Ah. Octavius’s first ship. She forced her mind back, searching. No memory of an officer named Smith surfaced. Instead, the sensation of heat rushed over her skin, followed by the echoing sound of water. Azure water, so clear you could spot a fish from the bow of a frigate. And Octavius. Sparkling brighter than the sun on the waves. Her hero.
England’s hero.
And the countess’s fallen lover.
“Octavius is gone.” For her, he’d been gone for a very long time.
“Yes,” the captain answered—communicating so much more than a single syllable should—the weight of soured hopes and youthful follies, of plans gone awry and consequent dismay. And grief. An ocean full of grief.
“Is she well?” The little man’s question dried the mist in Alicia’s eyes.
Aunt Hestertsked. “How did you expect her to react? She’s just learned we’ve been left destitute, and her husband’s mistress will receive everything.”
The captain answered, “The Admiralty will, of course, take the admiral’s family into consideration.”
Odd that, when Octavius had not.
Then again, hehadtaken his family into consideration, hadn’t he? In the codicil, he’d claimed the countess and her illegitimate daughter, who had been his by every right but law. Now they would have everything that was his, too.
One had to admit a kind of justice, however painful.
“The Admiralty,” Hester argued, “has not the means nor the will to provide for a fallen sailor.”
“Your nephew was hardly just a sailor,” the little man cut in. “He died whilst winning a brilliant battle. A posthumous elevation is being discussed.”
Alicia bit back an unladylike snort. Was she to become not just a lady, but a countess? On equal footing as her rival.
Except childless.
Without Octavius’s estate or its income and with Octavius’s younger brother—currently at sea—and his spinster aunt in her care.
“The codicil will not stand,” Aunt Hester said. “We will go to the courts.”
The captain cleared his throat. “Courts will not be necessary. The Admiralty has asked me to assist in finding a resolution.”
Ah. So that explained the captain’s presence—he had been tasked with tidying up. The Admiralty wanted to smooth Octavius’s messy wake so their hero could shine in death.
“We are attempting to reach Simon’s ship,” the Captain continued.
“Simon?” Alicia frowned. What had Octavius’s brother to do with this?
“He must come home, of course,” the little man said.
Simon was going to be furious if forced to leave the Navy. She must write to reassure—Oh.
Everything became clear.
The Admiralty needed a male. For the title, of course. And they needed a title to distract the public.
Even though the title had been bestowed on Octavius by valor and not by birthright, they would transfer it to Simon and then push him to the front of the nation’s imagination with pomp and circumstance and an immaculately powdered wig. And in turn,the heirwould push the grieving gaggle of women forever bound together by scandal into the background where, no doubt, the Admiralty believed they belonged.
The Admiralty expected her to silently wait for them to resolve her financial difficulties while they crafted the narrative.
Waiting, she understood. One could go mad from waiting. Airless, ravenous waiting in a cold and lifeless bed. She boxed the shame and humiliation and anger and slid them securely into the shadows.
The minutiae of living would not cease while the Admiralty executed their plan. Melodrama did not interrupt the need for shelter and for food. The quarterly bills would be due in a fortnight. And Cook had said something about the store of flour, had she not?
The future yawned in a dizzying expanse.
