Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (40 page)

“Oh,” Charles said. “I’d never have guessed.”

Penny turned her head and looked at him. “We must be cautious that no such thing happens to us.”

“Of course not.” He reached over with his uninjured hand, took the reins, and pulled Maggie to a halt. Then he took Penny in his arms and kissed her. “You can’t conceive by kissing,” he said.

“Only ideas,” Penny answered between his kisses. As they kissed some more, Charles’s free hand wandered over her outer clothing to places where it normally would have no business going. When his fingers turned their attention to the hooks on her cloak, she pushed the hand away. “No,” she said. “And we cannot sit out here in the road all night. We’ll freeze to death. Or by thy plan at least I shall.”

Charles took the reins and snapped the mare into motion. The cart soon clattered through Tattenall in the still darkness and up the drive to Charles’s grand new house. The building was dark except for a single candle in a window near the door. He drove the mare to the stables, where they climbed down, Penny helping Charles and handing him his crutch. They unhitched Maggie together and led her to the stable entrance. Charles lit a lantern that hung there. He pulled back the heavy door and was greeted with the sound of snoring from the darkness within. Holding up the lantern, they saw the forms of a dozen or more seamen in various postures of sleep on piles of hay or in hammocks slung from posts. Charles closed the door while Penny led her horse to the paddock.

They walked hand in hand back to the house, Penny holding a small bag she had brought with her. Inside were similar sounds of sleeping men—many sleeping men. Charles took the guttering candle from the windowsill and shone it around. Every room he looked into seemed mostly empty of furniture and occupied by sailors curled on the floor, snoring sonorously.

“Now what?” Charles said softly.

“Where is thy bedchamber?” Penny whispered.

“I don’t know. I’ve never stayed here. It wasn’t finished when I left.”

A flickering candle appeared at the end of the hall from the direction of the kitchen. The welcome form of Timothy Attwater in a sleeping cap and long nightshirt padded toward them holding a lighted candle.

“Oh, it’s you, sir,” he said loudly, his voice ringing in the hallway. Nodding to Penny he said, “Good evening, miss.”

“Are there any empty rooms?” Charles asked, trying to forestall any sociable chattiness.

“Oh, yes, sir,” Attwater answered, yawning. “I kept your room free. There’s a made-up bed and all.” He glanced knowingly at Penny. “A big bed, sir.”

“I need two rooms,” Charles said sternly. “One for Miss Brown.”

The steward rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “Ain’t another one, sir. Ain’t one that ain’t full.”

“What about at the Winchesters’ house, or my brother’s?”

“Don’t think so, sir,” Attwater said, the corners of his mouth twitching. Charles suspected that his steward was enjoying his role as dispenser of bad news. “The midshipmen and warrants is with Lieutenant Winchester. The rest of the wounded have pretty well filled up your brother’s house.”

“All right,” Charles said. “Penny—Miss Brown—can sleep in my room. Find me a sofa or a table, anything I can lie on.”

Attwater smiled as if appreciating the delicacy of the situation. “Ain’t no empty tables, sir. Lessen I throw somebody off.”

Penny put her hand on Charles’s arm. “Show us Charles’s chamber,” she said to Attwater. “We’ll manage.”

“This way, sir, miss,” the steward said, leading with his candle. He opened a doorway at the top of the stairs, entered, and lit an oil lamp on a chest of drawers inside. “It’s all fixed for you.”

“Oh, my,” Penny said. Inside the room was a spacious bed made up with a man’s nightshirt laid across it, the chest, and a single wooden chair.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Charles said.

“Don’t be silly,” Penny said. “We’re adults. We just need to have an understanding.” To Attwater she said, “Thank thee. Thou mayest return to thy sleep.” Charles heard his steward cackle with laughter as he padded back down the stairs.

“Thou must wait outside,” Penny said, removing her bonnet and reaching to undo her cloak. “I will call thee in a moment.”

Charles waited in the hall until he heard her voice. She lay on the bed with the covers pulled up to her chin, her hair fanned over the pillow. He sat down on the side of the bed. “Where do I change?” he said hoarsely, as if something were caught in his throat.

“Put out the light,” she said. “Thou canst change in the dark.”

