Startled by a sudden knock on the cabin door, Captain Edward Trewin swore under his breath. The purser entered and held out a bundle of papers just delivered by a fast sloop—orders for the dockyard and a few letters. Edward could not help hoping that one of the letters was from his wife Julia, but with the harbor entrance nearly abeam he had no choice but to pull himself together. His frigate, Palladium, had cleared Ushant two days ago and had yet to make landfall in England. The crew was growing restless. None aboard knew why he had sailed the ship directly past his home port of Falmouth, one of the first English ports they encountered. But he thanked God for the stiff breeze that had carried them briskly away from Cornwall and up the Channel to Portsmouth. In truth, he had no stomach for home.

He sent the purser off and fanned the papers out on his writing table. His two daughters had written again and so had his longtime friend Captain Daniel Blackthorne. But there was no letter from Julia. Nor had there been  the entire year he had been at sea, despite the letters he had sent her, despite the constant dangers of the Royal Navy’s actions in the Mediterranean. His wife wanted nothing to do with him, and he hardly knew whether the ache at the back of his throat came from bitterness or despair. The thought of spending the winter alone in Portsmouth chafed at him. Not bothering to call for his servant, he grabbed his hat and cloak and left his cabin for the quarterdeck. A man in command of one of His Majesty’s ships could not afford despair.

On deck, Edward touched his hat in response to First Lieutenant Throckmorton’s salute. Palladium turned onto her final tack for Portsmouth, and he cast an eye to the sails as they luffed in the foggy air. The ship’s sailing master and the helmsman knew their business. He left them to it. The wind, now coming up brisk and westerly, whipped at his cloak. He resisted placing his hands in his armpits for warmth. With luck, and the permission of the port admiral, he would sleep this night in a proper bed at the George or some other Portsmouth inn. But in the weeks or months to come he would have little in the way of company or companionship apart from Mr. Harkaway or another of the ship’s young gentlemen who had no home of his own.

He should have been eager to return to England. In the two years since those ungodly French republicans had guillotined their king and declared war on England, Palladium had acquitted herself well. He was proud of her and of his people. Once the prize court acted on their captured ships and cargoes, the officers and men would all receive their shares. Edward himself was poised to become a wealthy man.

Still, his mouth set in a thin line. He could write to Julia one more time after Palladium anchored in Portsmouth, although he had no reason to believe her anger and disappointment had abated. A year of silence spoke eloquently. Admit it, Ned, your marriage is in shreds. There was no point insisting that she come to him, even if he had a right to do so. He had no appetite for yet more icy silence—or worse, to return home and be snubbed by his own wife when his only transgression had been to do his duty. Why should he relent now?

Returning to his cabin, he broke the seal on Daniel’s letter, which would be easiest to bear. His friend was as likely to tweak him as convey any news. “Prepare yourself, Ned,” he had written.

Some ink-stained fool in London has knocked together a stage play celebrating Palladium’s victories and her bold captain. If that is not enough, I see some new broadside touting your exploits almost weekly. Three cheers for Captain Trewin, huzzah! One was decorated with the funniest engraving I ever did see. You looked to be about half the size of the mainmast—the fearsomest naval warrior ever to sail from England’s shores. How shall I greet such a paragon?

Edward huffed aloud at Daniel’s attempt at wit. He could cope with outlandish public recognition without being an ass about it. Certainly, he had no objection to the wealth he had earned or to his expected advancement in the Royal Navy. He could meet a deadly enemy implacably or suffer endless miserable conditions at sea. Why then did he not have the brass to face whatever difficulties awaited him in his own home?

* * *

The fog had lifted by the time Palladium dropped anchor in the crowded harbor, though heavy gray clouds still obscured the sun. Large, delicate snowflakes were already falling as Edward’s gig thudded against the quay alongside a cluster of other ships’ boats. His dunnage was promptly put on a cart for the George Inn and the gig pushed off again. He headed straight for the port admiral’s headquarters on High Street. Carts laden with timbers and barrels rolled through the dockyard’s cobbled streets and alleys. Though their drivers would surely make way for an officer of his rank, he found that his legs were steady enough ashore, and he enjoyed the exercise of dodging through the rumbling traffic. Making his way alongside one of the massive brick storehouses towards the gate, he heard his name called out across the frozen courtyard.

