it—it is nothing,’ she managed to stammer. ‘May—maybe the sun was little warm on the terrace.’

‘It’s raining,’ he gently reminded her. ‘We ate in the breakfast room.’

‘Oh, yes.’ She shook her head, trying to clear it, even though she knew there was nothing that would clear it ever again.
Good God, were you
there
at the trial?
She could barely think it. ‘Yes, we did. Go on.’

She tried to pick up the pencil, but it fell from her fingers again. A smile on his face now, Charles picked it up and tucked it in her nerveless fingers. ‘Sophie, you have such a soft heart! It was a bad business, though. So many men died, and in such agony, and all because a glorified clerk was greedy. I’ll never forget the pleasure I had in looking
at…at…what was his name? Andrew…Andrew Daviess— God damn his eyes—when the First Lord pronounced him guilty, I think we all cheered. Certainly the spectators did. But what do you know? The weasel hanged himself before we could do the job!’

I
’ve been pushing this dear lady too hard
, Charles thought, as his sweet wife put her head down on the desk. Maybe the stories were too hard, but still, she had fared better when he described Trafalgar in all its blood and terrible human toll.

‘I’m sorry, my dear. Did Etienne serve you a bad egg this morning?’ He laid his hand on her head. ‘Sophie, maybe you should go lie down. Here, let me help you up to your room.’

Wordlessly, she let him put his arm close around her, offering no objection when he kissed her cheek. For a heartbreaking moment, she clung to him, then bent forwards, as if her insides ached. ‘Should I call a physician?’ he asked, alarmed, as he helped her to her bed, put up her feet and started on her shoes.

‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘No, I’ll be fine soon. Just let me alone for a while.’

He finished removing her shoes and did what she said, after sitting next to her a moment more. He put his hands to the buttons on her dress front, the pretty burgundy dress
he most admired, even more than the primrose one, and began to undo them, until she stopped him by putting her hand over his.

‘I can manage,’ she said.

He stood up. He kissed his hook and blew in her general direction, which never failed to draw laughter from her. This time, she only gazed at him with bleak eyes, then closed them, as though the pain was too great.

‘I’m sending Starkey for the physician,’ he told her.

She sat up then. ‘I don’t need a doctor, Charles. Believe me, this will pass.’

He felt increasingly reluctant to leave the room. ‘Sophie…’

‘No, Charles,’ she said. ‘Not now. Please.’

He spent an uncomfortable afternoon and evening, dining by himself and disturbed by Starkey, who took the news of Sophie’s illness with no interest. He seemed even to smirk. Surely Charles was mistaken. Starkey would never be so cruel. When he mentioned Sophie’s sudden illness to Thayn, the dresser had assured him she would tend to his wife. When he saw her later, Thayn said Sophie was just tired. ‘Admiral, I wouldn’t worry.’

He did worry; he couldn’t help himself.

After a restless night in which he paced his room and went across the hall several times to listen at Sophie’s door, Charles took her tea to her, praying she would be better.

She was, to his vast relief, sitting up in bed with her usual smile. Well, close enough to her usual smile. There seemed to be a shadow in her face now; he could explain it no better than that. She made room for him on the bed, and had no objection when he told her they would end the
bookroom sessions for a few days. Maybe a week, if she felt it was too much.

‘Thank you, Charles,’ she told him as she sipped her tea. ‘I…I…oh, maybe I have been worried about Rivka. Maybe I should stay longer there and see if I can help dear Mr Brustein.’

‘That’s a capital idea, my dear.’

As they sat looking at each other, neither saying a word, he could not avoid seeing the sorrow that lingered in her eyes. Heaven knew Rivka meant a lot to her, a lady with no close family remaining. ‘I think she needs you, my love,’ he said, not realising the endearment had slipped out until her eyes widened.

‘Which reminds me,’ he began, reaching into the small pocket inside his coat, ‘maybe this will brighten your day a little.’

The ring he had ordered earlier in the summer had arrived by yesterday’s post, the one to replace the plain band he had decided was completely appropriate for The Mouse, but not really enough for Sophie Bright, the dearest star in his evening sky. He took the small pouch by his hook and opened it with his finger.

The ring slid on to the bed and lay there gleaming. Sophie gasped and put her hands to her face. She began to sob and he took a deep breath, unable to interpret these tears. Surely this wasn’t making her more sad? Was it too much? Too garish? Good Lord, why was there not a manual for husbands?

