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A Regency Officer's Wedding: The Admiral's Penniless Bride / Marrying the Royal Marine
Carla Kelly
Escape to a world of roguish rakes and daring debutantes with this incredible Regency collection from Mills & Boon.The Admiral’s Penniless Bride by Carla KellySally Paul is homeless and down to her last penny – so the last thing she expects is an offer of marriage from a complete stranger. Admiral Sir Charles Bright is in need of a wife…but after marrying in haste, can he convince Sally to enjoy their wedding night at leisure?Marrying the Royal Marine by Carla KellyIllegitimate Polly Brandon is amazed when the Lieutenant Colonel of Marines introduces himself as they sail for Portugal. In society, Polly knows he would never look twice at her…but with only the ocean for company, there’s no avoiding their unlikely attraction…




CARLA KELLY has been writing award-winning novels for years—stories set in the British Isles, Spain and army garrisons during the Indian Wars. Her speciality in the Regency genre is writing about ordinary people, not just lords and ladies. Carla has worked as a university professor, a ranger in the National Park Service and recently as a staff writer and columnist for a small daily newspaper in Valley City, North Dakota. Her husband is director of theatre at Valley City State University. She has five interesting children, a fondness for cowboy songs and too many box elder beetles in the autumn.

A Regency Officer’s Wedding
The Admiral’s Penniless Bride
Marrying the Royal Marine
Carla Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Contents
Cover (#u29d8aa68-bd54-5bba-b905-36624c81963a)
About the Author (#ub5d27332-70c6-56d3-bd98-ba5e05283bef)
Title Page (#u00d26e4e-4adc-51f5-a582-c17cab377345)
The Admiral’s Penniless Bride (#ua78193fd-4dc8-54ac-90b2-0bbf27615baa)
Prologue (#u6624bbc7-1518-5aa8-b616-827013f0d1f3)
Chapter One (#ufb93cce2-bd6e-538f-b17b-b87186815a0f)
Chapter Two (#u94d68ebd-d445-5eb0-8dd2-6e39eb23c776)
Chapter Three (#ued22358f-3f46-5cad-b1f0-dc0ab4fcece7)
Chapter Four (#u26d992ee-4f6c-5a94-beae-3e97fc0de013)
Chapter Five (#u5d01ca56-6aa7-5b98-89a1-0aadc2ef051b)
Chapter Six (#u2c27a893-19a0-5c88-b3d9-4f0cc8f1f0c0)
Chapter Seven (#u75a64829-dbd0-582c-991c-3f8df67be898)
Chapter Eight (#u915fd685-4b4c-5492-9e13-0951123dddf9)
Chapter Nine (#ua44a0b1d-b151-5e47-b314-5b7cadce1e5b)
Chapter Ten (#uf7b57eee-c58f-52a8-87a2-bd57162d9946)
Chapter Eleven (#u3480be11-292d-57e5-b84e-2cce95119e0a)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Marrying the Royal Marine (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpage (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

The Admiral’s Penniless Bride (#ulink_588efaed-81a8-566d-a8b4-12ff05923f32)

Prologue (#ulink_8990d2ca-f8d4-57db-b7aa-ab110766c961)
1816
The last five years had been a hard school. When Sally Paul had left the Bath employment registry with a position near Plymouth as lady’s companion, but only enough money to ride the mail coach, she had known she was heading towards pinch pennies.
As she neared the Devonshire coast, Sally owned to some uneasiness, but put it down to the fact that, after Andrew’s suicide, she had sworn never to look on the ocean again. Still, times were hard and work difficult to come by. No matter how pinch penny the Coles might prove to be, she was on her way to employment, after six weeks without.
Such a dry spell had happened twice in the past two years, and it was an occupational hazard: old ladies, no matter how kind or cruel, had a tendency to die and no longer require her services.
Although she would never have admitted it, Sally hadn’t been sad to see the last one cock up her toes. She was a prune-faced ogre, given to pinching Sally for no reason at all. Even the family had stayed away as much as they could, which led to the old dear’s final complaint, when imminent death forced them to her bedside. ‘See there, I told you I was sick!’ she had declared in some triumph, before her eyes went vacant. Only the greatest discipline—something also acquired in the last five years—had kept Sally from smiling, which she sorely wanted to do.
But a new position had a way of bringing along some optimism, even when it proved to be ill placed, as it did right now. She never even set foot inside the Coles’ house.
She hadn’t minded the walk from the Drake, where the mail coach stopped, to the east edge of Plymouth, where the houses were genteel and far apart. All those hours from Bath, cramped in next to a pimply adolescent and a pale governess had left Sally pleased enough to stretch her legs. If she had not been so hungry, and as a consequence somewhat lightheaded, she would have enjoyed the walk more.
All enjoyment ended as she came up the circular drive, noting the dark wreath on the door and the draped windows proclaiming a death in the family. Sally found herself almost hoping the late member of the Cole family was a wastrel younger son given to drink who might not be much missed.
It was as she feared. When she announced to the butler that she was Mrs Paul, come to serve as Mrs Maude Cole’s companion, the servant had left her there. In a moment he was back with a woman dressed in black and clutching a handkerchief.
‘My mother-in-law died yesterday morning,’ the woman said, dabbing at dry eyes. ‘We have no need of you.’
Why had she even for the smallest moment thought the matter would end well? Idiot, she told herself. You knew the moment you saw the wreath. ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ she said quietly, but did not move.
The woman frowned. Maybe she expects me to disappear immediately, Sally thought. How am I to do that?
She could see that the woman wanted to close the door. Five years ago, at the start of her employment odyssey, Sally might have yielded easily. Not now, not when she had come all this way and had nothing to show for it.
‘Mrs Cole, would you pay my way back to Bath, where you hired me?’ she asked, as the door started to close.
‘There was never any guarantee of hire until I saw you and approved,’ the woman said, speaking through a crack now. ‘My mother-in-law is dead. There is no position.’
The door closed with a decisive click. Sally stood where she was, unwilling to move because she had no earthly idea what to do. The matter resolved itself when the butler opened the door and made shooing motions, brushing her off as if she were a beggar.
She told herself she would not cry. All she could do was retrace her steps and see if something would occur to her before she returned to the Drake. She did not feel sanguine at the prospect; she was down to her last coin and in arrears on any ideas at all.
What was it that Andrew used to say, before his career turned to ashes? ‘There isn’t any problem so large that it cannot be helped by the application of tea.’
He was wrong, of course; she had known that for years. Sally looked in her reticule as she walked. She had enough for one cup of tea at the Drake.

Chapter One (#ulink_bd3722db-51ff-54da-b6ba-5e3a8371378f)
The Mouse was late. Admiral Sir Charles Bright (Ret.) was under the impression that he was a tolerant man, but tardiness was the exception. For more than thirty years, he had only to say, ‘Roundly now’, and his orders were carried out swiftly and without complaint. True, copious gold lace and an admiral’s stars might have inspired such prompt obedience. Obedience was second nature to him; tardiness a polar opposite.
Obviously this was not the case with The Mouse. For the life of him, he could have sworn that the lady in question was only too relieved to relinquish her old-maid status for matrimony to someone mature and well seasoned. During their only visit last month, The Mouse—Miss Prunella Batchthorpe—had seemed eager enough for all practical purposes.
Bright stared at his rapidly cooling cup of tea, and began to chalk up his defects. He did not think of forty-five as old, particularly since he had all of his hair, close cut though it was; all of his teeth minus one lost on the Barbary Coast; and most of his parts. He had compensated nicely for the loss of his left hand with a hook, and he knew he hadn’t waved it about overmuch during his recent interview with Miss Batchthorpe. He had worn the silver one, which Starkey had polished to a fare-thee-well before his excursion into Kent.
He knew he didn’t talk too much, or harrumph or hawk at inopportune moments. There was no paunch to disgust, and he didn’t think his breath was worse than anyone else’s. And hadn’t her older brother, a favourite commander who helmed Bright’s flagship, assured him that, at age thirty-seven, Prunella was more than ready to settle down at her own address? Relieved, even. Bright could only conclude that she had developed cold feet at the last minute, or was tardy.
He could probably overlook Miss Batchthorpe’s plain visage. He had told her this was to be a marriage of convenience, so he wouldn’t be looking at her pop eyes on an adjoining pillow each morning. He could even overlook her shy ways, which had made him privately dub her The Mouse. But tardiness?
Reality overtook him, as it invariably did. One doesn’t live through nearly three decades of war and many ranks by wool gathering. She might have decided that he simply would not suit, even if it meant a life of spinsterhood. He knew even a year of peace had not softened his hard stare, and the wind-and wave-induced wrinkles about his mouth were here to stay.
Whatever the reason for The Mouse’s non-appearance, he still needed a wife immediately. I have sisters, he thought to himself for the thousandth time since the end of the war. Oh, I do.
Fannie and Dora, older than he by several years, had not intruded much in his life spent largely at sea. They had corresponded regularly, keeping him informed of family marriages, births, deaths and nit-picking rows. Bright knew that Fannie’s eldest son, his current heir, was an ill-mannered lout, and that Dora’s daughter had contracted a fabulous alliance to some twit with a fortune.
He put his current dilemma down to the basic good natures of his meddling siblings. Both of them widowed and possessing fortunes of their own, Fan and Dora had the curse of the wealthy: too much time on their hands.
Fan had delivered the first shot across the bows when he had visited her in London after Waterloo. ‘Dora and I want to see you married,’ she had announced. ‘Why should you not be happy?’
Bright could tell from the martial glint in her eyes— Wellington himself possessed a similar look—that there was no point in telling his sister that he was already happy. Truth to tell, what little he had glimpsed of Fan’s married life, before the barrister had been kind enough to die, had told him volumes about his sister’s own unhappiness.
Dora always followed where Fan led, chiming in with her own reasons why he needed a wife to Guide Him Through Life’s Pathways—Dora spoke in capital letters. Her reasons were convoluted and muddled, like most of her utterances, but he was too stunned by Fan’s initial pronouncement, breathtaking in its interference, to comment upon them.
A wife it would be for their little brother. That very holiday, they had paraded a succession of ladies past his startled gaze, ladies young enough to be his daughter and older and desperate. Some were lovely, but most wanted in the area he craved: good conversation. Someone to talk to—there was the sticking point. Were those London ladies in awe of his title and uniform? Did they flinch at the hook? Were they interested in nothing he was interested in? He had heard all the conversations about weather and goings on at Almack’s that he could stomach.
Never mind. His sisters were determined. Fan and Dora apparently knew most of the eligible females in the British Isles. He was able to fob them off immediately after his retirement, when he was spending time in estate agents’ offices, seeking an estate near Plymouth. He had taken lodgings in Plymouth while he searched. Once the knocker was on the door, the parade of lovelies had begun again, shepherded by his sisters.
Bemusement turned to despair even faster than big rabbits made bunnies. My sisters don’t know me very well, he decided, after several weeks. The last straw came when Fan decided that not only would she find him a mate, but also redecorate his new estate for him, in that execrable Egyptian style that even he knew was no longer à la mode. When the first chair shaped like a jackal arrived, Bright knew he had to act.
Which was why he now awaited the arrival of Miss Prunella Batchthorpe, who had agreed to be his ball and chain and leave him alone. Dick Batchthorpe, his flagship commander, had mentioned her often during their years together. Something in Bright rebelled at taking the advice of two of the most harebrained ladies he knew; besides, it would be a kind gesture to both Dick, who didn’t relish the prospect of supporting an old maid, and the old maid in question, who had assured him she would keep his house orderly and make herself small.
As he sat in the dining room of the Drake, with its large windows overlooking the street, Bright couldn’t help feeling a twinge of relief at her non-arrival, even as he cursed his own apparent shallowness. Miss Batchthorpe was more than usually plain.
He heard a rig clatter up to the front drive and looked up in something close to alarm, now that he had told himself that Miss Batchthorpe simply wouldn’t suit. He stood up, trying not to appear overly interested in the street, then sat down. It was only a beer wagon, thank the Lord.
Bright patted the special licence in the pocket of his coat. No telling how long the pesky things were good for. Hopefully, his two dotty sisters had no connections among the Court of Faculties and Dispensations to tattle on him to his sisters. If they knew, they would hound him even more relentlessly. He would never hear the end of it. He hadn’t survived death in gruesome forms at sea to be at the mercy of managing women.
Bright dragged out his timepiece. He had waited more than an hour. Was there a legally binding statute determining how long a prospective, if reluctant, groom should wait for a woman he was forced to admit he neither wanted, nor knew anything about? Still, it was noon and time for luncheon. His cook had declared himself on strike, so there wasn’t much at home.
Not that he considered his new estate home. In its current state of disrepair, his estate was just the place where he lived right now. He sighed. Home was still the ocean.
He looked for a waiter, and found himself gazing at a lovely neck. Had she been sitting there all along, while he was deep in his own turmoil? In front of him and to the side, she sat utterly composed, hands in her lap. He had every opportunity to view her without arousing anyone’s curiosity except his own.
A teapot sat in front of her, right next to the no-nonsense cup and saucer Mrs Fillion had been buying for years and which resembled the china found in officers’ messes all across the fleet. She took a sip now and then, and he had the distinct impression she was doing all she could to prolong the event. Bright could scarcely remember ever seeing a woman seated alone in the Drake, and wondered if she was waiting for someone. Perhaps not; when people came into the dining room, she did not look towards the door.
He assumed she was a lady, since she was sitting in the dining room, but her dress was far from fashionable, a plain gown of serviceable grey. Her bonnet was nondescript and shabby.
She shifted slightly in her chair and he observed her slim figure. He looked closer. Her dress was cinched in the back with a neat bow that gathered the fabric together. This was a dress too large for the body it covered. Have you been ill, madam? he asked himself.
He couldn’t see her face well because of the bonnet, but her hair appeared to be ordinary brown and gathered in a thick mass at the back of her head. As he watched what little he could see of her face, Bright noticed her eyes were on a gentleman at a nearby table who had just folded his newspaper and was dabbing at his lips. She leaned forwards slightly, watching him. When he finally rose, she turned to see him out of the dining room, affording Bright a glimpse of a straight nose, a mouth that curved slightly downward and eyes as dark brown as his own.
When the man was gone from the dining room, she walked to the table and took the abandoned newspaper back to her own place. Bright had never seen a lady read a newspaper before. He watched, fascinated, as she glanced at the front page, then flipped to the back, where he knew the advertisements and legal declarations lurked. Was she looking for one of the discreet tonics advertised for female complaints? Did her curiosity run to ferreting out pending lawsuits or money owed? This was an unusual female, indeed.
As he watched, her eyes went down the back pages quickly. She shook her head, closed the newspaper, folded it neatly and took another sip of her tea. In another moment, she was looking inside her reticule, almost as though she was willing money to appear.
More curious now than ever, Bright opened his own paper to the inside back page, wondering what had caused such disappointment. ‘Positions for hire’ ran down two narrow columns. He glanced through them; nothing for women.
He looked up in time to see the lady stare into her reticule again. Bright found himself wishing, along with her, for something to materialise. He might have been misreading all the signs, but he knew he was an astute judge of character. This was a lady without any funds who was looking for a position of some sort.
Bright watched as the waiter came to her table. Giving him her prettiest smile, she shook her head. The man did not move on immediately, but had a brief, whispered conversation with her that turned her complexion pale. He is trying to throw her out, Bright thought in alarm, which was followed quickly by indignation. How dare the man! The dining room was by no means full.
He sat and seethed, then put aside his anger and concentrated on what he was rapidly considering his dilemma. Maybe he was used to the oversight of human beings. You do remember that you are no longer responsible for the entire nation? he quizzed himself silently. Let this alone.
He couldn’t. He had spent too many years—his whole lifetime, nearly—looking out for this island and its inmates to turn his back on someone possibly in distress. By the time the waiter made his way back to his table, Bright was ready. It involved one of the few lies he ever intended to tell, but he couldn’t think any faster. The imp of indecision leaped on to his shoulder and dug in its talons, but he ignored it.
With a smile and a bow, the waiter made his suggestions for luncheon and wrote down Bright’s response. Bright motioned the man closer. ‘Would you help me?’
‘By all means, sir.’
‘You see that lady there? She is my cousin and we have had a falling out.’
‘Ah, the ladies,’ the waiter said, shaking his head.
Bright sought for just the right shade of regret in his voice. ‘I had thought to mollify her. It was a quarrel of long standing, but as you can see, we are still at separate tables, and I promised her mother…’ He let his voice trail off in what he hoped was even more regret.
‘What do you wish me to do, sir?’
‘Serve her the same dinner you are serving me. I’ll sit with her and we’ll see what happens. She might look alarmed. She might even get up and leave, but I have to try. You understand.’
The waiter nodded, made a notation on his tablet and left the table with another bow.
I must be a more convincing liar than I ever imagined, Bright thought. He smiled to himself. Hell’s bells, I could have been a Lord of the Admiralty myself, if I had earlier been aware of this talent.
He willed the meal to come quickly, before the lady finished her paltry dab of tea and left the dining room. He knew he could not follow her; that went against all propriety. As it was, he was perilously close to a lee shore. He looked at the lady again, as she stared one more time into her reticule and swallowed. You are even closer than I am to a lee shore, he told himself. I have a place to live. I fear you do not.
Early in his naval career, as a lower-than-the-clams ensign, he had led a landing party on the Barbary Coast. A number of things went wrong, but he took the objective and survived with most of his men. He never forgot the feeling just before the jolly boats slid on to the shore—the tightness in the belly, the absolute absence of moisture in his entire drainage system, the maddening little twitch in his left eye. He felt them all again as he rose and approached the other table. The difference was, this time he knew he would succeed. His hard-won success on the Barbary Coast had made every attack since then a win, simply because he knew he could.
He kept his voice low. ‘Madam?’
She turned frightened eyes on him. How could eyes so brown be so deep? His were brown and they were nothing like hers.
‘Y-y-yes?’
Her response told him volumes. She had to be a lady, because she had obviously never been approached this way before. Better drag out the title first. Baffle her with nonsense, as one of his frigate captains used to say, before approaching shore leave and possible amatory adventure.
‘I am Admiral Sir Charles Bright, recently retired from the Blue Fleet, and I—’ He stopped. He had thought that might reassure her, but she looked even more pale. ‘Honestly, madam. May I…may I sit down?’
She nodded, her eyes on him as though she expected the worst.
He flashed what he hoped was his most reassuring smile. ‘Actually, I was wondering if I could help you.’ He wasn’t sure what to add, so fell back on the navy. ‘You seem to be approaching a lee shore.’
There was nothing but wariness in her eyes, but she was too polite to shoo him away. ‘Admiral, I doubt there is any way you could help.’
He inclined his head closer to her and she just as subtly moved back. ‘Did the waiter tell you to vacate the premises when you finished your tea?’
The rosy flush that spread upwards from her neck spoke volumes. She nodded, too ashamed to look at him. She said nothing for a long moment, as if considering the propriety of taking the conversation one step more. ‘You spoke of a lee shore, Sir Charles,’ she managed finally, then shook her head, unable to continue.
She knows her nautical terms, he thought, then plunged in. ‘I couldn’t help but notice how often you were looking in your reticule. I remember doing that when I was much younger, sort of willing coins to appear, eh?’
Her face was still rosy, but she managed a smile. ‘They never do though, do they?’
‘Not unless you are an alchemist or a particularly successful saint.’
Her smile widened; she seemed to relax a little.
‘Madam, I have given you my name. It is your turn, if you would.’
‘Mrs Paul.’
Bright owned to a moment of disappointment, which surprised him. ‘Are you waiting for your husband?’
She shook her head. ‘No, Admiral. He has been dead these past five years.’
‘Very well, Mrs Paul.’ He looked up then to see the waiter approaching carrying a soup tureen, with a flunky close behind with more food. ‘I thought you might like something to eat.’
She started to rise, but was stopped by the waiter, who set a bowl of soup in front of her. She sat again, distress on her face. ‘I couldn’t possibly let you do this.’
The waiter winked at Bright, as though he expected her to say exactly that. ‘I insist,’ Bright said.
The waiter worked quickly. In another moment he was gone, after giving Mrs Paul a benevolent look, obviously pleased with the part he had played in this supposed reconciliation between cousins.
Still she sat, hands in her lap, staring down at the food, afraid to look at him now. He might have spent most of his life at sea, but Bright knew he had gone beyond all propriety. At least she has not commented upon the weather, he thought. He didn’t think he could bully her, but he knew a beaten woman when he saw one, and had no urge to heap more coals upon her. He didn’t know if he possessed a gentle side, but perhaps this was the time to find one, if it lurked somewhere.
‘Mrs Paul, you have a complication before you,’ he said, his voice soft but firm. ‘I am going to eat because I am hungry. Please believe me when I say I have no motive beyond hoping that you will eat, too.’
She didn’t say anything. He picked up his spoon and began with the soup, a meaty affair with broth just the way he liked it. He glanced at her, only to see tears fall into her soup. He held his breath, making no comment, as she picked up her soup spoon. She ate, unable to silence the little sound of pleasure from her throat that told him volumes about the distance from her last meal. For one moment he felt enormous anger that a proud woman should be so reduced in victorious England. Why should that surprise him? He had seen sailors begging on street corners, when they were turned loose after the war’s end.
‘Mrs Fillion always makes the soup herself,’ he said. ‘I’ve eaten a few meals here, during the war.’
Mrs Paul looked at him then, skewered him with those lovely eyes of hers, so big in her lean face. ‘I would say she added just the right amount of basil, wouldn’t you?’
It was the proud comment of a woman almost—but not quite—at her last resources and it touched him. She ate slowly, savoring every bite as though she expected no meals to follow this one. While she ate, he told her a little about life in the fleet and his recent retirement. He kept up a steady stream of conversation to give a touch of normalcy to what was an awkward luncheon for both of them.
A roast of beef followed, with new potatoes so tender that he wanted to scoop the ones off Mrs Paul’s plate, too. He wanted her to tell him something about herself and he was rewarded after the next course, when she began to show signs of lagging. Finally, she put down her fork.
‘Sir Charles, I—’
He had to interrupt. ‘If you want to call me something, make it Admiral Bright,’ he said, putting down his fork, too, and nodding to the flunky to take the plates. ‘During the war, I think the crown handed out knighthoods at the crack of a spar. I earned the admiral.’
She smiled at that and dabbed her lips. ‘Very well, Admiral! Thank you for luncheon. Perhaps I should explain myself.’
‘Only if you want to.’
‘I do, actually. I do not wish you to think I am usually at loose ends. Ordinarily, I am employed.’
Bright thought of the wives of his captains and other admirals—women who stayed safely at home, tended their families and worried about their men at sea. He thought about the loose women who frequented the docks and serviced the seamen. He had never met a woman who was honestly employed. ‘Say on, Mrs Paul.’
‘Since my husband…died, I have been a lady’s companion,’ she said, waiting to continue until the waiter was out of earshot. ‘As you can tell, I am from Scotland.’
‘No!’ Bright teased, grateful she was no longer inclined to tears. She gave him such a glance then that he did laugh.
‘I have been a companion to the elderly, but they tend to die.’ Her eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘Oh! That is not my fault, let me assure you.’
He chuckled. ‘I didn’t think you were a murderer of old dears, Mrs Paul.’
‘I am not,’ she said amicably. ‘I had been six weeks without a position, sir, when I found one here in Plymouth.’
‘Where were you living?’
‘In Bath. Old dears, as you call them, like to drink the water in the Pump Room.’ She made a face, which was eloquent enough for him. She sobered quickly. ‘I finally received a position and just enough money to take the mail coach.’
She stopped talking and he could tell her fear was returning. All he could do was joke with her, even though he wanted to take her hand and give it a squeeze. ‘Let me guess: they were sobersides who didn’t see the fun in your charming accent.’
She shook her head. ‘Mrs Cole died the day before I arrived.’ She hesitated.
‘What did you do?’ he asked quietly.
‘I asked for the fare back to Bath, but she wouldn’t hear of it.’ Mrs Paul’s face hardened. ‘She had her butler shoo me off the front steps.’
And I am nervous about two silly sisters? Bright asked himself. ‘Is there something for you in Bath?’
She was silent a long moment. ‘There isn’t anything anywhere, Admiral Bright,’ she admitted finally. ‘I’ve been sitting here trying to work up the nerve to ask the proprietor if he needs kitchen help.’
They were both silent.
Bright was not an impulsive man. He doubted he had ever drawn an impulsive breath, but he drew one now. He looked at Mrs Paul, wondering what she thought of him. He knew little about her except that she was Scottish, and from the sound of her, a Lowland Scot. She was past the first bloom of youth and a widow. She had been dealt an impossible hand. And not once have you simpered about the weather or Almack’s, he thought. You also have not turned this into a Cheltenham tragedy.
He pulled out his timepiece. The Mouse was now nearly three hours late. He drew the deepest breath of his life, even greater than the one right before he sidled his frigate between the Egyptian shore and the French fleet in the Battle of the Nile.
‘Mrs Paul, I have an idea. Tell me what you think.’