The sound echoed and he turned to seek its source. He was immediately hailed again.

 “Trewin!”

He brightened at the sight of a bluff, white-wigged naval officer cloaked against the biting cold, his gold-braided hat pulled firmly down on his head.

“Edward Trewin, it is you!” The old gentleman waved his walking stick in the air and Edward crossed the courtyard in a few strides to grasp the outstretched hand of Admiral Augustus Heywood. As a young officer, he had served under Heywood in the North Atlantic. They seemed destined always to meet in the cold.

“Admiral, I am pleased indeed to see you, sir.” Edward shook Heywood’s hand with both of his own, near to embracing his former commanding officer, whose weathered face was split in a toothy grin. “Do you come from the port admiral?”

Heywood shook his head and turned to walk along with him, a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Yes and no. I am cast ashore for life here in Portsmouth, I am afraid. Only come down to pass the time of day with Admiral White now and again. Like to remind him I know he is a rascal. I was going to stop in at the Pay Office, but it can wait for a bit. And you, sir?”

“Palladium is just anchored, as it happens. She is headed for the dry-dock. I am on my way to report to White now.” He was glad of Heywood’s friendly greeting and was loathe to let him go. “The interview should take no more than an hour. Let us meet after that.”

Admiral Heywood readily agreed. “An hour it is then, my boy. I will await you at the George. You can be sure we will chase the cold winter away.”

Edward dearly hoped so. Months in the Mediterranean and beyond had thinned his blood even while the sun had browned his face and lightened his dark hair. He took leave of Admiral Heywood with a bow and went off to make his report, heartened at the prospect of a meal ashore, a hot drink, and a chance to exchange news with his old friend and mentor. Passing the porter’s lodge and crossing under the dockyard gate, he set out for Admiralty House. The sky was lowering and leaden and the snow falling more thickly, but he turned towards High Street with renewed energy.

As the shore commander at Portsmouth, Admiral Elias White was responsible for the supply, refitting, and armament of every ship in the dockyard, and Portsmouth Dockyard’s efficiency was key to the Royal Navy’s war effort. His precious time was protected by several officious, black-coated clerks, but when Captain Trewin was announced the admiral greeted him at once.

“Come right in and sit down, Trewin,” he said, motioning to an upholstered elbow chair in front of his massive desk. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance. An honor, sir!”

A clerk took Edward’s damp hat and cloak. Another brought coffee on an ornate brass tray. Snow drifted past the west-facing windows of Admiralty House, but White’s office, with its well-tended fire and gleaming mahogany furniture, was a haven of light and warmth. The contrast with Edward’s shipboard life could not have been more complete.

“I have had your dispatches, sir,” White announced. “And I read all the London papers, of course. Allow me to congratulate you. A frigate’s the thing, you know.” His bushy eyebrows lifted as he smiled. “Commanded a frigate meself during the American war. Now, sir, if we had ten more like Palladium and ten more captains like yourself there would be no French Navy left to speak of, eh?” A few more frigates and many more ships of the line would have been a better thing, but Edward smiled politely.

Though the port admiral was voluble, he asked pointed questions and understood the importance of getting a vessel back in service without undue delay. There would be problems–foundries falling behind, labor and lumber in short supply–but with luck and if the weather held, Palladium should be ready for orders again by mid-spring. She must have the new copper sheathing, certainly. They would have to see what the over-taxed foundries could deliver in the way of heavier guns.

“Yes, certainly you may sleep ashore. You will be at the George, I take it. Come back in two days and we will see about modifications that can be made during repairs.

“Baker! Baker, there!” White shouted into the anteroom. “I will see Captain Trewin again on Thursday afternoon. And pray get him a carriage to the George at once.”

