So Near So Far (4 page)

“Good to see you, Captain,” Mr Lawrence began, looking up from his newspaper. “And this gentleman was your first lieutenant, I think, in the
Merlin?
Happy to make your acquaintance, sir. Do be seated, gentlemen. Lawkins, fetch me the correspondence about the prize
Bonaparte.
” As the agent's clerk looked for the relevant papers Lawrence returned to his newspaper and to the item of news which he had been studying when his visitors arrived:

“Did you see this astonishing story about a ship found abandoned off Dieppe? She was brought into the Downs by the master of a Guernsey coasting vessel—quite possibly by some
seaman who is known to you, by George—but without a soul on board when she was boarded. Did you ever hear of anything so extraordinary?”

“Perhaps she was leaking and had been abandoned in panic by her crew?”

“No such thing, sir. She was watertight and in good order, armed, provisioned, and under sail. French-built, seemingly, the ship had no papers, no log, and no name. One of her boats was missing but she was otherwise complete. The Guernseyman can obtain salvage to her full value unless the owners come forward to claim the vessel.”

“Her having no name would seem to make it hard for the owners to identify her.”

“Which may explain why the name was painted over or chiselled off. Ah, here is the correspondence with the clerk of the Admiralty Court—thank you, Lawkins—together with a shipbuilder's valuation and a manifest of the cargo. I'm afraid that the peace will bring about a fall in the price of brandy but the general goods should find a good market. Yes, you were fortunate, Captain, with the
Bonaparte.
There can be no doubt as to the Court's verdict—I have checked that with Counsel—”

A long and technical discussion followed and Delancey gained the general impression that his share of the prize money should come to a very useful total. Bewildered by talk of high finance, Delancey and Mather eventually said goodbye to their agent and dined presently at a tavern near Charing Cross. After calling at the Admiralty, where he had some business to transact, taking an hour or so, Delancey led the way into the Strand and began a leisurely stroll eastwards. He had been enjoying his stay in London and had widened his circle of friends there. On this particular evening he had been asked to join a party
at the theatre and had been authorised by his host, Major Mark Willoughby, to bring a friend with him. Mather had been the obvious choice and the evening's amusement was a fitting conclusion to a day of business.

“The play we are to attend,” explained Delancey, “is at Drury Lane. It is called
The Scheming Lieutenant,
a three-act farce in a naval setting.”

“And not the first one, by God,” replied Mather. “As for scheming—well, you, sir, have been accused of it.”

They were walking slowly towards the playhouse where the curtain was due to rise at half-past six. To the casual observer these two officers, both in civilian clothes, offered a certain contrast. Delancey, the taller of them, was dark-haired with dark blue eyes, his figure sturdy, his manner confident and direct. He might be “Captain” only by courtesy, his real rank being Master and Commander, but he looked the part of a senior officer.

“What exactly is the story you have heard?” asked Delancey after a minute's pause.

“Well, sir, the story goes that you are betrothed to the Honourable Mrs Farren, the former Diana Rice, younger sister of Mrs Markham and of Lord Dynevor. She is known to be wealthy and Captain Markham—well, he is at the First Sea Lord's elbow. It is said that you should be posted any day and can choose your frigate if war should come.”

“Fiddlesticks, Mather, you shouldn't believe all the gossip you hear. I am not betrothed to anyone.”

“No, sir? But you have often been seen with the lady, surely?”

Delancey knew that this was true enough, that his attentions had been well received and that he could not break off the friendship without giving offence to Lord Dynevor and the
Markhams. He had first met Mrs Farren at a dinner party given by his American cousins and their mutual interest was at once apparent. Delancey admired her good looks, fine complexion, and perfect breeding. She, on her side, had been a widow for the last six years and was a little past the age at which her friends expected her to marry again. They had become friends and it was a friendship which her relatives had finally approved. Delancey was admittedly no great match for her, as all her circle had agreed, but she was past her prime and perhaps a little thinner than the reigning beauties of the day. Her brother-in-law, John Markham (the John Markham) was a very senior Captain, Member of Parliament for Portsmouth, and a key member of the Board of Admiralty. Delancey's future seemed assured.