Chapter Two (#ulink_6cc9f63a-fa00-5a36-b136-d8de2647dddf)
‘You want to marry me?’
To Mrs Paul’s immense credit, she listened without leaping to her feet and slapping him or falling into a dead faint.
She thinks I am certifiable, Bright thought, trying to divine what was going on in her mind as he blathered on. He was reminding himself of his least favourite frigate captain, who spoke faster and faster as the lie grew longer and longer. Dash it, this is no lie, he thought.
‘You see before you a desperate man, Mrs Paul,’ he said, wincing inside at how feeble that sounded. ‘I need a wife on fearsomely short notice.’ He winced again; that sounded worse.
He had to give her credit; she recovered quickly. He could also see that she had no intention of taking him seriously. Her smile, small though it was, let him know precisely how she felt about his little scheme. How can I convince her? he asked himself in exasperation. I doubt I can.
‘Mrs Paul, I hope you don’t think that through England’s darkest hours, the Royal Navy was led by idiots.’
Her voice was faint, mainly because she seemed to be struggling not to laugh. ‘I never thought it was, Admiral,’ she replied. ‘But…but why on earth do you require a wife on fearsomely short notice? Now that you are retired, haven’t you leisure to pursue the matter in your own good time?’
‘I have sisters,’ he said. ‘Two of ’em. Since I retired last autumn, they have been dropping in to visit and bringing along eligible females. They are cornering me and I feel trapped. Besides, I am not convinced I want a wife.’
The look she gave him was one of incredulity, as though she wondered—but was too polite to ask—how a grown man, especially one who had faced the might of France for years, could be so cowed by sisters. ‘Surely they have your best interests at heart,’ Mrs Paul said. She seemed to find his dilemma diverting. ‘Do you require a…a nudge?’
‘That’s not the issue,’ he protested, but he admitted to himself that she did have a point. ‘See here, Mrs Paul, wouldn’t you be bothered if someone you knew was determined to help you, whether you wanted it or not?’
She was silent a moment, obviously considering his question. ‘May I be frank, Admiral?’
‘Certainly.’
‘There are times when I wish someone was determined to help me.’
She had him there. ‘You must think me an awful whiner,’ he admitted at last.
‘No, sir,’ she said promptly. ‘I just think you have too much time on your hands now.’
‘Aha!’ he exclaimed, and slapped the table with his hook, which made the tea cups jump. ‘It’s my stupid sisters who have too much time! They are plaguing my life,’ he finished, his voice much lower.
‘So you think proposing to me will get them off your back?’ she asked, intrigued.
‘You are my backup, Mrs Paul.’
Oh, Lord, I am an idiot, he thought. She stared at him in amazement, but to her credit, did not flee the dining room. Maybe you think you owe me for a meal, he thought sourly. Humouring a lunatic, eh?
‘Backup? There is someone else who didn’t deliver?’ she asked. Her lips twitched. ‘Should I be jealous? Call her out?’
She had him again, and he had to smile. In fact, he had to laugh. ‘Oh, Mrs Paul, I have made a muddle of things. Let me explain.’
He told her how in desperation because his sisters would not leave him alone, he had contacted the captain of his flagship, who had a sister withering on the matrimonial vine. ‘I made her an offer. It was to be a marriage of convenience, Mrs Paul. She needed a husband, because ladies…er…don’t seem to care to wander through life alone. I was careful to explain that,’ he assured her. ‘She agreed.’
He looked at the lady across the table from him, amazed she was still sitting there. ‘It is foolish, isn’t it?’ he said finally, seeing the matter through her eyes. ‘I have been stewing about in this dining room for hours, and the lady has not appeared. I can hardly blame her.’ He looked at his hook. ‘Maybe she doesn’t care overmuch for hooks.’
Mrs Paul put her hand to her lips, as though trying to force down another laugh. ‘Admiral, if she cared about you, a hook wouldn’t make the least difference. You have all your teeth, don’t you? And your hair? And surely there is a good tailor in Plymouth who could—’ She stopped. ‘You must think I am terribly rude.’
‘No, I think you are honest and…dash it, I have all my hair! I did lose a tooth on the Barbary Coast—’
‘Careless of you,’ she murmured, then gave up trying to hold back the mirth that seemed to well up out of her.
Her laughter was infectious. Thank goodness the dining room was nearly empty by now, because he laughed along with her. ‘What is the matter with my suit?’ he asked, when he could talk.
She wiped her eyes on the napkin. ‘Nothing at all, Admiral, if only this were the reign of poor George III, and not the regency of his son! I realise you have probably worn nothing but uniforms for years. Many men would probably envy your ability to wear garments from the turn of the century, without having to resort to a shoehorn. I am no Beau Brummell, Admiral, but there is a time to bid adieu to old clothes, even if they do fit.’
‘I was never inclined to add pounds,’ he said, trying not to sound sulky. ‘A tailor would help?’
‘Perhaps, but he won’t solve your problem of sisters,’ she said sensibly. ‘Suppose I agreed to your…er…unorthodox proposal, and you fell in love with someone? What then?’
‘Or suppose you do?’ he countered, warmed that she still seemed to be considering the matter.
‘That is unlikely. I have no fortune, no connections, no employment. I had a good husband once, and he will probably suffice.’
She spoke in such a matter-of-fact way that he wanted to know more, but knew he didn’t dare. ‘Did you tease him as unmercifully as you have teased me? “Careless of me to lose a tooth?” Really, Mrs Paul.’
‘I was even harder on him, sir,’ she said in good humour. ‘I knew him better and everyone knows familiarity breeds content.’
You’re a wit, he thought in appreciation. ‘I have no skills in searching for a wife, Mrs Paul. I never thought to live that long. I will blame Napoleon.’
‘Why not?’ she said, her voice agreeable. ‘He had his own trouble with wives, I do believe.’ She leaned forwards. ‘Admiral, I know nothing of your financial situation, nor do I wish to know, but surely a visit to Almack’s during the Season would turn up some prospects that would satisfy even your sisters.’
Mrs Paul obviously noted the look of disgust on his face, but continued, anyway. ‘If you’d rather not chance Almack’s, there is church. Unexceptionable ladies are often found there.’
‘You’d have me endure sermons and make sheep’s eyes at a female in a neighbouring pew?’
She gave him such a glance that he felt his toes tingle. ‘Admiral! I am merely trying to think of venues where you might find ladies—suitable ladies! Were you this much trouble in the fleet?’
‘This and more,’ he assured her, warming to her conversation. By God, you are diverting, he thought. ‘Mrs Paul, do you ever talk about the weather?’
‘What does the weather have to do with anything?’ she asked.
‘Good books?’
‘Now and then. Do you know, I read my way through the family library of the lady I worked for in Bath. Ask me anything about the early saints of the church. Go on. I dare you.’
Bright laughed out loud again. ‘Mrs Paul, mourning is well and good, I suppose, but why hasn’t some gentleman proposed recently? You are a wit.’
He wished he hadn’t said that. Her eyes lost their lustre. ‘It is different with ladies, sir. Most men seem to want a fortune of some size, along with the lady.’ She looked in her reticule again and her look told him she was determined to turn her wretched situation to a joke. ‘All I have in here is an appointment book, the stub of a pencil and some lint.’
The last thing you want is pity, isn’t it? he told himself. ‘So here we are, the two of us, at point non plus,’ he said.
‘I suppose we are,’ she replied, the faintest glint of amusement returning to her eyes.
‘And I must return to my estate, still a single gentleman, with no prospects and a cook on strike.’
‘Whatever did you do to him?’
‘I told him my sisters were coming to visit in two days. They order him about and demand things. Mrs Paul, he is French and he has been my chef for eleven years, through bombardment and sinking ships, and he cannot face my sisters either!’
‘What makes you think matrimony would change that?’ she asked sensibly. ‘They would still visit, wouldn’t they?’
He shrugged. ‘You have to understand my sisters. They are never happier than when they are on a mission or a do-gooding quest. With you installed in my house, and directing my chef, and having a hand in the reconstruction, they would get bored quickly, I think.’
‘Reconstruction?’ she asked.
‘Ah, yes. I found the perfect house. It overlooks Plymouth Sound, and it came completely furnished. It does require a little…well, a lot…of repairs. I think the former owner was a troll with bad habits.’
Mrs Paul laughed. ‘So you were going to marry this poor female who has cried off and carry her away to a ruin?’
Bright couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t even sure why he did it, but he slipped his hook into the ribbons holding Mrs Paul’s bonnet on her head. She watched, transfixed, as he gave the frayed ribbon a gentle tug, then pushed the bonnet away from her face, to dangle down her back. ‘Are you sure you won’t reconsider? I don’t think you will be bored in my house. You can redecorate to your heart’s content, sweet talk my chef, I don’t doubt, and find me a tailor.’
‘You know absolutely nothing about me,’ she said softly, her face pink again. ‘You don’t even know how old I am.’
‘Thirty?’ he asked.
‘Almost thirty-two.’
‘I am forty-five,’ he told her. He took his finger and pushed back his upper lip. ‘That’s where the tooth is missing. I keep my hair short because I am a creature of habit.’ He felt his own face go red. ‘I take the hook off at night, because I’d hate to cut my own throat during a bad dream.’
She stared at him, fascinated. ‘I have never met anyone like you, Admiral.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘I think it is good.’
He held his breath, because she appeared to be thinking. Just say yes, he thought.
She didn’t. To his great regret, Mrs Paul shook her head. She retied her bonnet and stood up. ‘Thank you for the luncheon, Admiral Bright,’ she said, not looking him in the eyes this time. ‘I have had a most diverting afternoon, but now I must go to the registry office here and see if there is anything for me.’
‘And if there is not?’ It came out cold and clinical, but she didn’t seem to be a woman searching for sympathy.
‘That is my problem, not yours,’ she reminded him.
He stood as she left the table, feeling worse than when he waited for The Mouse. She surprised him by looking back at him in the doorway, a smile on her face, as though their curious meal would be a memory to warm her.
‘That is that,’ he said under his breath, feeling as though some cosmic titan had poked a straw under his skin and sucked out all his juices. It was an odd feeling, and he didn’t like it.

With each step she took from the Drake, Sally Paul lost her nerve. She found a stone bench by the Cattewater and sat there, trying to regain the equilibrium that had deserted her when she was out of Admiral Bright’s sight. The June sun warmed her cheek and she raised her face to it, glorying in summer after a dismal winter of tending a querulous old woman who had been deserted by her family, because she had not treated them well when she was able and could have.
Let this be a lesson to me, Sally had thought over and over that winter, except that there was no one to show any kindness to, no one left that being kind to now would mean dividends later on, when she was old and dying. Her husband was gone these five years, a suicide as a result of being unable to stand up to charges levelled at him by the Admiralty. The Royal Navy, in its vindictiveness, had left her with nothing but her small son, Peter. A cold lodging house had finished him.
She sobbed out loud, then looked around, hopeful that no one had heard her. Even harder than her husband’s death by his own hand—mercifully, he had hanged himself in an outbuilding and someone else had found him—was her son’s death of cold and hunger, when she could do nothing but suffer alone. She had been his only mourner at his pauper’s unmarked grave, but she had mourned as thoroughly and completely as if a whole throng of relatives had sent him to a good rest.
There was no one to turn to in Dundrennan, where her late father had been a half-hearted solicitor. The Paul name didn’t shine so brightly in that part of Scotland, considering her father’s younger brother, John, who had joined American revolutionaries, added Jones to his name and become a hated word in England. This far south, though, it was a better name than Daviess, the name she had shared with Andrew, principal victualler to the Portsmouth yard who had been brought up on charges of pocketing profit from bad meat that had killed half a squadron.
She had no other resource to call upon. I could throw myself into the water, she told herself, except that someone would probably rescue me. Besides, I can swim, and I am not inclined to end my life that way. I could go to the workhouse. I could try every public kitchen in Plymouth and see if they need help. I could marry Admiral Bright.
She went to the registry first, joining a line by the door. The pale governess who had shared a seat with her on the mail coach came away with nothing. The bleak expression on her face told Sally what her own reception would be. The registrar—not an unkind man—did say Stonehouse Naval Hospital might still be looking for laundresses, but there was no way of knowing, unless she chose to walk four miles to Devonport.
‘It’s a slow season, what with peace putting many here out of work. You might consider going north to the mills,’ he told Sally. When she asked him how she would get there, he shrugged.

Dratted peace had slowed down the entire economy of Plymouth, so there was no demand for even the lowliest kitchen help in the hotels, she discovered, after trudging from back door to back door. One publican had been willing to hire her to replace his pots-and-pans girl, but one look at that terrified child’s face told Sally she could never be so callous. ‘I won’t take bread from a baby’s mouth,’ she said.
‘Suit yourself,’ the man had said as he turned away.

Evensong was long over and the church was deserted. She sank down wearily on a back pew. When her money had run out two days ago, she had slept in Bath’s cathedral. It had been easy enough to make herself small in the shadows and then lie down out of sight. St Andrew’s was smaller, but there were shadows. She could hide herself again.
And then what? In the morning, if no one was about, she would dip her remaining clean handkerchief in the holy water, wipe her face and ask directions to the workhouse. At least her small son was safe from such a place.
There were several prayer books in their slots. Sally gathered them up, made a pillow of them and rested her head on them with a sigh. There wasn’t any need to loosen her dress because it was already loose. She feared to take off her shoes because she knew her feet were swollen. She might never get them on again. She made herself comfortable on the bench and closed her eyes.
Sally opened her eyes with a start only minutes later. A man sat on the end of the row. Frightened at first, she looked closer in the gloom at his close-cut hair and smiled to herself. She sat up.
He didn’t look at her, but idly scratched the back of his only hand with his hook. ‘The Mouse still hasn’t turned up.’
‘You have probably waited long enough,’ Sally said as she arranged her skirt around her, grateful she hadn’t removed her shoes. ‘I don’t know what the statute of limitations is on such a matter, but surely you have fulfilled it.’
He rested his elbows on the back of the pew, still not looking at her. ‘Actually, I was looking for you, Mrs Paul. The waiter informed me that you left your valise in the chair.’
‘I suppose I did,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing in it of value.’ She peered at him through the gloom. ‘Why did the waiter think I was your responsibility?’
He glanced at her then. ‘Possibly because earlier I had told him you were my cousin, and we were on the outs, and I was hoping to get into your good graces by buying you dinner.’
‘That was certainly creative, Admiral,’ she said.
‘Dash it all, how am I supposed to approach a single female I have never met before?’ he said. She couldn’t help but hear the exasperation in his voice. ‘Mrs Paul, you are more trouble than an entire roomful of midshipmen!’
‘Oh, surely not,’ she murmured, amused in spite of her predicament. She glanced at him, then stared straight ahead towards the altar, the same way he stared.
There they sat. He spoke first. ‘When you didn’t come out of St Andrew’s, I thought you might not mind some company.’ His voice grew softer. ‘Have you been sleeping in churches?’
‘It…it’s a safe place.’
He hadn’t changed his position. He did not move any closer. ‘Mrs Paul, my sisters are still meddlers, my chef is still on strike, I can’t get any builders to do what they promised, the house is…strange and I swear there are bats or maybe griffons in the attic.’
‘What a daunting prospect.’
‘I would honestly rather sail into battle than deal with any of the above.’
‘Especially the griffons,’ she said, taking a deep breath. Am I this desperate? Is he? she asked herself. This man is—or was—an admiral. He is either a lunatic or the kindest man in the universe.
‘What say you, Mrs Paul?’ He still didn’t look in her direction, as though afraid she would bolt like a startled fawn. ‘You’ll have a home, a touchy chef, two dragons for sisters-in-law, and a one-armed husband who will need your assistance occasionally with buttons, or maybe putting sealing wax on a letter. Small things. If you can keep the dragons at bay, and keep the admiral out of trouble on land, he promises to let you be. It’s not a bad offer.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ she replied, after a long pause in which she could have sworn he held his breath. She just couldn’t speak. It was beyond her that anyone would do this. She could only stare at him.
He gazed back. When he spoke, he sounded so rational she had to listen. ‘Mrs Paul, The Mouse isn’t coming. I want to marry you.’
‘Why, Admiral? Tell me why?’ There, she had asked. He had to tell her.
He took his time, exasperating man. ‘Mrs Paul, even if The Mouse were to show up this minute, I would bow out. She’s a spinster, and that’s unfortunate, but she has a brother to take care of her, no matter how he might grumble. You have no one.’ He held up his hand to stop her words. ‘I have spent most of my life looking after England. One doesn’t just chop off such a responsibility. Maybe it didn’t end with Napoleon on St. Helena and my retirement papers. Knowing your dilemma, I cannot turn my back on you, no more than I could ever ignore a sister ship approaching a lee shore. You need help. I need a wife. I don’t think I can make it any plainer.’
‘No, I suppose you cannot,’ she murmured, but made one final attempt to make the man see reason. ‘Admiral, you know nothing about me. You truly don’t.’ It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him, but she found she could not. Coward, she thought.
He looked at her then, and his face was kind. ‘I know one thing: you haven’t wittered once about the weather. I suppose marriages have started on stranger footings. I don’t know when or where, but I haven’t been on land much in the past twenty years.’
‘I suppose they have,’ she agreed. ‘Very well, sir.’

Chapter Three (#ulink_919c4151-ef42-5f89-9ec3-d81cea05168e)
Sally didn’t object when the admiral paid for a room at the Drake for her, after suggesting the priest at St Andrew’s might be irritated to perform a wedding so late, even with a special licence. And there were other concerns.
‘I must remind you, sir, I’m not The Mouse. I cannot usurp her name, which surely is already on the licence,’ she pointed out, embarrassed to state the obvious, but always the practical one.
Admiral Bright chuckled. ‘It’s no problem, Mrs Paul. The Mouse’s name is Prunella Batchthorpe. Believe it or not, I can spell Batchthorpe. It was Prunella that gave me trouble. Prunella? Prunilla? A coin or two, and the clerk was happy enough to leave the space blank, for me to fill in later.’
‘Very well, then,’ Sally murmured.

