Fair Winds and Homeward Sail: Sophy Croft's Story, Page 4

  “I have arranged it all,” Frederick said grandly. “That is, I will pay down the first two years, out of my prize money. I saved these twenty pounds to bring to you, and the best of it is, there are two little rooms up under the attic, so that when I touch on shore, I could come to you, and of course Edward can stay whenever they let him out of that school.”

  Sophia drew in a slow breath of sheer joy, clasping her hands as she turned brimming eyes to Frederick. “Oh, Frederick—I know not what to say, beyond—thank you!” She cast a shy look at his friend, who smiled broadly, his eyes mere twinkling slits of good humor. “And I take leave to thank you, too, Mr. Croft, if I may!”

  Edward dropped his fork. “You’re a regular trump, Frederick!”

  The boys and the young man toasted the event with porter, and Sophia joined them with Mrs. Ingle’s best dandelion wine.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Before the month was out, Edward and Sophia readied themselves for the move to the Widow’s Cottage. Mrs. Gregory, appalled at the notion of losing someone who had cooked, cleaned, dusted, darned, and patiently dealt with the young gentlemen in the parlor during their dancing lessons bestirred herself to offer real wages and a promotion to the exalted title of housekeeper.

  But it was too little and too late. Sophia steadfastly stayed with Frederick’s plan; any temptation to remain for those wages was successfully done away with by the reflection that that Mrs. Gregory might have made those offers at any time previously.

  Sally was also made happy, as it seemed likely that Mrs. Gregory’s parsimony would mean a rise in her own standing—and she intended to see that her wages rose as well. Molly in her turn hoped to step into Sally’s place, and had a young cousin going into service eager to take her old place. If Mrs. Gregory did not try to cheat her, she promised direfully.

  Mrs. Gregory was so set back by this domestic revolt that she countered with an attack of at least three illnesses, and at the height of this nerve storm managed to be closed up in her sickroom with paregoric draughts (and a new French novel) when the cart came to take away the Wentworths’ few belongings. Sophia never looked back.

  When they arrived at Widow’s Cottage, Sophia and Edward walked between the two rooms, commenting and exclaiming, then climbed up the ladder to inspect the narrow rooms on either side under the roof. Edward threw his books into the southern one, then clambered back down to help fetch in their trunks.

  Once the carter had helped Edward carry in their few belongings and had been paid off, Sophia picked up her bonnet and basket and walked into the village to become acquainted with the shops as she bought some supplies, and to take a look at the church they would be attending. This latter was a cheerful building, if small, built during the Tudor times, boasting a single fine window dedicated to the wife of the Squire Forsham during Queen Anne’s day.

  When they returned, they found Frederick there, already banging together a cupboard in a way so deedy that Sophia began to understand how much he had learnt aboard his ship. Between the three of them, working hard, they had the cottage swept out and the few furnishings neatly stowed by the time the sun set. As their own parting gift, Molly and Sally had put up a basket of food which Mrs. Gregory would have bitterly complained about had she taken the time to come out of her room.

  They shared out the perishables, and Sophia, with a sense of satisfaction, put the preserves in the newly restored cupboard before taking her candle into the tiny room where she would sleep.

  Frederick departed the next day, and so began a new regime.

  While Edward diligently studied his Greek in his fear that in making the drastic change from pupil to scholar he might be derided as ignorant, she worked on furbishing up his wardrobe so that he would be able to hold up his head among the sons of wealthy gentry-folk and the occasional scions of baronets and knights.

  In due time Edward and his trunk were carried off to St. Winstan’s, leaving Sophia alone in Widow’s Cottage, the nights steadily closing in.

  Without her either of her brothers’ cheery presences, the cottage, which had seemed so snug, now felt large, empty, and cold. For the first time in her life, she felt the long evenings lying heavily on her. This had been the time when, early dinner having been eaten, Sophia had been required to serve as partner to Mr. Gregory’s stiff, awkward, clammy-handed pupils as Gregory wound up his music box again and again, pacing out the steps of minuets, round dances, and Sir Roger de Coverley.

  Sophia had found the duty tiresome more often than not, especially when the boys would tread on her toes, but now she discovered that even company under such constraints as Gregory’s harassed eye and tapping foot and carefully memorized polite exchanges was better than none at all.

  But it never occurred to her to complain. She wrote a long letter to Frederick, crossing and recrossing her paper as she described the countryside, the shops, and unknown carriages that rolled by, and when even her indomitable wit could not stretch to infinity such small matters as the kitchen garden and the oddities met with in her walks to town, she posted that and then set herself to read some of Edward’s books by tallow light until her eyes burned.

