18. Beginnings

September, 1805

Stroud slept in the attic over the new house, where he lay curled in a hammock he had slung between the rafters. He shared it with a few bats, but since they kept alternate hours that was perfectly fine with him. A singularly delicious dream of the first Mrs. Stroud (the one in Deptford) occupied his semi-conscious drifting thoughts: it was just gone five o’clock in the morning, he had heard the church clock strike – almost time to rise and shine.

Mavis had made a pig’s ear out of her covers, as usual, and was curled up in just her nightgown at the edge of the bed, thinking. She was not quite sure what it was that occupied papa and mama so when he came home, late into the night, but she rather thought that whatever it was, she would like to do the same thing with Mr. Hastings, especially if it involved kissing, which she rather suspected it did. While it was faintly embarrassing to have her mother be in the family way, the other girls at school making snide comments about her stepfather, and so on, such as weren’t they really too old for that sort of thing, she felt that Mr. Hastings was just the perfect age for it – or would be in a few years, when she would be, oh – sixteen, say – and that thought made her feel hot and a little trembly.

In the meantime, she enjoyed making him blush; a thing that was not very difficult to do. She was not a blusher, herself. She wondered if it was cruel, and she ought not to do it; but she couldn’t help herself, seeing the power she had over the shade of his downy cheeks, and the delightful feeling of being for that moment his peer, not a little girl to whom he must tend. She briefly wondered if she were fickle for switching her affections from pretty golden-haired Mr. Partridge, early on in their acquaintance: La donna e mobile, wasn’t that what the Italian opera company had sung when they came last year? Well, if she were, so be it: perhaps it was not so very terrible a thing, to come to your senses and realize you had been mistaken in The One you chose to dream of, The One you would marry when the time came. But she had got her mistake over with early, so now she was all set. She knew with unerring certainty that Mr. Hastings was The One, now; one day – she would be patient – he would come to realize it himself. And she was never wrong in these things: look how she had known all along that papa had a tendresse for mama. And mama wanted to say he was just a friend! As if it wasn’t written all over his face – that and the kind things he had done for them, right from the start. She congratulated herself once more for managing to carry-off the whole thing, from introducing them to getting him back enough times to realize that he couldn’t live without them.

She had had a conversation about it earlier with Stroud. “I knew,” she had told him. “Right when they met. When he gave her his coat. Because of the rain, the way her dress was stuck to her. I knew he was a gentleman – and I knew he liked her.”

“People like you an’ me,” said Stroud, “we got a feelin’ for these things. I bet you did know. I did, an’ all. Stands to reason, I said. Pretty widder-woman like that – beggin’ yer parding, miss – and us up on that roof, a-fixing-up that tank for the rainwater – what else could be a-goin’ on except that, I said to meself! ’Course, my mates, they didn’t want to believe me. But I knew, right off!” – and he laid his finger alongside his nose in a conspiratorial gesture Mavis found utterly irresistible, and determined immediately to try on her new piano-teacher. “We even ’ad a bet on, we did.”

“Really? What for?”

Stroud regretted for a moment letting his mouth run away with him. Get yourself out of this one, Henry, he thought. Seeing that eager upturned face and those shining eyes, he decided to let tact take precedence over complete truthfulness, in respect of his employer’s reputation, not to mention Miss Mavis’s tender years. “Why,” he said, “I bet them ’e’d marry ’er. And the day ’e waved you all orf, that was when I knew.”

“I made him do that!

“You what?”

“That was me,” explained Mavis excitedly. “I wrote him a letter, and asked him to wave to us, and he did!”

“Wonders will never cease,” pronounced Stroud, rubbing his crippled hand to try to get more feeling back into it and open up the fingers past the mid-point where they had stuck.

That had been the week before, the day they painted the nursery together, taking a break and sitting companionably on the upturned empty buckets.

Now, into the still house, came the first stirrings of a new day — and a new life. Sophie was lying sleepless and wondering about all these things – about Mavis and Lt. Hastings; about Edward telling her of the first moment he wanted her (concomitant, it seemed, with the first moment he laid eyes on her – though he was scrupulous enough to make the distinction between that and loving her, she noticed, for which piece of truthfulness she loved him only the more).

At that moment exactly her womb gave a great grinding squeeze, one so sharp it quite took her breath away. She had been having minor pains for a long time now, ones that came and went as if a fist had closed momentarily around her belly, and then opened again – but this one was serious: this fist had every intention of grasping till she gasped, and letting go only to redouble its strength for the next time.

She lay there till the next one, waiting; and the one after it. They were still widely separated, long enough to think of a very great number of things in between, all of which she did: chief amongst them being Edward out there in the Atlantic aboard Victory, and the rumours, current in town just now, of the combined French and Spanish fleets having sailed to meet him.

In her previous labours, there had been a period of many hours – half a day and more – while the pains settled into a rhythm sufficient to do their business. But these were most business-like indeed, right from the start.

Still, no need to disturb the rest of the household, not yet. It was barely gone five o’clock: time enough to let them sleep, after their long days’ work, all of them. What would they accomplish, now, if she were to call for anyone? And also, before she called for anyone, she thought she would feel more comfortable if she relieved herself in between these waves, if she could, so she got out of bed carefully and reached for the chamber-pot. The next wave bore down on her and caught her right there in mid-reach, and she cried-out. The fist seemed mailed as it took hold of her womb. She sat there, clutching at the bed-post and gasping till it left.

Quickly, before the next one, she got down on the floor to use the chamber-pot, and bent forward on her hands and knees afterwards to get up again. A whale is so graceful in water, Edward had told her — yes, but on land? she wanted to shout at him – on land? Why could she not get to her feet? She wanted to, but her legs had no strength in them: it was as if her body were paralyzed with waiting for the next pain, and the next one. Scrabbling for the blankets to pull herself up, somehow, anyhow, she felt her foot kick over the chamber-pot. “Oh, damnation!” she said, miserably.

On hands and knees still, she went to her drawer and pulled out her menstrual rags. She would just have to get new ones for after the baby came: for now, these must do. She mopped-up the little pool of urine – it hadn’t been much, thank goodness – and pushed the empty pot back under the bed with the rags inside it. She could deal with it later, once she was on her feet again. She was quite sure that all it required was an effort of will.

It did: but she managed it only after two more pains, and the sheer terror of lying on the wooden floor, on her side, her cheek against the damp patch, feeling this force utterly beyond her control take over her body and make a machine out of it: a tool whose one function was to expel the life it carried, whether or not she survived the process.

“Edward,” she said, and forced herself to stand.

Once upright, she could take careful steps to the door, open it and call for Mavis. She did so. The first time, she thought, she really had not called loud enough to wake her: so she called again, louder this time, her voice not quite her own.

Mavis and Stroud came running, both – Stroud limping with his pegleg rattling on the stairs, Mavis barefoot and in her nightgown of course; and the maid came after from the other side of the house a few moments later. She had been making-up the fire, so was the most fully-dressed of them all. They all saw what was up at once. It was impossible to mistake the way Sophie clutched at the doorpost, and the wild look upon her face. “I’ll go for the midwife,” cried Mavis before she even reached her mother’s side.

“I’m dressed already, Miss,” said the maid, “let me fetch her.”

“But it’s my job!” shrieked Mavis, rushing back to her room. “I’ll be dressed in a jiffy, Mama, and then I’ll run!”

“Thank you, darling,” said her mother weakly.

The maid and Stroud took her on either side and helped her back towards the bed. “I almost think I had rather – sit – for a while – ” she murmured, reaching for the bare wooden rocking-chair Stroud had helped himself to at the pawnshop for a song after interrogating the owner as to the present whereabouts of Sophie’s piano.

“Just a second, mum,” said Stroud. “Lemme put a pillow there for you.” He fetched one from her bed to sit on, and another for her back. Sir Edward’s likely laid ’is ’ead right ’ere on these self-same pillows, he thought, after ’avin’ ’is captingly way wiv ’er —— and, feeling a little guilty for having such profane thoughts at such a time – or irreverent, at any rate – he plumped them and handed her down into the chair with a special tenderness. The maid fluttered around wringing her hands.

“For gawd’s sake,” said Stroud, “Go and fetch a cup of tea, or somefink! Make yerself useful!”

The maid shot him a look – bitch, he thought briefly, and then, nah – just a silly chit, I reckon – and then bobbed a curtsey to Sophie, ignoring him. “If you please, mum,” she said.

“That – that would be very nice, thank you, Betsy,” murmured Sophie. As the maid went downstairs another pain took hold of her: this one was a double, a pair of waves that had run together back-to-back, and it seemed to last for ever. Sophie was unaware that she still held Stroud’s hand (the maimed one), or that she was squeezing it very hard indeed. He said nothing, of course; only watched her face, the closed eyes, trembling lids, the colour drained from her cheeks while it lasted, the bitten lip.

When it was over she opened her eyes, to find his green ones keenly on her. “It’s – frightening,” she said. “Even when you’ve done it before, you know – almost more so, when you know what’s in store — you forget, in between, till you feel it again, and then – then it all comes back… ”

“You’ll do, mum,” he said, tenderly.

“I’m not so sure,” she whispered. “I’m afraid I’ll let him down – and Mavis, and the baby —— ”

“Rubbish! You’re a trooper, I know you is. An’ ’e wouldn’t ’ave married you if you was anyfink less.”

The next pain came and went; she rocked up until the height of it, then slid down the other side gasping, still holding onto Stroud’s hand. Squatting in front of her, he would not have let go at that moment for anything in the world. What was it the capting had said? Make yourself useful, wasn’t it? And then, simply: Be there, that was what he had said at the end, his voice rising. I reckon I’m followin’ orders, then, all right, sir.

In between she lay with her head back on the chair, eyes closed. He was reminded of a mare he had had once, back in the days when he roamed the countryside tinkering. When he had got her, the poor old thing, off a band of gypsies, he had not known she was pregnant. Then her belly got big as her ribs got bonier, until the day he was up with her all night in a farmer’s barn near Titchfield, holding her up as she shuddered, wiping the foam and sweat from her heaving flanks, putting his shoulder to her shaggy wet hocks to keep her from going down.

The foal was born dead; a blue-purple thing, all legs, stinking. He went outside and buried it and when he came back the mare was down anyway. She was never the same after that; foundered half-way up St. Giles’s hill in Winchester the following autumn.

But I ain’t letting that ’appen ’ere, he said to himself firmly. “Look, mum, ’ere’s yer tea.”

He had to hold it for her during the next pang.

Would we still do it? he wondered, if we ’ad to witness this first, every time? Make quite so free with their lovely cuddly juicy bodies, women, if we ’ad to look ’em in the face right now? Would ’e? And he thought of all the women he had had, down through the years, and how he had known none of them as well as he knew this one and Miss Mavis, really; oh, known them in bed, and to eat a bite at their table and slap them around a bit: but not really known, not to talk to. Poor blighters, he thought, expert as he was on loving and leaving them. And here was the capting’s lady, what he hadn’t even left, the capting, not really, only to go to sea, and Stroud found his heart wrung for her anyway. Do I have any kids, then? Must have! Several, probably. Gawd. Strewth!

Then a memory came to him that he had locked away these thirty years and more, and he saw unbidden before his eyes his mother with a rag between her teeth, growling and grunting, and something bloody happening. The fright of it, the pity. He must have been three or four. His Mum, having his little brother that died of the shits two years later. Tears stung his eyes; he blinked them away.

He had run away, at the age of twelve; unable to read or write, he had had no way of keeping in touch with her. Going home years later, he had heard she died in the poorhouse.

Sophie squeezed his hand, gratefully.

“It’s all right, mum,” he said.

***********************

The day passed interminably, as these days do. Stroud went for Lady Davenport as soon as Mavis returned with the midwife. There was nothing to do but wait, now, which all of them knew, and as he limped back up the hill (Lady Davenport had gone ahead in her carriage, after fetching Lady Hamilton) his stump hurt something terrible. This was by far the furthest he had walked on it without his crutch, and he clenched his jaw and both fists most of the way. When he got back home, it was bleeding. He took off the peg, rubbed some saltwater in the scarred and swollen flesh, and put a sock over it so as not to upset Miss Mavis with such a gruesome sight.