The inn was no great distance, being hard by the dockyard, but Edward welcomed the gesture. Inside his shiny black boots, his feet remained cold. He settled himself for the short journey, grateful for White’s gracious good sense, but not looking forward to his ship being out of commission for months. In that time there would be no action, no prize money, and too much time in which to think. The Navy needed Palladium back in service as soon as possible, and so did he.

* * *

Some hours later, having done away with large servings of beef and kidney pie and an impressive amount of mulled wine, Edward and Admiral Heywood rested companionably in the George Inn’s bustling taproom. Even though he had grown hard of hearing, the admiral still knew how to listen. He shifted in his bow-backed chair and leaned forward on his stick as Edward described Palladium’s service with the Mediterranean Squadron. They had sailed in the spring of ’94 and were soon on detached duty off Toulon, targeting merchantmen and French warships alike.

It was easy enough to speak of victory in battle, the prizes they had taken, the bravery and skill of his people. He could state the raw number of casualties without flinching. But he was certain that Admiral Heywood would also understand the things he left unsaid. Few others could realize so fully the isolation of command or the weight of the butcher’s bill. There was no need to speak of hurried burials at sea, the agony of abandoning wounded men to filthy hospitals, the grim business of reports, and even grimmer business of writing letter after letter to wives, fathers, or mothers. Even sitting well-fed and in good company in the George, Edward’s head throbbed. He wondered if he would ever feel warm again.

Admiral Heywood had grown pensive. Perhaps he remembered a young lieutenant’s desperate grief following a wretched battle many years ago or perhaps he was remembering losses of his own. But he spoke cheerfully a moment later.

“You must come up and stay at Whitborne while you are here,” he said. “True, it is a bit of a jaunt getting in to the dockyard, but that may be a good thing. We are out Portsdown way, not half an hour’s journey on a decent horse. I promise you will have good food and drink, company when you want it, and be left in peace when you do not. My daughter Caroline looks after me now my wife’s gone, and she is a capital housekeeper. Say you will, sir.”

Edward had visited Heywood’s home briefly many years before, a handsome but comfortable house set in its own parkland. Heywood was doubly lucky, for he had not only inherited the estate of a childless uncle; the wealth he had accumulated over many successful years of naval service allowed him to maintain a sizable house and its lands without straining his purse.

“That is uncommonly civil of you, sir. I accept with pleasure.” Bless his generosity. An answer to a prayer.

Heywood displayed his easy smile. “Excellent. I will send a message up straightaway.”

“No need for that, sir. With Admiral White’s leave, I’ve taken rooms here already and I will see my prize agent in the morning. I must confirm the arrangement with White, of course. If it is convenient, I will have my sea chest sent up first thing tomorrow and be with you in the afternoon.”

“Certainly, certainly. We shall be very glad to have you join all of us, and for as long as you like.”

Who would be in the Whitborne household besides Heywood and his daughter? The admiral answered Edward’s puzzled look with a chuckle. “John and his brood are next door, you know.”

“Ah, yes,” said Edward, meaning no. John Heywood was the admiral’s only son, a post-captain himself, but known more for his administrative abilities than his seamanship. Edward had a vague recollection that even though Captain Heywood resided near Portsmouth, he was now an official for the Admiralty or had been appointed to one of the naval boards.

“No, no.” The admiral caught Edward’s hesitation. “We see John and Lucy for a meal now and then, but the quiet life I have promised will still be yours.”

“I recall that you have three children, sir?” said Edward. He remembered Miss Sylvia Heywood only too vividly but did not think he had met the daughter Heywood mentioned, who by his reckoning must be well over thirty.

The admiral leaned back in his chair and scratched his head, setting his white wig somewhat askew. “My eldest daughter Sylvia, Mrs. Frobisher that is, lives near her husband’s family at Chatham. They are a terrible lot of prigs, the Frobishers, although I suppose Henry is all right in spite of it. He sits as a magistrate, of all things. They have three children, all boys. John has four youngsters—you will meet them. Yes, I am a grandfather seven times over. A raucous good feast it was when we were gathered at Whitborne for Christmas this year, I can tell you. Seems dead quiet now, with only Caroline at home.”