  She repapered the walls, weeded diligently in the small kitchen garden, worked new rugs, and hung new curtains.

  As autumn began to wane, she found herself growing morose. It did not help that her nearest neighbors were a pair of spinsters who brought her aunts very much to mind. Priding themselves upon their connection through a great-aunt with an earl, they held themselves even above the company of the local squire, who condescended to politeness after church, though his wife walked by with her nose in the air, her secret Sunday joy the depression of what she pleased herself to regard as encroachments.

  Occasionally Sophia looked out into the road when grand carriages rolled by on their way to the squire’s for the hunting season, and then back again when the party broke up, and she counted them up for description in her letters, though she suspected that such letters would be sadly boring to receive.

  November arrived, bleak and cold. In spite of having faithfully written every fortnight, Sophia had yet to receive anything in return. This was not unexpected. In fact, she did not count upon any word from Frederick until next spring at least, so she was astonished one day to hear a gig on the road.

  She went to the window, for any change was welcome, however brief—and instead of seeing the gig turn off toward the grand avenue leading to the squire’s seat, she was astonished to observe it coming toward the cottage.

  The horse pulled up, tossing its head. As Sophia opened her door, to her delight, none other than Frederick leaped down, holding the horse’s reins awkwardly in one hand. “Hey day, Sophia,” he called. “I will have to return this gig directly, but I wanted to drop my dunnage first, and make sure you was at home.”

  “Where did you hire it?”

  “In Taunton, but I arranged to leave it with the George. If I jump to it, I might even get back before this wind freshens.” He pointed northward.

  “Why, I shall walk with you, then,” Sophia said. “Bide a moment. I’ll fetch my bonnet and pelisse.”

  “It might turn ugly,” Frederick warned.

  “I would rather get a little wet than miss any of your visit,” she declared. “I did not think to see you for another several years—or even to get a letter! How does this come about?”

  “Croft is running one of the packets to Gib,” Frederick said. “He’s allowed two mids, and being a great gun, put in for O’Malley and me to serve. We sail the dispatches, with occasional passengers and whatever else Whitehall sees fit to send, and then, why, we come back.”

  Sophia clapped her hands. “Oh, that is capital! I hope and trust that you are able to remain with this duty until the war is safely over.”

  Frederick forbore telling her that they had all put in for ship duty, as there was no chance of prizes (and for the mids, gaining their step) unless they were to see action. But that was the sort of thing you did not tell your
sister, he thought with all the wisdom gained of his travels. “And so, how often does Edward come down to see you?”

  “He walked over of a Sunday at first, but now that the days have drawn in, he cannot. I do not look for him before Christmas. Tell me about your voyages, the beauties and curiosities you have seen!”

  Frederick was nothing loth. He whiled away the brief drive by descriptions of the Mediterranean, and as they tramped back together down the lane, it was Sophia’s turn to relate to him what little she had gleaned from Edward about his life at St. Winstan’s.

  She said nothing of her low spirits or boredom; she despised herself for such gooseish sensibilities, conscious of her gratitude for his generosity in arranging circumstances where she only had at most three people to look after. She did not at all miss the tyranny of her former mistress, nor the unending labors of washing and mending and scrubbing. All she missed was congenial company, but at least she had comfort.

  As soon as they reached the cottage, she bustled about preparing a meal, to which they soon sat down.

  After they had eaten, Frederick said, “And now for my surprises. First, Lt. Croft invited us as his guests to an assembly in Taunton, while everyone else is burning guys and dancing around the bonfires. He says it is good practice for me, as some captains will require their officers to act as escorts at diplomatic or admirals’ balls and routs.” His expression changed. “I never thought to ask until just now, but do you know how to dance?”

  Sophia laughed. “As it happens—yes. Mrs. Gregory found it inconvenient to tromp around the parlor floor with what she called spotty, smelly boys, but as they offered gentlemen’s deportment for tuition, the actual task fell to me, once the dancing master had taught them the steps. I know Sir Roger de Coverley, and any number of country dances, and round dances, and the gavotte as well as the minuet, though I have never actually attended even a vestige of a rout.” She shook her head. “And I have nothing to wear to one.”

  “There, you are wrong,” he said, laughing with anticipatory delight. “And now to my second surprise. I bought it at Gib.” He reached for his canvas bag. “This is why I did not want to risk the rain. Captain Graves’ wife told me when I was looking at a fine length of scarlet silk that unmarried girls cannot wear such, and directed me to this white muslin with these flowers printed on it. I thought it sad stuff compared to the silk, but I hope you will like it.” He held out the folded fabric with its tiny clusters of pale rose berries and spiky leaves and stems.