‘Sophie, tell me you like it,’ he asked finally.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, making no move to touch it. Perhaps it was his imagination, but she seemed to shift herself in the bed, as though to move out of the ring’s orbit. ‘The ring I have is perfectly suitable.’

She sounded so Scottish that he smiled. ‘Maybe for The
Mouse, but not for you. You distinctly said you wanted diamonds and emeralds.’

‘I was teasing you,’ she said, even as she edged further away. ‘You’re such a kind man, Charles, but really, after all the expenses on this house, I just…can’t.’

‘You’ll have to,’ he told her, using his admiral’s voice, maybe the one that had persuaded her in St Andrew’s Church; heaven knew he had persuaded a generation of indecisive midshipmen. ‘It’s made just for you. Besides, at the risk of making you love me for my money alone, I can afford this bauble. Really, I can. Hold out your hand like a good girl.’

He gave her no choice, taking her hand—God Almighty, why did she tremble?—and resting it on his hook, while he gently removed the too-large ring she had wrapped thread around. She uttered an inarticulate sound when he put the diamond-and-emerald treasure on her finger. It fit perfectly.

‘Made for your hand, Sophie, and none other. Thank you for being my wife. It’s been quite a summer. Let us see what autumn and winter bring, eh?’

She made no objection when he put his arms around her and drew her close. Her arms tightened around his neck, one hand gentle on his hair. He drew away slightly and kissed her. She kissed him back with a fervour that ignited him.

He didn’t take the trouble to remove his hook, getting up only to lock the door, and then returning to her side. She had removed her nightgown and lay there, watching him, her eyes roving over his body as though she was trying to memorise everything about him, from his grey hair to his stockinged feet. His trousers came off quickly enough—he and the hook were old friends—but she helped him with his smallclothes, then pulled him as close as she had that
first time in June, enveloping him in the strength of her embrace. No part of her body was inaccessible to him as he explored her with his eyes, his hand, his lips.

Then it was her turn. He yearned to enter her, but she held him off long enough to render him practically spineless with her hands that could rove as slowly as his. And with twice the economy, he thought, with a smile that made her look at him so close that her eyes seemed crossed, and ask, ‘What, Charlie?’ He craved the gentle way she settled herself inside him finally.

‘I love you, Sophie,’ he spoke into her ear as she bent over him moments later, gasping in climax, her heart pounding so loud into his chest that it felt like another heart in his own body. Maybe this was what the Bible meant by bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh. There was a lot he hadn’t understood before, stunted as his life had been by Napoleon, damn him to hell. He thought of the years he had been deprived of a woman’s love, and then set it all aside as peace came into his heart for the last and final time. He gave her all he had and she accepted it with her whole body.

They lay peacefully together through much of the morning, making love again, then resting naked on top of the covers, hands together when they slept. Awakening, he toyed with her breasts and then settled his hand lower on her belly. She moved his hand lower and he knew what to do. He pleasured her all the ways he knew how, and they probably would have stayed in bed all day, except that Thayn finally dared to knock. Sophie rose up on his body. ‘Yes?’ she asked, still rocking her pelvis, holding his hand to her breast.

‘Ma’am, Mr Brustein… He sent a servant…said you should come,’ the dresser said from the other side of the door.

Sophie left his body far more quickly than she had entered it, running to the wash stand and washing herself in a hurry, her face set in a mask now, one that spoke of responsibility ignored. ‘Oh, Charles, suppose she is worse,’ she said, as she let him button her into his favourite burgundy.

‘Then you will comfort her,’ he said, kissing the back of her sweaty neck. ‘Hand me your hairbrush.’

She sat still at her dressing table while he brushed her hair. She tied it quickly into a knot on the top of her head, something he liked especially. She showed him worried eyes in the mirror. All he could do was kiss her cheek and whisper in her ear, ‘Sophie, no fears now.’

She shook her head. With a backwards look and a kiss blown in his direction, she hurried down the stairs. He never even heard the front door close. When he went to his own room and looked out the window, she was running down the lane, holding her dress high so she would not trip.

He bathed and dressed thoughtfully, grateful down to his toes that she had recovered from whatever malady had touched her so acutely yesterday. As he buttoned his vest, he decided that when they resumed his narrative, he could omit those sordid courtroom scenes. No need for the world to have cause to remember a scoundrel as full blown as Andrew Daviess.

