Chapter 1
Spring 1839
Portsmouth
An invisible threshold lay at the end of the pier, serving as the border between the life Lieutenant Silas Byrnes knew and the one that awaited him. He had disembarked many times during his naval career, and each one had brought varying amounts of joy and anxiety, but lurking beneath that final step was the knowledge that his time ashore was a temporary thing. Fleeting, really. Be it weeks or months, the navy eventually called him away, and until this moment, Silas hadn’t realized how comforting that transience was.
Life aboard a ship was not glamorous, but the regimented operations contained few surprises. Silas knew what was expected of him, and the captain and crew told him quickly enough if something was amiss. For good or ill, there was comfort in that surety, something that life on land could not promise him.
One final step. One final disembarkation. One final moment in the life he’d known.
Hatch stood on the street, watching Silas with a vaguely impatient set of his jaw. The young man’s expression held no other sign of emotion, though Hatch’s shoulders loosened the moment he set foot on dry land. Having spent much of his four and twenty years aboard a ship, one could be forgiven for thinking Lieutenant Jonathan Hatcher was at home on the sea, but anyone who had served under Captain Furton as long as Hatch had could never think highly of naval life. Silas had met the captain only a few times, and the man left quite the impression. And not for the good.
It struck Silas as rather droll (though horridly so) that the pair of them were such opposites: one man was anxious to be at sea whilst the other was anxious to be on land.
“You must help me navigate these waters, Hatch,” mumbled Silas.
The lad’s dark brow lifted in as much of a smile as he was wont to do. “You should know better than to trust a novice to navigate.”
Silas gave a comical grimace at the subtle reference to his advancing years. “You ought not to mock my age, sirrah. With naught more than a blink, you will find yourself on this side of forty.”
Clapping Hatch on the shoulder, they wound their way through the bustling crowd filling the pier. With a few words and coins, Silas had a man take their luggage to his house in Titchley, but when Hatch moved to follow, Silas turned them towards the town proper.
Despite the burgeoning industry and commerce that drove so many towns to expand and alter, Portsmouth had not changed much since he was here some three years before. There were little alterations here and there, but so much of its heart remained unchanged, and the constancy was comforting amidst so many changes in his life.
Hatch walked at Silas’s side, not commenting on the oddity of their expedition, but then, the fellow was not one to waste words; Silas did that enough for the both of them. No doubt, Hatch thought them headed to their newly acquired warehouse, but touring their business could wait. When Silas led them to Mr. Harrowford’s shop, Hatch gave him a silent raise of his brows.
“Today is the first day of a new life, and we ought to be suitably attired for such a grand moment,” said Silas. “I doubt you have a decent set of clothes to wear. I know I haven’t.”
Though Hatch looked miserable at the prospect of shopping, Silas gestured at the wretched uniforms they wore, and the young man gave no further protest as they entered the tailor’s shop. Silas rubbed his hands together as he surveyed the array of fabrics set out for the customers’ perusal. So many colors and patterns. It was glorious.
“What might you gentlemen need today?” asked a young man as he came out from behind a counter, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Everything,” said Silas, not bothering to cover his grin. Hatch’s expression drooped as he watched his friend with a wary eye.
The assistant fetched his master, and the gentlemen were swept into a frenzy of fabrics, cuts, and measurements. Getting Hatch to withstand the tailor’s poking and prodding was a near thing, but Silas kept them at it until they had the necessary measurements and a few outfits chosen. It helped that Mr. Harrowford gave them use of a back room in which to change into the ready-made clothes they purchased, allowing Hatch to abandon his naval uniform with all due haste. Though Silas thought the young man’s choice in apparel was hardly an improvement.
Hatch wore a black suit that had the distinction of being entirely unremarkable. So much so that one could not tell if the wearer were master or servant. It blended in with the sea of gentlemen so thoroughly that if not for Hatch’s broad build, Silas couldn’t find him in a crowd.
“Are you certain you don’t want something more…?” Silas didn’t know how to finish that statement, so he allowed the final word to drift off with an inherent meaning all its own. It was difficult to get a suit any “less” than what Hatch was wearing, even if it was well made.
“Not all of us are peacocks,” said Hatch with a narrowed look, and though Mr. Harrowford and his assistant looked taken aback, Silas couldn’t help but laugh at his friend’s jest.
“I am hardly a peacock,” said Silas, running a hand down his silk waistcoat. Perhaps it was a bit garish next to his checked trousers, but both articles were a splendid color that reminded him of well-made butter. To his thinking, that shared color and rich purple accents worked well with his cravat and offset the dark green of his coat perfectly. “I’ve been forced to wear the same clothes day after day for years, and I, for one, intend to enjoy the freedom of choosing my wardrobe.”
“By selecting the most audacious patterns and hues you can find?” Hatch’s tone was dry enough to scorch a field, but Silas answered that with another laugh; Mr. Harrowford gave an echoing chuckle, though it held more obsequiousness than mirth.
“By dressing in whatever takes my fancy,” corrected Silas. Giving the tailor instructions about the bill and their clothes (both those they’d ordered and the uniforms they’d cast off), Silas donned his hat and turned to the doorway.
“Sir!” called the assistant, hurrying from the back room with a band of black crepe in his hands.
Silas paused and stared at the thing for a long moment as the young man offered it up to him. Surely, it was time to let the wretched thing go. Had the situation been reversed, Deborah might’ve clung to the mourning strictures for a time after his death, but Silas doubted even his diligent wife would’ve bothered with mourning clothes for more than half a year.
Though he didn’t know who he was trying to convince with that bit of hogwash.
“We are very sorry for your loss,” said the tailor.
With a nod, Silas took it and worked the mourning band up his arm to rest where it had been a quarter of an hour before. The black cloth rested heavily on his forearm as though it was pressing against the muscle and bone. An ever-present companion.