Charles blew out the lamp, stripped, and pulled the nightshirt over his head. He slipped carefully into the bed beside her. “Are you sure this is all right?”

“I expect thee to be a gentleman.”

“I expect you to be a lady,” Charles answered and reached for her hand under the covers. He felt her foot tentatively touch his leg. Then her toenails scraped slowly down the side of his calf. He stretched across for her waist and tickled, to which she squealed loudly, then quickly put her finger to his lips and whispered, “Shhhh.”

CHARLES WOKE IN
the first light of dawn to find Penny cuddled against him, her cheek resting against his shoulder, breathing softly on his neck. He carefully pushed a little of her hair aside and watched her sleep. After a time one eye flickered open, clear gray with hints of tan around the edges of the iris. He kissed her nose and said, “You were no lady.”

“And thou wert no gentleman,” she answered. She stretched languorously and rolled half on his chest, her fingers toying with the buttons on his nightshirt.

Much later Charles awoke a second time to find himself alone, the bed still warm beside him. He rose reluctantly, dressed, and splashed some water from a bowl on the bureau onto his face. He found Penny, Attwater, and a number of his sailors along with an older woman and two younger ones he didn’t recognize in the kitchen, preparing what seemed to be a very large container of oatmeal on the woodstove. Charles was introduced to Mrs. Attwater and two of her daughters, Daisy and Rose. All three glanced knowingly from Charles to Penny and smiled.

A little later that morning Charles took Penny in the carriage into Tattenall to inquire after the arrangements for their wedding at the old St. Alban’s Church in the village. Charles had written to the rector, William Weddlestone, A.M., from Plymouth soon after Penny had accepted his proposal. He had as yet received no reply, which wasn’t surprising given that he had been at sea almost the entire time. Still, the banns should have been long since posted and other arrangements put into train. It only remained, he expected, to fix a date when the vicar would be available. The sooner the better.

The two sat, mostly silent, side-by-side on the bench as the carriage and horses clattered into the village, turning almost immediately past the old sandstone church into the drive to the rectory. He descended gingerly, hitching the horses to a post in front of the house. They walked—Charles was relying on his cane less each day—to the heavy doorway in what seemed strained silence. Glancing at Penny, he saw that her lips were pursed in a tight line and her eyes fixed straight ahead.

“It will be all right,” he said, and lifted the heavy door knocker. “You’ll see.”

A housekeeper answered the knock. Charles announced himself and Miss Brown, and they were shown into a comfortably furnished parlor with highly polished oak paneling. The Reverend Weddlestone, Rector of St. Alban’s, entered soon afterward. Charles noted that he was a youngish man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with a thin face, receding hair, and well-tailored clothing.

“I am Charles Edgemont of Tattenall and this is Penelope Brown of Gatesheath,” he said by way of introductions, extending his hand. “I wrote to you earlier of our plans to marry.”

“Ah, the naval officer,” Weddlestone answered, a guarded look about his eyes that was not what Charles would have expected. He did not acknowledge the offered hand.

“I have received no reply to my letter,” Charles pushed on. “I was hoping we could set a date for the ceremony.”

“When, pray tell,” Weddlestone answered distantly.

“As soon as possible,” Charles said, put off by the man’s lack of warmth, or even common courtesy. “I shall have to return to the sea in a few weeks or a month.”

Weddlestone focused on something outside the room’s only window. “I cannot marry you at any time,” he said under his breath.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I cannot perform the ceremony,” the rector said in a stronger voice. “I’m sorry.”

Charles thought there must be some mistake. “Why not? I wrote—”

“I made inquiries,” Weddlestone said, more boldly now. “Mistress Brown is a nonconformist, a Quaker. I do not hold with such heathen views; they are anathema to the very being of the Church. I cannot, will not marry nonbelievers.” He spat out the words “nonconformist” and “Quaker” as if they were synonymous with “Satan” or “Beelzebub.”

Charles felt Penny stiffen beside him and saw her glare at the priest, the color draining from her face. “Thou false Christian,” she began. “Thou pretentious priest. I would not have thy—”

“Penny,” Charles said quickly, “there has been a small misunderstanding. The Reverend and I need to speak in confidence for a moment. If you would step into the garden, I’ll join you there as quickly as I can.”