She was hungry for supper, but had trouble swallowing the food, when it came. Finally, she laid down her fork. ‘Admiral, you need to know something about me,’ she said.
He set down his fork, too. ‘I should tell you more about me, too.’
How much to say? She thought a moment, then plunged ahead. ‘Five years ago, my husband committed suicide after a reversal of fortune. I ended up in one room with our son, Peter, who was five at the time.’
She looked at the admiral for some sign of disgust at this, but all she saw was sympathy. It gave her the courage to continue. ‘Poor Peter. I could not even afford coal to keep the room warm. He caught a chill, it settled in his lungs and he died.’
‘You had no money for a doctor?’ he asked gently.
‘Not a farthing. I tried every poultice I knew, but nothing worked.’ She could not help the sob that rose in her throat. ‘And the whole time, Peter trusted me to make him better!’
She didn’t know how it happened, but the admiral’s hand went to her neck, caressing it until she gained control of herself. ‘He was covered in quicklime in a pauper’s grave. I found a position that afternoon as a lady’s companion and never returned to that horrid room.’
‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘There wasn’t anyone you could turn to?’
‘No,’ she said, after blowing her nose on the handkerchief he handed her. ‘After my husband was…accused…we had not a friend in the world.’ She looked at him, wondering what to say. ‘It was all a mistake, a lie and a cover-up, but we have suffered.’
Admiral Bright sat back in his chair. ‘Mrs Paul, people ask me how I could bear to stay so many years at sea. Unlike my captains who occasionally went into port, I remained almost constantly with the fleet. We had one enemy—France—and not the myriad of enemies innocent people attract, sometimes in the course of everyday business on land, or so I suspect. My sisters have never understood why I prefer the sea.’
‘Surely there are scoundrels at sea—I mean, in addition to the French,’ she said.
‘Of course there are, Mrs P. The world is full of them. It’s given me great satisfaction to hang a few.’
She couldn’t help herself; she shuddered.
‘They deserved it. The hangings never cost me any sleep, because I made damned sure they were guilty.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Mrs Paul, I cannot deny that I enjoyed the power, but I have never intentionally wronged anyone.’
Too bad you were not on the Admiralty court that convicted my husband, she thought. Or would you have heard the evidence and convicted, too? She knew there was no way of knowing. She had not been allowed in the chambers. Best put it to rest.
‘I have the skills to manage your household,’ she told him, when he had resumed eating. ‘I’m quite frugal, you know.’
‘With a charming brogue betraying your origins, could you be anything else?’
‘Now, sir, you know that is a stereotype!’ she scolded. ‘My own father hadn’t a clue what to do with a shilling, and he could outroll my rrr’s any day.’ She smiled at the admiral, liking the way he picked up his napkin with the hook and wiped his lips. ‘But I am good with funds.’
‘So am I, Mrs P.,’ he said, putting down the napkin. ‘Napoleon has made me rich, so you needn’t squeeze the shillings so hard that they beg for mercy! I’ll see that you have a good allowance, too.’
‘That isn’t necessary,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve done with so little for so long that I probably wouldn’t know what to do with an allowance.’
He looked at his timepiece. ‘Past my bedtime. Call it a bribe then, Mrs P. Wait until you see the estate I am foisting on you!’ He grew serious quickly. ‘There is plenty of money for coal, though.’ With his hook, he casually twirled a lock of her hair that had come loose. ‘I think your fortunes have turned, my dear.’
It was funny. The hook was so close to her face, but she felt no urge to flinch. She reached up and touched it, twining the curl further around it.
‘My hook doesn’t disgust you?’ he asked, startled.
‘Heavens, no,’ she replied. ‘How did you lose your hand? And, no, I’m not going to be frippery again and suggest you were careless.’
He pulled his hook through the curl, patted it against her cheek and grinned at her. ‘You do have a mouth on you, Mrs Paul. Most people are so cowed by my admiralness that I find them dull.’
‘I am not among them, I suppose. After your taradiddle about being my cousin, I think you are probably as faulty and frail as most of humanity.’ She sat back, amazed at herself for such a forthright utterance. She had never spoken to Andrew that way, but something about Charles Bright made him a conversational wellspring as challenging as he was fun to listen to.
‘Touché!’ He looked down at his hook. ‘I was but a first mate when this happened, so it has been years since I’ve had ten fingernails to trim.’
She laughed. ‘Think of the economy!’
He rolled his eyes at her. ‘There you go again, being a Scot.’
‘Guilty as charged, Admiral.’
‘I wish I could tell you it was some battle where England’s fate hung in the balance, but it was a training accident. We were engaged in target practice off the coast of Brazil when one of my guns exploded. Since it was my gun crew, I went to lend a hand.’ He made a face. ‘Poor choice of words! The pulley rope that yanks the gun back after discharge was tangled. I untangled it at the same time it came loose. Pinched off my left hand so fast I didn’t know it had happened, until the powder monkey mentioned that I was spouting. Mrs P, don’t get all pale on me. We had an excellent surgeon on board, almost as talented as the smithy who built me my first hook.’
‘You never thought about leaving the navy?’
‘Over a hand? Really, madam.’
‘How do you keep it on?’
She was hard put to define his expression then. She could have sworn there was something close to gratitude in his eyes, as though he was pleased she cared enough to ask such a forwards question.
‘Apart from eight-year-old boys, you’re the first person who ever asked.’
‘I’m curious.’
‘I’ll show you later. There’s a leather contraption that crosses my chest and anchors to my neck.’ As she watched, he tilted his head, pulled at his neckcloth and exposed a thin strap. ‘See? If ever my steward is gone or busy, you might have to help me get out of it. Are you any good at tying neckcloths?’
‘I’ve tied a few,’ she said.
‘Good. You might have to tie more. Beyond that, I’m not too helpless.’
‘Helpless is not a word I would ever use in the same breath with your admiralness.’
‘What a relief that is, Mrs P,’ he said. ‘Where were we?’
‘Something about you?’
‘Ah, yes. I was born forty-five years ago in Bristol. My father was a successful barrister who could not understand why I wanted to go to sea. He made arrangements and I shipped aboard as a young gentleman at the age of ten. My older sisters are Frances—I call her Fan, or Fannie—and Dora, who follows where Fannie leads. Both married well and both have outlived their husbands, which means I am ripe for meddling from them.’ He shuddered elaborately.
‘Any interesting avocations, now that you are retired?’
‘Not yet. Mrs Paul, your eyelids are drooping.’ He stood up. ‘I will retire now and leave you to your chamber. Do you think nine of the clock tomorrow morning is too early to bother the vicar at St Andrew’s?’
‘I should think not.’ She looked up at him, a frown on her face. ‘You don’t have to go through with this, you know.’
‘I believe I do.’ He bent down then, and she thought for one moment he was going to kiss her. Instead, he rubbed his cheek against hers, and she smiled to feel whiskers against her face. It had been so long. ‘Mrs Paul, you need help and I need a wife. I promise you I will cause you no anxiety or ever force myself on you without your utmost consent and enthusiasm, should you or I ever advance this marriage into something more…well, what…visceral. Is that plain enough?’
It was. She nodded. Then he did kiss her, but only her cheek.
‘Very well, then, Admiral. I will be an extraordinarily excellent wife.’
‘I rather thought so,’ he said as he went to the door and gave her a little bow. She laughed when he kissed his hook and blew in her direction, then left the room.
‘You are certainly an original,’ she said quietly. She sat at the table a few minutes longer, eating one of the remaining plums, then just looking at the food. It was only the smallest kind of stopgap between actual dinner and breakfast, but she had not seen so much food in front of her in years. ‘What a strange day this has been, Admiral,’ she whispered.

She didn’t sleep a wink, but hadn’t thought she would, considering the strangeness of her situation. She spent much of the night debating whether to tell her future husband that her married name was Daviess, but decided against it, as dawn broke. He knew her as Mrs Paul, and what difference could it make? She had resolved several years ago not to look back.

When the ’tween-stairs girl made a fire in the grate and brought a can of hot water, Sally asked for a bath, hoping the admiral wouldn’t object to the added expense on his bill. When the tub and water came, she sank into it with pleasure.
She left the tub after the water cooled. With a towel wrapped around her, she pulled out the pasteboard folder from her valise and extracted her copy of the marriage lines to Andrew Daviess, and his death certificate, reading again the severe line: ‘Death by own hand.’ Poor, dear man. ‘Andrew, why didn’t you think it through one more time?’ she asked the document. ‘We could have emigrated to Canada, or even the United States.’
With a sigh, she dried herself off and stood a moment in front of the coal fire. The towel fell to the floor and she stood there naked until she felt capable of movement. She looked in the mirror, fingering her stretch marks and frowning over her ribs in high relief when she raised her arms. ‘Sally, you’ll eat better at Admiral Bright’s estate,’ she told her reflection. ‘You are just an empty sack now.’
She was in no mood to begin a marriage with someone she did not know, but there didn’t seem to be anything else to do. She dressed quickly, wishing she had a better garment for the occasion. She shook out a muslin dress from the valise, one she had worn many times, and took it and the pasteboard folder downstairs. She left the dress with the parlour maid, asking that someone iron it for her, then let herself out of the Drake.
It was still early; no one was about in the street except fishmongers and victuallers hauling kegs of food on wheel-barrows. From her life in Portsmouth as Andrew Daviess’s wife, she knew he had been efficient in his profession, even up to the shocking day he was accused by the Admiralty of felony and manslaughter in knowingly loading bad food aboard ships. In the months of suspended animation that followed, she had seen him shaking his head over and over at the venality of his superior, whom he suspected of doctoring the all-important and lucrative accounts to make the errors Andrew’s alone. He could prove nothing, of course, because his superior had moved too fast.
And finally Andrew could take it no longer, hanging himself from a beam in their carriage house, empty of horses since they could no longer afford them and pay a barrister, too. He left no note to her, but only one he had sent to the Lord Admiral proclaiming his innocence, even as his suicide seemed to mock his words.
Now the whole matter was over and done. She knew that by marrying the admiral, who had no idea what a kettle of fish he had inherited and with any luck never would, her life with Andrew Daviess was irrevocably over.

When she arrived at St Andrew’s, the vicar was concluding the earliest service. She approached him when he finished, explaining that in another hour, she and a gentleman would be returning with a special licence.
‘I am a widow, sir,’ she said, handing him the pasteboard folder. ‘Here are my earlier marriage lines and my late husband’s death certificate. Is there anything else you need from me?’
The old man took the folder and looked inside. ‘Sophia Paul Daviess, spinster from Dundrennan, Kirkcudbright-shire, Scotland, age twenty-two years, 1806’. He looked at Andrew’s death certificate, shaking his head, so she knew he had read the part about ‘Death by his own hand’. He handed the document back. ‘A sad affair, Mrs Daviess.’
‘It was.’
‘And now you are marrying again. I wish you all success, madam.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She hesitated. ‘For reasons which you must appreciate, I have been using my maiden name, rather than my married name.’
He walked with her to the door. ‘I can imagine there has been some stigma to a suicide, Mrs Paul.’
If you only knew, she thought. ‘There has been,’ was all she said.
‘Those days appear to be ending. I’ll look forwards to seeing you again in an hour.’ The vicar held out his hand. ‘If you wish, I can enter this information in the registry right now, so you needn’t be reminded of it during this next wedding.’
It was precisely what she wanted. ‘Thank you, sir.’

As she returned to the Drake, she looked up to the first storey and saw the admiral looking out. He waved to her and she waved back, wondering how long he had been watching and if he had seen her leave the hotel.
When she came up the stairs to the first floor, he opened his door. ‘You gave me a fright, Mrs Paul, when I knocked on your door and you weren’t there. I reckoned you had gone the way of The Mouse, and that would have been more than my fragile esteem could manage.’
‘Oh, no, sir. I would not go back on my word, once given,’ she assured him.
‘I thought as much,’ he said, ‘especially after the ’tween-stairs maid said you had left a dress belowdeck to be ironed.’ He thumped his chest with his hook, which made Sally smile. ‘What a relief.’
‘I went ahead to the church with my marriage lines and Andrew’s death certificate. I thought he might want to see them and perhaps record them. Such proved to be the case.’
‘So efficient, Mrs Paul,’ he murmured. ‘I shall be spoiled.’
Not so much efficient as ashamed for you to see that certificate, she thought. Oh, seek a lighter subject, Sally. ‘That’s it, sir. I will spoil you like my old ladies—prunes in massive amounts, thoroughly soaked for easy chewing, and at least a chapter a day of some improving literature such as, such as…’
‘I know: “The prevention of self-abuse during long sea voyages”,’ he joked, then held up his hand to ward off her open-mouthed, wide-eyed stare. ‘I do not joke, Mrs P! You would be amazed what do-gooders in the vicinity of the fleet think is important.’
She laughed out loud, then covered her mouth in embarrassment that she even knew what he was talking about.
‘I was a frigate captain then. I preserved a copy of that remarkable document and asked all my wardroom mates to sign it. The purser even added some salacious illustrations, so perhaps I will not let you see it until you are forty or fifty, at least.’
She couldn’t think of a single retort.
‘What? No witty comeback?’ There was no denying the triumph in his eyes.
‘Not to that, sir,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps I will not read you improving chapters of anything.’
She was spared further embarrassment by the ’tween-stairs maid, who brought her ironed dress upstairs and shyly handed it to her. Admiral Bright gave the little girl a few coins before she left.
Sally went into her own room and put on the dress, but not before wishing it would magically turn into a gown of magnificent proportions. Just as well it does not, she scolded herself as she attempted to button up the back. I don’t have the bosom to hold it up right now.
She also remembered why she hadn’t worn the dress in ages. By twisting around, she managed to do up the lower and upper buttons, but the ones in the middle were out of reach. She stood in silence, then realised there was nothing to do but enlist the admiral. She knocked on the door. She felt the blush leap to her face, even as she scolded herself for such missish behaviour, considering that in less than an hour, she was going to marry this man.
‘Admiral, can you possibly tackle the buttons in the middle of this dratted dress? Either that, or call back the ’tween-stairs maid.’ She looked at his hook and frowned. ‘Oh, dear. I forgot.’
Admiral Bright was obviously made of sterner stuff. He came into her room and closed the door behind him. ‘What? You think I cannot accomplish this simple task? Who on earth do you think buttons my trousers every morning? Turn around and prepare to be amazed.’
She did as he said, her cheeks on fire. He pressed the flat curve on his hook against her back to anchor the fabric, then pushed each button through, his knuckles light against her bare skin.
‘No applause needed,’ he said. ‘Turn around and stop being so embarrassed.’
She did as he said. ‘You’re going to wish The Mouse had showed up.’
‘No, indeed, madam. I have something for you, and you will have to manage this yourself.’
He took a small sack out of his coat front and handed it to her. ‘I got this in India. It should look especially nice against that light blue fabric.’
Holding her breath, Sally took out a gold chain with a single ruby on it.
‘You can breathe, Mrs Paul,’ he advised. She could tell by his voice how pleased he was with her reaction.
‘I wish I had something for you,’ she whispered as she turned the necklace over in her hand.
‘Considering that this time yesterday, you thought you were going to be tending an old lady with skinflint relatives, I am hardly surprised. Come, come. Put it on. I can’t help you with the clasp.’
She did as he said, clasping the fiery little gem about her neck where it hung against her breast bone. Suddenly, the old dress didn’t seem so ordinary. She couldn’t even feel the place in her shoes where the leather had worn through.
‘It’s not very big, but I always admired the fire in that little package,’ he told her, half in apology, partly in pride.
She could feel the admiral surveying her, and she raised her chin a little higher, convinced she could pass any muster, short of a presentation at court. All because of a little ruby necklace. She touched it, then looked at Admiral Bright. ‘You deserve someone far more exciting than me,’ she said.
He surprised her by not uttering a single witticism, he whom she already knew possessed many. ‘You’ll do, Sally Paul,’ he said gruffly and offered her his arm. ‘Let’s get spliced. A ruby is small potatoes, compared to the favour you’re doing me of shielding me for evermore from my sisters!’

Chapter Four (#ulink_77d48ad6-a787-5a42-a659-6efa2fcbaeb8)
They were married at half past nine in St Andrew’s Church, where some three centuries earlier, and under different ecclesiastical management, Catherine of Aragon had knelt after a long sea voyage and offered thanks for safe passage. Sally could appreciate the mood and the moment. When the vicar pronounced them husband and wife, she felt a gentle mantle of protection cover her to replace the shawl of lead she had been carrying around for years. She couldn’t have explained the feeling to anyone, and she doubted the admiral would understand. She was too shy to expand on it, so she kept the moment to herself.
Truth to tell, she hoped for better success than Catherine of Aragon. After the brief ceremony, when the young vicar chatted a bit mindlessly—obviously he hadn’t married a couple with so little fanfare before—Sally couldn’t help but think of her Catholic Majesty, gone to England to marry one man, and ending up a scant few years later with his brother, Henry.

She mentioned it to the admiral over breakfast at the Drake. ‘Do you not see a parallel? You came here to marry The Mouse, and you ended up with the lady’s companion. Perhaps Catherine of Aragon started a trend.’
The admiral laughed. ‘If it’s a trend, it’s a slow-moving one.’ He leaned forwards over the buttered toast. ‘What should I call you? I’ve become fond of Mrs P, but now it’s Mrs B. And I had no idea your name was actually Sophia, which I rather like. How about it, Sophia Bright?’
She felt suddenly shy, as though everyone in the dining room was staring at the ring on her finger, which seemed to grow heavier and heavier until it nearly required a sling. ‘No one has ever called me Sophia, but I like it.’
‘Sophia, then. What about me? You really shouldn’t persist in calling me admiral. Seems a bit stodgy and you don’t look like a midshipman. Charles? Charlie?’
She thought about it. ‘I don’t think I know you well enough for “Charles”. Maybe I’ll call you “Mr Bright”, while I think about it.’
‘Fair enough.’ He peered more closely at the ring he had put on her finger in the church. ‘It’s a dashed plain ring.’ He slid it up her finger. ‘Rather too large. H’mm. What was good enough for The Mouse doesn’t quite work for you.’ He patted her hand. ‘You can think about my name, and I can think about that ring, Sophia.’
Now I am Sophia Bright, where only yesterday I was Sally Paul, she thought as she finished eating. No one will know me. While he spoke to the waiter, she looked over at her new husband with different eyes. There was no denying his air of command. Everything about him exuded confidence and she felt some envy.
He was certainly no Adonis; too many years had come and gone for that. His nose was straight and sharp, but his lips were the softest feature on his face. Such a ready smile, too. He reminded her of an uncle, long dead now, who could command a room by merely entering it. She began to feel a certain pride in her unexpected association with this man beside her. After the past five years of shame and humiliation, she almost didn’t recognise the emotion.
He had no qualms about gesturing with his hook. If he had lived with the thing since his lieutenant days, then it was second nature, and not something to hide. She looked around the dining room. No one was staring at him, but this was Plymouth, where seamen with parts missing were more common than in Bath, or Oxford. This is my husband, she wanted to say, she who barely knew him. He is mine. The idea was altogether intoxicating and it made her blush.

