1
When one is trying to be a very different sort of person, it is important to know one’s goal. Caroline Fitzwilliam,néeBingley, had not yet realized that her goal was ill-defined.
That she wanted to be different, she knew. That she was capable of anything she put her mind to, she also knew. She was not full of false modesty or showy self-deprecation. She knew herself to be intelligent, competitive, and capable of great persistence in pursuit of her own aims.
It was only that her powers were now directed at a destination that was not perfectly clear in her own mind.
It had something to do with Anne Elliot, whom Caroline recognized to be genteel, accomplished, and lady-like, yet also something more. Something to do with virtue, compassion, and discernment. The former qualities—with all their attendant benefits—Caroline had already achieved through birth or effort. The latter, perhaps not.
But it was not just kindness and perspicacity that Caroline wanted to emulate. There were other things. She had a growingcompulsion to ponder, when perplexed, what would Anne do next?
Often, she did not quite know, and this vexed her for it seemed to show some lack within herself that she did not know how to ameliorate.
On the occasion of this journey, however, she did not need to ask, because she knew what Anne would do. Captain Wentworth had been requested to join the Foreign Office and to go to Istanbul. Anne, far from kicking up a dust at her (very) new husband’s assignment, had immediately agreed to go with him. Caroline had also agreed to go with her husband. She was now, as of late April, married to the distinguished Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, and she had given eager assent to the journey. Istanbul conjured visions of domes and towers, minarets and the Orient.
However, as she learned more about the long, dirty, anddangerousvoyage that awaited her, she might have drawn back… If she had not had Anne’s clear example guiding her like a lighthouse.
Therefore at an early hour, before the sun was fully risen, Caroline disembarked from her carriage at Falmouth Harbor in Cornwall. Despite over a week of country driving, the Falmouth Harbor was distressingly similar to the Canary Wharf district of London. It was surrounded by dark, bedraggled buildings; it was crowded, poor, and malodorous.
Their packet ship loomed ahead, anchored in the misty dawn with several others whose masts rose like colossal pillars in the fog. Richard took her hand. “No second thoughts, my dear?”
His smile—which Caroline had long admitted to be his most appealing feature—was questioning, perhaps even compassionate. He was not a classically handsome man, but his fair hair and intelligent eyes had long since snared her—along with his persistent delusion that she was a far more noble personthan recent events had shown her to be. First she had pursued Mr. Darcy—which Richard had seen first-hand, to her regret—and that had led her to be rather unkind to both her brother and poor Jane. Then Caroline set her cap at Anne’s father, Sir Walter Elliot, and it had been brought home to her that in the pursuit of a brilliant match, she had become gauche. Sir Elliot, while impeccable in many respects, was a vain and self-indulgent man who had neither intelligence nor kindness to offset his vices. To have tied herself to him—well, she did not care to think on it. Saved from the fate that might have been hers, she was cast into the uncertainty of questioning all of her presuppositions and intuitions. Her instinct, for instance, told her that to imprison herself in the rustic interior of a tiny cabin for forty days was a horrendous idea—but she was no longer trusting her instincts.
“I’m perfectly ready. Many women have crossed the Mediterranean; why should not I?” Caroline gathered her skirts to mount the steps to the wharf.
Their ship, with its three towering masts and taut ropes, looked plenty large enough to cross an ocean, surely. Dockworkers bustled respectfully around them, lugging crates of provisions, barrels of rum, and her own carefully packed trunks toward the gangway. She saw one man carrying several large cloth bags, the infamous “packets” of mail. The British Post Office was the reason these ships operated at all, to provide reliable communication between Britain and her colonies, her allies, and even her enemies.
Caroline hesitated at the gangway that led from the safety of the wharf to the deck of the ship. Despite the railing, the gangway was so narrow, so brittle! But she did not want to disappoint her husband. She’d found within herself a distinct desire to meet his expectations of her—preferably while pretending that it was all perfectly natural. The gangway creaked and swayed as she strode across it. She did allow one glovedhand to slide lightly along a rail, but the other only held her hat lest the wind pull her ribbons loose.
The air was a briny, stale mixture with a sour sharpness to it from the River Fal. A brief morning breeze lifted off the water, bringing a fresher scent from the open sea. As she reached the deck, the further tang of tar, sealing wax, and livestock became apparent. Pigs were loosely penned on one side of the deck, and an errant goat freely wound its way between crates.
“Good heavens,” Caroline said. “It’s so—alive.”
“Would you prefer to go directly to our cabin?” Richard asked. “There will be some bother up here as they load the ship.”
“Would it be improper to stay?”
“Not at all.”
“Then let us stay for a moment.” Caroline gripped the rail. One small nick in the wood pricked through the thin fabric of her glove, and she pressed it down. The wind rose again, cool and brisk, sending her sable cloak billowing around her skirt and her green ribbons into a frenzy. Each cold gust whipped across her face, almost stinging.
Around them, sailors shouted commands, their voices roughened and loud. It was a coarse symphony ofhoist, haul,andbracewith an intermittent rhythm of snapping ropes. One young man even had a shiny green parrot on his shoulder that cawed loudly on occasion. She comforted herself that the clamor must die down at least a little once they were at sea.
When the sun was truly up and beginning to dazzle her eyes on the water, she sighed. “Perhaps we should go down.”
“I’m relieved to hear you say so. Here am I with my fine complexion being destroyed by the salt wind; my cheeks must be quite chafed.”
Caroline laughed at him. “Mine are, you mean. Sir Walter would be horrified at the both of us.” Still, she pressed cool hands to her flushed cheeks. She hoped it was notpermanent…would Richard think less of her if she used a preserving lotion every night on this journey? Would Anne? Surely a lady preserving her complexion was a duty and not a selfish indulgence…
“Here’s the hatch we want,” he said. “Now, I know it looks like a stairwell, but it’s considered a ladder. You’ll want to go down backwards for it’s too steep and precarious otherwise.”
Caroline was relieved to see a proper stairwell, for she had feared there would be only an open ladder with rungs. She held the banister with one hand and her skirt with the other as she went down backward, one foot at a time. It was awkward indeed, but she would no doubt improve with experience.
Down below, there was a short, narrow passage which led into a rectangular dining room, with an oven on one side and a large table in the center. The apartment was lit by a grated opening to the upper deck, allowing the early sunlight down in misty pillars. The room smelled faintly of oak and the lingering traces of previous voyages: spilt wine, damp straw, and the faintest whiff of sickness. Caroline wrinkled her nose in apprehension. She did not yet know if she was a good ocean traveler, or if the dreaded seasickness would lay her low.
“This is the officers’ dining room, where we will also dine,” Richard said. “All the private cabins open from here.” There were four doors on each side.
“There are only eight private rooms?” Caroline asked. “Goodness.”