The waiting reminded him of a line of battle forming-up. Taking all day, getting into position, all that preparation, everyone jumpy, waiting for the action to start in earnest.

When it did, he went to find Miss Mavis.

She was sitting up on the roof, in her old perch, with her hands over her ears.

“Your Mum can’t ’elp it,” he said. “She’ll be all right. It’s just rough right now, that’s all.”

“I know,” said Mavis.

“You want to take a walk?” he offered. “Away a bit, like?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “I don’t want to be far away. I just wish – she’d stop making those awful noises.”

“She’s trying,” he said. “I’ve ’eard ’em a ’ell of a sight louder than that.”

“Who?”

“Women. Tarts, mostly – ladies of the night — in Portsmouth, back on the old Ark Royal, we ’ad one right afore the ship sailed, capting sent down to see ’oo was killin’ ’is pig.”

“What are ladies of the night? You make them sound so romantical!”

Stroud sighed. Yet again he was in over his head, and no-one but himself to blame. Still he liked the easy ways he had with Miss Mavis, and after all, she would have to know sooner or later — “Women,” he said. “Not nice ones like your mama. Loose ones, that goes wiv men wivout bein’ married to ’em.”

“What do you mean, goes?”

“You know. Makin’ babies.”

“Mr. Stroud — ” Mavis turned to face him; she had been staring out to sea. A big question loomed behind her troubled gaze.

“Wot?”

“How?”

“ ’Ow wot?”

“How do babies get in there in the first place? Are you saying you don’t have to be married?”

“Use your eyes, ’course you don’t. And your common sense. Even you know that, Miss Mavis!”

“Then how?”

Stroud considered for a moment. “Don’t lie to me,” said Mavis.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said.

“Or even tell a story.”

“I wouldn’t do that, neither. I ain’t a lyin’ kind of a bloke, Miss.”

“Well, then, just tell me.”

“I think you ought to ask yer mama.”

Mavis turned a glaring frown on him. “She’s busy. If you hadn’t noticed.” She skewered him with hot hazel eyes. “I have to know.”

He looked at her a moment longer. “Same way they come out,” he said.

She stared, pupils widening. “I don’t know whether to believe you.”

He tried to remember the first time he understood it; but he couldn’t. In the country, in that squalid lean-to cottage, he had always known. “Ain’t you seen animals,” he said, “in the street? The barnyard? A pair on ’em?”

“Oh, my god,” she said. “They’re doing that?”

“They can’t ’elp it,” he shrugged. “It’s their nature. Same with people. When you get older, you’ll see. Don’t you worry about it. Not now.”

“My papa wouldn’t do that!” she said.

“Everyone,” he said.

“That’s disgusting!” she muttered.

“Well, it is and it isn’t. See, when you meets the right person, see, an’ you gets to wantin’ to be – married to ’em – well, all of a sudden it don’t seem so strange after all.”

“You don’t think Mr. Hastings — ” she blurted out, and then turned fuchsia.

“Nah, see. ’E’s not married. I reckon ’e won’t ’ave, not yet. Not till the right one come along. Just like you ’aven’t. ’E ain’t no more ’n a boy, really, now.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked. “I mean, with all those – ladies of the night, in ports, you know — ”

“I’m sure so,” he told her. “An’ I know ’im, well. I was in ’is division, remember?”

Her lower lip trembled. “The same way they come out?”

“The very same,” he said. “Now then – enough about this, criminy, are you trying to get me into trouble wiv the capting? Let’s go ’ave a bite of bread an’ cheese, wot d’you say?”

“Oh yes,” she said, relieved, “let’s!”

With the crusty bread and sharp wedge of Spanish cheese between them, Stroud broke and cut a helping for each of them, pushed the plate across to Mavis. “Look,” he said, “I probably shouldn't have. Told you. I didn’t mean to upset you. Just fergit about it, till the time comes.”

“No,” she said, “You should. Because I asked you. And we should always trust each other to tell the truth. Mama said so.”

“Well, I ’ope I put your mind at rest, for now,” he said, chewing. The food was deeply welcome after his long morning, specially the pickled onion.

She nodded.

“You want a brother or a sister?”

“A brother,” she said immediately.

“You’re very sure!”

“That’s what I want,” she said. “Because mama already has a girl. Me. So a boy would be better. I don’t want another girl half so much.”

“Don’t you worry,” he said, “You’re one of a kind, Miss.”

She grinned up at him before tucking into her lunch. He sighed; smiled, half to himself and half to her; and turned back to his own plate.

*******************

“I promised myself I would stay calm,” groaned Sophie.

“And so you have,” soothed Emma. “My dear, you have been the very model of a mother. Why, when I had mine, I screamed for hours – not just a bit here and there, at the worst times. Oh, when they came, I had nothing left in my repertoire!” She reached to smooth Sophie’s brow with a cool cloth.

“Oh no, here comes another – I only just – oh, I can’t — ”

“Take it in your stride,” said Lady Davenport, “You can; come on… ”

She did.

“It’s like a storm at sea!” she gasped, “you can’t escape till it’s over!”

“Ride it out, then,” said Emma. “ Like he would.”

Sophie looked at her.

“You are thinking of him, aren’t you?” asked Nelson’s beloved.

“Of course,” whispered Sophie.

“I knew. Now, hold on…”

“Edward,” she cried this time, “Edward, Edward, Ed – wa-a-ard!!!”

“Does it make you feel better, to say his name?” asked Emma.

Sophie nodded weakly.

“I thought so. We’ll use it, then, when it’s time to push. It’ll help you.”

“I think that’s – going to be — very soon,” said Sophie.

The midwife waved the friends aside to see and feel. The bed was a little bloody and very wet where her water had broken earlier. She looked at Sophie; nodded. “The next one,” she said, “I see the head. A little. Time to do your work in earnest now, mamecita.”

“Aren’t you going to call your husband?” asked Sophie, rolling her eyes.

“I call him only if there is difficulty in the delivery. He cut, use the scoops — I stretch you, take it easy, nice and smooth, out it come — no difficulty, señora. No problemas.”

“Now, then,” gasped Sophie, “here we go — oh, God — Oh, Edward, EDWARD!!!!!!”

It took but ten more minutes, then.

Pelham might almost have heard himself being called upon, seventy miles away out in the Atlantic off the southern coast of Spain.

A little battle, this one; but still, the greatest fight of Sophie’s life.

“The cord,” she cried, “oh, look out for the cord!”

“Ah, que lindo!” said the midwife; and “a son!” said Emma. Sophie held out her arms.

He squalled.

Lady Davenport burst into tears.

They patted him dry right there upon her breast, wiped the vernix from his eyes and nose; swaddled him, put his mother’s arms gently around him.

“I’ll tell Mavis,” smiled Emma.

*****************

It was Stroud’s idea to send the signal. Mavis said it was a shame they couldn’t, and Stroud said he didn’t see why not, blow him down, strewth!

It was very short; Mavis had to talk the port-admiral into hoisting it, so the first in the standing line of frigates could make it out and duplicate it, pass it on to the next over the horizon, and so on, all the way to wherever the fleet lay.

“CAPTAIN-VICTORY-SON-ALL-WELL,” it said.

She skipped back up the hill, having used her every wile including mentioning the personal interest taken by the Governor and his wife, not to mention Lady Emma Hamilton and dropping the name of Sir Home Popham into the bargain, whom she recalled from Pelham’s little lesson on basic signalling in the Alameda Gardens. A written request from Sir Lloyd carried some slight weight, perhaps, but most of all it was the mention of her very own Papa’s name that brought them round.

The first frigate to pick up the signal was the Indy; when Mr. Partridge read off the flags to Captain Wainwright, the old half of the crew went wild. They then had to explain about the Capting and his lady to the newcomers, and Miss Mavis, and the rigging, which took fully another hour.

Meanwhile, a mere half-hour later and many sea-miles distant, off Tarifa, Hastings approached Pelham and the admiral where they stood deep in conversation on the quarter-deck. He cleared his throat.

“Sir — ” he said, “Captain Pelham, sir — ”

“What is it, man!” Pelham turned to him in irritation; they had been discussing the likely French battle-formation, and a most daring plan of the admiral’s to smash though it in the middle in several places instead of going against it in parallel. Nelson had broken the battle-line before, and it had paid off for him. Would they risk it again, against the combined fleet they expected now, a double line-of-battle, possibly? They were likely to be terribly outnumbered – would it still pay off? Where along the line, for best effect? With which ships in the van?

“Euryalus, sir, to windward. Off her station and approaching with a signal.”

“What!” cried the admiral. “Not the enemy sighted!”

“No, sir. Not that.” He held his glass out to Pelham. “Look, sir.”

“Tell me, dammit.”

“You look, sir.”

Pelham frowned; did so.

One by one he made out the flags; repeated the words; went husky in the middle, and then could not finish at all; “all well,” he mouthed in a whisper, and had to take the glass down to wipe his eyes. His mouth trembled; he turned his back to them, stared out over the rail, overcome.

Meanwhile the admiral had made them out for himself. “Splendid,” he said. “This is very good news, Pelham!”

“Thank you, sir,” croaked Pelham.

Nelson turned to Hastings. “You may announce it to the ship’s company,” he said, “since it will get out soon enough any way – with your permission, of course, Pelham?” — Pelham nodded, not yet trusting himself to speak — “and – why not? – splice the mainbrace!” finished the admiral.

Pelham had never heard anything like the roar which went up then. The cheering went on and on; hats flew all about; whistles and calls and animal yells joined in the cacophony. If he had not realized to what an extent his thoughtful, unassuming bride had endeared herself to his men, he heard it now. And they were cheering for him too, of course, even the old Victories who did not know him yet; and for the triumph of hope over adversity; and for fathers and sons in general; and for His Majesty, in whose service they were all there out in the middle of the bloody ocean in the first place; and for England.

19. Trafalgar

October, 1805

It was one of those quirks of fate that throws ripples down all time: a pair of matching, opposing facts and fortunes, like bookends. They seemed simple, on the face of it: Nelson’s beloved Flag-Captain Hardy having succumbed to the smallpox, after a brief visit ashore in North Africa, and Pelham’s having served under Nelson at a key period in the admiral’s rocket-like career. Losing Hardy was a terrible blow. Nelson had come to count on him more closely than even his own now-missing right arm. He reeled; stepped back from the situation mentally; put his grief aside and took a fresh look at his options.

He liked none of the obvious ones, for one reason or another, and so he cast his eagle eye further afield, at all the options to hand. It must be someone he could immediately establish a degree of trust with; he hardly expected the intimacy and friendship he had enjoyed with Hardy, but the man must be his type of officer. It must be someone completely fearless; for his plans to attack the enemy fleet with Victory leading the line would brook nothing less.

Since their ways had parted, Pelham had come to his old captain’s notice on several occasions since for his decisive fighting spirit and professional zeal. The way he handled his ship, his guns and his men could not be bettered; and fit the admiral’s style, moreover, which was unsurprising since Pelham had learned much of what he knew about leading men and fighting by Nelson’s example, while bringing to his duty his own unique abilities and genius for getting huge results with a slim hand also. In particular, they were of a like mind about what risks to take, and their courage was of the same kind also: bold, deliberate, calculated, then in the moment fearless.

The same understanding Pelham brought to his dealings with Sophie and Mavis had, after all, been honed in leading and commanding and fighting over twenty years. Like Nelson, he knew what you were thinking, whether you were his officer, his man or his enemy; he knew what you would respond to, and most likely how; he chose what to do about it. (He was not so vain, however.) It should be said that his duty was the most deliberate of all with him, though no less heartfelt for that: and his deliberation was probably put to greater use at sea than at home, where he delighted to be spontaneous for a change.

His loyalty was unquestioning and total.

So Nelson looked; he thought; he decided; he acted; the signal was sent; he waited for Pelham’s return; he told him. Quod erat demonstrandum.

And Pelham then, with great reluctance but under direct orders, exchanged the absolute command of a fast and lovely frigate for the far harder charge of the admiral’s flagship, that grand old fighting-engine Victory. It was a sound choice on His Lordship’s part: one of the best in a lifetime of brilliant decisions, for together they were an unbeatable combination.