He had hired a post chaise for the ride home. ‘I…we…are only three miles from Plymouth proper. I suppose I shall get a carriage, and that will mean horses, with which I have scant acquaintance,’ he told her. ‘It’s going to be hard for me to cut a dashing figure atop a horse.’ He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know a good horse if it bit me…which it will, probably.’
Sally put her hand to her mouth to keep in the laugh. With a twinkle in his eyes, the admiral took her hand away. ‘It is a funny image, Sophia,’ he said. ‘Go ahead and laugh. I imagine years and years of midshipmen would love to see such a sight. And probably most of my captains, too.’
He fell silent then, as they drove inland for a mile, over the route she had taken on foot only yesterday. How odd, she thought. It seems like years ago already, when I was Sally Paul.
He was gazing intently out the window and she wondered why, until the ocean came in sight again and he sat back with a sigh. He misses it, she thought, even if it is only a matter of a few miles.
‘You miss the ocean, don’t you?’
He nodded. ‘I thought I would not. After I retired, I spent some weeks in Yorkshire, visiting an old shipmate far inland—well, I was hiding from Fannie and Dora. What a miserable time! Yes, I miss the ocean when I do not see it.’ He looked her in the eye. ‘Did you ever meet a bigger fool?’
‘Probably not,’ she replied, her voice soft, which made the admiral blush—something she doubted he did very often. ‘It it amazing what revelation comes out, after the ring goes on.’
‘I suppose you have deep, dark secrets, too,’ he told her, good humour in his voice, as if he could not imagine such a thing.
He had come closer to the mark than was comfortable, and she wished again she had told him her real married name. It was too late now. She would have to hope the matter would never come up. Sally returned some sort of nonsensical reply that she forgot as soon as it left her lips, but which must have satisfied the man. His gaze returned to the view out the chaise window.
‘I do have a confession,’ he said, as the post chaise slowed and turned into a lane which must have been lovely at one time, but which now was overgrown and rutted.
It can’t be worse than my omission, she thought. ‘I’m all a-tremble,’ she said, feeling like the biggest hypocrite who ever wore shoe leather.
He chuckled, and touched her knee with his hook. ‘Sophia, I promise you I do not have a harem in Baghdad—too far from the coast—or an evil twin locked in the attic.’ He didn’t quite meet her gaze. ‘You’ll see soon enough. How to put this? I didn’t precisely buy this property for the manor.’
He had timed his confession perfectly. The coachman slowed his horses even more on the last turn, and then the estate came into view. What probably should have been a graceful lawn sloping towards a bluff overlooking a sterling view of Plymouth Sound was a tangle of weeds and overgrown bushes.
The admiral was watching her expression, so Sally did her best to keep it entirely neutral. ‘It appears you could use an entire herd of sheep,’ she murmured. ‘And possibly an army equipped with scythes.’
She looked closer, towards the front door, and her eyes widened. She put her hand to her mouth in astonishment. Rising out of a clump of undergrowth worthy almost of the Amazon was a naked figure. ‘Good heavens,’ she managed. ‘Is that supposed to be Venus?’
‘Hard to say. You can’t see it from here, but she seems to be standing on what is a sea shell. Or maybe it is a cow patty,’ the admiral said. He coughed.
There she stood, one ill-proportioned hand modestly over her genitals. Sally looked closer, then blushed. The hand wasn’t over her privates as much as inside them. The statue’s mouth was open, and she appeared to be thinking naughty thoughts.
‘I think this might be Penelope, and her husband has been gone a long time,’ Sally said finally.
She didn’t dare look at the admiral, but she had no urge to continue staring at a statue so obviously occupied with business of a personal nature. She gulped. ‘A very long time.’
‘No doubt about it,’ the admiral said, and he sounded like he was strangling.
I don’t dare look at him, else I will fall on the floor in a fit of laughter, and then what will he think? Sally told herself. And then she couldn’t help herself. The laughter rolled out of its own accord and she clutched her sides. When she could finally bring herself to look at the admiral, he was wiping his eyes.
‘Mrs Bright, you would be even more shocked to know there was a companion statue on the other side of the door. Let me just say it was a man, and leave it at that.’
‘Wise of you,’ she murmured, and went off in another gust of laughter. When she could muster a coherent thought, Sally realised it had been years and years since she had laughed at all, let alone so hard.
‘What happened to…ah…Romeo?’ she asked.
‘My steward—you would probably call him my butler—whacked him off at the ankles. I suppose he hasn’t had time to get around to the lady.’
The admiral left the post chaise first. She took his hand as he helped her out. ‘I can scarcely imagine what delights await me indoors,’ Sally said.
‘Oh, I think you can,’ was all he would say, as he put his hand under her elbow and helped her up the steps. ‘Careful now. I should probably carry you over the threshold, Mrs Admiral Sir Charles Bright, but you will observe the front steps are wobbly.’
‘I shall insist upon it when the steps are fixed.’
‘Oh, you will?’ he asked, and then kissed her cheek. ‘Hopefully, our relationship will continue after your first view of the entry hall.’ He opened the door with a flourish. ‘Feast your eyes, madam wife.’
The hall itself appeared dingy, the walls discoloured from years of neglect, but the ceiling drew her eyes upwards immediately. Her mouth fell open. She stepped back involuntarily and her husband’s arm seemed to naturally encircle her waist.
‘At the risk of ruining my credit with you for ever, Sophia, I saw a ceiling like this once in a Naples bawdy house.’
‘I don’t doubt that for a minute!’ she declared, looking around at a ceiling full of cupids engaged in activities the statue out front had probably never even dreamed of. ‘Over there…what on earth…? Oh, my goodness.’ Sally put her hands to her cheeks, feeling their warmth. She turned around and took her husband by the lapels of his coat. ‘Mr Bright, who on earth owned this house?’
‘The estate agent described him as an earl—the sorry end of a long line of earls—who had roughly one thing on his mind. Apparently, in early summer, the old roué used to indulge in the most amazing debaucheries in this house. After that, he closed up the place and retreated to his London lodgings.’
She couldn’t help herself. She leaned her forehead against her new husband’s chest. His arms went around her and she felt his hook against her waist. ‘There had better be a very good reason that a man of sound mind— I’m speaking of you—would buy such a house, Admiral Bright.’
‘Oh, dear,’ he murmured into her hair. ‘Not two minutes inside your new home and I am back to “admiral”.’ He took her hand. ‘Yes, there is a good reason. Humour me another moment.’
She followed where he led, her hand in his, down the hall with its more-than-naughty inmates high above, and out through the French doors into the garden, which was as ill used as the front lawn. Beyond a thoroughly ugly gazebo was the wide and—today—serene expanse of the ocean. It filled the horizon with a deep blue that blended into the early summer sky. Sea birds wheeled and called overhead and she could hear waves breaking on the rocks below. In the distance, a ship under full sail seemed to skim the water as it made for Plymouth.
The admiral released her hand. ‘One look at this and I knew I would never find another place so lovely. What do you think, Sophia? Should I tear down the house and rebuild?’
She turned around and looked at her new home, sturdy with stone that might have once been painted a pastel; elegant French doors that opened on to a fine terrace; wide, floor-to-ceiling windows that would be wonderful to stand behind, when the day was stormy and still the ocean beckoned.
‘No. It’s a good house. Once a little—a lot—of paint is applied.’
‘My thoughts precisely. I got it for a song.’
She had to smile at that. ‘I’m surprised the estate agent didn’t pay you to take it off his hands! Have your sisters been here?’
‘Once. Fannie had to wave burnt feathers under Dora’s nose, and they were gone the next morning before it was even light. I confess I haven’t done anything to the house since, because they assured me they would never return until I did. Until now.’ He sighed and tugged her over to the terrace’s stone railing, where they sat. ‘It worked for a few months, but even these imps from hell weren’t strong enough to ward off the curse of women with too much time on their hands. Fannie is planning to redecorate in an Egyptian style, and Dora tags along.’
‘When?’
‘Any day now, which is why my cook is on strike and…’ He put his hook to his ear, which made her smile. ‘Hark! I hear the thump-tap of my steward. Here he is, my steward through many a battle. John Starkey, may I introduce my wife, Mrs Bright?’
Yesterday, she might have been startled, but not today. From his peg leg to his eye patch, John Starkey was everything a butler was not. All he lacked was a parrot on his shoulder. If he had opened his mouth and exhibited only one, lonely tooth, she would not have been surprised. As it was, he had a full set of teeth and a gentle smile, even a shy one. She looked from the admiral to his steward, realising all over again that these were men not much used to the ameliorating company of women.
But his smile was genuine. She nodded her head. ‘Starkey, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Is this the strangest place you have ever lived?’
‘Aye, madam.’
‘But you would follow the admiral anywhere, I take it.’
He looked faintly surprised. ‘I already have, Mrs Bright,’ he replied, which told her volumes about a world of war she would never know. It touched her more than anything else he could have said.
‘Starkey answers the front door, polishes my best hook—and any other silver we might have lying around—decants wine with the best of them and never considers any command too strange,’ the admiral said. ‘Starkey, the naked woman in the front yard will have to go. Lively now.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ He knuckled his forehead. ‘I ran out of time.’ He bowed to them both and left the terrace. In a few minutes, Sally heard the sound of chopping.
‘I’m low on servants,’ he told her as he got off the railing and started for the French doors. She followed. ‘That will be your task. Go back to Plymouth and hire whomever you think we need.’
She walked with him slowly back down the hall, neither of them looking up. He paused before a closed door. ‘This is my—our—library.’
‘Wonderful! I was hoping the house had one.’ Sally started forwards, but the admiral neatly hooked the sash on the back of her dress and reeled her in.
‘Over my prone and desiccated corpse, Sophia,’ he said. ‘If you think these cherubs are…ah…interesting, you’ll be fair shocked by the walls in here. And the books. And the busts.’ He winced. ‘I’ve never seen such a collection of ribaldry under one roof. The earl seemed to prefer illustrations to words.’
‘My blushes,’ Sally said.
‘Mine, too, and I consider myself a pretty normal navy man.’ He laughed softly. ‘The old earl has me beat! I looked through one book and found myself darting glances over my shoulder, hoping my mother—she’s been dead nearly forty years—wasn’t standing close enough to box my ears and send me to bed without any supper.’ He removed his hook from the back of her dress. ‘I’m not a man who believes in book burning, but I’m going to make an exception, in this case. We’ll make an evening of it.’
He continued down the hall, and she followed, shaking her head. He stopped before another door. ‘Speaking of meat…this is the way belowdeck to the galley.’ He straightened his shabby coat. ‘In case you are wondering, I am girding my loins. My cook is down there—don’t forget he is on strike.’
Sally stared at the door, and back at her husband. ‘Is he that terrifying?’
‘Let us just say he is French.’ He peered closer. ‘Right now, you are probably asking yourself how on earth you let yourself be talked into marriage to a certified lunatic and life in a house of, well, if not ill repute, then very bad art.’
He started to say something else, but he was interrupted by a crack from the front entrance and the sound of bushes shaking. ‘I think Penelope has more on her tiny mind now than Odysseus’s continued absence,’ Bright murmured. ‘I will choose discretion over valour, and not even ask what you think of all this.’
You would be surprised, Admiral, she thought. I have never been so diverted. Sally took his arm and opened the door. ‘I think it is time I met your cook.’

Chapter Five (#ulink_53fdd422-83af-54a6-9547-d908c2550a58)
‘His name is Etienne Dupuis, and I won him with a high card after the Battle of Trafalgar,’ the admiral whispered as they went quietly down the stairs. ‘He was the best cook in the fleet, but he can be moody at times.’
‘This is one of those times, I take it,’ Sally whispered back. ‘Why are we whispering?’
‘He told me if I ever allowed my sisters here again, he would leave me to Starkey’s cooking and return to La Belle France.’
‘And would he?’
‘I don’t intend to find out.’ His lips were close to her ear, and she felt a little shiver down her spine. ‘Let us see how charming you can be, Mrs Bright.’
They came into a pleasant-sized servants’ hall. Thankfully, there were no cupids painted on these walls, but all was dark. The Rumford didn’t look as though there had been a fire lit for several days.
‘I think we’re too late,’ she whispered, not minding a bit that the admiral had pulled her close. ‘See here, sir, are you more afraid than I am?’
‘Absolutely,’ he told her. ‘You didn’t know you had married the coward of the Blue Fleet, did you? Good thing there was no Yellow Fleet. Stay close, Sophia. He threw a cleaver at me once.’
‘Goodness! In that case, I think I should stay far away!’
He took her hand and towed her further into the kitchen. ‘Etienne? I want you to meet my wife. She is the kindest creature in the galaxy.’
Sally smiled. ‘You don’t even know me,’ she whispered into his shoulder.
‘I think I do,’ he told her, raising her hand in his and kissing it. ‘You’ve been here twenty minutes at least, and you haven’t run screaming away from this den of iniquity I purchased. I call that a kindness. Etienne? She’s nothing like my sisters. Can we declare a truce?’
The admiral nodded towards the fireplace and a high-backed chair, where a little puff of smoke plumed. The man in the chair—she could see only his feet—didn’t move or say anything. He cleared his throat and continued to puff.
‘He’s more than usually stubborn,’ Bright whispered.
‘He sounds very much like the old ladies I tended,’ Sally whispered back. She released her grip on the admiral. ‘Let me see what I can do.’ She couldn’t help herself. ‘What is it worth to you, sir?’ she teased.
Before he spoke, the admiral gave her such a look that she felt her stomach grow warm. ‘How about a wedding ring that fits?’ he asked at last, with the humorous look she was used to already, the one that challenged her to match his wit.
‘Solid gold and crusted with diamonds,’ she teased. ‘And an emerald or two.’
Sally picked up a chair at the servants’ table and put it down next to the high-backed chair. She seated herself, not looking at the little man. ‘I’m Sophia Bright,’ she said.
There was a grunt from the chair, but nothing more.
‘Honestly, how can my husband even imagine you can work in this place, with no pots-and-pans girl, and no assistant? What was he thinking? And his sisters? That’s more than even a saint could endure. I shouldn’t be surprised if you have already packed your valise.’
Another puff. Then, ‘I have been thinking long and hard about packing.’
‘I could never blame you,’ she said, shivering a little. ‘Do you have enough bed covering down here? I believe it would be no trouble to find a proper footstool for your chair. I will go look right now.’
That was all it took. The little man got up from his chair and bowed. ‘Etienne Dupuis at your service, Lady Bright. Bah! What would I do with a footstool?’
‘Make yourself more comfortable?’ she asked, keeping her voice innocent. ‘And I will worry about you, shivering down here in the dark.’
In a moment, the chef had pulled down the lamp over the table, lit it and sent it back up. He shook coal into the grate and lit it, then turned to the Rumford. ‘Would madam care for tea?’
‘I’d love some, Etienne, but I know you are a busy man and it isn’t time for tea yet. Besides…weren’t you about to pack?’
‘I will make time,’ he said, bowing graciously again and ignoring her question. ‘I shall have Starkey serve tea on the terrace.’
‘That is so kind of you,’ she said, not daring to look her husband in the eyes. She could see that he had not moved from where she had left him. ‘Perhaps some tea for the admiral, too.’ She leaned closer in a conspiratorial manner. ‘Poor man. It’s not his fault that he has such sisters.’
‘I suppose it is not,’ the chef said, busying himself in the pantry now. ‘They order me about and tell me what to do in my own kitchen! Me!’
Sally tisked several times and frowned. ‘Not any more, Etienne. I am here.’
‘You think you can stop them?’ he asked, waving his hands about.
‘I know I can,’ she answered simply, mentally shouting down every qualm rattling around in her brain. ‘There are no limits to what I would do to preserve the sanctity of your kitchen.’
Dupuis stopped and blew a kiss in her direction. He looked at the admiral. ‘Sir! Wherever did you meet such a gem?’
‘In a hotel dining room, Etienne. Where else?’
The chef laughed and smiled in conspiratorial fashion at Sally. ‘He is such a wit.’ He made a shooing motion with his hands. ‘Zut, zut! Upstairs now!’ He drew himself up. ‘Etienne Dupuis will produce!’
Sally clapped her hands. ‘You are everything my darling husband said, and more! In future, perhaps you would not mind showing me at the beginning of each week what you plan for meals? Just a little glimpse.’
He bowed elaborately this time. ‘I will bring my menus upstairs to your sitting room each Monday. And you might be thinking of your favourite foods.’
Lately it has been anything, Sally thought. I am just partial to eating again. ‘An excellent arrangement,’ she said. ‘This, sir, is your domain.’ She nodded to him, turned on her heel and rejoined her dumbfounded husband. ‘Come, my dearest, let us return to the terrace. I believe I saw some wrought-iron chairs there.’
With a smile, Bright held out his arm to her. ‘Amazing,’ he murmured. ‘My dearest?’
‘He is French and we are newly married. Do you have a better idea?’
The admiral glanced back at the chef, who was watching them, and put his arm around her waist. ‘I rather like it. Sophia, peace is suddenly getting interesting. I thought it never would.’
What he said, whether he even understand or not, went right to her heart. She impulsively put her hands on his shoulders. ‘I do believe I understand you now.’ She said it softly, so Etienne would not hear. ‘You’ve been at loose ends.’
He would have backed off, but she had him. His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re sounding a little like my sisters, Sophia.’
‘I probably am,’ she answered, on sure ground. ‘I am a female, after all. They reckoned you needed a wife. I reckon you just need a purpose. The war is over.’
It sounded so simple that Sally wondered if he would laugh at her nonsense. To her horror at first, tears filled his eyes. ‘My goodness,’ she said softly, when she recovered herself. ‘I’m not so certain you knew that.’
He said nothing, because he couldn’t. She took a handkerchief out of her sleeve and quickly wiped his eyes. ‘There now. We will have to brush old leaves and bird droppings, and heavens knows what else, off those chairs.’
The admiral said nothing as they walked down the hall, but he refused to release her hand, even when Etienne was not around to watch. On the terrace, he sized up the situation and found a piece of pasteboard to brush off the leaves from two chairs. He indicated one with a flourish and she sat down.
That’s what it is, she thought, as she watched him tackle the wrought-iron table. He needs a purpose. I do hope he doesn’t regret his hasty marriage already, because I still need a home.
He sat down beside her. ‘I have never seen anyone deal so quickly with Etienne, and I have known him for years. How did you know what to do?’
‘I believe I discovered the key when I was lady’s companion to what I will charitably call crotchety old women. All they ever needed was someone to listen to them. I listened.’ She put her hand on the admiral’s arm. ‘Don’t you see? In all his years of war and loss, and humiliation, I suppose, at being won in a card game, Etienne’s refuge has been his kitchen. If something threatens it, he goes to pieces.’
The admiral looked at her, making no move to draw away from her light touch. ‘I should just humour him?’
‘What do you lose by humouring him? I doubt he makes many demands.’
He reflected a moment. ‘No, he never has, really.’ He leaned forwards. ‘How do you propose to keep my sisters out of his kitchen?’
‘I’ll bar the door if I have to,’ she replied. Challenged by this man, she leaned forwards, too, until their noses were nearly touching. ‘This is my house, too, now, unless you’ve changed your mind already.’
She sat back then, suddenly shy, and he did the same, but with a half-smile on his face. ‘Change my mind?’ he said. ‘When you have declared that you will be a buffer for my chef, and probably even for me, as well? Only an idiot would change his mind.’
He closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun. ‘Peace,’ he said finally. ‘Sophia, I have missed out on everything in life because of Napoleon—a…a…wife, family, children, a home, a bed that doesn’t sway, clean water, fresh meat, smallclothes not washed in brine, for God’s sake, neighbours, new books from lending libraries, Sunday choir—you name it. I didn’t know how to court, so look what I did.’ He opened his eyes, looked at her and hastily added, ‘About that, be assured I have no regrets, Sophia. One doesn’t become an admiral of the fleet without a healthy dose of dumb luck.’
She was silent a long moment, looking out to sea, wondering what to make of the events of the past two days that had changed her life completely. ‘Perhaps my luck is changing, too.’
‘Count on it, wife.’

She was not so confident to take his assurance for fact. The last five years had shown her all too clearly how swiftly things could change. But then, she reasoned later, why could they not change for the good, too? Maybe the admiral was right.
They spent a pleasant afternoon on the terrace, drinking Etienne’s fragrant tea and eating the biscuits he brought out later, warm and toasted from the Rumford, which must have sprung back to life as soon as they had left the kitchen.
Sally was content to sit on the terrace, even in its shabby, unswept state, because the view was so magnificent. Also, she had no wish to enter the house again. As she sat, she began to think about the ramshackle garden in front of her.
‘Herbs would be nice,’ she commented.
‘Herb’s what?’ he teased.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Were you this much trouble to your sisters when you were young?’
‘Probably.’ He looked where she was looking. ‘Funny. All I see is the ocean and you see the land.’
‘Herbs right there in that closest weedy patch. Lavender, thyme, rosemary. Etienne will thank me. I would put roses there. The possibilities are endless.’
Clouds gathered overhead. When the rain began, the admiral held out his hand to her. ‘Looks like we are forced to go inside. May I suggest the bookroom? I think it is a place the old earl seldom entered, because he never decorated there.’
He was right; the bookroom was bereft of statues or cupids behaving badly. After indicating a chair, he sat down at the desk and took out a sheet of paper. Sally moved closer and uncapped the inkwell. The admiral nodded his thanks, then took up the pen and rested his hook on the paper to anchor it.
‘First things first, Sophia. Name it.’
‘More servants. I will ask Etienne what sort of staff he requires. We should have a downstairs maid, an upstairs maid and a ’tween-stairs girl. Gardeners. Would Starkey like a footman?’
‘Probably. We need painters with copious buckets of paint.’ He stopped and leaned his elbows on the desk. ‘Sophia, how to we find these people? On board ship, I spoke and everyone jumped.’
‘We need a steward—someone who knows the area who can find these people for us.’
He wrote, still frowning. ‘Starkey might think I am infringing on his territory. Still, how do I find a steward?’
Sally thought a moment. ‘We pay a call on your neighbours.’
‘What, and poach from them?’
‘You are a trial, Admiral. I wish I had known this yesterday.’
His lips twitched. ‘I’m not doing this on purpose. I’m out of my depth here.’
‘I repeat: tomorrow we will visit your closest neighbours. You will leave your card, explain the situation—I am certain they are already well aware of what this house looks like—and throw yourself on their mercy. If you are charming, they will provide assistance.’
‘And if I am not?’
‘You are charming, Mr Bright.’ She felt her cheeks grow warm when he looked at her. ‘Do you even know who your neighbours are, sir?’
‘The one directly next to us is an old marquis who seldom ventures off his property. A bit of a misanthrope, according to the real estate agent.’
‘Any other neighbours?’
He gestured vaguely in the other direction. ‘Across the lane is Jacob Brustein and his wife, Rivka. He’s the banker in Plymouth who partners with William Carter. Or did. I think Carter has been dead for years, but the name always gave Brustein some clout. My sisters were appalled.’
She considered this information. ‘Tomorrow morning, we will visit your neighbours.’
He looked at his list. ‘Don’t you need a maid to help you with your clothes?’
Sally shook her head. ‘The dress you saw me in, in the dining room, one cloak, a shawl, a nightgown and this blue dress constitute my wardrobe.’
He dipped the pen in the inkwell. ‘One wardrobe for the lady of the house and suits for me. Then you will need a lady’s maid. A laundress, too?’
She nodded, feeling the pinch of poverty again, even though she sat in a comfortable room. ‘I’m sorry to be a burden.’
He waved the list to dry the ink. ‘Burden? Look at all this sound advice you have given me.’ He reached across the table for her hand. ‘Sophia, pay attention. I am only going to say this once, since the subject of money seems to embarrass you. As much as I disliked Napoleon, I grew rich off of him. This paltry list won’t make much of a dent. It won’t, even when I add a carriage and horses, and a coachman, and someone to clean—whatever you call it—from the stables.’
‘Try muck.’
The admiral tipped back his chair and laughed. ‘Very well! Muck. I can see that your principal task will be to smooth my rough edges.’
‘Very well, sir.’
Starkey knocked on the door, then opened it. ‘Dupuis wanted me to tell you that dinner is served in the breakfast room. I have covered the scabrous paintings.’ He closed the door, then opened it again. ‘Penelope and Odysseus are gone,’ he intoned. ‘Or maybe she was Venus and he a typical sailor.’
Sally stared after him. ‘This place is a lunatic asylum,’ she said, when Starkey closed the door.
‘Not quite, dear wife. You have a worse task ahead, one I won’t even bother to immortalise on paper. You must find me something useful to do.’