“Yes,” replied Delancey, “I have been much in her company of late. She is a lady I hold in the highest esteem.”

“Is she to be one, sir, of this evening's party?”

“Good God, no! I should explain that she took to evangelical religion after her late husband's death. She strongly disapproves of horse-racing, gambling, betting, and the stage. Her late husband was killed while riding in a steeplechase.”

“And she thinks, I suppose, that all actresses follow the moral example of Nell Gwyn?”

“She certainly regards them as prostitutes and little better, indeed, than her family's political opponents. A very high standard of virtue is characteristic of the circle in which she moves.”

They walked on, jostled by other pedestrians, and Delancey wondered again whether he was doing the right thing. He remembered every magic moment of that first meeting. He had been long at sea and he had suddenly found himself next to
this dark-haired lady with her delicate features, slim hands, and that subtle perfume. She coloured slightly at his compliments and made some passing reference to the Battle of Algeçiras—just enough to show that she had followed his career. His admiration for her was real enough but he could not fail to see what he gained from her friendship. For all he knew he might himself end with a seat in Parliament for a dockyard constituency. But could he live with Diana's standards of piety? He had never pretended to share her beliefs yet he felt, nevertheless, that he was expected to conform to them. But Mather was speaking:

“It is always difficult, sir, to represent a ship's deck on the stage. I remember once seeing a performance of Shakespeare's play
The Tempest
—well done, too, in a general way—but what a feeble mess they made of Act I, Scene I! What, however, is the stage manager to do? His task is impossible and I expect that we shall see the same sort of failure this evening.”

The party which foregathered at the theatre entrance numbered six in all, the other guests being Colonel Wilding, Captain Benham of the 7th Foot, and a solitary civilian, Mr Wansford. After the necessary introductions and greetings they took their seats, Delancey finding himself between Willoughby and Benham. The curtain rose before they had done more than glance at the programme. It was not in any way a masterpiece of drama and stagecraft for the characters were predictable, the plot lacked originality, the humour was merely boisterous, and the story's end could be easily foreseen.

Delancey, for his part, made little effort to hear the dialogue or follow the plot. He saw only one person on stage and that was the young actress who played the part of Susan Staywell.
When she was off stage he merely waited for her return. She was extremely pretty but his admiration was confused by the feeling—no, by the certainty—that he had seen her before. Their previous meeting could not have been recent, for he had been at sea for years. Perhaps he had merely seen her in some other play, but how seldom had he been in London! She was no novice, it would seem, for she acted with an assurance, a neatness of movement, a studied charm which could derive only from years of experience. Fiona Sinclair was her name as printed in the programme. He certainly could not remember that name but he knew, of course, that stage names are often assumed. For the whole of Act I he puzzled his brain without result. He must see her and talk to her but it was vital that they should not meet as strangers. There must have been men enough seeking to make her acquaintance and she would know very well how to brush them off. Where had he seen her before? Light suddenly dawned in the course of Act II. By all the social conventions of the day her costume as cabin boy was unthinkably indecent, not because her shirt was open at the front, as it chanced to be, but because her white linen trousers were a size too small and revealed the curves of all that they were meant to conceal. She was barefoot, too, and her feet were unbelievably shapely and white. It was this provocative appearance which suddenly brought back total recollection. She had played a similar part in a play called
The Poor Sailor
presented at the theatre in Guernsey back in about 1794. She and another girl, both clad as seamen for theatrical purposes, had appeared on the quayside in St Peter Port in a frolic done for a bet.

Watching her on stage, and seeing no one else—not even Mrs Siddons herself—he realised that her part in Act II was
quite needless. There was no real point in her masquerading as a cabin boy, no object in her boarding the cutter. Her part had been written in solely to display her breath-taking figure. How old would she be? She looked about eighteen but that would seem to have been her age nearly seven years ago. She must now be twenty-four at least … and now it was the end of the play. The Tories had won the Boughtborough election to the accompaniment of loud jeers from the Whig members of the audience. Colonel and Mrs Staywell had given their consent to the marriage of their only daughter to Lieutenant Mainbrace. Sir John Sitting had agreed to secure the Lieutenant's promotion, having plenty of influence to ensure this. All came forward to take their bow and then the audience began to leave.