Not that their relations were without friction. Likeminded in so many ways, their differences cost Pelham much, to swallow without comment, used as he was to commanding his ship according to his own decision and no other man’s – but as he must do, if his opinion were not sought. And it must be said in truth that on occasion he gave it anyway, sought or not: for which the admiral came to count on him, knowing that there was not another man in his fleet who would tell him to his face that he might be mistaken.

It was this he had counted on, in fact, when he sent his summons.

And thus it was that Lord Nelson, though unwillingly, took note of the dismay on his flag-captain’s face at the start of the fleet action off Trafalgar.

“Make the signal: Engage the enemy more closely,” Nelson had shouted, hurrying up the steps to join Pelham on the quarterdeck. Lieutenant Hastings hurried away to the signal-locker to make the hoist.

Pelham turned to the Admiral: “My lord!” – and instantly the greeting froze on his face.

For, despite their heated discussion before the engagement began, in which Pelham thought he and all the Victory’s officers had prevailed upon the man to leave his stars and ribbons in his cabin, Nelson’s slender frame now blazed with every decoration his grateful country had bestowed on him.

Pelham’s fury erupted then: was the man a complete and utter fool? His genius was exceeded only by his obstinacy – perhaps they were one and the same thing. “For God’s sake, sir!” he snapped, before recollecting himself and begging the admiral’s pardon at the top of his lungs – for the cannon-fire rolled around them, wave upon wave.

“Come, Pelham, the men must be able to see me, sir!”

“They can see you perfectly well, sir,” roared Pelham, “you cannot be mistaken for any other man in the fleet, sir, believe me!”

“Damn you, sir, I shall do as I please!”

“Sir – this is folly! We cannot lose you! It would crush us worse than any defeat!” Pelham yelled; then closed his mouth tightly and glared over the top of Nelson’s braided hat into the smoke and chaos.

“Captain Pelham, are you calling me a fool?” shrieked the little man who held the Navy and (at that moment) his country in his child-sized palm.

“No, sir; I am begging you to put your safety first – for once, sir – before your belief that you must be seen, to lead! You are already an inspiration, sir, to every man in this fleet, medals or no medals! Do not make a target of yourself, I beg you, m’lord!”

“Damn you, Pelham, this is no time for prudence!” Nelson looked like a bantam fighting-cock, almost dancing with rage.

Pelham knew it was a lost cause, but he could not keep silent. “Not in the action, sir – but in your person, yes! I beg you, sir!” he cried.

“How dare you tell me what to do, sir!” The admiral’s hollow cheeks filled with crimson.

“Because I love you, sir!” roared Pelham. His throat was raw; his voice cracked. The words came straight from his heart: before Sophie, he might have thought them, but he could not have said them.

The Admiral’s blue eye blazed brighter than his star-and-garter. He tore off his decorations and flung them at Pelham’s feet on the quarterdeck. “There, sir, damn your eyes! Are you satisfied?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!” shouted Pelham.

The Victory’s starboard broadside drowned him out altogether; but the Admiral had already turned his back on him with a furious movement, before stalking off to the other side of the deck to trounce the French fleet once and for all.

*************************

Pelham’s brilliant handling of the Admiral’s flagship in the teeth of the battle won him the undying regard of his Admiral and his country. Approaching between the Redoutable and the Bucephaure to break the French line, Pelham took the Victory between withering fire and brought her on steadily until it could be returned. Bringing her entire broadsides to bear on both enemy ships at once, he sent their masts crashing to the deck, the sharpshooters in the main-top screaming unheard as they tumbled to destruction.

Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson paced the quarterdeck throughout the battle, a tiger, an instrument of terrible vengeance upon the enemy: an inspiration to his men, who needed no decorations to spot their darling even in all the smoke and devastation.

Following Victory’s bold example, the British ships split into small groups just as the Admiral had devised and broke the French and Spanish line up and down its length, throwing the enemy into complete confusion. This was the more remarkable because the enemy outnumbered them almost two-to-one. However, the Royal Navy’s annihilating and stupendous rate of fire, brilliant leadership and devotion to duty could not be withstood by the enemy fleet — or arguably any navy upon the face of the earth, at that time or any other, while men sailed ships upon the wind.

The defeat of Napoleon’s navy was complete and devastating.

Much later, after the action, Admiral Lord Nelson sent for Pelham in his cabin. The bulkheads had been put back, restoring the private space from the open gundeck it had been hours earlier. Painted canvas mats once again covered the splintered planking, from which the blood and powder had been swabbed. Pelham entered, his face still streaked with powder and smeared with blood, his uniform torn at the shoulder. “My lord?”

“Is there another man in this damned Navy with the temerity to tell me what to do?” asked his Lordship, wearily.

“I don’t believe so, m’lord,” replied Pelham. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

“And when do you suppose I might have them back, Captain?”

“M’lord?”

“My decorations, god damn you, sir!”

Pelham frowned, at a loss, then recollected the moment. He had picked them up off the deck, turning to roar another order; stuffed them in his pocket without thought.

They were still there – crushed and much the worse for wear. Oh, hell and damnation, thought Pelham, feeling the bent corners of His Lordship’s Most Honourable Order Of the Bath smashed against his thigh. He pulled them out, tried to smooth the creases in the blue silk Garter; failed miserably; put them into Nelson’s outstretched left hand.

“I thank you, Captain Pelham,” said the little maimed hero – rather formally, it seemed to Pelham, under the circumstances. He wondered if His Majesty gave replacements; tried to imagine explaining the damage.

“Sir – I am sorry, sir – perhaps a flat iron – ” he offered.

“I am thanking you for saying what you did, sir,” said Nelson, “back there on the quarterdeck.” He paused, stared into Pelham’s bloodshot eyes. They had burned with a fire equal to his own, earlier; now they were brown velvet again, returning his gaze steadily. The Admiral smiled the little lopsided smile that had made him the darling of an entire fleet. “You were right, of course,” he said.

Pelham’s cheek twitched. He bowed to his commander. “Honoured, m’lord,” he said.

“That will be all for now, thank you, Captain Pelham – ” said Nelson, setting the bedraggled ribbon and its crumpled star upon his desk beside his half-finished letter to Emma Hamilton – “ now, go and get yourself cleaned up, man!”

This time Pelham did not argue.

*****************

Sophie had found that her favourite room in which to sit with little Edward Horatio Pellew Pelham – universally known as Pellie – was the old back parlour. Slightly shabby but familiar and comfortable, it was there she still felt most completely at home. On fine days, still to be had in this early October, she liked to sit outside and take the air with him a little every day; and the flower-filled courtyard lay just beyond, invitingly.

He was a good baby, she was discovering, though active; his little legs liked to kick a great deal now they were free of the confining walls of her womb, just as formerly within them. He was on the contented side, though — and why not, with so many arms to snatch him up and rock him if he should happen to let out more than a hiccupping wail or two.

News of the battle had reached them within a week of his arrival. The household had still been in somewhat of a state of uproar from their own private excitement; Lady Davenport arrived with the momentous tidings herself, in her carriage, as soon as word came, to break the news to Sophie.

“There has been a great battle,” she cried, rushing into the house, “but he is safe.”

Mavis rushed up to her. “Mamma is in the courtyard,” she directed, pulling her hand. “Lady Davenport — a battle? The fleet action? How – how is Mr. Hastings?”

“Fleet action?” repeated Sophie, all the colour draining from her face.

Mavis flung herself at Sophie’s feet under the gummy-scented shade of the fig-tree; knelt there, hugged her mother’s legs. “Papa is safe,” she said, “safe — safe — safe!”

Lady Davenport confirmed the news. “A glorious victory,” she cried, “The enemy are utterly smashed! We have sunk or destroyed over half their fleet — they are saying it is the greatest Naval victory ever! Edward must be safe, or else we would have heard it —”

“Are you sure?”

“The admiral’s flag? Absolutely: these things travel like the wind.”

“Have you told Emma?” asked Sophie then, looking up in concern from the sleeping cherub on her lap.

“Not yet, my dear — I had to choose which of you to fly to; and I thought she would hear it sooner without me than would you.”

“Oh, God, Letty!”

“Yes, dear,” said Lady Davenport. “I know. They are calling it decisive — that we won’t have to fight them again for years!”

Sophie looked down again at Edward’s little son. “You will see your daddy, then,” she whispered, and had to take one hand away from him and brush the palm of it over both of her cheeks to dash away the sparkle of tears there.

Mavis’s expression was anguished. “When will we know who else is safe?” she asked, in a small voice.

Sophie echoed the thought: “Do we know how many of our own men are killed? Have we lost many ships?”

Lady Davenport shook her head. “I came as soon as I knew anything at all. Listen — they are only just now hearing of it in the streets!” Sure enough, below them from the harbour rose a distant chorus of ragged cheering, and then one after another guns firing in celebration.

Even after nightfall, the noise continued sporadically. Mavis lay in her little bed and wondered how Mama could bear it, all those times, wondering if Papa were safe. Though it had seemed easier from day to day, these last two years, when either no word at all had come, or they had letters and knew that at the time they were written, at least, all was well. But this was different — to know, like a terrible sharp piece of glass in her chest, that there had been a battle, a big one – to be quite sure that many, many officers and men must have been hurt or even (she bit her lip) killed — and not to know if Mr. Hastings were among them – this was not to be borne.

It hurt her to breathe. “Let him be safe,” she prayed, “Oh, please, dear God, let him not be killed. I – if you send him home, even if he is hurt, just don’t let him be killed!” she whispered to the ceiling. “I will be good for ever, and not climb trees, and if You save his life and he comes home without his hand or foot I will look after him — or if his face isn’t handsome any more, I won’t care!” she gulped, “I’ll still be grateful! Just so long as he’s alive… ”

The mauled ships came limping back in triumph one by one to put off their wounded and bury their dead. A graveyard was extended at the foot of the city wall (Gibraltar town being an entire fortress unto itself), for the reception of those shattered bodies. Normally they would have been buried at sea: but the battle had taken place so close to the Rock that the admiral had sent orders to make it so, deeming it fitting they should have a permanent grave in the earth after so great a victory.

The Pelham household watched and waited.

The fate of a mere lieutenant aboard the admiral’s flagship was hardly of any concern to the rest of the fleet, so Mavis had to suffer a terrible eternity hoping for news. Stroud tried to take her mind off it, asking her to help him with a cunning little cradle he was making for the baby that Sophie could rock with her foot as she sat; but her heart wasn’t in the work: he watched her hand slow with the sanding-block in it and then come to a stop time after time, as a pinched look crept into her face and her eyes lost their focus on the cherrywood board and grew distant.

He wondered whether any of his wives and mistresses had cared that much for his safety. Out of sight, out of mind, he had always reckoned, though that widder in Deal had seemed to set a might of store by him — it had been his experiences with her that led him to surmise with such accuracy just how it was between the capting and Mrs. McKenzie, way back when. What was her name, again? Had he said “I love you” to her? Probably; those words used to fall glibly from his lips, once upon a time. Not any more, though: he had come to see how valueless such debased coinage becomes, in the balance of life, watching the capting’s women and how they cherished him.

There had been a time when getting what he wanted had been the sole purpose of his silver tongue and clever hands. What had changed? Perhaps, what he wanted. He rather thought he wanted someone to think of him night and day as she went about her business, never forgetting him for a moment even though she might be occupied with any number of other things; and for her face to light the way the capting’s lady’s did when it lit upon him. Not that bed didn’t come into it: but the person in the bed must have more than a c—t to hold his interest, now. After all, sometimes you had to sleep in a bed, too. A good woman, that was what he wanted: not any old bint, but a good bint. In order to achieve which, it was dawning on him, he would have to transform himself into a good man.

Hester, that had been it. Her hair had been starting to turn grey here and there – he had teased her about it — and her flesh was soft but sweet like a last-year’s apple. He wondered if she still lived on the same street; and made that pigeon-stew with the rich onion-gravy.

*****************

“Go ashore, Pelham,” said the admiral.

“Do you mind, sir?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t have told you to! Go on — go and see your family. We’ll finish-up here later.”

Pelham didn’t need to be told twice.