That will be a chore, she thought, as she removed her clothes that night in the privacy of her own bedroom. Starkey had made the bed at some point in the evening and lit a fire in the grate, which took away the chill of the rain that continued to fall.
Dinner had been sheer delight. On short notice, Etienne had prepared a wonderful onion soup and served it with homely pilot bread, a menu item she remembered well from the days when Andrew would bring home his work and pore over the Royal Navy victual list, as she sat knitting in their tidy bookroom.
She had felt shy at first with Charles, spending so much time in the company of a man she barely knew, but who was utterly engaging. Thinking to put her at ease, he started telling stories of life at sea—nothing designed to horrify her, but stories of travel to lands so far away she used to wonder if they were real, when she was a child. He told them with gusto, describing the purgatory of being a ‘young gentleman’, a thoroughly unexalted position below midshipman, when he was only ten.
She must have looked askance at such a rough life for a mere child, because he stopped and touched her hand. ‘Don’t worry. I will never send our children to sea so young.’
He had continued his narrative, probably not even aware of his inclusion of her in his life, and she knew better than to say anything. She found herself listening to him with all her heart, filled with the pleasure of something as simple as conversation. She realised she had been hungry for it, after years of tending old women who liked to retire with the chickens. A lady’s companion didn’t quite belong in the servants’ hall, and certainly not in the master’s sitting room. There had been too many nights spent in solitude, with too much time to miss her son and agonise over her husband’s ruin. This was different and she relished the admiral’s company.
He had said goodnight outside the door to her chamber. ‘I’m across the hall, if you need anything,’ he said, then turned smartly on his heel, looking every inch the commander, and probably not even aware of it.
You don’t know what else to be, do you? she thought, closing the door. As for what I need, it isn’t much, Admiral. When you are destitute, you quickly discover how much you don’t need, or you die.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, bouncing a little, pleased to feel the comfort of a mattress thicker than a bandage. She had hung on to the mirror-backed hairbrush Andrew had given her one Christmas, and applied it, after she had taken all the pins from her hair.
She turned over the brush and looked seriously at her face, noting the anxious eyes and thin cheeks, and wondering again why Admiral Bright had even paused to look at her in the dining room. All she could think was that the poor man was desperate for a wife, and when The Mouse didn’t materialise… Well, whatever the reason, she would do her best to smooth his passage on land.
She was in bed and thinking about pinching out the candle when he knocked.
‘Sophia, I forgot something. Stick your hand out the door.’
Mystified, she got up and opened the door a crack. ‘Why on earth…?’ she began.
He had taken off his coat, removed his neckcloth and unbuttoned his shirt; she could see the webbing of straps against his neck that bound his hook to his wrist. He held out a piece of string.
‘I’m determined to do something about that ring that you kept taking on and off during dinner. Did it end up in the soup?’
What a sweet man you are, she thought. ‘You know it didn’t! I can surely just wrap some cloth around it and keep it from slipping off,’ she said. ‘You needn’t…’
‘Mrs Bright, I won’t have my wife stuffing cloth in her ring. What would our unmet neighbours think? Besides, it was my choice for The Mouse. Somehow, it just isn’t you.’
She opened her mouth to protest, but he gently laid his finger across her lips. ‘Mrs Bright, I am not used to being crossed. Retired I may be, but I like my consequence. Hold out your ring finger like the good girl I know you are. Lively now.’
She did as he said. How could she not? He handed her a small stub of a pencil and draped the string across her finger.
‘I don’t have enough hands for this,’ he muttered. ‘Just wrap it around and mark the right length.’
Sally did, touched at his kindness. Their heads were close together, and she breathed in his pleasant scent of bay rum again. ‘There you are, sir.’ She handed him the marked string and the pencil.
He stepped back. She stayed where she was, her eyes on his brace. ‘May I undo that for you?’
‘Why not?’ he said, leaning down a little. ‘Do you see the hole in the leather? Just twist and pop out the metal knob. Ah. Perfect. I can do the rest, but it’s hard to grasp that little thing.’
‘That’s all?’ she asked.
‘Simple enough with two hands, eh? Oh, you can undo my cufflinks, too. This pair is particularly pesky.’
She handed him the cufflinks. ‘Goodnight, sir. Let me know if you need help in the morning.’
He smiled his thanks and went back to his room, closing the door quietly behind him.
She fell asleep easily after that, making it the first night in years she had not rehearsed in her mind all the anguish and humiliation of the past five years. ‘Trust a houseful of naughty cupids and vulgar statues to distract me,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Lord, I am shallow.’ The notion made her smile and she closed her eyes. ‘Pretty soon I will think I actually belong here.’

She woke hours later because she knew she was not alone in her room. She lay completely still, wondering, then turned over.
Staring at her from the other pillow was a face so wrinkled that her mouth dropped open. He was watching her and grinning, and there didn’t seem to be a tooth in his head. She tried to leap up, but he grasped her wrist and gave it a slobbery kiss.
‘It’s been a long year, missie,’ he said.
Sally screamed.

Chapter Six (#ulink_2c06decb-e1ad-5073-ab59-fb3c6b6574d2)
Retired though he was, Admiral Bright knew he was destined never to sleep at night with both ears at rest. Not even when he resided on his flagship, and had little role in the actual workings of it—leaving that to his captain—could he sleep calmly at night. No, it was worse then, because his command was an entire fleet and he held even more lives in his hands.
He was out of bed before his wife even finished the scream, looking about for something to help her, from what, he had not a clue. Nothing wrong with his reflexes. By the time she screamed again, he had found his cutlass in the dressing room. Frustrated with a missing hand, he shoved the cutlass under his arm and yanked open the door.
Simultaneously, her door opened, too. He heaved a quick sigh to see her on her feet, even though her eyes were wide with terror, and something more. She threw herself into his arms and the cutlass clattered to the floor. She was awfully easy to grasp and hold on to, much as he already was beginning to suspect she would be.
‘What in God’s name…?’ he began. He tried to pick up the cutlass, but she wouldn’t turn him loose. He patted her. She felt sound of limb, so he left the cutlass where it lay, and held her close, not minding a bit.
She burrowed in closer, babbling something that sounded like words; her brogue didn’t help. He put his hand on her chin and gave her a little shake, which brought her up short.
‘Hey, now. Slow down. You’re all right.’
He was gratified to know that all his years of command weren’t a total waste. She stopped talking and took a deep breath, then leaned her forehead against his chest.
‘I think I killed him! And he’s so old!’
He blinked. He couldn’t have heard her right. ‘Sophia?’ he asked. ‘What did you say?’
With an exasperated exclamation, she left his embrace, took his hand and tugged him into her chamber. ‘Admiral, he was just…there! His head on the other pillow! I thumped him with my candlestick, but when I took a closer look…I’ve murdered an old man!’
‘Good God,’ was all he could think to say.
She climbed on her bed, affording him a marvellous glimpse of her legs, then flattened out on her stomach and peered over the edge on to the side closest to the wall. She looked back and gestured to him impatiently, so he joined her, lying there with his feet dangling over one side, looking where she pointed. A true antique lay on the floor, tangled in the bedclothes. His eyes were closed and a bruise rose on his forehead.
‘Do you think he’s dead?’ Sophia whispered.
Maybe the old man on the floor heard her, because he groaned and opened his eyes. ‘Was it something I said?’ he managed to croak. ‘You never did anything like that before.’
Bright glanced at Sophia, who stared at the old fellow. ‘Who…who…on earth are you, and what were you doing in my bed?’
The man held up his arm and Bright helped him into a sitting position. ‘Listen here, this is my wife’s bedroom,’ Bright said. ‘I think I’ve a right to know what is going on.’
The man gently touched the knot on his forehead, winced and looked at the two of them, watching him from the bed. ‘This is the right house, and I know this is June 10th. What, pray tell, are you two doing here?’
Bright looked at Sophia, who had gathered herself together into a tight ball on her pillow. ‘My dear, maybe you were right about this being a lunatic asylum.’
The old man began to wave his arms about. ‘For God’s sake, help me to a chair,’ he insisted. ‘Do I have to remind you it is June 10th?’
Sophia took one arm and Bright took the other, and walked him to a chair by the fireplace, where he sat down gratefully. ‘I could use some water,’ he said.
Bright had to smile when Sophia picked up the carafe at her bedside and started to sprinkle the old gentleman with it.
‘No! No! You silly piece! I want to drink it!’ he declared, his voice still weak, but testy. ‘It’s June 10th!’
‘June 10th?’ Bright echoed. ‘Is June 10th the night when lunatics and drooling idiots in Devon come out of the moor? This is a private dwelling and you have accosted my wife.’
The man stared at them, looking from one to the other and back again, like a tennis match in the court of France. ‘This is the manor of Lord Hudley, is it not?’
‘No, it is not. I bought it two months ago from his estate.’
The little man seemed to deflate further before their eyes. ‘His estate? He is dead?’ He choked out the last word in a way that sounded almost theatrical.
‘These six months or more,’ Bright said. He pulled up the other chair and gestured for Sophia to sit in it. After a long look at the old man, she did. ‘I believe he died in Venice after too much vino, which landed him in the Grand Canal, with nary a gondola in sight.’
‘That would be totally in character,’ the old gentleman said. ‘I wonder why I was never informed?’
‘Are you a relative?’ Sophia asked.
Even in the dim light, Bright could see that her hands were shaking. He put his hand over hers and she clutched him.
Bright wasn’t sure the old boy heard her. He sat back and closed his eyes again. ‘Hudley’s gone?’
‘I fear so,’ Bright said gently. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind tell us the significance of June 10th?’
The little man seemed to gather his tattered dignity about him like a dressing gown. ‘You can’t imagine how I used to look forwards to June 10th.’
‘Perhaps I could, if I had any idea what June 10th was.’
‘Hudley held the most amazing debauches here,’ the old man said, his voice almost dreamy. He glanced at Sophia, who glared back. ‘This is my bedroom, missy! Hudley always had my favourite Cyprian tucked right in here.’
Sophia gasped. Bright glanced at her, amused, as her mouth opened and closed several times. He looked back at the old fellow, new respect in his eyes.
‘I know this is rude, but how old are you?’
‘Eighty,’ he said with some dignity, and not a little pride. ‘I have been attending Hudley’s debauches for forty years, every June 10th.’ His eyes got more dreamy, obviously remembering some of the more memorable ones. ‘Do you know—are you aware—that a Cyprian can swing from the chandelier in the library?’ He held up a cautionary finger. ‘But only one unencumbered with clothing. Small feet, too.’
‘I don’t doubt you for a minute, sir.’
What a prodigious old sprite, Bright thought in astonishment. He could feel Sophia’s eyes boring into the back of his nightshirt. I’m going to be in such trouble if I don’t cease this line of enquiry, he thought. ‘I doubt seriously we will ever need to test the strength of the chandelier,’ he said, knowing how lame he sounded. ‘Perhaps we should introduce ourselves? I am Sir Charles Bright, retired admiral of his Majesty’s Blue Fleet. This is my wife, Lady Bright.’
The old man inclined his head as graciously as though he addressed his retainers. ‘I am Lord Edmonds, and I live in Northumberland.’
No wonder you looked forwards to a visit to Devonshire, Bright thought. I would, too, if I lived in Northumberland. You probably dreamed about this all year. ‘I suppose that would explain why you never heard of Lord Hudley’s demise.’
Lord Edmonds was in the mood to reminisce. ‘Sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes—’
‘That will do, Lord Edmonds,’ Bright interrupted, grateful that the dark hid his flaming face and unwilling to look Sophia in the eye.
Edmonds was unstoppable. ‘You’re a navy man. Don’t tell me you never…’
He floundered, but was rescued by an unexpected source. ‘Lord Edmonds, more to the point right now, how did you get into this house?’ Sophia asked, her hands folded demurely in her lap now, and looking far too fetching in her nightgown, with hair all around her shoulders.
Thank the Lord the old boy was diverted. Maybe he could also see in Sophia what was not lost on Bright. ‘Simple, my dear. Hudley secreted keys all over the terrace. I found my key—mine is under the little statue of Aphrodite with her legs…well, you know…out by the roses.’
‘Oh,’ Sophia said, her voice faint. ‘And there are keys everywhere?’
‘Everywhere,’ Lord Edmonds agreed cheerily. ‘We never had trouble getting in.’
This was the moment when Charles Bright had his first brush with what one of his captains—after a trying time ashore with a pregnant wife—used to call ‘marriage politics’. The fact that he recognised the moment made Bright’s heart do a funny thing. He knew his ship’s surgeon would call such a thing impossible, but he felt his heart take a little leap. Nothing big, but there it was. I can laugh because I want to, and this antediluvian roué is harmless, he thought, or I can think of Sophia, and that sudden intake of breath. Choose wisely, Admiral.
He took a deep breath, knowing that if he laughed, he might as well have waited another day or two for The Mouse. ‘Lord Edmonds, that worries me. Would you mind spending the night here—in a different room, of course—and walk around the gardens with me in the morning?’ He touched Sophia’s cheek, humbled at her tears. ‘I…I won’t have my wife alarmed like this again.’
He swallowed and looked at the woman making herself so small in the chair next to the old man. ‘My dear, I will never let anything like this happen again.’
She only nodded, because Bright could tell she couldn’t speak. The fear in her eyes reminded him how little he knew about women. Bright had no qualms about thanking the Lord for small favours to a man who, mere days ago, would have laughed. I just learned something, he thought, as he smiled at her with what he hoped was reassurance. Pray I remember it.
‘I can recall some of them,’ Lord Edmonds said.
‘Very well, then. How about you and I go belowdecks and see if my chef won’t mind providing us some tea? You might as well go back to bed, Sophia,’ he said. ‘I’ll find a bedroom for our…uh…guest.’
‘Oh, no,’ she declared, getting to her feet. ‘I’m not staying up here by myself!’

Etienne didn’t seem surprised by his early morning visitors; Bright hadn’t thought he would, considering the odd hours they were both familiar with from life in the Channel Fleet. He rubbed his eyes, looked Lord Edmonds over, and even provided some ice chips in a towel for the bump on his head.
Sophia had retreated to her room long enough to find a dressing gown as shabby as her nightgown and twist what looked like a wooden skewer into her mass of hair, pulling it back from her face. He found his own dressing gown, and she had kindly tied the sash without being asked.
She stuck right by his side down the stairs, which gave him the courage to drape his handless arm across her shoulder, hoping it wouldn’t disgust her. It didn’t. She let out a long breath, as though she had been holding it, and gave him a quick glance full of gratitude.
They sat downstairs in the servants’ hall for more than an hour, listening to Lord Edmonds, more garrulous by the minute, describe in glowing detail some of the more memorable revelries in the quiet building. As the clock chimed three, he gave a tremendous yawn. ‘I am ready to hang it up,’ he announced. His eyes turned wistful. ‘Forty years. My dears, when you live in the land of chilblained knees and sour oatmeal, a toddle down to Lord Hudley’s was always an event to look forwards to.’ He winked at Sophia, who by now was smiling. Glancing back at Bright, he said, ‘She’s a tasty morsel. Where did you find her?’
‘In a hotel dining room,’ Bright said, which seemed to be the best answer. Sophia laughed, which told him he had chosen right again.
Lord Edmonds looked at them both, obviously wondering if there was a joke unknown to him, then shrugged. ‘I just need a blanket and a pillow,’ he said, then brightened, ever the optimist. ‘You could let me sleep in the library.’
‘Absolutely not,’ Bright said firmly. ‘My steward has already prepared you a chamber in the room next to me. After breakfast in a few hours, you and I will tour the grounds.’ He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. ‘I’ll thank you for your key now.’
Lord Edmonds sighed, but surrendered the item. He followed them up the stairs, muttering something about ‘how stodgy today’s youngsters are’, which made Sophia’s shoulders shake. ‘He thinks we are young people,’ she whispered to Bright. ‘Should we be flattered?’
‘I know I am,’ he whispered back. ‘Sophia, you must admit he is a prodigious old goat, to think he was going to thrill some Cyprian! Pray God I am as hopeful, at age eighty.’
‘I don’t have to admit anything of the kind,’ she shot back. ‘I hope you two finds lots of keys tomorrow morning!’
He left Sophia at her door and escorted Lord Edmonds to his. He stood in the middle of the hall, uncertain what to do. The evening had already turned into something disturbingly similar to watch and watch about when he was a lieutenant: four hours on and four hours off, around the clock, at the good pleasure of the gods of war. He looked at Sophia’s door, wondering if she would sleep.
There was a wing-back chair in the hall, rump sprung and removed from one of the bedchambers. He pulled it to Sophia’s door and sat in it, making himself comfortable with his cutlass across his lap. No telling what a randy old goat would do, he reasoned, especially one so intimately acquainted with a ne’er-do-well like Lord Hudley.
He settled himself and closed his eyes.
‘Is that you, Charles?’
She sounded like she was crouching by the keyhole.
Charles, eh? he thought, supremely gratified. ‘Aye, Sophie, my fair Cyprian.’
She opened the door a crack. ‘I think I am safe enough,’ she said, but he caught the element of doubt in her voice. ‘And I am not your “fair Cyprian”,’ she added, for good measure.
He winked at her and closed his eyes. When she still stood there, he opened one eye. ‘Sophia, it’s been many a year since anyone has questioned me.’
‘I’m not one of your lieutenants!’ she flared.
Temper, temper, he thought. It makes your eyes awfully bright. ‘That’s true,’ he said agreeably. ‘You’re oceans prettier. Goodnight, Sophie. If you stand here arguing with me in your bare feet, I will only conclude that war was more peaceful than peace.’
She let out her breath in a gusty sigh. ‘This is a strange household.’
‘I can scarcely wait to see what tomorrow brings.’
She surprised him then, padding back inside her room, then returning with a light blanket. She tucked it around him, cutlass and all, all without a word. The door closed quietly behind her.