“She is . . . unmarried?” Edward ventured.

“She says she is content to be a spinster. She has been most dedicated to me since her mama died, that I can say. Her situation may change, one never knows.” He grew quiet, drawing on his clay pipe. Edward imagined a bird-like Miss Heywood fussing at her papa over chilblains and the amount of port he consumed, possibly while looking out for an elderly parson with matrimony in mind.

“But what of your good lady?” Heywood was saying. “Should Caroline write and invite her to join you at Whitborne? She will be most welcome.”

Could any invitation matter to Julia now? Edward’s reply was unusually halting. “Ah. Yes. Well. Better not, for now. She is uh—better not.” His neck cloth had grown tight. He swallowed hard. I will write myself, not that it will matter. Damned if I can see what else to do.

Admiral Heywood nodded without a further word on the subject. He rose slowly with the aid of his stick, straightened his wig, and jammed on his hat. “Well, I must be off,” he cried. “I will send the carriage down at middaytomorrow. Come up whenever you are ready.”

CHAPTER TWO

In Which Captain Trewin is Taken in Hand Not Entirely Against His Will

“Caroline! Where are you?” It was nearly dark when Admiral Heywood’s voice boomed through the front hall at Whitborne. A moment later, his daughter materialized through the white-painted door leading to the kitchen and storerooms. “Ah, there you are, my dear. I have news. You do not mind a houseguest, I hope?”

Caroline Heywood smiled indulgently at her father’s exuberance. What was a solitary guest when there had been a houseful for Christmas and the New Year?

“Who has put you in such a lively mood, Papa?” She reached up to help her father remove his damp cloak and handed it to a young maid.

“Captain Trewin,” he pronounced. “Ned Trewin. Edward Trewin, that is. Surely you remember him?”

Caroline shook her head. She had never met Captain Trewin though she recognized the name at once. His frigate had captured a French corvette off Brest only days after France had declared war on England. Any schoolchild would know of him. And, as she had been told many times, he had served with her father as a lieutenant in the American War.

“I do not recall meeting him, Papa, not that it matters. Naturally, he is most welcome. Do you expect him soon?” She gave a thought to the evening meal and having a room made ready.

“No, no,” said Admiral Heywood. “He has just returned from the Med and now his ship’s going into the dockyard for some time. Weeks, maybe months. He has business in town in the morning, but he should be with us before supper tomorrow. Thomas can take the carriage down after noon.”

“He is rather famous, is he not? Lucy will be beside herself.” Caroline winced inwardly at her frivolous sister-in-law’s likely reaction to such an important visitor.

Her father grinned. “Oh, yes. Better hold off inviting John and Lucy here for dinner tomorrow evening. Perhaps the evening after?” His expression grew more somber. “I know his frigate’s got a string of victories behind her, but at a cost. I must say, he looks to have had rather a bad time of it. Much better he stays here with us than dwelling alone at the George, eh?”

“Of course,” Caroline replied. “Hannah and I will freshen the green bedroom first thing in the morning.” She began to wonder about this Captain Trewin. If papa likes him, he must not be of a dour disposition. Or a bore. That would be the last thing we need.

* * *

The wide canopy bed and thick blankets at the George failed to provide Edward with much rest. The very steadiness of the bed seemed strange after his shipboard hammock. Though the same scrawny lad who carried the ash buckets laid a good fire in his room and a maid came around with more wood late in the evening, still he could not get warm.

His letters from Margaret and Bettina, which he had waited to open until after he had dined, were still on his mind. Ten-year-old Meg’s letters were always full of blotches and scratched out words, so he often had to puzzle out her meaning. She was pleased to tell him that Mama had relented and let her have a kitten at last. Their cook, Thomasine, made scones on baking day. Mama’s health was much improved. Meg hoped the French were not giving him too much trouble, but Captain Blackthorne said there was no chance of that. “I miss you, Papa,” she had written in closing, “but wait until you see Pepper. She grows so fast and is so clever. She is the finest cat I could wish for!”