The afternoon wore on, and then she returned, walking slowly, her head down. He ached for her already, because every line of her body drooped. When he leaned out of the open window and called her name, she looked up, scrubbed at her eyes, then started running towards him. Her arms opened when he swung wide the front door and
took the steps in quick time, gathering her into his arms as she sobbed.

She felt almost light in his arms as he carried her into the sitting room, putting her on the sofa, then kneeling beside her. He held her while she cried, then later that night he held her again in his bed this time. She had started the night in her own room, but finished it in his. They had done nothing more than cling to each other, until she finally relaxed in slumber more exhausted than restful.

They made slow love in the morning light, dousing sorrows in their joy in each other. She seemed not to want to let him go. She made his heart complete and whole when she finally whispered in his ear, ‘Charles, I love you. I have for so long. This has been the worst marriage of convenience in the history of the galaxy.’

He laughed and agreed, loving her with every fibre of his body, his mind and, most of all, his heart. If there was a luckier man in England, Charles knew he would never meet him.

Trust Madame Soigne to include a black dress among the lovely things his wife had ordered. As she dressed, Sophie told him, ‘She said every lady should have a black dress. Oh, Charles, I didn’t want to wear it so soon!’

Hand in hand, they walked down the long drive where now the leaves were falling, those that were not still clinging in all their orange-and-red glory to limbs ready to shake them free and prepare for winter. ‘Another season is turning, Sophie,’ he said. ‘Do you know, it has been twenty years since I have seen falling leaves?’

She stopped and looked at him, tears in her lovely eyes. He knew in his heart they weren’t tears for Rivka Brustein, but tears for him, because of all that he had missed. The knowledge humbled him and made him love her more.
She put her gloved hand to his cheek, caressing it, then continued her sedate walk beside him, as he hoped she would walk beside him for ever.

They paid their respects to the Brusteins. Rivka had already been buried in the family ground behind their estate, because there was no Jewish cemetery closer than London, and custom demanded speedy burial. David Brustein, Charles’s man of business in the Plymouth office, had explained this in low tones. The old man’s other sons were there, too, grouped around their father. Jacob accepted their condolences, then patted the seat beside him for Sophie. He took Charles by the hand.

‘Thank you, Admiral, from the bottom of my heart, for loaning me your dear wife these past few months.’

‘I couldn’t have kept her away,’ he said, seeking for a light touch. ‘Not brave enough to try. So much for England’s warriors, eh?’

The younger Brusteins smiled. The old man’s voice grew stronger then, and he did not release Charles’s hand. He half-rose from his seat, helped by his sons, the intensity in his eyes almost startling. ‘Your neighbourhood visit to us last spring meant more to my dearest than you will ever know. All those years we waited, Rivka and I! Thank you. There is nothing I would not do for either of you. Please remember that.’

‘We will,’ Sophie said, when Charles found that he could not speak. ‘Won’t we, my dear?’

He nodded. Sophie tried to rise, but Jacob held her there. He looked at Charles.

‘Admiral, may we borrow her a little longer? My daughters-in-law have begun to gather Rivka’s clothing into bundles. Could she assist them?’

Charles looked at Sophie and she nodded. ‘You may
have her as long as you need her today. I’ll bid you good day, though.’

He touched Sophie’s cheek, nodded to the others and left the house in mourning, black fabric draped everywhere and swathed around the door. He walked slowly back across the road and down his own lane, stopping when the house came in view. Sophie hadn’t decided if she wanted the exterior stone painted, but she had readily agreed to the lemon trees on either side of the front door.

He looked again and frowned. There was a post chaise pulled up to the circle driveway. He could see some sort of lozenge on the door panel, but could not decipher it until he came closer. He stopped again when it became clear, curious now, wondering what business Admiralty House had with him. He assured the lords when he left London that he was not open to returning to the fleet.

Starkey met him at the door, a smug look on his face that caused Charles some disquiet. The man had changed in the few months since their encounter after the sitting-room event. He appeared monumentally self-satisfied about something; what, Charles had no idea.

‘You’re back from the funeral,’ Starkey said, peering around him. ‘And your…wife?’

I’ll have to talk to him about impertinence
, Charles thought.
Never thought I would.
‘Mr Brustein asked
Lady Bright
to stay behind and help.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Starkey, I believe you might still want to address me as Admiral, or sir, when you finish a sentence. Or perhaps I misheard you. Maybe that was it. Heaven knows I have been a few years before the guns.’