When Sally awoke, the rain was gone. She lay there a long moment, her hands behind her head, relishing the quiet. She was hungry, but without the familiar anxiety. She sniffed. Etienne apparently didn’t let his Gallic origins get in the way of an English breakfast. Of course, he had been cooking in the fleet since Trafalgar. She could dress at her leisure, and go downstairs to breakfast on the sideboard. There were no demanding old ladies, no employers to dread, no fears of being turned off and no quarrels about her begrudged wages.
She lay there, knowing she would give it all up for one more moment with Andrew, before the Lords of the Admiralty hounded him to death; another chance to walk with Andrew, Peter between them, as they held his hands and skipped him across puddles. She thought about the two loves of her life, then did something she had never done before: she folded the memory into her heart and tucked it away. There was no pain this time, only a certain softness in knowing how well she had loved, and how hard she had tried.
Sophia dabbed her eyes with the sheet and sat up, listening to voices on the lawn. She went to the window and threw open the casement to look out on the glory of the ocean. She rested her elbows on the sill, eyes merry as she watched Lord Edmonds—looking small and frail in the morning light—and her husband walk among the overgrown bushes, stopping now and then to retrieve keys.
What had frightened her so badly last night made her smile this morning. ‘You didn’t really have to sleep outside my door last night, Charles,’ she said out loud, knowing he couldn’t hear her. ‘But thank you, anyway.’
She turned around and stopped, while the tears came to her eyes again. She must have slept soundly, because the blanket she had tucked around her husband was draped over the foot of her bed. The cutlass lay inside the entrance to her room, as though daring anyone to disturb her. She put the blanket around her shoulders, wishing for that elusive scent of bay rum. All her thoughts yesterday had been of how foolish, how weak she had been to allow a good man to feel so obligated that he would marry her, when he probably could have done so much better.
Her thoughts were different this morning. She relished the notion that of all the people in the world, she had encountered someone who cared enough to help her.
She went to the window again, this time to look at her husband only, walking and listening to an old man. She closed her eyes and opened them. He was still there; she hadn’t imagined him.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_4251f0eb-77b3-5b22-af91-477842336035)
Lord Edmonds would probably have stayed all week with very little encouragement, but he was gone before lunch, sent on his way in a post chaise which Starkey had engaged, after a short walk to Plymouth.
Bright escorted Lord Edmonds to the chaise and helped him in. He returned to stand beside her on the step, put his arm around her for obvious show and waved to the old bounder.
‘That’s it, that’s it, go away, Lord Edmonds,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth as he smiled and waved.
‘You’re quite good at that,’ she commented. ‘You know, looking as though you are sorry to see him leave.’
‘I’ve had plenty of practice with any number of members of parliament and lords in their chamber who thought they knew more about the management of the fleet than I did,’ he told her. ‘And lately, my sisters have given me ample reason to wish them to the devil.’
She turned to go back inside and stopped. ‘I can’t face that hallway again.’
‘I can’t, either. Let’s go down to the beach.’
She went with him in perfect agreement. He helped her down the wooden steps to the sand below, where the tide was out. As she watched, perched on a well-placed rock, he went to the edge of the tide and threw in ten keys, one at a time, sending them far out to sea.
‘They’ll sink in the sand or be carried further out,’ he told her, wiping his hand on his trousers. He sat beside her on the rock, waiting a moment before he spoke, as though choosing his words. ‘During our walk in the garden, I had told the old rascal that we were newly married. He wondered why we were sleeping in separate chambers.’
‘Oh, dear,’ she murmured.
‘I politely told him it was none of his business. Still…are we going to lie to my sisters? I own it makes me uneasy to prevaricate any more than I already have. Any thoughts?’
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him her real last name, and what had caused her to use her maiden name. One or two breathless sentences would explain the matter, except that she knew the moment for confession has passed. Anything now would paint her as the worst sort of opportunist, and she couldn’t face more recrimination, not after the last five years. ‘No thoughts, really,’ she said, feeling the blush and slow burn of the hypocrite scorch her breasts and face. Maybe he would put it down to the delicacy of the subject.
‘I had planned to tell Fannie and Dora precisely why I was marrying The Mouse, but that would have caused The Mouse humiliation. I know. I know. I should have thought of that before I hatched this silly scheme. Maybe it shows you the level of my desperation.’ He turned to look at her directly. ‘So what are we? Long-lost lovers, or a marriage of convenience? Do we lie or tell the truth?’
She wondered if he was reading her mind, because his eyes had hardened in a way that gave her the shivers. She couldn’t look at him.
He sighed and returned his gaze to the ocean. ‘I just gave you my admiral look, didn’t I? I fear it is second nature, Sophia. If I tell the truth, that’s just humiliation for you, isn’t it?’
She nodded, thinking of times in the past five years she had been humiliated, from the ringing denunciation of her late husband by the Admiralty lords, to the quick glances of former friends, only to have them avoid her, until she disappeared into cheap lodgings.
He was waiting for her to say something. ‘I think you should tell the truth,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Just get it over with. Maybe they will leave you alone then. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?’
He seemed struck by that notion, which surprised her. ‘I suppose it is,’ he said finally, and he sounded disappointed, as though something had changed, but she couldn’t see it. ‘I’m sure you are right. Still…’
After a long, long silence, he nudged her shoulder. ‘Maybe I can manage one more lie,’ he said at last as he stood up and offered her his arm again. ‘Why should you be embarrassed again?’
‘I don’t mind,’ she told him.
‘You should,’ he said. ‘After all, you’re the wife of a retired admiral now and someone of consequence.’
‘I’m a penniless lady’s companion!’ she said, feeling anger flare, where before there had been embarrassment. ‘Who are we fooling, when it is just the two of us?’
He stopped then, took her hand from his arm and clapped his arm around her shoulders for a brief moment, as though trying to squeeze a little heart into her. ‘No, you’re Lady Bright. Humour me. Lady Bright. Sounds perky, doesn’t it?’ He grew serious, matching her mood. ‘We’ll think of something.’

When? she wondered as they went into the house. She made a point to look up at the ceiling, with all the naughty cupids. This kind man has married me. I need to start proving my worth, she told herself. She returned her gaze to the man beside her. ‘Charles, it is time we took the bull by the horns. This house must be painted, and soon.’
‘I know. The neighbours, is it?’
‘The neighbours. We will visit them and ask for advice. We will throw ourselves on their mercy and see if we can poach a bailiff.’
‘Madam, why didn’t I think of that?’
‘Simple,’ she told him. ‘You are used to commanding people. Now it is time to grovel and plead for help. I am going to change into my one other dress and my ugly but serviceable walking shoes.’

‘Just near neighbours,’ he told her a half-hour later, as they went down the front steps.
Sally peered into the bush by the front door. Penelope the Statue was now recumbent, and Starkey was busy on her with a sledgehammer, pounding her into smaller chunks to haul away. ‘That’s a good start,’ she said. ‘We are moving towards respectability.’
‘I wonder if lemon trees would grow in this climate,’ her husband said as they walked down the weed-clogged lane. ‘I would like lemon trees flanking the door.’
‘We can ask our nearest neighbour.’ Sally pointed to the end of the lane. ‘The banker?’
‘Yes. The estate agent apologised over and over for that particular neighbour. He feared I might take exception to settling in the vicinity of a Jew. I assured him I could stand the strain. Hypocrite!’
They came to the end of the lane. ‘Now we stop and look both ways,’ he said, amusement in his voice. ‘Such a quiet neighbourhood! Come, my dear, let us visit our neighbour.’
The lane was far tidier than their own, which the admiral pointed out to her with some glee. ‘I expect the man would like our rutty mire to look more like his entrance. I think the estate agent had it all wrong, Sophie dear; we are the liability.’
‘Speak for yourself, Charlie,’ she teased, happy to see him in more cheerful spirits.
‘Let us be on our best behaviour. You say Jacob Brustein, founding father of Brustein and Carter, is banker to half the fleet? I love this man already.’
He knocked on the tidy door, then pointed to the small box beside the door. ‘It’s a mezuzah, Sophie. If we were Jewish, we would put a finger to our lips and then touch it.’
Sally looked around with interest and envy. While not as large as the ramshackle house across the road, it was everything the admiral’s was not. From the honey-coloured stone, to the trellis of yellow roses, to the delicate lace of the curtains in the front room, she saw perfection. I am too impatient, she thought, as she watched a cat in the window stretch and return to slumber. This effect is achieved over the course of many years.
The door was opened by a pleasant-looking housekeeper. The admiral removed his hat. ‘I am Admiral Bright and this is my wife, Sophia. We have come to call on Mr Brustein, if he is available to visitors.’
‘Come inside, please,’ she said, opening the door wider. Sally could hear the faintest of accents. ‘I will see.’
The housekeeper left them standing in a hall lined with delicate watercolours. ‘This is elegant,’ Sally whispered.
‘Makes our place look like an exhibitioner’s hall,’ the admiral whispered back. ‘At least the parts that don’t look like a brothel.’
‘Hush,’ she whispered, her face flaming. ‘Behave yourself.’
A moment later she heard footsteps, light but halting, and turned to see a leprechaun of a man coming towards them, leaning heavily on a cane, his face lively with interest. He wore a suit even older than her husband’s, and a shawl around that. White hair sprang like dandelion puffs around his head, except where it was held in place by a skullcap. As he came close, she saw that he barely came up to her shoulder. She curtsied; he gave her an answering bow.
‘Well, well. It’s not every day that an admiral comes to call,’ he said, his accent slightly more pronounced than the housekeeper’s. ‘And his pretty lady.’
Charles bowed, then held out his hand. ‘Sir, I am lately retired and I think I am your nearest neighbour. Admiral Bright at your service. This…um…pretty lady is my wife, Sophia.’
‘Charming. Admiral, you have an account with me.’
‘Along with most of the fleet, I think,’ Bright said. ‘Two months ago, I bought that excuse for an estate that has probably been offending your eyes—not to mention your sensibilities—for decades.’
The old man nodded. He gestured them into the sitting room, where Sally had seen the lace curtains. The cat in the window opened one eye and then the other, then left the window to twine around Jacob Brustein. He gently pushed the cat away with his cane. ‘Go on, Beelzebub. If you trip me up, I’ll be less than useless.’
Sally picked up the cat, which went limp in her arms and started to purr.
‘He is the worst opportunist in Devon,’ Brustein said, indicating the sofa. ‘But he brings me mice every day, thinking I am unable to catch my own. One cannot ignore benevolence, in whatever form it takes.’
They sat. Jacob nodded to the housekeeper, who stood at the door, and she left. ‘You have come calling?’
‘We have indeed,’ Bright said. ‘My wife assures me that is what people do on land. Since I have spent the better portion of twenty years at sea, I must rely on her notions of what is right and proper.’
Brustein turned his kindly gaze on her. ‘Then you are probably in good hands.’
‘My thoughts precisely,’ Bright replied.
Sally was spared from further embarrassment by the arrival of the housekeeper, this time with tea and small cakes. She set the tray down in front of Sally, who looked up to smile, and noticed tears in the housekeeper’s eyes. I wonder what is wrong? she thought. She glanced at the old man, who seemed to be struggling, too. Uncertain what to do, she asked, ‘Wou-would you like me to pour, Mr Brustein?’
He nodded and wiped at his eyes.
‘I hope we have not come at a bad time,’ Bright said. ‘We can come another day.’
With that, Brustein took out a large handkerchief and blew his nose vigorously. He tucked it back in his coat, and settled the shawl higher on his shoulders. ‘This is an excellent day. You will understand my emotion when I tell you two that you are my first neighbourhood visitors.’
Sally gasped. ‘Sir, how long have you lived here?’
‘More than thirty years, my dear.’ He indicated the tray in front of her. ‘Would you pour, please? As for the cakes…’ he shrugged ‘…I suppose it is too early for such things.’
It was, but Sally decided she would tug out her fingernails by the roots, rather than embarrass the man. ‘They are very welcome, Mr Brustein.’ She picked up the teapot, determined not to barter with the old fellow’s dignity for one second. ‘One lump or two, sir?’
Brustein looked around elaborately. ‘The housekeeper would insist I get nothing but one. Since I do not see her, three.’
She did as he asked, then looked at her husband, who watched Brustein with a certain tenderness in his eyes that surprised her. ‘And you, Charles?’
He shook his head. ‘None. Just tea. And one cake.’
Their host noticed this exchange. ‘You have not been married long, if your wife does not know your tea habits, Admiral.’
‘True,’ Bright said, accepting the tea from her. ‘Peace allows a man certain privileges he never enjoyed before, or so I am learning, eh, Sophie dear? No one ever visited you? Well, the old rogue across the road was no bargain, so you were none the poorer there.’
‘People have always been willing to bank with us,’ Brustein said, after a sip. ‘But visit?’ He shrugged.
‘I’m embarrassed for my other neighbours,’ Bright said. ‘Shame on them.’
Brustein shrugged again, holding his hands out in front of him in a gesture more eloquent than words. ‘But you are visiting me now, are you not?’
‘We’ll come back, too,’ Sally chimed in. ‘I like your house.’ She laughed. ‘I like any house that doesn’t have naughty cupids on the ceiling!’
Brustein’s eyes widened. ‘I had heard rumours.’
‘All true,’ Bright said. ‘I assure you that I bought the scurrilous place for the view!’
Between the two of them, Sally and her admiral spent the next few minutes describing—in muted tones—the result of one old rogue’s hobbyhorse. The tea level lowered in the pot and the cakes vanished one by one. When they finished, Brustein told them of his arrival in England in 1805 from Frankfurt-am-Main at the request of his cousin, Nathan Rothschild, who had begun his British sojourn in Manchester as a cloth merchant.
‘When Nathan got into the London Exchange, he needed more help, but I found life more to my liking in Devonshire.’ Brustein sat back, and Sally was quick to position his ottoman under short legs. ‘Thank you, my dear. Admiral, she is a treasure!’
‘I know,’ Bright said softly, which made Sally’s face go warm. ‘And she blushes.’ He smiled at her, and was kind enough to change the subject. ‘Do you still go into the office, sir?’
‘Once in a while. I have turned the business over to my sons, David and Samuel. William Carter died several years ago, and we bought out his family. We’ll keep the respectability of the Carter name, though.’
He pulled out a pocket watch then, and gave the Brights an apologetic glance. ‘I must end this delightful gathering,’ he said, the regret obvious in his voice. ‘My wife, Rivka, is not well, and I usually spend most of my morning with her. She will wonder where I have gone.’
‘We wouldn’t dream of keeping you any longer,’ Sally said quickly.
The Brights stood up. Brustein struggled to join them, and the admiral put a hand under his elbow to assist. Jacob Brustein took his arm with no embarrassment.
‘You’re a good lad,’ he said. ‘Can the fleet manage without you?’
‘It had better,’ Bright said, pulling up the shawl where it had slipped from the old man’s narrow shoulders. ‘More shame on me if I didn’t lead well enough to make a smooth transition.’
Brustein hesitated at the door to the sitting room. ‘I wonder—could you both do me a small favour?’
‘Anything,’ Sally said and Bright nodded.
‘My Rivka, she is confined to her bed. It would mean the world to me if you could visit her in her room.’ He patted Sally’s hand. ‘For years, she would prepare tea and cakes for visitors who never came.’
Sally could not help the tears that started behind her eyelids. I did not think I had another tear left, after all that has happened to me, she thought in amazement. ‘Nothing would make us happier,’ she replied, as soon as she could talk.
Helped by one of them on each side of him, Brustein led them upstairs and into an airy room with the windows open and curtains half-drawn. A woman as small as he was lay in the centre of her bed, propped up with pillows. Brustein hurried to her side and sat down on the bed, taking both her hands in his. He spoke to her in a language that sounded like German to Sally. The woman opened her eyes and smiled.
‘Ah, we have company,’ she said in English. She glanced at her husband, her eyes anxious. ‘You gave them tea and cakes?’
‘Delicious tea and cakes,’ Bright said.
Sally took his hand, because his voice seemed almost ready to break. ‘Your husband was the perfect host,’ she said.
Rivka Brustein indicated the chair. ‘Sit, pitseleh, sit,’ she whispered, looking at Sally. ‘Tell me about your new home.’ Her gesture was feeble, but she waved away her husband. ‘Jacob, show this handsome man your collection of globes. I want to talk to the nice lady.’ Her soft voice had a measure of triumphant satisfaction in it that lodged right in Sally’s heart. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged her away.

Twenty minutes was all Rivka Brustein could manage. Her eyes closed and she slept. Gently, Sally released her hand and put it on the snowy coverlet.
She opened her eyes. ‘You’ll come back?’
‘I’ll come back.’
‘Will you read to me?’
Why weren’t the old ladies I tended as sweet as you? Sally thought, as she blew Rivka a kiss from the doorway. ‘I’ll bring a book you will enjoy,’ she said, wondering if anything in her own library—the one the admiral had declared off limits—was fit to read. ‘I’ll find something.’
Rivka slept. Sally closed the door quietly behind her.