His impatient glare made the men at the oars put their backs into it and quicken the pace: he looked ever more glowering as they approached the quay. Once there he sprang from the boat and half-walked, half-ran toward the dockyard gate. They exchanged glances: captains, especially flag-captains, didn’t run — it was beneath their dignity.

But husbands did.

He jumped up into the first garry, biting back an oath with the order to hurry. His haste was too great to walk — not that the horse could pull the garry any faster; but his legs were not up to the effort just at the moment: they had unaccountably become like tree-trunks, stiff and unwilling to move at his bidding. He hardly connected this with emotion: put it down to being on land again. Although perhaps walking would have distracted him kindly from the worries that crowded through his mind and body now that he was so close. As they climbed the hill he was in a ferment of impatience. All he knew was that “all was well.” But oh, God, that had been two weeks ago! Was she still safe? There was a hollow place in his gut that would not be filled except with the sight of her face.

The front door was open. He blinked at the new layout inside it; was taken aback for a moment, not knowing which way to go now. But then Sophie’s voice came to him, in snatches of a soft lullaby, and he followed it to the little parlour in the back of the old house where he had first come to love her.

She did not see him for a moment. He stood there and let the sight of her fill him entirely. The hollow place went away and in its stead came something molten. She was dressed in some soft rose-sprigged gown, which was slipped from one shoulder and the baby nestled there against her breast in a creamy drift of lace and lambs-wool. Her downturned face was more beautiful than he had remembered, the roses in her cheeks matching those upon her skirts and her hair all glossy, pinned-up at the back of her neck, except for that stray lock that unmanned him.

She looked well: thank God. He had not dared to believe it.

And so — this little bundle — his son, then? Their son, together, made so tenderly? Where was his face? Could that be his tiny hand, waving like a pink seaweed-stem in the current? Oh, God, was that little flower his mouth at her nipple?

She looked up at the sound of his indrawn breath.

“Edward!” she said, softly — but the look on her face was a loud cry of joy.

He crossed the threadbare rug in two strides and fell to his knees beside her. Taking her face in both his hands, he searched there. She returned his gaze look for look. There was a new depth in her eyes: a tiredness, new lines — but a new joy also. Doubtless she must be thinking the same thing about him (she was). He stared without speaking for ever so long: words failed him.

“You’re safe,” he croaked at last.

“I think I am supposed to say that to you, dearest,” she replied, smiling gently at his awkwardness.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said.

“Was it terrible – the battle?”

“Yes — it always is — but we beat them.”

“Is Mr. Hastings safe? Mavis has been eating her heart out, these last days… ”

He nodded, watched the relief come into her face.

“Oh, Edward,” she said.

He looked down at the babe. His son: his flesh-and-blood. A damp wisp of dark hair peeping from under the cap; hands like starfish; eyes closed, the lids palest lavender; his mother’s nipple slipping from his drowsing mouth; a trickle of milk escaping the slackened lips to streak down his cheek.

Her breast had blue veins glimmering beneath her pearly skin; was fuller yet than he had seen it, the nipple a deeper rose with a new satiny-brown hue under it and as big as his thumb. Her eyes did not leave his face as he took note of all these things. He reached out his hand and took the tiny fist in his, so gently his son did not wake.

“My love,” he said then.

She held the shawl-wrapped package out to him, but he shook his head: “Not yet,” he said. “Give me a moment. I am still trembling, I think.”

He ran his forefinger over the underswell of her breast, where a drop of milk ran; brought it to his lips. It was sweet – he had not expected that. “Oh, God,” he said.

She smiled at him. Gone was her anxious look as he had seen her last, fearing him to find her ungainly, repulsive in her pregnancy. In its place a quiet confidence glowed. All his treasure on earth was here before him in this house, in this chair, in her lap, and she knew it. He reached to take their son from her.

God, he weighed so little! A bundle of canvas would weigh no more. He wondered if he would know how to hold him, but he let his arms find out the way of it just as he had learned every other tenderness in holding Sophie.

She was tucking her gown back around her breast; he was reluctant to see it hidden, but did not say so for fear she would misunderstand. Not that he did not feel that stirring too, because he had, sharply, at first sight of her, baby and all; but it would wait.

“Thank you,” he said. “For this. For him. For all you have gone through.”

She shook her head.

“I mean it,” he said.

“I know,” she murmured. “Edward, you don’t have to — ”

“Ssshh,” he hushed her. At the sound, sibilant but a little sharper than anything yet spoken between them, the baby stirred in his arms. A tiny quaking, the parcel coming to life just as he had felt it in her womb in the bottom of the row-boat with his head pressed to her belly. He stared down. His son stared back.

“His eyes are blue!” he said in surprise.

Sophie felt a pang at how little he knew. “They always are, Edward, to begin with. They might stay blue – but they’ll probably change to brown.”

“Hazel, like yours,” he said.

“Brown, like yours,” she said.

His eyes held hers. They were very bright: he blinked the tears away. “I never thought— ” he said. “Ever.”

Her smile lit the room.

A scramble of feet on the stairs announced the arrival of Mavis even before her anxious little face appeared in the doorway, closely followed by the stump – thump – stump of Stroud right on her heels.

Edward turned to her. “He’s safe,” he said, before she could even ask. She turned to Stroud and burst into tears in his outstretched arms. After a few moments she sniffed deeply and hiccupped her sobs back into her throat. Pelham had always loved her capacity for doing that: it was one of the first things he had noted about her in approval, the day she ran into him and ricocheted into the rain-filled gutter. She blew her nose on her apron (Sophie frowned in disapproval) and broke into a broad grin.

“Isn’t he lovely?” she asked, “ — my brother?”

“Yes,” said Pelham.

“I knew you would think so,” she said. “Some people say newborn babies look like monkeys, but I think he’s the sweetest thing I ever saw.”

“So do I” said Pelham, “except for his mother.”

“You would say that,” she said.

“Of course I would,” said Pelham. “It really couldn’t be any other way.”

She looked from one of them to the other, her papa still on his knees, her mama flushing and radiant as she only was when Edward was by. “No, I suppose it couldn’t,” she said.

*****************

He had to spend the afternoon back aboard ship: came home late, as Sophie knew he would. She was waiting for him, awake in their new tall bed. “Goodness,” he said, “I’ll have to get used to this! Climbing up to go to bed –!”

“I hope you will,” she smiled. “You’re not leaving so soon, this time, are you, love?”

“I hope not,” he said, “though we will have to go back to England soon, you know, after this —— we’re expected, you know, after a thing like this! ––”

He took the candle over to the cradle before coming to bed, and stood there a long while. It was so quiet that Sophie heard him swallow; though she felt no impatience for his return to her arms. He would come when he was ready.

He did.

“Blow out the candle?” she said.

In the darkness he came to her very tentatively, not pulling her into his embrace as he once would have, but reaching for her instead. “May I hold you?” he asked “ – just - in my arms? I don’t expect –”

“Of course,” she said, snuggling against him.

“I know it’s too soon,” he said, not wanting to her to think he must be satisfied any more than he already was: “ – please don’t think you need to – except let me hold you…” his voice shook.

She felt him lay his hand on the soft mound of her belly. “It’s not hard any more,” he whispered.

“No,” she said, “not after it’s born. It just takes a while, to — so we can’t, just for these few weeks, till — ”

“I understand,” he told her, “I don’t mind – how could I? Even the thought of you, in that way… I don’t think I could, yet, it feels too… sacred –– ”

She let him hold her, her head pillowed on his shoulder. His heart beat steadily; she could half-hear, half-feel it. How long would she have him for this time, before duty intervened once more? “Edward,” she whispered, “do you remember our wedding-night?”

“How could I ever forget!” he murmured, his smile audible.

She kissed his shoulder; her tongue flickered on his skin. Her fingers swept lightly over his chest, brushing the silken planes of it, his muscles, his small hard nipples, his ribs. He groaned, as she had meant him to. “Would you like…” she breathed against his neck.

“It isn’t necessary,” he protested.

“I’m not speaking of necessity, Edward – leastways, not that kind –– I mean… may I?”

“Oh, good God,” he said. “It’s enough to lie here with you, really it is, Sophie, I told you I don’t expect… not after all you’ve been through – ”

“I want to know… that you still want me, Edward,” she confessed then, trembling a little in wait for his answer.

“Sophie,” he said.

She explored his belly, and further yet… “Please,” she said. “For me.” His flesh stood up to meet her and he groaned. “Because you are home safe,” she whispered, “and I love to feel this – your want – it pleases me, Edward.”

“Does it?” he said.

“Don’t you know that by now?” she smiled, surer of herself with every moment as the heat of him stirred under her hand.

He tried to be quiet, but his groans were too sharp to stifle: no sooner had they echoed in the stillness, before he had even got his breath back, than he heard the baby start to fuss. It sounded like a kitten. Sophie dabbed at his chest with her nightgown to dry it.

“I’m sorry!” he breathed.

“Sssshh,” she whispered back, “it’s all right. He’s ready for a feeding, anyway – overdue, even.”

“Shall I fetch him to you?” he asked.

“Would you?”

He put his feet to the floor, walked over to the cradle in the corner of the room. He was not quite sure how to go about picking up his son, and how many of the coverlets to include, so he closed his hands carefully around the entire bundle and lifted it. “What,” he said. “You’re hungry? My little man? Hmm?”

The head wobbled: he put the palm of his hand around it. “There,” he whispered, “there. Shall I take you to your mamma? Isn’t she beautiful? Do you know that you have the most beautiful mamma in the whole world? And the luckiest father?”

Unaccustomed to a male voice so close-at-hand, the baby paused in his fussing to listen.

“See,” whispered Pelham, engrossed now, “I’m your papa. And you are my son. And I do love you. Every bit as much as your mamma. But — she has the vittles, so let’s get you over to her, shall we? This way, my laddie… ”

The little body stiffened in his hands, then, wanting more than just talk, however tender. The nether end of the bundle felt a little damp. “All right, all right, little fellow,” soothed Pelham, “Here she comes. I know how you feel. Yes, I do! Sh – sh – shh!”

He was crying in earnest as Pelham handed him to Sophie, and did not stop till she got him settled in the crook of her arm and bared her breast to him. Making little hiccupping cries and squawks, the baby searched for his milk-fountain until he found it. Pelham watched in the dimness of the room, spellbound. Once the petal-mouth had closed around its destination and the frantic sucking begun, quiet reigned again except for the occasional blissful, shuddering sigh. The rosebud-feet twitched, coming loose from the wrappings.

Pelham reached to cup the downy head. “See, what did I tell you?” he whispered to his son, “I know just how you feel.”

Sophie’s gaze met his in the shadowy light. How precious this time seemed to him. How little of it would he have? “May I light the candle, to watch?” he asked.

“Of course,” she smiled.

For those few blessed minutes, time stood still for Pelham. He had not wanted to tell her, until he knew for sure, how short a time there would be until he had to leave Victory in port for repairs and accompany the little admiral back to England in triumph; not long, he suspected. Not long enough for this.

Her eyes met his over the hungry nursling, and he knew that she knew without needing to be told, and that that was why he needed to watch by candle-light.

“You are extraordinary,” he said, “truly – ” not knowing how else to articulate one-tenth of what he felt. Her loving acceptance of his duty – her understanding of his sexual passion – these still astonished him: would, he thought, watching her, continue to do so these many years yet. It was too great of a miracle for him ever to begin to take it for granted, were he to be her husband for the next twenty years and more (as he fervently prayed he would be). Would this bonfire he felt for her burn down to a glow in that time? Possibly; but he felt, seeing her suckle his son, that if his gaze were to light on her those twenty years hence, it would still be luminous with that mutual flame.

The baby spluttered. Sophie lifted it from her breast for a moment, till it caught its little swishing breath; held it upright and patted it, and opened her nightgown on the other side, then, turning the baby to it.

He gazed at the dark tumble of her hair, and wondered whether it would move him any less when there were falls of silver in it. But would his own not be just as grey, then: greyer! If he lived that long. Please, God –– ! And he could not imagine seeing her curls one day so frosted with any less sharp a surge of joy than he presently did – except perhaps to anticipate an even greater tenderness and gratitude born of the years they would have had together, should it be so.

