LITMIR.BIZ

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and held out her hand.

      He doffed it and gave it to her, hoping that his hair wasn’t sticking up on the side. He had never given his wretched cowlick much thought before, but for some reason, it mattered, standing in the hall of David Newsome’s childhood home. At least he had the good sense not to lick his fingers and try to tame the thing. Certainly there were worse physical afflictions.

      His bicorn overwhelmed the maid, who gave him a plaintive look. ‘Just rest it on its side,’ he told her. ‘It won’t bite.’

      The girl grinned at him and darted away, in spite of the fact that his boat cloak threatened to trip her.

      ‘I...er...assume you don’t see too many navy men in Weltby,’ he said, wishing he knew more about polite conversation. ‘At least the servants don’t.’

      ‘No, indeed, Captain Everard,’ Miss Newsome said, her eyes on his stitches. ‘A Trafalgar souvenir?’

      Joe knew better than to say that the same flaming mast that crashed to the deck and killed her brother managed to shoot a splinter through his cheek. ‘Aye, it was. Should’ve healed by now, but for several weeks the surgeon couldn’t decide whether to suture it or leave it alone. He finally decided to stitch me up. Consequently, I am not as far along the path of recovery as I could wish.’

      He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Miss Newsome gestured towards the hall. ‘My parents are in my father’s book room. Y-you could bring Davey’s effects to them, if you please.’

      ‘I will.’

      He walked beside her down the hall, pleased not to have to shorten his stride to accommodate her. He was on the tallish side, but so was Miss Newsome.

      She was dressed in black, a daunting colour for most females, except that it became her, with her pink cheeks, pale face and black hair. She was by no means thin, but he found her pleasant shape more to his liking, anyway. She looked practical and kind, which he found soothing.

      ‘My father is an accountant and estate manager for Lord Blankenship, who owns numerous properties in Kent and East Sussex,’ she said. ‘I have lived on this estate all my life.’

      ‘It must be a fair property in the springtime,’ he said, wincing inwardly at his paltry supply of conversation.

      Either it passed muster, or Miss Newsome was even kinder than he suspected. ‘It’s glorious in April, when the lambs are new,’ she said. ‘Here we are.’

      They stopped before a closed door and she tapped lightly. He heard no reply—years of bombarding could do that to ears—but she opened the door and gestured him inside.

      He knew a book room when he saw one. His own chart room aboard the Ulysses was tidier, mainly because space was more of a premium on a frigate and demanded economy.

      His eyes went immediately to the map of the world, where the Newsomes had traced his lieutenant’s travels with pins and thread. With a pang, he saw how few pins there were and how the enterprise ended at the coast off Spain known as Trafalgar. His own world map in his cabin crisscrossed the oceans many times, and touched on all the continents except Antarctica, proof of nearly thirty years at sea. Where had the time gone?

      After Miss Newsome’s introductions, he executed a workaday bow, which was the only kind he knew, and sat in the chair Mr Newsome indicated. In double-quick time a servant arrived with afternoon sherry and almond-flavoured tea cakes.

      The sherry was dry the way he liked it and the tea cakes moist and flavourful, two adjectives that his steward had never thought to associate with ship’s fare. Joe could have eaten them all.

      Instead, he held out the handsome leather case that Second Lieutenant Newsome had brought on board the Ulysses a bare eight months ago. He could have told the Newsomes that the other officers had chuckled over the unscratched leather and working clasps, perhaps trying to remember when they had been that young and green. He chose to say nothing.

      ‘I put your son’s second-best uniform in my own duffel,’ he said, ‘as well as his sword. I will leave those with you.’

      ‘Where is his best uniform?’ Mrs Newsome demanded.

      Surprised, Joe wondered if she thought he had sold it, or given it away. Might as well tell her, even though he knew it would hurt.

      ‘He wore it on deck for the battle, ma’am,’ he told her, dreading the way her face paled. ‘We all dress for battle on my ship.’ He swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘He is wearing it still, a credit to King and country.’

      Mrs Newsome burst into tears and threw herself into her husband’s arms. Oh, Lord, I made a mess of that, Joe thought, as Mr Newsome began to weep. Alarmed, Joe looked at Miss Newsome’s expressive face as she dissolved in tears, too.

      There they sat, Mr and Mrs Newsome locked in a tight and tearful embrace, with Miss Newsome suffering alone, no one’s arms around her.

      Captain Everard knew he was famed throughout the White Fleet for his unflappable demeanour in battle and the deliberate way he went about plotting courses and thinking through all possible outcomes of a fleet action. Not an impulsive man, he was also noted for the ability to move with real speed when events dictated.

      He did so now, moving close to Miss Newsome as she sat in solitary sorrow on the loveseat. He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her as she sobbed into his uniform, convinced that had there been another family member present, his action would not have been necessary.

      Recent years had acquainted him with too much suffering, too much sorrow, too much pain. To say that holding Miss Newsome close was the least he could do was a regrettable statement of fact. He wanted to do more. He wanted to bring back the son, brother and second lieutenant who had showed such promise. He could do nothing but hold Davey Newsome’s sister and let her cry.

      He would have managed well enough, if her arms hadn’t gone around him and if she hadn’t begun to pat his back, and then hold him close until he cried, too. He was sick of war and death and knew in his soul that Trafalgar was not the end of the struggle for world domination, but merely one step along the way. Damn Boney anyway.

       Chapter Four

      Her parents still wept. Miss Newsome pulled away first, but did not leave the circle of his embrace. She sniffed back more tears and he gave her his handkerchief, hoping he had not committed some massive social blunder. He had visited many bereaved families—too many—but this was the first time he had cried, too, and held a grieving sister close. Perhaps an explanation was in order.

      ‘Miss Newsome, I do not generally... Well, I do not...’ That is pathetic, Joe, he thought. ‘No one should be alone in sorrow.’

      She blew her nose, then endeared herself to him for ever by resting her forehead against his arm for the smallest moment. ‘Begging your pardon, Captain, but you were alone, too,’ she said softly. ‘Let us go into the hall and leave my parents to their grief.’

      She picked up her brother’s leather case and took it with her. In the hall, she motioned towards a door that opened into a small but charming breakfast room. She set the case on the table, took several deep breaths and opened it. Her lips trembled as she took out David Newsome’s few possessions. She held up the strip of rolled cloth that held his scissors, some thread, a thimble and needles, and managed a smile that touched Joe’s heart.

      ‘I gave my little brother a brief tutorial on how to sew on a button,’ she said, before replacing it in the case.

      She seemed to be in control of herself again, so Joe knew he could do no less, himself. God, how he hated to deliver bad news.

      ‘I must inform you that he was terrible at sewing,’ Joe said, which brought what appeared to be a genuine smile to her face. ‘He showed up in the wardroom one evening for dinner with a button sewn on with black thread on his white shirt.

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