Chapter Eight (#ulink_bb6b891e-267a-5892-a30e-b17880aa4b1b)
‘Thirty years, and no one from this neighbourhood has ever visited,’ the admiral murmured as they left the Brustein manor. He looked back at the house to Jacob, who stood in the door. ‘I have to wonder now what revelations are waiting for us at our other nearest neighbour’s domain.’ He patted her hand, which was crooked in his arm. ‘You’re a good girl, Sophie.’
‘I am as shocked as you,’ she said. ‘Such a nice old couple.’ She looked ahead to the much more substantial estate barely peeking through the foliage. ‘Who lives here?’
‘We will probably be above ourselves here, so mind your manners,’ he teased. ‘The estate agent told me Lord Brimley resides here through the summer. He is a marquis, no less.’ Bright stopped. ‘The name rings a bell with me, but I cannot remember why. Brimley. Brimley. Perhaps we shall see. Are you game for another house?’
She nodded. ‘This is certainly more enjoyable than trying to avoid staring at walls in our…your…house.’
He started walking again, then gave her a sidelong look. ‘You were right the first time, Sophie. For all its warts, it is our house.’
I wish I felt that way, but you are kind, she told herself. She wished her face did not feel so hot. Hopefully, the admiral would overlook her embarrassment. ‘That notion will take some getting used to.’
‘Indeed it will.’ He sighed. ‘And we are no further along towards solving the dilemma of finding mechanics to remodel.’
‘And paint,’ she added. ‘Gallons of paint.’
He chuckled and tucked her arm closer. ‘Paint, aye. If I were on my flagship, I would bark a few orders to my captain, and he would pass my bark down the chain of command until—presto!—it was painted.’
Lord Brimley’s estate loomed larger than life, compared to the more modest Brustein manor. They walked slowly down his lane, admiring the faux-Italian ruin that looked as though it had been there since the Italian Renaissance. ‘D’ye think Michelangelo did a ceiling inside the gazebo?’
She nudged him. ‘You know he did not!’
‘Rafael, then. Perhaps Titian?’
‘Oh, you try me!’
He laughed and tucked her hand closer. ‘Let us behave ourselves.’ He leaned down to whisper in her ear as they climbed the shallow steps to the magnificent door. ‘Now if this is a house of the first stare, the butler will open the door even before we… Ah.’
Sally couldn’t remember when she had seen so much dignity in a black suit. Instinctively, she hung back on the last step, but the admiral pulled her up with him.
‘I am Admiral Sir Charles Bright, recently retired,’ her husband said, not in the least intimidated by the splendour before him. ‘This is my wife, and we have come calling upon Lord Brimley. I have recently purchased the Hudley estate, which abuts this one.’
The butler ushered them in, but did not close the door behind him, as if there was some doubt they would be staying long. Bright gave her a sidelong wink, which sorely tried her.
‘I will see if Lord Brimley is receiving callers,’ the butler said. He hesitated one slight moment, as if wondering whether to usher them into an antechamber, at the very least. He must have decided against it. He unbent enough for a short bow and turned smartly on his heel.
‘We don’t rate the sitting room,’ the admiral whispered. ‘I think mentioning “Hudley estate” might have been my first mistake. Perhaps I should have added that Penelope and Odysseus are no longer in heat at the front entrance.’
Sally gasped and laughed out loud. ‘Admiral Bright, I cannot take you anywhere!’
He merely smiled. ‘Madam wife, I am a pig in a poke. I thought it best not to mention the fact until after our wedding. Imagine what surprises await you.’
She would have returned a sharp rejoinder, except the butler returned and indicated in his princely way that they should make themselves comfortable in the sitting room.
‘Our fortunes seem to be shifting ever so slightly,’ Bright murmured when the butler left them alone there. ‘Brimley. I wish I could remember.’
They waited a long while, long enough for Sally to overcome her terrors and walk around the room, admiring the fine paintings. When the admiral began sneaking looks at his timepiece, the door opened to admit Lord Brimley himself. She glanced at her husband, but saw no recognition in his eyes.
‘I am Brimley,’ the man said, inclining his head towards them. ‘Admiral Bright, accept my condolences in the purchase of that miserable estate.’ He smiled at them both, but there was no warmth in his eyes. ‘I can only assume that since you have a wife—and a lovely one, I might add—that you intend to paint the rooms.’
‘I do, my lord, since I wish to keep my wife,’ Bright said. ‘As a seaman not long on land, though, I am a bit at a loss how to find workers.’
‘You need a proper steward.’
‘My wife thinks I need my head examined,’ Bright said frankly. ‘But the view…oh, the view. Can you see the ocean from your estate?’
The marquis did not answer for a long moment. Sally watched in surprise and then consternation as a whole range of emotions crossed his face. ‘I rejoice, Admiral, that I cannot,’ he said finally, as though each word was tugged from his mouth by iron pincers.
She glanced at her husband, noting his frown. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
‘The ocean is not to everyone’s taste, I imagine,’ she said, filling the awkward void.
‘It is not to mine.’
The embarrassing silence was filled by the return of the butler and a maid, who deposited a tray on the small table between them. The marquis indicated Sally should pour, and she did.
They sipped their tea. When the silence was nearly unendurable, the marquis turned slightly to face Admiral Bright. ‘You do not know who I am?’ he asked, his tone frigid.
‘My lord, I do not.’
‘Perhaps you will know this name: Thomas Place.’
Admiral Bright set down his tea cup with a click. ‘I know that name as well as my own, my lord. Was he your son?’
‘My only child.’
‘Lieutenant Thomas Place, Viscount Malden,’ Bright murmured. He stood up and walked to the window and back again, the marquis’s eyes on him. ‘He made sure that none of us would use his title, so he was Mr Place to me. I had to bark at him a time or two, but he was a good lad. I was his captain.’
‘I know you were, Admiral,’ the marquis said, rising to join Bright by the window. ‘I have followed your career with some interest.’ He looked at Sally, and she could see only infinite sorrow in his eyes now. ‘Lady Bright, I hated your husband for nearly twenty years. Until three years ago, as a matter of fact.’
Sally looked at both men, her eyes wide. She tried to interpret her husband’s expression, except that there was no expression now, only the uncompromising gaze of a man caught off guard and righting himself by the greatest of efforts. She rose, or tried to, except that the admiral had returned to her side and was gently pressing down on her shoulder with his one good hand.
‘No fears, my dear,’ he said and leaned down to put his cheek next to hers, for a brief moment. She found the sudden gesture reassuring beyond words and relaxed. He lightened the pressure on her shoulder, but did not remove his hand.
‘Say on, my lord,’ he said, his voice firm and very much in command.
As Sally watched, horrified, the marquis seemed to wilt before her eyes. Her husband must have noticed it, too, because he returned to the man by the window and put his hand under his arm to support him. Without a word, he led the marquis back to his seat. Sally did rise then, and went to sit beside Lord Brimley. If he were one of my old ladies, I would do this, she thought, as she quickly removed her bonnet, set it aside and took a napkin from the tray. As he watched her, his eyes dull, she dipped it in the tea and dabbed gently at his brow. ‘There now, my lord. Do you wish me to summon your butler?’
Her simple act seemed to rouse him. He shook his head. ‘No. No. Bedders would only act like my old maid aunt, and worry me to death.’
‘Your wife then, my lord? Should we summon her?’
‘My dear, she is dead these past three years. And that is what I need to tell your husband.’ He patted the seat on the other side of him. ‘Sit down, lad,’ he ordered, as though there were many more years between them.
‘I…uh…I really don’t know what to say, my lord,’ Bright began, looking mystified.
‘Of course you do not. You never knew us.’
They were both silent. Sally yearned to jump into the conversation. She fought down a fierce urge to defend her husband, an urge so strong that it startled her, considering the briefness of their acquaintance. She looked down and noticed her hands were balled into fists. She glanced up at her husband, who had been watching the gesture, again with that unreadable expression.
The marquis spoke, looking at her. ‘Lady Bright, my son served under your husband on the…the Caprice…was it not? I thought I would never forget. Considering how many years have rolled over the matter, perhaps it is not so surprising.’
‘The Caprice. My first command. We took the ship to the Antipodes. We were not at war with France or Spain then, and our assignment was to ferry a naturalist—one of Sir Joseph Banks’s protégés—to find something called a fairy tern.’
‘You were successful, I believe, at least according to the last letter I ever received from my boy.’ The marquis’s voice broke on the last word, and Sally felt her heart turn over. She took his hand. He offered no resistance to her touch.
‘Yes. We accomplished our orders and were returning to Plymouth,’ Bright said. ‘We needed to take on food and water, so we docked at Valparaiso, not knowing that Spain and England were at war again.’
He paused and gazed out the window for a long moment. ‘And there my boy died in the fight that followed, as you clawed your way out of the harbour,’ Lord Brimley said. He looked at Sally then. ‘Do you have sons, my dear?’
‘None living,’ she whispered. Bright reached across the marquis to touched her hand.
‘I am sorry for you both,’ Lord Brimley replied. ‘I know the feeling. If I thought I could do it and not collapse, I would summon Bedders to fetch the letter of condolence your husband wrote to me, twenty-three years ago. I can quote it: “I am relieved to be able to inform you…”’
He could not go on, but Bright could. ‘“…that your son’s death was quick and painless.”’
The words hung in the room like a powerful stench. The old man raised his head again. ‘Was it a lie? Did you lie to me at such a moment?’
Sally let out the breath she had been holding, her eyes on her husband. She could almost hear the tension in the room humming like a wire stretched taut and snapped.
‘I did, my lord.’
The marquis must have been holding his breath, too, because it came out in a sudden whoosh that made Sally jump. ‘I thought you had, and I hated you for it. I thought you a coward for not having the courage to tell the truth about the last moments of a sterling lad dearer to my heart than any other creature on earth.’
Bright said nothing. He looked at the floor as though wishing it would open and swallow him. It was Sally’s turn to reach across the marquis and touch his hand.
‘Do you want me to tell you?’ he said finally.
‘I thought I did,’ the marquis admitted. ‘When I heard you had retired—oh, yes, I have followed your career—I wanted to ask.’ He shook his head. ‘Not to confront you or berate you, mind you; not after what happened three years ago. But just to know.’
‘What changed your mind three years ago?’ Bright asked.
‘My wife died,’ the marquis said simply. ‘Naturally I was at her bedside through the long ordeal.’ He looked at Sally, tears in his eyes. ‘She was a dear old girl. Do you know what her last words to me were?’
Sally shook her head. He turned his attention to the admiral. ‘Look at me, Bright! Her last words on this whole earth were, “Thank God my boy did not suffer. Thank God!” With a smile so sweet, she slipped from my life.’
He cried then, grasping both their hands. ‘I knew it was a lie, but that lie had sustained my dear one through years of what probably would have been unbearable torment, had she known the truth. I had no idea, until that moment. I decided then that I would not hate you any longer, Sir Charles.’
The quiet in the room was unbroken until the butler opened the door quietly, then closed it. The marquis sat back then, patting their hands. ‘I never thought to have this moment to tell you, at least until the estate agent shared the news of the estate sale. He thought I would be pleased to have good neighbours. And I am.’
Sally looked at her husband, astounded at his composure. Who is this man I have married on such short notice? she asked herself again.
‘I don’t know what to say, my lord,’ Bright said at last. ‘Would you like me to tell you how he died? I have never forgotten.’
The marquis gave him a shrewd look. ‘I doubt you have ever forgotten how any of your men died.’
‘I have not,’ Bright said simply, with the smallest catch in his voice.
‘I thought I wanted to know. For years, I thought I did.’ The old man shook his head. ‘Now I think it does not matter. He is at peace.’
Bright nodded. ‘Let me tell you that he was brave. My surgeon and I sat with him throughout the entire ordeal. That is no lie. He suffered, but he did not suffer alone. Mercifully, towards the end, he went into a coma and was no longer conscious. Any of us in the fleet would have envied the conclusion, my lord, and that is no lie.’
The marquis nodded, and sipped his tea in silence. When he spoke again, he addressed the admiral in a kindlier tone. ‘Look here, lad. What you need is a good steward to make all those onerous arrangements.’ He made a face. ‘I have been in that house a grand total of once, and never took my wife there. You are obviously married to a tolerant lady.’
‘I am realising that more as each day passes,’ Bright said, with a sidelong look at Sally that pinked her cheeks. ‘I fear my credit will not last for ever, though, no matter how charming she thinks I am. A good steward, eh?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ He leaned towards Bright. ‘If you don’t think I am an old meddler, I may have such a fellow. He’s been the under-steward here for several years and I think he is chafing to advance. May I send him your way? On approval, of course.’
‘My lord, I would be honoured.’ He touched Sally under the chin with his hook, which made her smile. ‘And my dear lady would be relieved.’
The marquis turned almost-fatherly eyes on her. ‘Lord, how she blushes! I didn’t know anyone blushed any more.’
They stayed a few more minutes. The admiral shook his head at staying for luncheon. ‘We have overstretched our welcome, Lord Brimley,’ he said in apology. ‘I did want to meet my neighbours, though.’
‘And you will both return, I trust,’ the marquis replied as he rose to his feet. He smiled at Sally, taking her by both hands. ‘Can you not convince your husband to stay for luncheon?’
Sally looked at the admiral, but he shook his head. ‘Not this time, my lord. Please do ask us again, though.’
Bright was silent after they left, looking neither right nor left until they were out of sight of the manor, and any prying eyes. When they turned the bend in the lane, he suddenly sank to his knees. His hat fell off as he leaned forwards. Astonished, Sally knelt beside him, her hand across his back. To her horror, he began to sob.
There was a roadside bench not far from the lane. Murmuring nonsensicals to him, she took him by the arm and helped him there, where he leaned back, his face pale and bleak. ‘You couldn’t manage one more minute there, could you?’ she asked.
He shook his head as the tears streamed down his face. He seemed not to mind that she saw them. What do I do? she asked herself, and then knew the answer. Without a word, she gathered him close to her, saying nothing because she had no words to ease his pain, only her body. She held him close and smoothed down his hair.
‘You haven’t forgotten one of them, have you?’ she asked.
He shook his head, unable to speak. She sat there, the admiral as tight in her arms as she had ever held her son. As she breathed the pleasant scent of his hair, it occurred to Sally that during the whole of his terrible ordeal with the lords of the Admiralty, Andrew had never let her console him, as she consoled this man she barely knew. And look what happened to you, Andy, she thought, as she held Admiral Bright. Maybe you should have done what this man is doing. Look what we have lost.

Chapter Nine (#ulink_0b34b934-c4f8-5d0d-86e1-a31e294080f0)
‘You must think me a very big fool,’ the admiral said, his voice still muffled against her breast.
‘I think nothing of the kind,’ she said gently. Truth to tell, she had felt the calculus around her heart loosen a bit. ‘I cannot imagine the burden you have carried through all those decades of war.’
He sat up, taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket. ‘I’m an attractive specimen,’ he murmured, not looking at her. ‘Do I wipe my eyes or blow my nose?’ He cursed unguardedly. ‘Pardon me.’ He pressed the cloth against his eyes, then blew his nose. ‘He caught me broadside, Sophie. I had no idea who Lord Brimley was.’
He looked at her then, embarrassment colouring his cheeks. Without even pausing to think, she touched his face. So quick she barely felt it, he kissed her palm.
‘Wasn’t I the kind man to marry you to lift your burdens?’ he said. ‘Oh, the irony. I don’t suppose you knew what you were getting into.’
‘Did you?’ she asked. Does anyone? she asked herself, feeling suddenly greener than the greenest bride.
They sat there in silence. ‘Penny for your thoughts, Sophie,’ he said finally. He stood up and pulled her to her feet, offering her his arm again as they turned towards their own manor.
She had no idea how to put into words what she was feeling, or if she even understood the emotions that tugged at her like a ship swinging on its anchor. ‘I suppose you are thinking that life on land is complicated.’
‘But what are you thinking?’ he persisted.
‘Precisely that,’ she said, a little surprised at him. ‘I don’t know that I was even thinking about myself.’
‘Thank you, then,’ he replied. ‘I doubt I deserve such attention.’
She was happy he seemed content to walk in silence. I think I have learned something this morning, she told herself as she matched her stride to his—not a hard matter, because they were much the same height. Maybe I am learning that my troubles are not the only ones in the world.
It was something to consider, and she wanted a moment alone to think about it. To her gratification, the admiral asked if she wouldn’t mind spending the afternoon by herself, as he wanted to go down to the beach and think about things. ‘Not at all,’ she told him. ‘Shall I ask Starkey to serve you luncheon on the beach?’
He nodded. ‘Have him put it in a hamper. You don’t mind?’
‘I just said I didn’t,’ she assured him. ‘Charles, if we are to rub along together, you need to take me at my word.’
‘I suppose I must,’ he agreed.
She ate her luncheon on the terrace, which Starkey had swept clear, then went upstairs to count the sheets in Lord Hudley’s linen closet—prosaic work that suited her mood. Thank goodness he had an ample supply was her first thought, then she blushed to think of all the activity on all the beds in the manor, at least once a year, when he held his orgies. No wonder he had sheets, and good ones, too. It was the same with pillowslips and towels. The old rascal practically ran a hotel for geriatric roués just like him.

The admiral hadn’t returned by dinner. After a solitary meal in the breakfast room, she asked Starkey about it.
‘He likes his solitude, ma’am, when he’s troubled,’ Starkey said.
She could tell by the look he gave her that Starkey considered her at fault for the admiral’s mood. Let him think what he will, she decided, after an evening alone in the sitting room, where she made lists of projects for the house and tried to ignore the cupids overhead, with their amorous contortions.

To her bemusement, she did not sleep until she heard Bright’s footsteps on the stairs. She sat up in bed, her arms around her knees, as she heard him approach her door, stand there a moment, then cross the hall to his own room. She lay down then, wondering if he had changed his mind about their arrangement. She knew he was embarrassed about his tears and doubted he had ever cried in the presence of anyone, much less a woman. ‘Well, I cannot help that,’ she murmured prosaically, as she composed herself for sleep.
She wondered if she would sleep, considering last night’s adventure with the old gentleman from Northumberland. Hopefully, he was well on his way home. What was that he had called her—‘his fair Cyprian’? She smiled to herself, pleased that for one night at least, she was not thinking of ruin or poverty, or where her next meal was coming from.

She woke in the morning to the sound of noise downstairs, and men talking and laughing as they hammered. She sat up and rubbed her eyes at the same moment the admiral tapped on her door.
‘Come in, sir,’ she said, wishing for a small moment that her nightgown was not so thin from repeated washings.
She shouldn’t have worried. In his nightshirt and dressing gown, the admiral was as shabby as she was. It was an elaborate gown, though.
‘My stars, did you find that in the court of the Emperor of Japan?’ she asked, by way of greeting.
He carried a tea cup and saucer. She noticed he had not put on his hook yet, and his left sleeve hung over his wrist.
‘You’re close,’ he said, as he nudged the door shut behind him and came to her bed. To her surprise, he told her to shift her legs and sat down. He handed her the cup. ‘I was given this bit of silk and embroidery by the Emperor of China, whose name I cannot at the moment remember, but who had a fondness for the otter pelts I had brought him from a quick raid up the coast of New Albion. I have no idea what those Yanks call it now. But that was years ago, and it is scarcely fit for more than the dust bin.’
Amused, she sipped her tea. He watched her, a smile in his eyes. ‘You look extraordinarily fine in the early morning,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know your hair was so curly.’
‘I usually have it whipped into submission by this time,’ she replied.
‘Well, that’s a shame,’ he told her. ‘I rather like it this way.’ He touched one of her curls, wrapping it around his finger. He didn’t seem at all uncomfortable and she decided she liked it.
She wasn’t sure why he had come into her room, because he seemed content to just sit on the bed while she drank her tea. She heard a thump from downstairs, grateful that it gave her something to ask him.
‘Sir, what is going on down there?’
Her question seemed to remind him. ‘Aye, madam wife, I did have a reason to come in here. Lord Brimley is not wasting a moment to help us. He has sent over an army of workers who are, as we speak, rigging up scaffolding in the sitting room, with the sole purpose of ridding us of randy cupids.’ He leaned closer and again she breathed his bay rum. ‘Mrs Bright, think how pleasant it will be to embroider in your sitting room and not worry about what those imps are doing overhead.’
She could tell his mood had lifted. ‘You feel better,’ she said.
He leaned even closer until his forehead touched hers. ‘I do, madam. Thank you for allowing me solitude.’
‘You only have to mention it and I will understand,’ she said softly, since his face was so close to hers. ‘That is our arrangement.’
Maybe an imp had escaped from the carnage in the sitting room below. For whatever reason, the admiral raised her chin and kissed her lips. ‘I’m not very good at this, but I am grateful for your forbearance,’ he told her, when his lips were still so close to hers.
On the contrary, he was quite good. In fact, she was disappointed that he did not kiss her again. He’s learned that somewhere in the world, she thought, as she sat back, careful not to spill her tea into his lap, since he sat so close.
And there they sat, eyeing each other. Sally felt herself relax under his gaze, which was benign. The imp must have still been in the room, because she found herself saying, ‘I like it when you bring me tea in the morning.’
‘I like it, too,’ he said, his voice as soft as hers, almost as if he felt as shy. ‘It could become a habit.’ He dispelled the mood by flapping his empty sleeve at her and getting to his feet. ‘If you are equal to the task, I thought we would abandon Chez Bright today and go to Plymouth. The under-steward that Lord Brimley sent is a paragon, and he so much as informed me in such a polite way, that I am a supernumerary.’ He ruffled her hair, which made her laugh. ‘So are you, madam. If we intend to cut a dash in the neighbourhood, we had better get ourselves some clothing that doesn’t brand us as vagrants or felons.’

‘I am certain you do not pay Starkey enough,’ Sally told Bright as they settled back into a post chaise that the butler had arranged to convey them to Plymouth.
‘You are most likely correct,’ he replied. ‘To show you the total measure of his devotion to me, he even enquired to find the most slap-up-to-the-mark modiste in Plymouth. His comrades in the fleet would never believe such a thing. Starkey is normally quite a Puritan.’
He hoped his wife would pink up at this news, and she did, to his pleasure. Amazing how a woman teetering on the other side of thirty could blush at the mention of a modiste, and still manage to maintain her countenance in a roomful of cupids doing things some people didn’t even do behind bolted doors. He did not pretend to understand women. Looking at the pretty lady seated across from him, he thought it politic not to try. Better to let her surprise him with her wit, and most of all, her humanity. He was beginning to think the most impulsive gesture of his life was shaping into the best one.
The first thought on her mind, apparently miles ahead of new clothes, was to seek out a bookshop. ‘I want to find something to entertain Mrs Brustein,’ she explained, as he handed her down from the chaise. ‘I intend to visit her as often as I can, and read to her.’
Even on the short few days of their acquaintance, he already knew it would be fruitless to pull out his timepiece and point out that they were already late to her modiste’s appointment, but he tried. She gave him a kindly look, the type reserved for halfwits and small children, and darted into the bookshop. Knowing she had no money, he followed her in, standing patiently as she looked at one book, and then another.
He knew he had been attracted by her graceful ways, but his appreciation deepened as he admired the sparkle in her eyes. He wasn’t entirely certain when the sparkle had taken up residence there, but it might have been only since early morning, when he had screwed up his courage and knocked on her door, bearing tea. His dealings with women had informed him early in his career about the world that few women looked passable at first light. Sophie Bright must be the exception, he decided. She was glorious, sitting there in bed in a nightgown too thin for company, if that was what he was. The outline of her breasts had moved him to kiss her, when he wanted to do so much more.
And here she was in a bookshop, poring over book after book until she stopped, turned to him in triumph and said, ‘Aha!’
He took the little volume from her and glanced at the spine. ‘Shakespeare and his sonnets for an old lady?’
‘Most certainly,’ his wife said. ‘I will love them until I die, and surely I am not alone in this. Have you read them, sir?’
He wished she would call him Charles. ‘Not in many years,’ he told her. ‘I am not certain that Shakespeare wears well on a quarterdeck.’
She surprised him then, as tears came to her eyes, turning them into liquid pools. ‘You have missed out on so many things, haven’t you?’ She had hit on something every man in the fleet knew, and probably few landsmen.
‘Aye, madam wife, I have,’ he said. He held up the book. ‘You think it is not too late? I am not a hopeless specimen?’
She dabbed at her eyes, unable to say anything for a moment, as they stood together in the crowded bookshop.
He took her arm. ‘Sophie, don’t waste a tear on me over something we had no control over. I saw my duty and did it. So did everyone in the fleet.’ He paused, thinking of Lord Brimley’s young son, dead these many years and slipped into the Pacific Ocean somewhere off Valparaiso. ‘Some gave everything. Blame the gods of war.’
She is studying me, he thought, as her arm came around his waist and she held him close. I try to comfort her and she comforts me. Did a man ever strike a better bargain than the one I contracted with Sally Paul? Bright handed back the book. He gave her a shilling and returned to the post chaise, unable to continue another moment in the bookshop and wondering if there was any place on land where he felt content.
Maybe he was not so discontent. He watched his wife through the window as she quickly paid the proprietor, shook her head against taking time to wrap the sonnets in brown paper and hurried back to the chaise.
‘I’m sorry to delay you,’ she said, after he helped her in. ‘I don’t intend to be a trial to a punctual man.’
He held out his hand for the book. ‘Do you have a favourite sonnet?’ He fanned the air with the book. ‘Something not too heated for a nice old lady?’
To his delight, she left her seat on the opposite side of the chaise and sat next to him, turning the pages, her face so close to his that he could breathe in the delicate scent of her lavender face soap.
‘This one,’ she said. ‘Perhaps Mr Brustein will want to read this one to her: “Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws, and make the earth devour her own sweet brood…”’ She shook her head. ‘It’s too sad.’
He brushed away her fingers and kept reading. ‘Sophie, you’re a goose. This is an old man remembering how fair his love once was, but that doesn’t mean he’s sad about the matter.’ He kept reading aloud, thinking of the woman beside him, wondering how she would look in twenty years, even thirty years, if they were so lucky. I believe she will look better and better as time passes, he thought. ‘Sophie, Mrs Brustein cannot argue with this: “Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong; My love shall in my verse ever live young.”’
Charles looked at his new wife, the hasty bargain he made without much thought, beyond an overpowering desire to keep his sisters from meddling in his life. Shakespeare could say it so well, he told himself. You will always be young, too.
She looked at him in such an impish way that he felt the years fall away from him, too, much as from the sonneteer. ‘There, now,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t Shakespeare read better at forty-five than he did when you were ten and forced?’
She was teasing him; at the same time he was wondering if he had ever felt more in earnest. I will frighten her to death, he thought. This is a marriage of convenience. ‘You know he does!’ Charles handed back the book. ‘You and Mrs Brustein can sniffle and cry and wallow over the verses, and I doubt a better day will be spent anywhere.’
Sophie tucked the book in her reticule. He thought she might return to her side of the chaise, but she remained beside him. ‘Perhaps when we finish the sonnets, we will graduate to Byron. I will wear thick gloves, so my fingers do not scorch from the verse,’ she teased. She nudged his shoulder. ‘Thank you for buying this.’
‘Anything, my dear wife, to further our connections in the neighbourhood,’ he said. ‘After years of riotous living coming from that house we laughingly call home now, we have a lot of repair work to do.’
As the chaise stopped in front of Madame Soigne’s shop, he knew he had been saved from blurting out that he would prefer she read to him. A man can dream, he told himself, picturing his head in Sophie’s lap, while she read to him. A pity Shakespeare never wrote a sonnet about old admirals in love. No, well-seasoned admirals. I can’t recall a time when I have felt less ancient.
She hesitated in the doorway, hand on the doorknob, and looked back at him, which must have been his cue to join her and provide some husbandly support.
‘Cold feet, madam wife? I expect you to spend lots of money. In fact, I am counting on it.’
Still she hung back. ‘A few days ago, I didn’t even have any thread to sew up a hole in my stockings.’ She let go of the doorknob. ‘You know, if I go to a fabric warehouse and buy a couple of lengths of muslin, I can sew my own dresses.’
Charles put her hand back on the doorknob. ‘You don’t need to! Don’t get all Scottish on me.’ He turned the knob and gave her a little boost inside, where Madame and her minions stood. From the look of them, they had nothing on their minds except the kind of service it was becoming increasingly obvious that his wife was not accustomed to. Sophie looked ready to burst into tears.
He took her about the waist with his hooked arm, which gave him ample opportunity to tug off her bonnet with his bona fide hand and plant a kiss on her temple. ‘You can do this. Be a good girl and spend my money.’
He left her there, looking at him, her face pale. He turned to the modiste, who was eyeing Sophie with something close to disbelief. ‘She’s Scottish and doesn’t like to spend a groat. Whatever she agrees to buy, triple it.’
‘Charles!’
He liked the sound of that. He tipped his hat to her and left the shop.