Perhaps, he mused, studying them, his wife and child –– perhaps one day he would become accustomed to this other pace, the hushed stillness that was in the room now, so different from the heat and urgency of a few minutes ago. Perhaps he would come to her less desperately, one day – but no less blissfully, he felt sure of that. Indeed, the prospect of finding himself slower and sweeter with her than he had yet been able to be delighted him. It melted him, put him suddenly in mind of the peaty heather-honey of his Dartmoor boyhood.

“You are – what – thirty-five?” he asked her, softly.

“Thirty-four, Edward, do not rush me!”

“I will only love you a thousand times more with every year until you are twice that,” he said, his voice not quite steady.

She pulled her nightgown more closely around her bosom, till his outstretched hand stopped her. “I hope I am not supposed to find the answer to that sum, Edward,” she smiled, “for I am sure I could not!”

“Infinitely, will do,” he said.

For a few minutes there seemed no need for words.

The grace of her, is what it is, he thought: that word again, that quality, but what else do I call it? The way she had of being so perfectly natural in herself as to put everyone at ease immediately. And even now, turned upside-down within herself in this tidal new reality of motherhood again, one which would overwhelm most women entirely, still it streamed from her. She could no more hold in its light than she could stop breathing. Yes: a light, that was it – she is luminous, he thought. And oh, God, she is mine. It was a kind of genius in its own way: one he had recognized within moments of meeting her. She had a way of suffusing a room, a conversation, a touch, with such understanding that it left a glow wherever it lighted. She heals, makes whole, he thought, without knowing it: his own genius, that of command, recognized a fellow worthy of itself.

Heals… oh, God. The emotion of the last time they had made love, while she was so great with child, came up to wound him afresh. It had stirred him so, and shaken him, and shamed him all at once: a nightmare woken and revisited –– now transforming itself within him, under her innocent spontaneity, in a way he had never thought possible.

Still, the memories it had prompted rose up again to move and trouble him – as if they would not finally be laid to rest unless he drew them out entirely, sharing the agonizing truth of them with her like a splinter drawn from his soul. Was there anything he could not tell her, even this? No. It had festered long enough: it was time to make his peace with it, through the light of her tender understanding.

He went to speak a few times, before he found a way to begin, even. The room was still, the babe drowsing contentedly at her breast.

“The last time we were… together — ” he said after a long pause. “I couldn’t stop thinking of it, afterwards, the way we – I — I thought of it again, just now, for a moment, forgive me — ” the ugliness of it pierced him now, and he wanted to take the words back before he broke this spell of peace with his hurt. A shadow crossed his face before he looked away.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, “I should not have mentioned it. Specially not now.”

“But you did,” she said. “What is it, my love?”

“Your bottom,” he said — not what she thought to hear, although she was not sure what she had anticipated: not that. She looked at him quizzically over the baby’s dark head. “I — I liked feeling it against me. The sweetness of your quim that way – so unexpected. Not to be face-to-face with you. But — ”

“But?”

“I’ve never – let myself think of – holding you that way,” he said. “Never. Because of the implications, I suppose… ”

She waited for him to continue. “Not me,” he said, at last. “There was a bo’sun aboard my first ship.” The line between his brows bit harsh and deep. “Buggered a ship’s-boy. In my division. The child came to me, weeping — ”

She put her hand to her mouth. “And — ?”

“He went overboard,” said Pelham, “in a storm.”

“The boy?”

“No; I kept the child with the rest of us midshipmen, for his own safety, after that. I meant the bo’sun.”

“All for the good,” she whispered.

“It was no accident. So — that’s why I’ve never — approached you that way — I would think of it, when you’d bend to pick up something, but I never could get past — ”

“I understand,” she said.

“I knew you would. What do you not understand, Sophie?”

She tilted her head to the angle he knew and gave him the gift of her silent regard.

“He was but eight years old,” said Pelham, “and I was responsible for him.”

She closed her eyes.

“I should have known it would be different with you,” he said. “You make all things better, Sophie.”

“What happened to the boy? Was he all right?”

“He commands Euryalus,” said Pelham. “Don’t say I told you, for God’s sake!”

The candle wavered softly in the draught from the window.

“He is wet,” she said at last, “will you bring me a napkin, to change him before I put him down again? They are in a pile, on the dresser… ”

When he brought her a dry napkin and then carried his sleeping son back to his cradle, he laughed at himself to think what his ship’s company would say could they see him now, engaged in such humble tasks. And yet he wished he could stay here and do this, a week of it at least, rather than return with His Lordship in the least damaged of His Majesty’s ships for the celebrations.

Afterwards, he did not blow out the candle again, but let it burn, their preciousness too near and too sharp to close his eyes on the sight of them tonight.

20. Stroud Goes Out On A Limb

1805 - 6

Stroud had been giving a great deal of thought to his domestic situation. It was one thing being aboard ship, and another altogether to find himself in the heart of the blessed capting’s household. He was not by nature a celibate ashore. Yet clearly it would not become him to bring scandal upon his employers and ill-repute to their home by conducting himself like an old tom-cat while in their service. He had also observed the very great care they had for one another, as has been noted: the constancy of Sophie’s devotion to her absent husband, the frequency with which his name was spoken.

This touched him greatly; moved him to a degree of wistfulness, after a while, having never in his life having witnessed anything so binding and powerful between a man and his mate. This went beyond bed, even: there was no doubt of it. The capting’s hold over his wife’s heart and soul was radiantly apparent. Mavis, too, spoke of her father with a degree of passionate loyalty that touched him deeply. He knew he had never deserved anything of the kind, from any of the women he had taken-up with, and the knowledge brought him to ponder more than once whether he was too old to change his ways.

It was particularly borne in upon him that he missed female company by being so regularly in that of Sophie, whose glowing presence was far too forceful a reminder of what he lacked – at times, quite achingly so. His good-natured envy of the captain turned almost sharp, as the weeks wore on.

While Sophie was physically unlike Hester, who would have topped her by a head, there were certain ways in which she reminded him of those happy days spent in Deal with that strong-minded widow. She had not been the sweetest of his many lovers – that title probably belonged to the second Mrs. Stroud, the one in Deptford. But she had lacked backbone, his Deptford dear, and had drifted from his life like a pretty thing offered up by one tide and snatched away again by the next. It was hard to imagine the stalwart Hester drifting anywhere not of her own volition: she had been trenchant, independent, indomitable — had even clouted him right back when he forgot himself so far as to give her a love-tap. More like bread-and-dripping, than sweet. With some vinegar thrown in. You could make a meal on that, though.

Like Lady Pelham, she spoke her mind and had plenty of it — though her tongue was sharper, to be sure. And yet her bark was far worse than her bite: for she had also had a kind heart beneath her tough hide, much as did he. It was this he had been drawn to — that and the clean sheets and the superb cooking.

He had never lived so like a king as in those weeks at Hester’s. She had seemed to accept him for exactly who he was, warts-and-all — or, in his case, wild ways and fancy-free seaman’s heart — and enjoy their tussles in bed and out of it with a straightforward, unashamed relish. As he settled into his new life and the weeks and months and years ashore stretched before him, he felt more and more strongly that it lacked something key. Having once turned his thoughts in that direction, it was hard not to wear out that path with them.

At first he thought he might start afresh with some friendly, shady-side-of thirty (or even forty?) lady of the town. However, it became clear to him after attempting to strike up conversation with a few such while going about his daily business on behalf of the Pelhams that his face, for the first time in his life, was now working against him. He had counted more than he realized on that boyish, tousle-haired, green-eyed smile that brought the dimples to his lean cheeks.

Through all the hardships of his youth, that easy smile had brought him favour, small kindnesses, a break here and there, a bed for the night – the week – the month. But no more. Now his face looked as if it had been half-ripped-off and sewn on again with a hasty hand, not quite straight – which was no more than the truth – and the resulting heavily-seamed and slightly skewed effect had turned his charming grin to a leer, his once-irresistible hungry-eyed look to that of a frowning gargoyle.

It would take a handsome face to get past his missing foot — or a whole set of limbs to make up for his face — and he had neither, not to mention his one-and-a-half hands. Children cried and young women averted their eyes when he passed them in the street.

Had Hester remarried? There was the nub of it.

Mavis brought this idea of his to a head, in her artless way: he had been watching Sophie rocking and humming to the baby, with a dreamy smile upon her face, sitting in a corner of the courtyard with his back to the wall, and Mavis had come home from school and caught him looking with her customary gimlet powers of observation – both of the face and of the heart that pulled its strings from within.

She waited for her mother to take her brother indoors for a dry napkin, before she struck home: “Mr. Stroud,” she said, cocking her head to one side, “you’re lonely, aren’t you.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said, “not wiv you an’ yer mam an’ all to look after. I don’t lack fer company.”

“Not like that – ” she said gravely, looking up into his cat’s-green eyes with her earnest hazel ones: “I mean like papa, before he met mama. He was, you know, terribly lonely, even though he was in a ship full of people!”

“’Ow would you know a thing like that, Miss? Your papa plays his cards closer to ’is chest than that, don’t ’e?”

“I asked him, and he told me,” she answered, perplexed that he would even question her statement. “Papa always tells me the truth. Just like you.”

“That’s very nice, that is,” he said. “A good man, your papa. No nonsense about ’im.”

“Right,” she said. “Now, how are we going to get you a lady friend, Mr. Stroud? I mean - I don’t suppose you’d want to take up with any ladies of the night, would you!”

“I reckon I can manage that meself, thankin’ you kindly, Miss.” He shot her a sharp look from under his crooked brows, not unkindly, but proud.

“You’re telling me it’s none of my business, aren’t you,” she sighed. “And I do know you’re right, really I do. I beg your pardon for interfering. It’s most impertinent of me. It’s just that I hate to see you all alone, when you ought to have a nice wife – or something. Now that you’re ashore.”

“I won’t say as I wasn’t thinking the same thing meself,” he said, “because I were, an’ that’s the truth of it. But you got to stop readin’ people’s minds, Miss Mavis, afore you gives ’em the heepie-jeepies! Let ’em ’ave some secrets – or at least, let ’em think as ’ow they do, anyways!”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “truly I am. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Wot! You offend me, Miss, wiv your kind ’eart and’ sweet ways? Never! Anyways, I can’t say as ’ow you didn’t ’ave the right of it. Read me mind fair and square, you done.” His seamed face took on a transparency he reserved only for those he trusted completely – which numbered five in sum: Mavis, Sophie, the Captain, Thurman, and Mr. Hastings. “On’y as ’ow folks likes to think as nobody can see through ’em that well,” he said, “you know ’ow it is.”

“I knew it, though,” she said, turning that radiant smile upon him. “I always know, when I care for people. I could read papa’s mind, right from the start. I knew he was going to marry mama. Because of how he looked at her, when she wasn’t looking. And I was right!”

“You was indeed, Miss.” Stroud put down the knot he had been making, a monkey-fist of best whitened hemp for the baby to gnaw upon. “But I reckon I’d better fix meself up, in that department, if you take my meaning. It’s a very personal thing, is gettin’ ’itched.”

Mavis picked it up in admiration: “Oh, this is beautiful! How do you tuck all the ends in like that?”

“It’s just one length, see,” he said. “Larned ’em aboard the Indy, I did.”

“Well, you must let me know if you need any help, Mr. Stroud – do you promise?”

“Cross me ’eart an’ ’ope to die,” grinned Stroud, rubbing his scarred hand, that hurt from holding the tightly-worked little ball.

Still, it set him to thinking…

Sophie was sitting in the courtyard sewing a new gown for the baby and rocking his cradle with her foot when Stroud came to her a few days later, twisting his battered straw-hat in what was left of his hands.

“Beggin’ yer parding, mum,” he said.

“What is it, Mr. Stroud? Won’t you sit down?”

“I don’t want to wake the little chap,” he mumbled.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “he’s only just gone to sleep. He’ll be out for a while now, just like his father.”

She was right: sailors had to catch their sleep where- and whenever they could, a captain no less than a common seaman, and the image of Pelham senior napping like a babe brought that grin to his lopsided face.

“It’s a ticklish thing, mum,” he said.