He was surprised to see that Betts’s letter came from Wiltshire, where she had spent Christmas with Julia’s parents and was to remain for some time. At nearly thirteen, Betts had developed beautiful handwriting and she had drawn a border of flowers along the bottom of her letter. She missed Mama and Meg, she said, but Uncle James was teaching her to ride and that was splendid.

Why in God’s name could Julia not send me one line? Surely our course past Falmouth did not escape her notice. Edward sighed and pulled the pile of quilts up to his chin. For the sake of good form, he resolved to send her word of his arrival in Portsmouth the next morning. I shall write to Betts, as well. At least she and Meg will be glad to know I am safe.He must figure out how and when he could see his daughters. Soon, he hoped.

At last, he rose in the cold dawn and called for hot water. Shaving himself in front of a mottled mirror, he tried to ignore the shadows under his eyes. He was no longer a young man, if he were honest—–closer to forty than to thirty—–and he was not returning from a pleasure cruise. But he was fortified by a generous breakfast of eggs, a slice of gammon, toasted bread, and two pots of strong coffee. As he sat near the taproom window, he leaned close to the glass and cast a sailor’s eye to the heavens.

Last night he had told himself that the weather would improve and now he was rewarded by a clearing sky. He was roused out of his contemplation when the pot boy offered him more coffee. He asked the lad to have his sea chest sent out to Whitborne by cart, sent a message to Palladium’s purser ordering a dozen bottles of claret to be delivered to his host along with two boxes of oranges and lemons, and then went off to see his Portsmouth prize agent, a firm called Brown’s.

The prize court would have to act before any award of money could be made, but he was satisfied with the calculations Mr. Brown presented to him. Yes, Mr. Brown would be very happy to contact him in Portsmouth, or get word to his Falmouth prize agent, if necessary, when there was news to impart. If Captain Trewin would kindly inform the firm if he left Portsmouth? With his business concluded, Edward stepped into the admiral’s waiting carriage not long after one o’clock in the afternoon.

* * *

Whitborne stood much as he remembered it—three elegant stories of biscuit-colored stone at the end of a long avenue, set in a wooded park and surrounded by gardens. Tall front windows mirrored the pale sunlight. It was a graceful house, if not an especially large one; with a dusting of snow on the slate roof, it might have made a fit subject for an engraving.

Almost as soon as the carriage wheels crunched on the gravel drive that fronted the house, the door opened and Admiral Heywood himself stepped out to greet his guest. There was no mistaking the warmth of his broad smile. The woman who followed him out and stood shivering on the steps was smiling, too. She pulled a red and gold Kashmir shawl close against the cold.

“Ah, here you are, Trewin. A fine day for it.” The admiral turned towards his daughter. “Caroline, allow me to introduce Captain Edward Trewin of His Majesty’s Ship Palladium. Captain Trewin, my daughter Caroline Heywood.”

Edward removed his hat and bowed. “Your servant, Miss Heywood. May I thank you for allowing me to stay at Whitborne?”

Miss Heywood curtseyed briefly in return. “We are delighted you have come, Captain Trewin. I imagine you will liven us up while you are here. And I hope you will regard Whitborne as your home for as long as you care to stay.”

Her voice was low-pitched and pleasant, and Edward had to admit that the admiral’s daughter was not particularly spinsterish. Her friendly smile revealed even white teeth. He did not think she would see thirty again, but she was youthful in manner with bright brown hair put up in a becoming style.

In the wide entrance hall, a freckled young housemaid bobbed and took Edward’s hat and cloak. “I’m Daisy, sir,” she said shyly, then gave another quick bob and scampered off.

“Papa,” said Miss Heywood, “I shall show Captain Trewin upstairs and allow him to settle in before dinner.”