Chapter Ten (#ulink_18189a95-d170-5c4a-9fd9-9e8e3ea2eecf)
When he returned, all measured for shirts and trousers and coats, Sally was waiting for him inside the shop, calmer now and drinking tea. She watched him through the window with Madame Soigne.
‘I don’t know how one man can appear so pleased when he knows I have been spending his money,’ she commented.
The modiste looked through the window, where the admiral was getting out of the post chaise. ‘How can you tell he is pleased?’ she asked, squinting. ‘He looks rather stern to me.’
‘The way his eyes get small and kind of crinkle,’ Sally said. ‘The lines around his mouth get a little deeper.’
‘If you say so,’ Madame replied dubiously. She brightened. ‘Bien, you would know, would you not? He is your husband, and you have had years and years to study him.’
Good God, Sally thought, setting down the cup with a click. I have known the man three days and she thinks we are an old married couple? This is a strange development. ‘I…I suppose I have,’ she stammered, not sure what else to say.
The door opened. She felt a curious lift as his eyes got smaller and he smiled at her. He nodded to the modiste. ‘Did she spend lots and lots of my blunt, Madame?’ he asked. ‘Mais oui! Just as you wished,’ the modiste declared, and ticked them off on her elegant long fingers. ‘Morning dresses, afternoon dresses, evening dresses—she would only allow one ball gown—a cloak, a redingote, sleeping gowns, a dressing gown…’
‘When might these garments be ready?’ He handed over a wad of notes so large that Sally couldn’t help a small gasp.
Madame tittered and accepted the king’s ransom gracefully. ‘Oh, you seamen! I will put all my seamstresses to work. Soon, Admiral, soon!’
Bright bowed. ‘Madame Soigne, if you had been Napoleon’s minister of war in the late disturbance, he would not have lost.’ He held out his hand to Sally. ‘Come, my dear. We now have to search for enough domestics to puff up our consequence in the neighbourhood. Madame Soigne, we bid you good day.’
There didn’t seem to be any point in sitting across from him, not when he held her arm and plopped her down beside him. Besides, she had a confession. ‘I had better make a clean breast of it,’ she told him, as the chaise pulled away from the curb. ‘Madame Soigne also sent for a milliner and a shoemaker.’
‘I am relieved to hear it,’ he remarked. ‘I call that efficiency.’ He must have used her wry expression as an excuse to keep his arm around her. ‘You sound like a tar on shore leave! Spend it all in one go and chance the consequences!’
‘I call it a huge expenditure,’ she lamented.
He refused to be anything but serene. ‘Sophie dear, your duty is to rid me of sisters. That is no small task and it will require ammunition. You are dealing with ruthless hunters, who will stop at nothing. I consider you a total bargain.’
She looked at his face, noticed the crinkles around his eyes. ‘You are quizzing me! I think you are shameless.’
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘You think I exaggerate?’
‘I know you do,’ she said, trying not to smile. ‘Were you this much trouble in the fleet?’
‘This and more, but I achieved results,’ he assured her. ‘I do believe I will add to your duties, as well, my dear, since you feel I have done too much by clothing you in a style to suit my consequence. You’re going to be charming the Brusteins with Shakespeare and helping slap my house into submission. Yes, you may find me something to do, while you’re at it. Can you see me sitting on my thumbs this winter?’
‘I cannot,’ she agreed. ‘I believe I will earn that wardrobe!’
He hugged her tighter, then released her. ‘Laugh like that more often, Sophie. It becomes you.’
‘I am not so certain I had much to laugh about,’ she said frankly.
‘Then maybe your fortunes have turned,’ he said, equally frank.

Maybe they have, Sally decided, after luncheon at the Drake. She knew they had, when they came to the employment registry, and there sat the same pale governess she had shared the bench with only days ago. I could still be sitting next to her, she thought, giving the woman a smile.
Her smile turned thoughtful. She took her husband by the arm, which made him look at her with an expression that made her stomach feel deliciously warm. She walked him outside, grateful they were much the same height, so there was no need to tug on his sleeve like a child.
‘Charles.’ His name still sounded so strange on her lips, but she knew he enjoyed it. ‘Charles, that lady is an out-of-work governess. She came with me on the mail coach from Bath, and see, she is still sitting here.’
‘Times are hard,’ he pointed out. ‘After the tailor measured me—Lord, but he got personal with my parts—I walked down to the harbour and found any number of seamen begging, or leaning against buildings and trying not to beg. Peace is well enough, I suppose, but it certainly throws people out of employment. Do we need a governess? Is there something you are not telling me?’
Sally knew he was quizzing her, but she felt a wave of guilt pass over her, as she wished it was not too late to tell him her former name. He was teasing her, but his eyes were kind. All I can do is go on, she told herself.
‘I know we have no need of a governess! When my clothing comes, I will need a dresser.’ She leaned closer to him, not wanting to be overheard. ‘May I at least ask her if she is interested in the position? I know how she feels, sitting there. I wonder if she is as hungry as I was.’
‘Certainly you may ask her.’ He walked a few steps with her, away from the registry. ‘And you might as well know I hired several of those seamen on the docks to help Starkey do whatever it is he does so well; peel potatoes for Etienne, if he needs it; and assist my new steward in ridding the house—our home—of cupids in flagrante.’ He patted her hand. ‘I suppose we are both easy marks. Too bad I didn’t know about this character flaw in you sooner.’
She leaned against his shoulder. ‘Yes, Admiral! I suppose one of us should be surly and grim, to make this marriage a success.’
‘Admiral, is it?’ He winced elaborately, then grew serious. ‘Sophie, there were months on end, maybe years, when I was grim. As for surly, you may ask any number of my subalterns. I hope those days are over. I know how much those men on the docks sacrificed for England. It gave me a real pleasure to hire them.’
She nodded. ‘Then I suppose we are two fools. I will go ask her.’
‘Suppose she cannot iron or make good pleats?’ he asked, back to his light-hearted remarks.
‘Then you will have to love your useful wife wrinkled,’ she retorted, pinking up as she said it. ‘I can show her how to iron,’ she added honestly. ‘I have never had a dresser.’
Her name was Amelia Thayn. After a long look at Sally, during which her eyes filled with tears, she nodded. ‘Lady Bright, I am no expert with clothing. I am a governess.’
‘I know that. I have never had a dresser before. I suggest that we will figure this out as we go along. And if you wish to keep looking for governess positions, while you are working for me, I have no objections.’
‘You would do that?’
‘Of course she would. My wife is kindness personified.’
Sally looked at the door, where her husband stood. So are you, she thought. ‘It seems only logical,’ she told Miss Thayn. ‘I know you would rather be a governess, but these are hard times.’
They settled on a wage, and Sally left Miss Thayn there to collect her thoughts while she spoke with the employment agent about an upstairs maid, a downstairs maid, a maid of all work and a laundress. He promised to select the best he had and send them to her tomorrow. When she returned to the antechamber, the governess was ready to go.
‘I owe a shilling to the landlady at the Mulberry Inn,’ she said, keeping her voice low, as red spots burned in her cheeks. ‘There is also the matter of…of several books I have pawned.’
At least you were not sleeping in churches, Sally thought, as they stood in the antechamber, as close to tears as her newest employee.
Admiral Bright came to her rescue. He handed several coins to Miss Thayn, who stumbled over her gratitude. ‘Call this a bonus for coming to work in a den of iniquity! Settle up your affairs and come to the registry by nine of the clock tomorrow. This post chaise will conduct you and our other female workers to our house. You will be in charge.’ He turned to Sally. ‘My dearest, explain our home to this nice lady while I talk to the coachman.’
She did and was rewarded with a faint smile. ‘The house is being painted, but it will require more paint in more rooms, I fear,’ Sally concluded, as the admiral returned to them and helped them into the post chaise. ‘Now we will take you to the…the Mulberry, you say?’
‘I can walk there, I assure you,’ Miss Thayn said.
‘What, and not allow us to puff up our consequence?’ Bright said. ‘Really, Miss Thayn!’
Subdued into obedience by the admiral’s natural air of command, which Sally knew she could never hope to alter, should she be given that task, Miss Thayn unbent enough to lean back in the chaise. She closed her eyes and gave a long sigh that sounded suspiciously like profound gratitude.
They deposited Miss Thayn at the Mulberry and listened to more profuse thanks. When they started east towards the coast, they passed a shabby inn rejoicing in the name of the Noble George. Sally took her husband’s hand. ‘Please stop here a moment.’
The admiral leaned out the window and spoke to the coachman. ‘Now what, my dear?’ he asked. ‘It must be something clandestine. You’re looking rosy again, Lady Bright.’
‘Charles, you are the limit,’ she said. ‘When I was looking so hard for work myself, I came here to ask if they needed kitchen help.’ She put her hands to her warm face. ‘The landlord was a horrible man. He leered at me and told me if I wanted to work in his kitchen, he would turn out his little pots-and-pans girl and make room for me, if I wanted to supply other…services.’
‘Bastard,’ the admiral said mildly. ‘I’m only being so polite because you really don’t want to hear what I’m actually thinking. Shall I call him out and hit him with my hook? A few whacks and he would be in ribbons.’
‘No! I want to hire that child to help Etienne. No telling what other demands that odious man has placed on her.’
‘How old do you think she is?’
‘Not above eight or nine.’
‘Good God. I’ll go in with you,’ he said, his face dark.
He did, glowering at the landlord in probably much the same fashion he had cowed faulty officers, during his years as admiral. Sally felt considerable satisfaction to see how quickly the man leaped to Admiral Bright’s mild enough suggestion that he produce the pots-and-pans girl immediately, if he knew what was good for him. As she waited, and the landlord hemmed and hawed, and looked everywhere but at the admiral, Sally reminded herself never to get on the ugly side of her husband.
When the girl came upstairs, grimy and terrified, she seemed to sense immediately who would help her, and slid behind Sally, who knelt beside her. The landlord tried to move forwards, but Charles Bright stepped in front of Sally and the scullery maid.
‘That’s far enough,’ he said. His voice was no louder than ever, but filled with something in the tone that made the landlord retreat to the other side of the room.
Slowly, so as not to frighten the child, Sally put her hand on a skinny shoulder. ‘I am Lady Bright and this is my husband, Admiral Sir Charles Bright.’
The scullery maid’s mouth opened in a perfect O. She gulped.
‘I have been hiring maids to work in my house. I need a scullery maid, and think you would suit perfectly.’
‘M-m-me?’ she stammered.
‘Oh, yes. You might have to share a room with another maid in the servants’ quarters. Would that be acceptable?’
‘A room?’ she asked, her voice soft.
‘Yes, of course. Where do you sleep now?’
The little girl glanced at the landlord and moved closer to Sally. ‘On the dirty clothes in the laundry,’ she whispered.
Sally couldn’t help the chill that ran through her spine. In another moment, Charles was beside her, his hand firmly on her shoulder.
‘We’ll do better than dirty clothes,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
She shrugged, and scratched at her neck. ‘General, they called me Twenty, because they thought I wouldn’t live too long in the workhouse.’
Sally bowed her head and felt Charles’s fingers go gentle against her neck.
‘We’ll find you a good name, Twenty,’ he said. ‘Will you come with us? Don’t worry about him. Look at us.’
‘I’ll come,’ she whispered.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Now, is there anything you want to fetch from your…from the laundry room? Lady Bright will go with you, if you’d like.’
‘Nuffink,’ was all Twenty said. She tugged at her over-large dress and patted it down with all the dignity she could muster. ‘I’m ready now.’
‘Very well, my dear,’ Charles said, his voice faltering for only a split second. ‘Go with this extra-fine lady to the chaise out front. I will have a few words with your former employer. Go on, my dear.’ He glanced behind him at the landlord. ‘I promise not to do anything I will regret.’
That worries me, Sally thought, If you thrashed him, I doubt you would regret it. She shepherded the scullery maid into the street, quickly boosting her into the chaise, where she looked around, her eyes wide.
‘Cor, miss,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve never ridden in one of these!’
‘We’re going a few miles away to my husband’s estate, where you will work for a French cook. He will treat you very well. So will we.’ Sally could barely get the words out, as she watched tears slip down the child’s face, leaving tracks through the grime.
She smelled abominably, but Sally hugged her and sat close to her. In a few minutes, her husband joined them. He sat opposite them.
‘Twenty, I asked your former employer for your back wages. He was a little forgetful at first, but eventually he remembered that he owed you this. Hold out your hands.’
He poured a handful of pence in the astounded child’s hands. They spilled through on to her dress, which she stretched out to receive them. ‘When we get home, I will ask Etienne to find you a crock to keep them in.’
She nodded, too shy to speak, and edged closer to Sally, who put her arm around the girl. Finally, it was too much, and she burst into noisy tears. Disregarding her odour and dirty clothes, Sally pulled her on to her lap, whispering to her until she fell asleep. When she slept soundly, Sally put her on the seat and rested the scullery maid’s head in her lap.
‘That landlord told me she hadn’t earned a penny because she kept breaking things and stealing food,’ Charles said, his voice low. ‘Perhaps Wilberforce should look closer to home, if he wants to see the slave trade.’ He leaned forwards and tapped Sally’s knee with his hook. ‘You’re quite a woman, Mrs B.’
She looked at him, shabby in old civilian clothes years out of fashion because he had never been on land for most of two decades. His hair could have used a barber’s shears, and he probably hadn’t been standing close enough to his razor this morning. There was steel in him, and a capability that made her want to crawl into his lap and sob out every misery she had been subjected to, like Twenty. All those years at sea, spent protecting his homeland, seemed to be reflected in his eyes.
‘Thank you,’ was all she said.

Starkey was aghast to see what they had brought home with them, but Etienne didn’t bat an eye. In no time, he had water heating for a bath. When the water was ready, and Twenty eyeing it with considerable fear, he appeared with a simple dress.
‘This was in a trunk in the room I am using,’ he said. ‘Here are some shears. Hold it up to her and cut it to size. That will do for now.’
‘Etienne, you’re a wonder,’ Sally said, as she took the bit of muslin and wondered which Fair Cyprian had worn it.
Twenty’s protests died quickly enough, when she saw there was no rescue from a bath, followed by a pine tar block that barely foamed, but which smelled strong enough to drive away an army of lice. Her hair was already short. Trapping the towel-draped scullery maid between her knees, Sally trimmed and then combed her hair until it was free of animal companions.
Dressed in the hand-me-down, Twenty stood still for a sash cut from a tea towel, and then whirled in front of the room’s tiny mirror. She stopped and staggered after too many revolutions, and flopped on the bed, giggling.
‘I’ll have something better made for you soon,’ Sally told her.
‘I couldna ask for more, miss,’ she said, and it went right to Sally’s heart. I’m not sure I could, either, she thought.
There were two small beds in the little room. While Sally made up one, over Starkey’s protests that he could do it, Twenty sat at the table in the servants’ hall and ate a bowl of soup, not stopping until she had drained it. Sally looked over to see Etienne struggling with his composure as he handed her a small roll, and followed it with two more. When Twenty finished, she yawned, moved the bowl aside and put her head on the table. In less than a minute, she slept. She woke up in terror and cried out when Starkey picked her up, but settled down when Sally took her in her arms and carried her into the little room. She sat beside the bed until Twenty slept.
‘She doesn’t have a name, Etienne,’ Sally said, when she came into the servants’ hall. ‘She is your pots-and-pans girl. You should name her.’
‘Vivienne, after my sister?’ he said decisively. ‘Vivienne was her age when she died. It is a good name.’
‘Very well. You can tell her in the morning.’
She went upstairs slowly, tired in body, but more in mind. Etienne said he would bring supper soon, but she craved company more than soup or meat. She looked in the sitting room and up at the ceiling, which had been painted a sedate soft white.
‘Starkey said it’s only the first coat,’ the admiral said from the sofa, where he sat with his shoes off and his feet out in front of him. ‘You can tell them tomorrow what colour you would like.’
It was utterly prosaic, but she burst into tears anyway, and soon found herself burrowed in close to the admiral, his arm about her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she managed to gasp, before a fresh wave of tears made her shoulders shake.
‘Oh, belay that,’ he murmured. ‘Is she going to be all right?’
She nodded, taking the handkerchief he held out with his hook. ‘I don’t know. Can we send for a physician tomorrow? When she was in the bath, I noticed her private parts… Oh, Charles, they’re all inflamed. Do you think that horrible man…?’ She couldn’t say any more. He held her close.
‘The physician will sort her out,’ he said, his voice hard. ‘Too bad I cannot have that man flogged around the fleet until the skin comes off his back in tatters.’
She shuddered. ‘You’ve done that?’
‘That and more, and for less offense, Sophie,’ he said. He put his hand over her eyes, closing them. ‘Don’t think about it. The best thing that happened to Twenty was you.’
‘Her name is Vivienne. Etienne named her.’
She sighed, happy to close her eyes behind his hand. He kissed the top of her head and cradled her against his chest.
‘It’s a tough world, my dear,’ he said.
‘Not here, not in this decrepit den of thieves,’ she said softly. ‘I’d like a very soft green in this room. Of course, that might require new furniture.’
She felt him chuckle, more than heard him.
They were sitting like that, close together, heads touching, when Starkey opened the door and cleared his throat.
‘Sir, your sisters are here.’ He paused, and closed his eyes against the horror of it all. ‘They have brought Egyptian furniture.’
Charles groaned. ‘Oh, Lord, there you go—new furniture.’

Chapter Eleven (#ulink_c70755e9-274b-5aa3-a283-cde7ccff5930)
Sally tried to sit up, but her husband had anchored her to him. She heard his intake of breath and looked at the door to see two ladies staring back, their mouths open, their eyes wide.
‘Charles,’ one of them wailed. ‘What have you done? And without our permission!’
‘My sisters,’ the admiral said in a flat voice. He released Sally and got to his feet, holding out his hand for her. ‘Sisters, my wife.’
The ladies in the doorway continued to stare. Finally, the younger one spoke and it was not a pleasant tone of voice.
‘Charles William Edward Bright, What Have You Done?’
Dear me, she really does speak in capital letters, Sally thought. She glanced at her husband, who had turned bright red. ‘Breathe, dear,’ she murmured.
He cleared his throat. ‘Fannie and Dora, I have somehow managed to find myself a wife without any assistance.’
Now what? she thought, eyeing the women. They were noticeably older than their little brother, and from the angry looks they darted at her, obviously considered themselves the last court of appeals for their little brother.
Charles tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and towed her to the door. ‘Fannie and Dora, let me introduce Sophie Bright. We were married in Plymouth recently. Dearest, the one on the left is Fannie—more properly Mrs William Thorndyke—and the other one is Dora, more properly Lady Turnbooth. Their husbands have predeceased them, and they have ample time on their hands.’
‘The better to provide our little brother with the guidance he requires on land,’ Fannie said, not acknowledging Sally’s curtsy.
‘You have taught me well,’ Charles said smoothly. ‘I managed to find a wife on my own.’
‘She’s from Scotland!’ Dora burst out. To Sally’s chagrin, she buried her face in her handkerchief and the feathers on her bonnet quivered.
‘Dora, it’s not another planet,’ her brother said, with just the merest hint of exasperation in his voice.
‘Oats! Mildew!’ Dora exclaimed, which made Charles’s lips twitch, to Sally’s amusement.
‘I speak English,’ Sally assured them. ‘Won’t you please have a seat? I will inform our chef of your arrival.’
‘You needn’t bother,’ Fannie said in the brusque tone of someone used to commanding the field. ‘I know how to handle French cooks. I will go down there and tell him what is what. I have done it before.’
Sally glanced at her husband. This is one of those duties you have outlined, she thought. Let us see if I can earn my keep. ‘Mrs Thorndyke, that is my responsibility.’
Fannie didn’t surrender without a fight. ‘He is French! I can handle him.’
‘So can I,’ Sally said, grateful they could not see her heart jumping about in her breast. ‘Do have a seat and visit with your brother.’ She couldn’t help herself. ‘I know he has been expecting your company.’
Shame on her. Sally set her lips firmly together as Charles struggled manfully to turn his guffaw into a cough. ‘Bad lungs from all that cold weather on the blockade,’ he managed to say. She closed the door behind her, but not before he gave her a measuring look.
She leaned against the door for a moment. When she composed herself, she noticed a rough-looking man in the foyer. ‘Yes?’ she asked, wondering where he fit into the picture.
‘I gots a wagonload of furniture,’ he said, with no preliminaries. ‘Nasty black dogs to sit on—Lord ’elp us—a statue of a bloke wearing a nappy. ’E walks funny, too, one leg in front of t’other.’
A pharaoh would have been right at home with our over-eager Penelope beside the front door, she thought, wishing Charles were there for this delicious interview. ‘Just leave the dogs and statue in the wagon.’
The man revolved his battered hat in nervous hands. He eyed the sitting-room door with something close to terror. ‘Them gentry morts will ’ave my ’ide if I don’t unload.’

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