“Oh, dear,” she replied, a worried look settling between her straight thick eyebrows. (He had always liked the sight of a woman primped and tweezed, not to mention painted, before – a lad ashore gets little enough chance to walk the streets with a lady on his arm, and she ought to go the whole hog to make herself look the business — or so he would have felt, a few years earlier. But the simplicity of Sophie’s unadorned appearance had wrapped itself around his heartstrings, and he would not have had her any different for the world, no more than would her husband. That had been one of the best things about Hester, he recalled wistfully: what you saw was what you got. As he got older he saw the value of that.) “Are you unhappy here, Mr. Stroud? Or is it your leg —? I do hope not!”

“Oh, no, mum,” he said, grinning to reassure her. “Nuffink like that, thank gawd. No, me leg’s perfect – peachy, as they say. It’s me situation, mum. Domestic-wise.”

“Are you unhappy with your room? Is it too hard to climb all those stairs?”

“No, mum – I wants your advice – and then your ’elp wiv a letter, if you agree.”

“I hope I shall, Mr. Stroud. I shall certainly try! What is it that I am to agree to?”

“Well, it’s a long shot…” he began, “but if you could take me word as to this person’s character, bein’ straight-arrow an’ even ’arder-workin’ than me —— ” –– and he opened his heart to Sophie, and entrusted his frailest, tenderest dreams to her understanding.

The conversation went better than he had dared to hope. Sophie’s affection for him opened her heart to his need for a mate — she saw his dilemma at once. “How I wish we women were not so shallow as to care for a pretty face alone, Mr. Stroud,” she said. “Why, you are a prize, an absolute prize, I should declare it in the streets to any who would listen!”

“Thankin’ you, mum,” he said, “but ’andsome is as ’andsome does, you’d be wastin’ yer time.”

“I know,” she said sadly. “I am so sorry.”

“But I got an idea — ” he went on.

The baby sighed and made a little frown in his sleep, so like his father Sophie bit her lip to see it. Stroud lowered his voice — “It’s all right,” she said, “please go on, Mr. Stroud.”

He continued laying-out his hopes. He had thought she might laugh at him, but her grave expression and warm regard heartened him and he spoke with increasing confidence of his most private wishes, and how they might just possibly be turned into reality.

“Of course, we would have to see if she would suit, for housekeeper,” Sophie said when he had finished. “But – that understood – it is an entirely separate matter, and it need not stop us –– why, of course, there is no reason, no reason in the world, why we should not write to her and see if she would care to come and join you as your wife. There is plenty of room for you both in the attic, I think, and I hope we have arranged to pay you enough to keep a wife — ”

“Lord, yes, mum,” he said.

“Then bring me a paper-and-pencil,” she said, “and we shall draught a letter right away. I will read it back to you, and when you are satisfied, I will write it up nicely and send it.”

“You are a queen among women, mum,” he said, and then blushed beet-red at the impertinence of saying so. “No offence, mum,” he added hastily.

“Mr. Stroud,” she said tenderly.

“I wants it to be me own words,” he insisted. “She’s got to know it really come from me, plain and honest. Not fancy like you’d write to yours.”

“Of course,” she smiled. “I agree completely. Now, what was it you wanted to say?”

The letter was written that same afternoon, written and folded and sealed and taken down to the dock and handed to the first lieutenant of the Apollo, freshly and fortuitously bound for Kent. Sophie had been as good as her word: it read directly as Stroud had dictated it.

“Hester,” it began, “You are a good woman, which I know, and believe me I sets more store by that now than I ever had the sense to when we was seeing each other. I am in hopes this finds you happy and settled, and if the picture includes a new husband, I am right glad for you. You deserve a good man, Hester. If you got one, wish him well from me and tell him he’s a lucky man, and don’t read no further.

But if you don’t, and you might like to consider having one, well I’ve got a proposition for you my dear.

I was a roving lad when you took me in and there’s no denying it. But you was good to me and I ain’t never forgotten it. Or you. You are a mighty handsome woman Hester not to mention a right good cook. I am a settled man these days with no intentions of straying no further than where I washed up. I got a situation now in the household of Captain Sir Edward and Lady Pelham that might suit you to the nines. It is a capital berth and there’s room for two in it. What do you say?”

Here he would have finished, but a couple of suggestions from Sophie rounded out the letter in its final version: “I am offering marriage, make no mistake, I want to make a respectable woman of you Hester, no messing about no more. And I should mention I lost my left foot but it don’t slow me down none. Only to stay anchored ashore which is all the better for a married man.”

And with this irresistible invitation on its way, he sat back and waited in hopes of a reply.

**********************

The baby was cutting his teeth on Stroud’s ball before anything came of it, and the ever-more-frustrated seaman had begun to wonder whether his letter had even found its destination – until one hot afternoon early the following spring, when he came home from the chandler’s with a big pot of glue and some nice cherry boards to make a chair for the little fellow.

Mavis met him in the hallway, dancing from foot to foot on the stone flags. “You’ll never guess,” she hissed conspiratorially.

“Wot?” Stroud shook his head. “Wot next, then, Miss?”

“She’s here!”

“’Oo?”

“You know!” –– and with that, Mavis took him by the arm and gave him a powerful shove, propelling him into the drawing-room, where Sophie sat entertaining a guest. They sat drinking tea, the guest with her back to him, and all he could tell of her was her pile of reddish-blonde hair under a black bonnet, and the appreciatively loud way she slurped her tea, much as he liked to, if there weren’t any beer to be had, that is. Also that she was built the way he liked ’em, if she wasn’t too past it, of course – broad in the beam, which he could appreciate through the cut-out in the chair; statuesque; a nice handful and then some.

“Afternoon, mum,” he said, tugging his forelock in Sophie’s direction. There was plenty of forelock to tug: he had not cut his hair in several weeks, and its luxuriant tobacco-gold abundance was undoubtedly his finest point since the ruination of the rest of his features.

The woman turned at the sound of his voice. “’Enry!” she exclaimed.

“Christ-a-mighty!” gulped Stroud, feeling as though his throat had suddenly got a large lump of porridge stuck in it, “’Ester!”

The cherry boards went clattering from his suddenly nerveless hands.

She took a better look at him, frowning. “Gawd-a-mighty is right, ’Enry,” she cried, “wot in the name of all that’s ’oly ’appened to yer face?”

She looked a might older, but as spirited as ever. And as sharp. “Ain’t you at least goin’ to say ’ello?” asked Stroud, stung.

“Beg yer parding,” she said, “’ello, Mr. Stroud.”

“’Enry’ll do,” he said. “an’ you’re a sight for sore eyes, ’Ester!”

“Which we can’t say the same for you, can we?” she replied. “You might have said something in yer letter. Just so I wouldn’t nearly drop me tea, which I almost done! You got to admit it’s ugly!”

“’Andsome is as ’andsome does,” he shrugged. “Splinter - ripped it ’alf off.”

“Well ’e could at least have done a better job of it, ’ooever stitched you back up,” she said, “neater-like, you know. I could’ve sewn it back twice as nice, meself, wiv a darnin’ needle!”

“’E ’ad ’is ’ands full, I reckon,” said Stroud, a little defensively.

“Well you got to allow it’s a bit of a shock,” she said, “till yer gets used to it, like.”

“I dunno,” he said, “I ain’t the one as got to look at it, see.”

“Well, never mind,” she said, “spilt milk now, right? Can’t ’ardly turn round and go all that bloody way back again just because you ain’t so pretty no more.”

Stroud shrugged again. “’S up to you, innit,” he said, in his best I-don’t-care tone.

Sophie’s colour had risen steadily throughout this exchange. Its candour almost caused her to choke on her tea: she sipped from her cup very carefully, looking down into her lap, and said nothing while the two love-birds got over the shock of this reunion.

“Well,” declared Hester, moving towards Stroud, who took a step back, “I took you at yer word.”

Sophie knew her guest was tall, but had thought Stroud taller. He wasn’t: his lady-love’s nose came to the top of his curly head.

“Ain’t you goin’ ter kiss me, then?” she asked.

Awkwardly, Stroud gave her a peck on the cheek. Sophie, stealing a glimpse of this tender moment, was glad to see the older woman blush deeply, in spite of the aggressive gleam in her bright blue eyes. She was nervous, then – or moved – or both, despite all appearances. Good. “You must excuse me,” murmured Sophie, “of course you two must have a great deal to talk about. Mrs. Higgins, do please help yourself to more tea. I shall be in the library, if you need me – ”

“One thing, mum,” asked Stroud, recovering himself as she withdrew. “’Er bags, mum – where should I put them?”

“Oh, we had just been discussing that before you arrived, Mr. Stroud,” said Sophie warmly, “Mrs. Higgins is going to have the spare room, upstairs on the other side, my old room, you know, until we can get the bed moved up to the attic ––” she turned to Hester: “You must forgive us,” she explained, “we weren’t expecting you so soon – but of course, I’m sure I speak for Mr. Stroud as well as myself in saying how very pleased we are to see you.”

“Right-ho,” said Hester, clearly a woman of few wasted words. “Though I’d like to keep it respectable and above-board, mum, so if it’s all the same to you, we won’t go movin’ no furniture till we’ve seen the parson.”

“Oh, of course!” Sophie had the grace to blush. “That was what I meant, I’m sure! I – you’re most welcome to –– ”

“You made yer mind up that quickly, then,” said Stroud.

“’Course I did,” said Hester warmly. “Wouldn’t ’a come, otherwise, would I?”

“I suppose you wouldn’t,” he muttered, half to himself, and louder: “No, dear.”

Hester threw him a strange look at the halting endearment. “You didn’t never call me nothing like that afore,” she said, “if you’re goin’ to start now, it’ll take a might of getin’ used to.”

“All right,” retorted Stroud, stung once more, “I won’t, then.”

“I didn’t say that,” she answered. “I could – get used to it. If I ’ad to.”

Sophie bit the inside of her cheeks until they almost bled. “I – let me leave you in peace,” she said, “Mrs. Higgins. Mr. Stroud.”

“My lady –– ” Hester curtsied.

“Mum – ” Stroud threw her a look combining a half-grin, a nervous roll of the eye, and a duck of the head suggesting pure terror, along with a certain degree of bashful joy. She left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Stroud bent down to pick up the cherrywood boards. “Leave them things alone,” cried his betrothed impatiently, “an’ put down that big dirty old pot, an’ all!”

Stroud realized he was still clutching the pot of glue by its rough wire handle. Carefully, he straightened the boards against the wall and set the glue to one side of them. Straightening, he stared at Hester. She stared back: like two dogs getting each others’ measure.

“I’m a good bit older ’n you,” she said.

“I know,” he replied, “I always liked that.”

“Did you,” she said.

“’Sides,” he added, “no kids. Right?”

“Right,” she said. “I’ve ’ad me change. Not got that to worry about no more. My Elsie’s plenty to worry about, goin’ on ’er fourth. Too ’igh-an’-mighty to see ’er old mam, though, up in London-town with that snooty sod of a ’usband of ’ers. Too good fer the likes o’ me. So sod ’im, I said, when your letter come – sod all on ’em. This is the best offer wot I’ve ’ad in a long time. So ’ere I am.”

“Large as life…” mumbled Stroud.

“yes, and twice as ’andsome, which there couldn’t nobody say about you no more, could they, you blighter.”

“No,” he said, “I reckon they couldn’t. I should ha’ mentioned it, I see that now –– ”

“Don’t make no never-mind,” she said kindly. “Not now. Not after all this time. It was just a surprise, is all. I mean, I knew about yer leg, but –– I’m glad to see yer.”

He felt a red-hot knot of tension start to dissolve from between his shoulder-blades. “So you know wot ’appened ter me,” he said, “’ow about you? No bloke worth marryin’, then, after I ’ad to sail orf?”

“I ’ad another ’usband, in between, actually.” She sighed, her blue eyes fading a little at the memory. “Not a bad sort o’ fella – but ’e upped and died on me. On our ’oneymoon. ’E copped it, just like that.”

“Sorry,” said Stroud.

“Not ’alf as sorry as I was,” she said. “’E clapped-out on top o’ me, right in the middle of everythink. Poor bugger.”

“Oh, dearie, dear.” Stroud swallowed a grin. It must have been a painful experience: he saw her eyes turn bright.

“You wasn’t plannin’ on doin’ nuffink like that, was you?” she asked him.

“Lord, no,” he said. “Well – what? Doin’ it? Or coppin’ out ’alf way through?”