“Aye, just the thing. As my daughter says, you must make yourself at home, Trewin.” The admiral stumped off down the hall, leaning on his walking stick. “See you at supper,” he called over his shoulder.

Miss Heywood turned and led Edward up the staircase. “Your things arrived safely this morning. And I must thank you for sending up the wine and the fruit. Especially the fruit. It was most considerate of you.”

“Not at all, ma’am.” He made a rueful face. “It was not so very long since my ship was in a warmer climate. I am afraid I have not got used to the cold again.”

She laughed. “You will do pretty well here, I believe. Papa is always cold, so there are plenty of fires.” She stopped, opened a bedroom door towards the end of the broad hall, and stepped back to let him enter first. “I hope you find the room comfortable. We are very informal here, but if there is anything at all that you wish, please speak to Bacon.”

She explained that Bacon had been her father’s shipboard steward. Now he was general factotum and valet to her father, and Mrs. Bacon was their cook. “He can look after both you and Papa while you are here. Unless you intended to bring your own servant?”

Edward shook his head. “We put him ashore in Gibraltar with flux, I am sorry to say. His replacement was not really up to snuff, so he will be paid off. I had not thought. This must be an inconvenience.”

“I assure you, it is not,” she replied. “Bacon will be overjoyed to see to a serving officer.”

“This is a beautiful room,” said Edward, taking it in. The room had perfect proportions, with soft green walls and immaculate cream-painted woodwork. It was heated by a crackling fire and dominated by an ancient-looking dark oak tester bed. Long windows faced east to overlook both the garden and the park beyond. Edward spied his sea chest and his portmanteau, already open and mostly unpacked.

Miss Heywood walked to the window, and he caught a suggestion of lavender as she passed him. “This is one of my favorite rooms in the house,” she said, “especially in fine weather. Lovely morning light.

“If you will pardon my saying so, Captain Trewin, you seem a little weary. Do rest before supper if you would like. There are only the three of us this evening. I expect you know that my brother John and his wife Lucille—we call her Lucy—live next door at Rose Lodge. It is to the south of us through the park. They are often here for dinner, and they are eager to meet you, but I thought you might like a quiet evening to get settled.”

Was the lady flushing? Edward looked at her more closely. Miss Heywood had a smooth complexion, straight brows, forthright gray eyes, and a wide mouth that naturally turned up at the corners. He wondered why she had never married.

“That is very thoughtful of you, ma’am.” He bowed briefly to her again. With such a distance between himself and Julia, he had not expected to find himself in a woman’s care. His chest constricted, just the smallest amount.

She put her head to one side, regarding him frankly. “I think Papa may have misled you somewhat. My nephew and nieces are often here, too. But you are to have the library for your own use, so you shall always have a sanctuary.”

“That is too much . . .” Edward began, but she cut him off.

“Oh, no, there is to be no argument. Papa has decamped to a smaller room in the back of the house that he calls his hiding hole. To tell the truth, I think he prefers it. He sits in there reading Fielding and Smollett, snorting with laughter.” Edward smiled broadly, for Heywood had the very same habit when at sea.

“You will have a table for your ship’s books and papers,” Miss Heywood said. “No doubt you have a great deal of reading to catch up on yourself. There is good light in the library. It is a very satisfactory room in which to work. And you must not hesitate to ask your officers to call on you here if that is convenient for you.”

Edward was touched at the thought given to his comfort. He spoke sincerely. “I really am most grateful for my welcome at Whitborne, Miss Heywood.”

“Thomas can find a mount for you tomorrow, unless you prefer the carriage to go into Portsmouth?”

Edward tried not to scowl. He was an indifferent horseman, but he could surely travel to the dockyard and back aboard a horse in reasonable weather. He had no wish to put the Heywoods to the trouble of borrowing their carriage every day and he was damned if he would be seen in a gig or a pony cart.

“A horse will do very well. I thank you.” Miss Heywood smiled kindly, and he was sure she had guessed what he had been thinking.

“We generally dine at five,” she said briskly. “Shipboard hours, you know. If you come down at half past, I will take you ’round the house so you will know where everything is. Ah, here’s Bacon.”

