Neither have I, John thought as more misgivings crowded in.What in the world am I doing to such a kind lady?
‘Come if you wish, Captain Tyler,’ he said and put down the trumpet.
He kept his own counsel on the return to theQueen, after suggesting to his sailing master, a man with children of his own, to find a patient sailor handy with knots, who might occupy Allan. Between the intricacies of a bowline and a handful of crispy salted potatoes from Cookie, his son was occupied, allowing John to wander below-deck. He stared at his sleeping platform, wondering how adept his bride would be in such acontraption, which was fine indeed, if a man held still in it. But holding still wasn’t the usual marriage dance.
‘This won’t do,’ he admitted to Adams, his steward, who handed him a tankard of grog, when he came into his cramped quarters and saw his captain contemplating the bed.
‘Sir, you’ll probably surprise yourself,’ he heard in cheerful reply.
John thought of any number of colourful retorts of his own and discarded them all, preferring to spend time at his desk, contemplating a chart without seeing it.
He couldn’t help remembering Cathy, daughter of the squire on the neighbouring estate—beautiful Cathy, with a mild temper and that bloom of colour in an otherwise pale complexion that had intrigued many would-be suitors, all of whom she’d dismissed in his favour.
‘I loved you, Cathy,’ he whispered as theSwallowmade its way back the short distance to Collingwood’s flagship. ‘And you loved me, God only knows why.’
Seriously, what was the matter with women who loved seamen? He’d never forgotten Cathy’s sad eyes and lovely face as he’d sailed away in a sloop of war, his first command. There she was at the wharf on his return five months later, softly round with child, her smile as pretty as ever, with one difference: that rosy bloom on her cheeks was permanent now, the deadly bloom of consumption. Thank God their baby had never contracted that feared ailment.
Two more sailings—one to the blockade for several months and the other to the Battle of Aboukir Bay—with a small son at the first return, and then a three-year-old held by his nanny as Cathy had struggled to appear healthy.
He’d learned of her death while he was on Gibraltar. Her last letter to him had been dictated to her mother. She spoke of love and regret and having failed him somehow, when he knew thefailure was his, because he and other men like him were duty-bound with no choice.
I could have run a counting house, or been called to the Bar as a barrister, he told himself after reading that regrettable letter.I should have been there for her. That was three years ago. Surely it was time to move on. Logic told him that even had he chosen a landlocked occupation, Cathy would still have died. Still, there seemed to be no logic to love.
Now he sat in his cabin, rethinking the last few months. Should he despise himself for dumping his troubles upon his dead lieutenant’s sister? The answer was a resounding no, because at the time he’d had no idea what else to do. When she’d opened the door that evening, took in the sight of a desperate father with nowhere else to turn, he’d known something unexpected, right down to the marrow of his bones: this woman was going to be important to him. Some sense he had either never paid attention to or recently acquired told him so.
He knew he had changed Anna Fontaine’s life and altered everything about her orderly existence. That she bore it with uncommon grace was not lost on him. He knew without a doubt there was a deep well of courage inside this woman he dared to marry in this age of revolution and war.
He took that thought on deck, admiring the knots Allan produced, and nodding his appreciation to the seaman-teacher beside his son. ‘MacNeish, you are an excellent instructor,’ he told his patient deckhand. ‘Thank you for teaching Allan, my little sailor.’
‘Sail ahead. Ahoy to theQueen!’ John heard from the crow’s nest. He became all business then, signalling to his first luff to bring theSwallowalongside.
‘Mr Marsing, the speaking trumpet, if you please.’
‘Aye, sir.’
At the usual distance, John hailed theQueen. ‘Requesting permission to come aboard,’ he shouted into the brass tube.
‘State your business, Captain Beattie,’ he heard, aware of the barely stifled amusement. Trust Captain Thomas’s bosun, a cheeky fellow, to enjoy this hugely. Oh, hell, everyone was grinning down at him. Could a man have no dignity?
‘A wedding is my business, you black dogs,’ he said and laughed, which made his own listening crew grin and look at each other. Had they never heard him laugh before? Maybe it was time to make some changes on the good shipSwallow.
First things first.
I want a wife, John thought as the larger flagship sent down a ladder.I need a wife for Allan and Pru, if not for myself.
He turned to his first luff. ‘Mr Marsing, I will be returning with a wife and we will sail back to Gibraltar, briefly,’ he said. ‘The deck is yours.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Captain Beattie knew his wedding could only be a modest affair, which he felt would suit Anna, who was not an ostentatious lady. What he was unprepared for was how lovely she looked, and what the simple sight of her did to his sorely tried body.
Aboard theQueen, he saluted, then shook hands with Captain Thomas. Whatever wedding dignity there was blew away when Allan ran ahead with Pru, who was waiting on deck, then tore down the companionway with her.
Allan was back in a moment, eyes wide, so excited. ‘Papa, you should see Missy. She is beautiful.’
Allan was right. Anna met him at the bottom of the steps, eyes bright, smile genuine. He knew he looked upon a healthy woman, which soothed his soul. He took her hand and leaned close enough to be private.
‘Not too many months ago, I insisted upon a hug,’ he said. ‘It got us both into trouble, but I must insist again.’