“Coppin’ out,” she said.

“I don’t reckon so,” said Stroud.

“Good,” she said, “I’ve come a ’ell of a long way.”

“I’ll do yer proud,” he promised, meaning it fervently – “make it worth yer while.”

“I bet you will,” she said. “You always did. You always was the best of a bad bunch.” Stroud wondered if this was a compliment. “I ’ope you ’aven’t lost yer touch,” she added, “nor nothink vital – along with all them other bits they cut off.”

He was not sure he could believe his ears – but she had always been plainly-spoken, he’d say that for her. The intervening years and the awkward situation between them had not taken any of the pithy quality from her tongue. His heart thumped uncomfortably – not that he let on. “I’ll show yer,” he breathed, “whenever you’ve a mind.”

She turned a smile on him of proportions even beyond his memories of her. Standing there, in her shabby salt-stained black glazed-cotton frock and grey knitted shawl, she looked like a ship’s figurehead: big-featured, deep-bosomed, splendid. “Well,” she said, “you could carry me bags up, couldn’t yer.”

Climbing the stairs, his oak peg loud on the bare wood, Stroud felt his chest squeezing tight. “Nice ’ere, it is,” he said, conversationally, to cover it. “Good to yer, they are. Sir Edward an’ Lady Pelham.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “I could tell straightaway she was a lady.”

“That she is,” he said, flinging open the door. “’Ere we are, then.”

She followed him into the room. It was actually a little less Spartan than the first time Edward had come to his Sophie under this very self-same cracked plaster ceiling, for Sophie had cast a bright quilted coverlet upon the bed, a gift from Emma, and a small hooked rug kept bare feet from meeting bare floorboards beside it. Gay new curtains in green-and-gold stripes fluttered at the small window.

“Nice,” said Hester, “very nice. You done us proud, ’Enry.” She turned aside, to hide the sudden shyness that had swept over her. “I always ’ad a soft spot fer you,” she added softly.

“I ’oped yer might,” he grinned.

“Come too far ter turn back now, ain’t I?”

“I reckon,” he said.

“Come ’ere, you blighter,” she said, “do I ’ave ter go down on me knees an’ beg yer?”

He hesitated. “I thought – didn’t yer say –– about the parson - wantin’ to get ’itched, first?”

“I was talkin’,” she said, “about a-movin’ the bed, then. Your lady kindly offered. To put it in yer room. But that wouldn’t be right an’ proper – not yet. I wasn’t talkin’ about you an’ me.”

“Wasn’t you,” he whispered, coming closer and then all the way into her outstretched arms. “I was afraid you was wantin’ to wait till we was ’itched.”

“Didn’t last time, did I?” she asked, her mouth inches from his and her full, sweet body pressing against him. Oh, Christ-a-mighty, how long had it been?

He swallowed. “Nope” he said, holding his breath.

“Still an’ all,” she said, “it would be nice if you’d get a move on. Stop makin’ me do all the runnin’. Draggin’ yer feet.’

“Foot,” he said, and kissed her swiftly and roughly on the mouth. “Gawd,” he said.

“I thought you’d never get around to doin’ that,” she said, and kissed him back smartly. He grabbed her breast, her rear, like a shipwrecked man takes hold of a tree-trunk.

**

“Christ,” he said, not many minutes after but a new man entirely, “–– strewth! I needed that! Needed it somethink cruel, I did.”

“I bet you did,” she said, “you weren’t never that quick!”

“I ’adn’t never gone without it that long,” he said, “an’ not been at sea, o’ course.”

“Ugly son of a gun, now, ain’t yer?” she said, not unkindly.

“Leastways I ain’t been screwin’ around while I was waitin’ for yer,” he offered. “Not in a bloody long time, I ain’t.”

“I could tell,” she said. “An’ I should ’ope you weren’t, an’ all, all this bloody way I come for yer.”

He grinned.

“’Onest, ’Enry,” she said, “them days are over – right? You’ll treat me honorable, won’t yer? Otherwise I’ll just pack me bags an’ go, right now,”

“You ain’t unpacked ’em yet,” he pointed out. “But no – I mean, yes. I’ll treat yer fair an’ square, ’Ester, I promise yer. You been good, comin’ all this way fer me. Don’t think I don’t know that. Yer a good woman.”

“Not that good,” she twinkled, “else you wouldn’t ’a’ got what you just did, would yer!”

“You are, an’ all,” he said passionately, and meaning it. “Good where it counts – good ’eart – good cookin’ – good in bed, an’ all – what more could a bloke ask for?”

“Not much,” she said, “an’ that’s the God’s honest truth.”

“You’re too damn right,” he sighed, his words muffled against her feather-bed form, where he lay in a state of temporary and utter collapse. (Christ, what a joyful place to be!)

“All right then,” she said, riffling his hair. “You can ’ave another crack at it, an’ all,” she added, “–– you’re not on ’alf rations wi’ me.”

“That’s my girl,” he grinned, grabbing ahold of her warm, living flank.

“Call me that again an’ I’ll change me mind,” she said. From her tone she meant it, too.

“Don’t go doin’ nuffink like that,” he entreated her, “or we’d both be sorry.”

“You got a high opinion of yerself, ’Enry Stroud, ain’t yer.’

“Well – you sounded like you could ’a’ done with it, an’ all.”

“You’re right,” she sighed. “You always was the best.”

“Do I get another chance, then? To prove meself?”

For answer she dragged his curly head down to her ample bosom, and held it there.

Stroud obliged.

**

“There, now, dear,” she said, a while later in the kindest tones she had yet used to him: “ ––better, then?”

“Not ’alf,” he sighed contentedly.

“I got to say I’m relieved yer wounds don’t ’old yer back none where it counts,” she said, her eyes blurry speedwell pools, now. “You know you’re shakin’,” she added.

“I ain’t.”

“Yes, you are – can’t you feel it?”

Stroud denied it.

“Missed me, did you, pet?” she asked, softly.

Stroud’s last shred of devil-may-care gave way. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, I did. You don’t know ’ow many names I called meself, fer lettin’ you go.”

“Me an’ all,” she said, “I called you plenty, you blighter.”

“Find some new ones,” he said, “if we’re goin’ to be married, an’ all.”

“I’m not that sort,” she said. “You oughter know that by now. Won’t get no sweet’earts an’ darlin’s out o’ me. Plain cookin’, plain speakin’.”

“That suits me fine,” he said.

“You may be ugly an’ a gimp,” said Hester –– “mind you, I’m no prize meself,” she added, seeing the flash in his eye, “but I like yer even better this way.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“You’re mine,” she said. “An’ you’re a sight more grateful than you ever was.”

“It’s true,” he let on. “I didn’t know wot a prize I ’ad in you, back then.”

“Ain’t that the way of it, though,” she sighed. “Took long enough to come to yer senses, didn’t yer? Christ-a-mighty, I could ’a’ turned up me toes a-waitin’ for yer – that’s why I got on the next boat!”

“Ship,” he said absently: “You wouldn’t never ’a’ made it in no boat. I’m glad yer did, though.”

“All right, ship then. Yeah,” she said, in a tender tone. “I’m glad I did too, right glad. ’Enry Stroud, can’t you find nuffink better to do wiv your mouth than plague a woman’s lug-’ole with yer big wet tickling tongue?”

“’Ow’s this, then?” he asked.

“Oooohhh –– oh lord ––––– oh Christ Jesus, Stroud, you always did know – just ’ow ter make me – didn’t you –– ” she finished brokenly.

“I reckon,” he whispered. “Ain’t lost me touch, then?”

“No,” she breathed, raggedly then, “that –– you aint!”

So he showed her, with all the ardour he possessed, just how deeply grateful he was.

**********************

“I’m a plain cook, mum,” said Hester to Sophie later. “I don’t ’old with them foreign dishes an’ stuff. But I got a nice light ’and wiv pastry –– ”

“I’ll say she does!” echoed Stroud, standing much closer behind her than he had earlier, noted Sophie – most familiarly close. Why, he could almost have had his hand upon her rump –– and she turned her glance away hastily before she should see for sure.

“I think it would be a very good idea if you were to make a few meals for us, Mrs. Higgins,” said Sophie, “– after you have settled-in, of course, and then we can discuss whether your style and our needs are suited. I am quite sure you are an excellent cook, in fact I have no doubt of it, after the way Mr. Stroud has sung your praises. But let us see how we get along, shall we?”

“I think that’s a capital idea, milady,” said Hester, somewhat stiffly. “I wouldn’t want to impose where I wasn’t needed.”

“Of course not,” cried Sophie warmly, “and it’s no imposition at all to have you in our household, please believe me! We couldn’t be more pleased. We think a very great deal of Mr. Stroud, let me tell you.”

Hester’s stern gaze softened. “I could tell that, the way you was talkin’ before ’e come ’ome,” she said. “Tell me, mum – milady – ”

“Mum, please!” insisted Sophie –

“Mum, then – tell me – do you like pigeon-stew? That’s me specialty!”

“I’m not sure I’ve had it,” said Sophie. “Pigeon-pie, but that can be so dry – ”

“Just you wait, mum,” offered Stroud. “You’re in fer the treat of yer life, if you ain’t never tasted it. Not the way my ’Ester makes it.”

Hester looked pleased. “Tomorrow, then” she said, “all right mila – er – mum?”

“Please,” said Sophie, not overlooking Stroud’s possessive my: “how lovely.”

And of course it was.

21. Postbag

Castle-hill, Gibraltar, March 1806

My dearest love —— my husband—

We are so hungry for news of you, I declare we would eat the first piece of paper that came our way with your hand upon it —— after we had read it, that is, pored over it, memorized it —— finally then we should chew and digest it, only so as to miss not an atom of your words to us.

I know that you must have written my love, this is no complaint of your actions but of our situation only, growing ever more anxious to hear how you are, what you are doing, if all is well, if you are in good health. Do not mistake me Edward, our life here is richer and fuller by a thousand times than anything I dreamed of before you sailed into it. Only that there is still a lingering emptiness here, the echo of you everywhere and the substance nowhere, the rooms are empty of you and thus dull on the brightest days, as is my heart — my embrace — my womb.

I long for the sound of your voice Edward, how can I tell you how much you are missed? Only to hope and imagine that you feel it too. Oh love I do not wish you the pain of it, and I think you do not feel that as we do, since your duty must occupy so great a part of your days and your endeavours — and rightfully so. But I think in the night when your thoughts turn to me here alone, aching for you, you know what I mean.

Well my dearest the children are blossoming and I only wish you could see the little man we have in our son. He pulls himself up and prattles as if all he said made perfect sense — with such a look of glee upon his little round face! “Wot?” says Mr. Stroud, “Wot’s that? You don’t say! Cor, come on, then, tell us another!” — and so they go on for minutes at a time! He has four teeth now and sharp they are. He drools and it has made a sore upon his little chin but I salve it and he will do very well in spite of it. He likes bacon the way Mrs. Higgins prepares it — but I see that I am getting ahead of myself, and I shall have to go about and come aback or whatever it is you do.

I should not have written Mrs. Higgins, in truth, for she has lately become Mrs. Stroud! Yes, my darling, we have a pair of newlyweds in the house and very dear they are together too, in a way that is both comical and touching. They knew one another long ago, in Deal I believe, and she had retained a kindness for him all these years. I did not mention to you earlier that we had written to her together, Stroud and I, for he begged me to keep his business to myself until anything should come of it — he is a very proud man, my dear, as I am sure you know.

Well — something did come of it — not a reply but the lady herself, large as life upon our doorstep! Now there is loyalty for you! She came all this way upon the word of a man she had not seen in nigh-on ten years. Well, I would, if it were you, but that is another story — I should gladly take sail for the ends of the earth, and think nothing of it, if I were to be promised a meeting with you there — and I daresay she felt the same, in her no-nonsense way. She is tall and most plain-spoken, you would be shocked to hear her at first until you threw back your head in laughter at her good-sense and fearless honesty. There is not an ounce of tact or dissimulation in her (generous) body. She is tall and strong, and has the heart of a lioness where her affections are engaged.