A lanky middle-aged fellow had appeared silently at the open door. He gave Edward a practiced bow and put a loose fist to his forehead.

Edward nearly grinned at the familiar gesture but nodded gravely instead. “Miss Heywood tells me that you served with the admiral before you put into harbor here.”

“That I did, sir. Able seaman and then steward on Hyperion,” he said, naming a ship of the line. “After your time with the admiral, that were. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain.”

Miss Heywood looked from one to the other with an amused expression and was off with a nod to Edward and a soft swish of her skirts.

“Ha!” said Bacon, glancing after her. “You’ll have no worries if Miss Caroline’s taken you in hand, sir. Smooth sailing from here on out, says I.”

“Is that so?” said Edward, cocking an eyebrow.

* * *

Caroline had returned to the kitchen, where Mrs. Bacon was hard at work. “Bacon is settling Captain Trewin into the green bedroom. Goodness, but he looks drawn. I believe he is completely exhausted. He could be with us for some time. We must allow him a chance to recover himself while we feed him up on your good cooking.”

She took a seat at the worn oak table in the center of the room. Mrs. Bacon nodded and waved a large wooden spoon towards several crates stacked near the back door. “It will be a pleasure. Very thoughtful to send up them oranges. And some nice bottles of French plonk, too.”

Caroline blinked but said nothing. “Plonk” no doubt came from Bacon but did a disservice to the wine. It was more a comment on the French than their claret, she imagined. Mrs. Bacon was making broth this afternoon and her placid face was ruddy from the steam rising out of the kettle before her. “We’ll have a nice herb sauce for tonight’s chicken if that suits, Miss Caroline. I’m roasting three birds. And there’s a surfeit of rosemary, as it happens.”

“Admirable. I am sure it will be delicious. And potatoes and parsnips, done together, yes? What is there from the hot house?” Like her mother before her, Caroline employed no housekeeper. Instead, she managed the household together with her long-serving maid Hannah and the Bacons.

Mrs. Bacon squinted in thought, looking up at the ceiling. “Lettuces and cresses. I’ll do something with those.”

“Yes, he will like something fresh. Let us make sure there is plenty of everything,” Caroline continued. “What about the sweet, then?”

“I have my eye on these.” Mrs. Bacon picked up a box of oranges and swung it easily onto the table. “You leave it to me.” She put a fist on one broad hip. “’Tis as well we’ve got company again, if you ask me. All this to-do has put some color in your cheeks.”

Caroline laughed, for she was used to Mrs. Bacon’s ways. “Thank you, Mrs. B; Dinner is in your hands. I will go and find Hannah now.” She was halfway through the door when another thought occurred to her. “I know tomorrow’s not your baking day, but will you bake a few loaves of bread anyway? Sailors always want fresh white bread when they come ashore, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Aye, miss. You’ll never say truer than that. As I said, you leave it to me.”

On her way upstairs, Caroline considered how best to aid Captain Trewin’s restoration. He had been the soul of graciousness when they were introduced, but she had sensed his weariness. Oh, he seemed fit enough. He was tanned from his time in southern waters, and his attention never wavered from the person with whom he was speaking, whether it was herself, her father, or Bacon. But she had seen that same suppressed droop of the shoulders and far-off expression in a man’s eyes before. A quiet dinner and a sound night’s sleep were as good a beginning as any.

For the evening, she had planned to wear the same dove gray gown she had worn to dine at John and Lucy’s two nights before, but now she thought better of it. Her sapphire-colored lutestring would be more cheerful. She looked especially well in that shade, and there was plenty of time for Hannah to press it for her. In the meantime, she would decide what jewelry to wear and what else might be done to put Captain Trewin at ease.

