LITMIR.BIZ

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Previously a man without a single impulsive bone in his body, Ben took her hand, turned it over and kissed her palm. She blushed, but made no effort to withdraw her hand.

      ‘I stand corrected, Amanda Mathison,’ he said. He thought about the vicar’s words. ‘What did you do, Vicar?’

      ‘I convinced the old fellow to leave you one hundred pounds instead,’ Reverend Winslow said to Amanda. His expression hardened. ‘Apparently even that is too much for the new Lord Kelso.’

      The three of them sat in silence. ‘What should I do?’ Amanda said finally. ‘I don’t even want one hundred pounds, especially if it comes from Lord Kelso.’

      ‘Would you allow him to think he can trump the law?’ Ben said.

      ‘No!’ She shook her head, then did what he had wanted her to do again, since their walk to church. She leaned her forehead against his arm. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, and put his arm around her.

      When she spoke her voice was small and muffled in his cloak. ‘It makes me sad to think that my mother once loved such a hateful man.’

      Good Lord, he still had his hat on. Ben tossed it aside, and moved his chair closer so he could lean his head against hers. He could see Amanda was on the verge of tears and he still wasn’t close enough. She would never be close enough. The thought filled up the bleak shell that war had turned him into and ran over.

      ‘For all that he is wealthy and titled, I think the years have not been kind to your father,’ the vicar said. ‘Yes, his father annulled the marriage of your parents and pointed him towards the current Lady Kelso.’

      ‘He’s a weak man,’ Ben said, feeling weak and helpless himself. ‘A stronger man would have stood up to his father, defied him and stayed married to your mother.’

      ‘You know Lady Kelso,’ the vicar said to Mandy with a shake his head. ‘I try not to speak ill of anyone, but…’ Another shake. ‘And his children seem not to be all that a doting father would want.’

      ‘That’s sadly true with Thomas,’ Ben said. ‘He’s not promising. I hear he has a sister.’

      ‘Violet,’ Mandy said, which reminded Ben of the two failed London Seasons. ‘You blame Lord Kelso’s distemper on disappointed hopes?’

      ‘I do,’ Ben said, thinking of his own kind father in too-distant Scotland. ‘I wish you could meet my father.’

      Tears filled her eyes, and filled him with sudden understanding. You want a father, he thought, as wisdom bloomed in a vicar’s parlour, of all places for a seafaring man to get smart. I could hope you might want a husband some day—me, to be specific—but you need a father.

      Ben sat back, shocked at his own thoughts. Me? A husband? As the vicar stared at him, Ben considered the matter and realised that he had talked himself out of nothing. War didn’t matter; neither did nonsense about not burdening a wife with fear as she waited for a husband who might never return. He thought of all the brave husbands and wives who took bold chances in a world at war and loved anyway. He was the worst kind of fool, a greater fool than any pathetic midshipman. He had tried to fool himself.

      ‘So sorry, Amanda. I didn’t mean to make you cry,’ he said. Angry with his ineptitude, he disentangled himself from the weeping woman, picked up his hat and left the study.

      ‘What do I do, Reverend Winslow?’ Mandy asked.

      ‘I suggest you go after him.’

      ‘Indeed, I will,’ she said calmly. ‘I mean the one hundred pounds?’

      ‘Accept it.’ The vicar gave her his own handkerchief. ‘It will drive Lord Kelso to distraction if you do. Sometimes that is half the fun.’

      ‘Vicar!’

      ‘My dear, I am human.’

      She strolled along, grateful for the mist because she could keep her hood up and lessen anyone’s view of her teary eyes. She watched the sailing master ahead, moving along at a substantial clip and probably castigating himself because he thought he had made her cry. Maybe he had, but she couldn’t blame him for having a father who took an interest in his son.

      ‘Sir, you have eighteen days and a visit to Scotland is not out of the question,’ she said softly. Eighteen days. She stood still on the path, feeling hollow all of a sudden. What if he did go to Scotland? What if he gave up on Thomas Walthan and really did go to Scotland?

      It hardly mattered. If he went to Scotland, he would not return here, but would go to Plymouth to spend the next three weeks dealing with rigging and ballast and what all. And then the Albemarle would return to the blockade and she would never see Benneit Muir again, end of story. ‘This is most unsatisfactory,’ she said, even as she knew that where he went and what he did must recede from her mind’s eye, just as surely as he was becoming a small figure in the distance.

      She sat on one of the benches placed here and there around Venable by some benefactor. She had much to do at Mandy’s Rose and had promised a quick return to help prepare dinner, but suddenly it didn’t matter. The enormity of her upcoming loss rendered her powerless to take one more step.

      Sailors only come to go away, she tried to remind herself, but her heart wasn’t having it. She thought he admired her; all signs pointed that way, at least. She was beginning to understand that he would never act on a man’s impulse, because he plied a dangerous trade with no end in sight. Their generation had been born to war and like everyone else—there were no exceptions—it would influence their lives until death and destruction and one man’s ambition ran its course. They were like chips of wood tossed into a stream and driven at random towards the ocean, powerless to change course.

      She stared at the ground, then closed her eyes, wondering just when the pleasure of a good night’s sleep had become a distant memory. She yawned and her own cheery nature resurfaced. You are facing a life crisis and you are yawning, she thought as she yawned again.

      She heard someone approach. She knew everyone in the village and she didn’t relish explaining her tears. But these were familiar shoes. She had seen them under one or other of the dining tables for the past three days. She looked up at Ben Muir.

      His face solemn, he sat beside her. It was only a small bench and now they were crowded together. To accommodate matters, he draped one arm across the back of the bench, which meant she had to lean towards him.

      ‘There now,’ he said. ‘I looked back and saw you sitting so melancholy.’ He peered closer and she saw that he had freckles, too. ‘One hundred pounds isn’t a bad thing, Amanda.’

      ‘Certainly not,’ she said, almost relieved that he had nothing more serious to say. Relieved or disappointed? This man could irritate me, she thought, then smiled. What a ninny she was. He was only being kind.

      ‘You can tuck the money away for a special occasion. That’s what I would do.’

      He stretched his legs out and crossed them, which had the effect of drawing her closer. Mandy knew she should get up. The hour was late and Aunt Sal didn’t like to prepare for the dinner rush by herself. She allowed herself to incline her head against the sailing master, which proved to be surprisingly comfortable, almost a refuge from worry over a dratted inheritance.

      ‘What is your special occasion?’ she asked, curious.

      ‘Don’t have one yet.’ His arm was around her now. ‘After Trafalgar, when we towed one of the Spanish ships into Portsmouth, the entire wardroom gathered together and got stinking drunk.’

      ‘I wouldn’t spend any money on spirits,’ she said.

      ‘I didn’t, either.’ He took a deep breath. ‘We drank dead men’s liquor, Amanda. I was serving as second master on a ship of the line that was mauled during the battle. The sailing master and two lieutenants had died. I had assumed the master’s duties during the battle,

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