“Shall we go backstage?” Delancey heard himself saying. “I must beg the stage manager to amend some of his mistakes in seamanship. The scene in Act II could be easily improved and the seamen might appear to work with a purpose.” The others agreed with some reluctance and Delancey led the way to the stage door. They were finally admitted, after a bribe to the doorman, and found themselves moving with difficulty among a tangle of scenery, furniture, and props. Some members of the cast were still on stage, discussing some point with the stage manager, Mr Ward. When they paused for breath, Delancey begged to introduce himself as a naval officer. “Pray forgive my seeming officious, but there are some ways in which your business on stage could be made more true to life. Might I call sometime tomorrow so as to offer what help I can?”

“Really, sir,” said Mr Ward, “I am vastly obliged to you. We shall be rehearsing another play during the morning but will
be on stage again at two and will be glad indeed of your professional advice. The stage will be rigged as for Act II and all will be present who appear in the Act.”

“Very well, sir,” replied Delancey, “I shall be happy to wait on you then. The changes I'll advise are all quite small in themselves but should serve to make the scene more authentic.”

“I shall hope then to see more naval men in the audience.”

Delancey and his friends were just about to take their leave when there was the sound of running feet and Fiona Sinclair fairly scampered on stage, still dressed as a cabin boy. The sight of the visitors checked whatever it was she had to say and she blushed prettily while Mr Ward performed the introductions.

“I beg to present Captain Delancey, Miss Sinclair, together with other distinguished officers who have been good enough to patronise the evening's play.”

“I need no introduction, Mr Ward,” said Delancey. “Miss Sinclair and I are old friends—I hope at least that she will remember me from the days when she was playing in St Peter Port?”

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Fiona. “What was the play?”

“The Poor Sailor,”
replied Delancey, “and I thought it a very poor play, saved only by your acting.”

“But I was playing only a small part!”

“As a girl dressed as a cabin boy.”

“Oh, dear, you must think that I always dress like this!”

“The dress certainly becomes you. Where you and another girl made a mistake was to venture on the breakwater, clad as seamen and hoping to pass as such!”

“So you remember that too!”

“But do you remember me now?”

”Of course I do. You were a junior officer then—and painfully shy!”

“If you will forget my awkward manners I promise to forget your escapade on the breakwater.”

“Shake hands on a bargain!” For an instant he felt her cool slim hand in his. Then he hastened to take his leave.

“I shall be here tomorrow afternoon to advise Mr Ward on some point of seamanship. I shall hope to see you then. Young lady, your servant. Mr Ward, your humble assistant!”

All this time Major Willoughby and his other guests were showing signs of impatience and Delancey presently made his apologies as they were leaving the theatre.

“No need to make excuses, my dear fellow. We all understand and I'll admit that she is a deucedly pretty girl. No one could blame you. She is as charming a girl as ever I saw!”

“In trousers, moreover, and barefoot!” added Captain Benham.

“But not a word of this, egad, to Mrs Farren!” exclaimed Colonel Willoughby. “She had best not know that you have been to the theatre at all—let alone going backstage!”

“And let alone going back there tomorrow!” added Willoughby.

Delancey had to put up with a good deal of quizzing over supper but Mather took no part in it, looking rather serious. He knew exactly what impact that girl must have had on Delancey. She had red-gold hair, dark eyes, white skin, and a perfect figure. She had a lovely voice, trained for the stage. But her beauty, startling as it might be, was less memorable than her sheer vitality. She was obviously a girl in ten thousand, one he himself would never forget for the rest of his life. As for
Delancey, he had still remembered her from a chance meeting—had it been more than that?—at the very beginning of the war. But what of his career? The war had ended. There would be no more prizes to capture, no more honours to achieve, and he was not yet a post captain. His whole future depended on a marriage which would establish his position in the service and in society. It looked now as if he might throw away his entire future for the sake of a young actress who was of no consequence even on the stage. Mather couldn't hide from himself that his own future, as Delancey's follower, was also at risk. But that, he told himself, was of little consequence. Delancey was a man who should rise high in the service if all went well but his career would come to nothing if he jilted Mrs Farren.