* * *

Edward had never tasted anything better than the plain roast chicken served at dinner. Every vegetable, sauce, and accompaniment seemed the finest of its kind, which would have been true even if he had not been so long at sea. He and the Heywoods conversed amiably about Gibraltar, Leghorn, and other Mediterranean ports of call. The wine flowed rather freely, although Edward noticed that Miss Heywood took very little. She had dressed in a dark blue gown of some shining fabric, with a low neckline that displayed her bosom—a lovely bosom—to advantage.

The conversation turned and the admiral began to tell Edward about his son’s family. John and Lucy Heywood had been married twelve years and had four children. Maxwell was the oldest at eleven. There was a babe in arms, too—another boy, called Geoffrey. And in the middle, the old man said, were “two hoydenish girls.”

“They are perfectly charming,” Miss Heywood interjected, “Only a trifle high in spirits.”

“Hellions,” said Admiral Heywood, with a twinkle.

Edward thought again of his family in Cornwall. He loved his girls dearly, but he had been at sea so often and for so long that his homecomings had sometimes produced awkward scenes. At times it seemed he knew the young gentlemen aboard Palladium better than his own children. “Is Master Heywood going into the Navy?” he asked.

“Yes, in another year,” said Heywood. “His mama will not let him go any sooner. He is a fine fellow. Keen to be away, as you will see, and sharp as a razor, too.” The old man’s pride shone in his merry blue eyes.

Bacon, who could apparently turn his hand to most things and was now serving at table, refilled the wine glasses. The sweet was served, a brandy-soused pudding with a tart orange sauce, followed by excellent coffee. Edward was glad to hear the admiral say they would not send Miss Heywood into exile in the drawing room, provided she did not mind if they hauled out the port. He was enjoying how well she looked in her low-cut gown. Her hair was bound up in a broad ribbon with soft curls framing her face. When she was engaged in conversation, her gold ear-bobs glinted in the candlelight. He found it difficult to shift his gaze elsewhere. Good Lord, Ned. You really have been at sea too long.

* * *

“Dinner went well then, Miss Caro?” Hannah asked when she came to help her mistress undress for bed.

“I believe so,” said Caroline with some satisfaction.

Captain Trewin had praised the food by eating well. More importantly, his presence seemed like a tonic for her father. It was a pleasure to listen to the two of them talking together in the most natural manner. Her heart lifted to see her father so animated. They had both been a little low once Sylvia, Henry, and their boys had departed after the holidays.

“What do you think of him?” she inquired of Hannah, who was wise about all manner of folk. Caroline’s mother had been gone nearly nine years and Caroline missed her still, but she had never lacked for kindness, comfort, or advice because she had Hannah, who had been her mother’s maid since before Caroline was born.

“I’ve only seen him at a distance,” Hannah replied. “Mr. Bacon says he is a proper officer, whatever that means.”

“He is famous, you know.”

“A hero for the nation, I have heard.” Hannah motioned for Caroline to sit down at her dressing table and reached for the hairbrush. “A fine-looking man, too, if you ask me.” She unwound Caroline’s hair ribbon and began pulling pins out of her coiffure, but she stopped when Caroline gave her a look of mock admonishment. Caroline reached for a small silver box and brushed her fingers over it before she spoke.

“I cannot disagree,” she said, her thoughts sliding to a gentleman who had recently shown interest in her. “Perhaps not so polished as Mr. Winslow, but there is something in his manner that one finds appealing.”

The older woman’s lips twitched. Caroline knew Hannah did not care much for George Winslow, though she was at a loss to understand why. He was invariably polite and attentive, if rather dry in conversation.

“Mr. Winslow is well-mannered, I suppose,” said Hannah carefully. She gathered up a length of Caroline’s hair in her left hand. “But a man like Captain Trewin,” she said after a few strokes of the brush, “is something else entirely.”

“You said you had barely seen him!”

“Aye, miss. But I saw enough. He’s a coil of energy that one, worn out as he is. The sort that turns ladies’ heads without knowing he’s doing it. Magnetism, that’s what your mother called it.”

“Mmm,” murmured Caroline. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. The image of her face wavered in the candlelight, but she had no trouble making out the tinge of color on her cheeks.

© 2024 Suzanne Shaw