She looked at him with narrowed eyes, further elaborations on Weddlestone’s spiritual views not far from her lips. When he added, “Please,” she made her way wordlessly to the door, closing it loudly behind her.

Alone with Weddlestone, Charles paused and looked around the comfortable room. “You have a nice living here in Tattenall,” he said offhandedly. “What’s it bring you, two hundred fifty, three hundred pounds a year? Quite a plum for a man your age. You’ve made inquiries; you must know who I am, do you not?”

Weddlestone nodded warily. “You’ve purchased the old Tattenall Hall.”

“Yes,” Charles said. “I own the entirety of it and also a half-interest in the Edgemont lands.” He paused. “To be clear, I own almost all of your living and my brother owns a good deal of the rest.” Before Weddlestone could reply, he went on, “You are a courageous man. It must be hard to refuse a wounded naval officer the chance to marry the woman he loves; particularly one who controls your employment. I respect that.”

“I mean nothing personal against you,” the rector said, meeting Charles’s eyes. “I have read about your accomplishments in battle. But a Quaker? They are the bane of the country, worse even than Ranters or Presbyterians; a stubborn, hard, unchristian people.”

“Penny can be as stubborn as any woman,” Charles said with a smile. “But I assure you that she is neither hard nor unchristian. You do know that the moment we are married she will no longer be a member of their society.”

“Do you mean that she will convert?”

“I don’t know about that. She will be disowned by her religion. Her view toward your Church will most likely be determined by the nature of her relationship with yourself. So far you haven’t made a very favorable impression.”

“I see,” Weddlestone said, letting his breath out slowly. “You are certain that she will no longer follow her previous religion?”

“She will certainly be disowned,” Charles said, choosing his words carefully.

“Well, that changes everything.” The rector smiled tentatively. “I see no reason why you should not be wed. What date would you like?”

“Saturday.”

“Saturday? I can’t possibly—”

“Saturday,” Charles repeated firmly. “A very small, very simple, very brief ceremony on Saturday morning. No choirs or music or anything like that. I wrote to you about this in plenty of time. I’m sure you can arrange to postdate the banns and do anything else that might need fixing. Saturday.”

___

OUTSIDE, HE FOUND
Penny sitting tensely on a bench in the garden with her hands folded tightly in her lap and clutching a handkerchief. “It’s all agreed,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “Saturday morning.”

“The priest has agreed to the ceremony?” She looked both incredulous and angry. “Charlie, I cannot—”

“No, no,” he said reassuringly, lowering himself onto the bench and taking her hands in his own. “It’s settled. Everything is fixed. It will be fine, you’ll see. He’s looking forward to the ceremony. It was only a small misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding? A small misunderstanding?” She tried to pull her hands away but he tightened his grip. “What misunderstanding could that pompous, arrogant, uncaring, heathenous priest have had? I cannot—” She stopped in midsentence, her chest heaving. He could see that she was on the verge of tears. She stared down at their hands in her lap and then up into Charles’s face. After a deep breath, she said, “What misunderstanding?”

“I only had to explain to him some of the practices of Quakers,” Charles answered almost proudly. “Now he sees things differently.”

“
Thou
explained the practices of Quakers?”

“Yes,” Charles continued, speaking rapidly. “Also, I don’t think he truly appreciated the extent to which I control his livelihood.”

“Thou threatened the priest?”

“I did not. I educated him. And please call him a minister, vicar, or rector. I don’t think he likes being called a priest.”

Penny sat silently on the bench, staring fixedly at her lap again and nibbling on her lower lip for a moment in deep concentration, as if attempting to digest what he had said and trying to decide whether it answered her objections.

“You see, it’s all right now,” Charles offered hopefully. He studied her carefully as her expression by degrees softened. He patted her hand reassuringly.

Abruptly her brow furrowed and she turned to face him. “Saturday?” she exclaimed in alarm. “That’s only five days! How couldst thou arrange it for Saturday? I must return home at once.”

“You’re going back to Gatesheath?” Charles asked. He had assumed, to the extent he had thought about it at all, that they would carry on more or less as before, with the additional requirement of showing up at the church on Saturday morning. He saw now that he was wrong.