I am glad to say that we all are now the beneficiaries of this powerful force — Mr. Stroud naturally, but she has taken us Pelhams to her bosom too in the warmest way, and fusses over us in her un-fussy way, changing Pellie’s napkins with a practiced hand and brooking no nonsense whatever from the maid, and teaching Mavis all kinds of things in the kitchen: I do not know from one day to the next if I am to come home to fricassee of rabbit, or St. Anthony-bread, or ginger-parkin-and-lemon-cheese, or little roasted quails upon the spit!

She cooks somewhat as I do but has not lost her enthusiasm for it, of course I insist while we live in our little household here that she prepare enough for herself and Mr. Stroud to partake in the kitchen, it would be a waste to cook separate meals! When we are very honoured, she permits us to join them and eat in the kitchen also. But I am not permitted to do so in my good gowns: she will not allow it, and I must dine in splendour in the dining-room, then.

If I suggest that we might like to have this or that or such a dish, she will do her best to prepare it — but her great delight is to surprise us. Had she been blessed with a different station in life, and perhaps the other gender, I think she might have turned architect or engineer: but as it is she fulfills her ambitions with dough and pastry and breads braided into extraordinary shapes. I suspect also when we are not home that she works with Mr. Stroud — or at least his tools — on little pieces of woodworking: I detect a fine hand in the turning of several pieces lately, a sensibility beyond his utilitarian ones, a whimsy in the carving of a goose or a donkey–and–cart for Pellie. I believe she is also engaged upon teaching her husband his letters, though patience is not her strong suit! But she has said nothing of these works to me, and so I am not officially conscious of them.

What else shall I tell you of your son? That he grows more like you every day: has your temper my love, as well as your intensity and fire. He will have a struggle to learn to govern it, as I am sure you did yours (if indeed I hear you say ruefully the process is hardly complete yet! — but you will forgive me this little jibe my darling, knowing that you are in all ways to my eyes just as you should be and as God made you: and thus most wonderfully perfected by His hand.)

Mavis grows apace and is getting feet the size of mine already, may God bless her. She adores her brother with a fierce passion and spends much time putting a pencil in his little dimpled fist and exclaiming over his “drawings”! Since any approval of hers brings the sun into his world, he would be just as happy making mud-pies — they do and he is — or blowing vulgar sounds with his lips, in which I fear she encourages him.

Love, you see your firm hand is needed. We do, but we do not do as well as we should if we could have you with us a little more often — I do not ask for the impossible, your constant presence, since I know well that it would be torture to you, entailing as it must the loss of all that you have worked for these many years. And I do not ask it of you. Just to come home to us sometimes, Edward ——? and soon, before our son is no longer a baby, even.

Well you will come whenever you can, I know. Oh God Edward what I shall feel upon that day — I feel faint even to think of it. You in my arms. Oh how I long to satisfy you. That is perhaps my greatest joy in our marriage, that something you want so is within my gift. Oh Edward, come home soon —— to this family, to these arms, those of your most loving wife.

************************

At sea, HMS Victory, May 1806

Sophie ——

If I am to take you at your word, then plump up the pillows and polish the bed-posts and set out a score of candles, for I am coming home.

I would not tease you in such a matter my dear, it is true — we are reviewing all our defenses down the coast of Spain and Portugal after finishing in the Channel, and thus coming around to you. It has been dreary work and filled with drudgery, poor weather and the men fatigued. And God knows they are not the only ones longing to see a fair face ashore — none more than I, throughout the fleet, as you well know my dearest — or you should.

My darling, when I see you we shall have much to discuss, including the best place for us to make our home with my duties being what they are —— but that will wait till we can speak.

Sophie, Sophie, Sophie, Sophie —— hold me: draw me to you: let me faint upon your breast my darling. And then let us start over, till we are faint not with joy but with our unstinting enjoyment of each other. Do you know how long it has been? — you must! Soon, Sophie —— very soon. I grow short of breath at the thought. Will you pardon my boldness? It is born of my love for you, Sophie. I kiss our son and daughter — and then — are they asleep? — I kiss your hands — your face — your bosom — your petals. You are the prayer upon the lips of your own Edward. PS — dear God, I pray that you are well most of all.

*************************

At sea, HMS Victory, May 1806

Dear Friend Mavis,

Yours of the 15^th ult. reached me safely I am grateful to say, along with the pocket-handkerchief hemmed in your tiny stitches. I declare it made my eyes ache to look at them! Such fine work as it was. I wondered how many hours bent over your needle it had cost you. I do like it most sincerely, and the more so do I appreciate the generous impulse which sewed and sent it. Most especially do I like the anchors embroidered in the corners so dashing, you have caught the look of them just so. It is too fine by far to blow my nose upon, is my sole thought, and so I have instead used it to wrap the miniature portrait of my late Mother, in a place of honour amongst my dunnage. This I take out at least once a week, on Sundays if I can, in the tenderest frame of mind, and so I hope this use will find favour in your eyes.

I have attached a little drawing I have made for you of the pigs we took aboard the ship in one of the Channel ports. They look through the wooden bars of their sty with such an expression upon their swinish little snouts, I thought straightaway of your kind heart and how you would doubtless bring them potato-peelings and scratch between their ears. This latter induces in them a most blissful expression. How do I know this? You must guess, Mavis. Do not say I have confessed it, for it was for your sake alone during the night watch when nobody should see me – that is, not myself necessarily, I shall deny it unless I am asked directly — let us say, a certain lieutenant with a foolish guilty look upon his face, caught in the act of making a fuss of next-month’s dinner.

You tell me that Stroud has been making himself more valuable than ever and I am glad to hear it. Now I must sigh, and beg you to permit me to give you a small lecture here, unwelcome though it may be, not for your good only but his. Will you permit me to do so? I am sorry, Mavis, that I must. It is this: I hope such warm protestations as you wrote me may not go further than our little circle, my dearest child.

To an open heart such as yours, all good souls are friends, and that is only right — though as the daughter of a titled nobleman and one of the most illustrious Captains in His Majesty’s Navy, dear Mavis, you probably realize that you must have a care as to whom you would claim for a friend “in society,” as it were, and it pains me to remind you that the likes of Stroud, however fine of a man, may not perhaps bear this title publicly, for all your loyal heart.

Yes dear Mavis I am speaking of station in life, it is an odd thing to be sure and not necessarily a just one, but it is the way of things and I should not like you to bring embarrassment upon yourself and him — this perhaps most of all — by professing openly what should better remain a family matter — your closeness, the intimate nature of your confidences where he is concerned. He is not your equal in the eyes of many — too many. Oh Mavis do not take this amiss my dear, I beg you. I am not chiding you: only reminding you from my greater age and perspective how strangely others may take your heartfelt connections with one of the common class.

Forgive me for bringing this truth to you. I can see your puzzled affectionate face now and it brings me a pang to think that the frown upon it is at my hands. Yet, dear, I must say this to you because it is he that would be blamed, for an excess of familiarity toward you, and not you, should such a thing be noticed by those who delight to censure and complain of the conduct of others.

Let it be your private, secret joy, the extent of this friendship between you. One I approve of heartily, I must say to you now, you know that he was one of the best men in my division, and we speak of him still with much admiration and affection here. Only have a care for his good as well as your own, in being discreet as to the nature and extent of your affections.

Now I see I have run on in a negative tone all this time, which is not what I wished to do. For your letters do bring me a very great deal of joy and entertainment, my dear little friend, and I should have liked this one to put at least the ghost of a smile upon your face, compared with the broad grin that mine wears when I see your bold hand upon a letter for me.

Do you know your papa calls me to his cabin, upon these occasions, and hands it to me with a stern expression upon his face, but a twinkle in his eye, saying little but to murmur in a preoccupied way that he sees I have another from you, and that I had better tell you to mind your lessons half as well as you mind this correspondence. So there, I have told you.

If I am ever posted to another ship, Mavis, would you still write to me even though you must sew another packet and address it elsewhere than with all yours and your mama’s to Captain Pelham? For I should miss your letters dearly, if you did not. I shall hope that you may be willing to go to this extra trouble, should the occasion require it.

Now I must close and attend to my duties, no matter how much I should prefer to speak with you further. Be assured at all times, I pray you, of the most humble affection and service of Your Friend Oliver Hastings.

*********************

Admiral Viscount Lord Horatio Nelson’s Private Quarters,

Flagship HMS Victory, May 1806

Dear Lady Pelham:

I hope you can read my Scrawl. Emma seems to manage very well, but then she is practiced in it. I will not have my secretary write this since it touches on Private matters. I would write “Lady Hamilton” to most correspondents, but you and she are so close that it would seem foolish to do so, to you.

Let me not Beat around the Bush with you, Madam. As you know, our liaison — hers and mine — our most special Friendship — has not been kindly received by a Country whose wellbeing and Safety I have ever put ahead of my own — much to my Disappointment and yes, let me say Chagrin. Thus is my Duty repaid, by snubbing her who is Dearest to me beyond Life itself. This churlish treatment she knows by now is the Price of our Connexion. And it is also the subject of this Letter.

My dear Madam, you have been a Friend to her as she has been to You I have no doubt this past tumultuous Year. Since making your acquaintance in Gibraltar she has Lately returned to England to settle with our dear little Daughter. And I know it to be your Husband’s dearest Wish that you should remove your household in the same manner, now that we have Beat the French so royally and Trounced them in Splinters from our Ocean Waves.

I anticipate our Duties being more closely tied to London and the Channel ports for the next indefinite Period, unless the Colonies should stir up further Trouble: and even then, there is no-where healthy I would recommend you to Live, Canada being too Cold and Primitive of a Place altogether I fear.

So the short of it is — Pelham is going to request of you that you should Remove to the South Coast, and before you Assent, I would beg you to remember that your Position will make you most Influential Wherever you should settle. I am asking you to Consider my dearest Emma’s situation a Little, in Choosing where to make your new Home, so that she may have the Benefit of your Both Appearing in Society now and then. Portsmouth would be Ideal, given our expected Movements. In this way You and she together may benefit from your two Homes Accessible from London or Portsmouth, either one in a Key Position, and the mutual Hospitality so Created, and she most especially so from the Open Acceptance and Friendship which I know you will Extend to her Everywhere.

It is my Dearest Wish to see her Treated as befits the Sacrifices she has made in coming under my Protection, and I believe as the Lady Wife of Sir Edward that you may be of greatest Assistance to me in this. What snobs and hypocrites they are to be sure, that my own service cannot Earn her this much from the Publick. Although after the Celebrations for our Victory at Trafalgar I must say that the Common People cheered her in her Carriage: but the Gentry were Cold and Disdainful, she said, when she was not with me (when by God! They would not dare to treat her so! For fear of being run-through with my Sword! And do not Think that I should Hesitate to do it!) Worse yet, Others smile to her Face and strike like Vipers behind her Back: I know you would not Countenance such Calumny, and your Influence would go Far in Condemning such Vile Conduct.

I must Close by mentioning that she and I have both had the same, most peculiar Dream; and since it features your Husband I shall recount it. It is this: that prior to the Battle, when he importuned me so Boldly to take off my Decorations for fear I should be an especial Target —— which in Actuality I did, in a Fit of Temper, at his repeated Request — in the Dream I refused to do so: for what Reason I am unsure, but Cowardice has never Tainted my Soul and I dare Say it Seemed more Urgent to me then, to be seen by my own Men.

And then she and I both had the coldest Terror, of my being thus Spied in all the Smoke by this Sparkle at my breast, and Shot! — through the breast and backbone, most cruelly, and falling to the Deck of Victory —— and I shudder to write it —— not surviving such a shattering Wound. It is a Dream we have each of us had more than Once, and to wake from it in a Cold sweat is most Terrible. There is in Truth Much we do not Understand.

Your Husband, may I say, braved my most extreme Displeasure in Making this Request of me before the Battle was joined, and I chided him roundly for it at the Time, before allowing he had the Right of it and that this Bold Vanity might be my Undoing. Yes I know I am vain, do not think I do not. Though who Deserves to be so more than I, who have single-handedly Saved this Country from Destruction upon the Seas, I cannot tell.

So Madam I must take my Leave. I am sending him to you —— I need say no more than that, to put Wings upon your Heart I am sure.

Remaining as Ever your Very Humble Servant, Horatio Nelson.