  “Oh, it is lovely,” she exclaimed. “But . . . November 5th is tomorrow. I cannot possibly get up a gown in a day!”

  “You can if I help you,” he said. “Who do you think mends my shirts and stockings? I have become mighty deedy with needle and thread. You have only to cut it out, and show me what you want sewn, and together we ought to get along, and I’ll tell you all about O’Malley’s monkey, and the hurricane off Jamaica . . .”

  The next evening, Sophia clutched her best gloves tightly as she tripped in her new gown up the stairs to the ballroom. Over it she wore mother’s old redingote. The sash tied round her waist had been a ribbon on Mama’s wedding gown—well soaked in milk, carefully washed and aired all night and day—and under her mother’s old calash her headdress was formed simply of the last bits of Mama’s old-fashioned lace, but she felt new and fresh and light as thistledown.

  She had never had so much as a look into a ballroom, but her expectations were exceedingly modest: perhaps a dance with her brother and his friend. Otherwise she had every expectation of sitting aside to watch and thus be highly entertained.

  She and Frederick, whose uniform was neatly brushed, eased past the crush in the outer room once they had shed outer wear and she had exchanged her walking shoes for the plain dancing slippers she had worn for all those lessons in Mr. Gregory’s best parlor.

  They entered the long room, which smelled of beeswax candles, pomade, and perfume. Sophia looked about her in wonder at the many candles so brilliant that they dimmed almost to invisibility the dark marks on the high walls above the candle sconces, the old-fashioned rococo plaster festoons under the ceiling, and the many little gilt chairs, rather scuffed. To Sophia it was all new and wondrous.

  Lt. Croft had been waiting for them, tall and broad through the chest in his best lieutenant’s coat and hat, for though he had a good suit of evening dress, he forbore wearing it because his young friend Frederick Wentworth had none, and as yet was too inexperienced to feel the lack. Frederick’s interest in the assembly was entirely bound up in his sister’s pleasure—as was Lieutenant Croft’s, though he kept that to himself.

  But he arrived early, and was on the watch for the arrival of the Wentworths. And he was thereby gratified to be presented with twin smiles of pleasure when they entered the room.

  As for Sophia, the moment their eyes met, there was Lt. Croft’s welcoming smile again, so very fine a smile in his broad, sunburnt face. At the sight of him a warmth that glowed inside her every bit as bright as the beeswax candles lighting the room.

  He advanced to greet them—and from the other end of the room there came a glad shout.

  “Miss Wentworth!”

  From the milling crowd in their fine clothes emerged a pair of young gentlemen. Sophia recognized in them two of the older pupils from the Gregorys, both of whom had left her second year in order to begin their lives. “Bartholomew—that is, I beg pardon, Mr. Bartholomew, and Mr. Herrick!” Sophia cried with pleasure.

  Edward Bartholomew, a short, stocky young man who had recently attained his nineteenth year, flushed with gratification, and knocked his oldest friend in the arm before saying, “Hey day, it sounds dashed odd, hearing you say ‘Mr. Bartholomew’ like that—brings me right back to that ugly rug in Gregory’s parlor, don’t it, Harry?”

  “Barney’s right. I never thought the Old Ghost would let you free for an evening! Or are you sprung from her clutches?”

  “Old Ghost?” Frederick asked as Lt. Croft looked on, delighting in Miss Wentworth’s unshadowed countenance. It was just as he’d remembered it from their dinner at the inn, only somehow brighter. She was so confounded pretty, with that lace crowning her hair that waved so entrancingly, and quite the handsomest gown in the room.

  He had proposed the party thinking that all girls loved a ball, but when Frederick had earlier in the day mentioned that this would be her first, he’d puzzled himself how to rescue a situation that he himself was not all that accustomed to if she did not know how to dance, or was reluctant. He did know it would be wrong to dance every dance with her, though that was exactly what he desired most.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon,” Sophia said, pleasantly conscious of him standing nearby, and performed introductions in the manner they had all practiced at Gregory’s.

  The young gentlemen bowed in form, and then Herrick lowered his voice as he said, “Old Ghost was what we called the missus. Always moaning and wailing—all she wanted was a set of chains to clank.”

  Frederick gave a crack of laughter, clearly delighted with these new acquaintances a little older than he, and listened with pleasure as Sophia asked how they had been since leaving Mr. Gregory’s establishment.

  Mr. Bartholomew, it turned out, was now a rising clerk under a prominent solicitor, and Mr. Herrick having failed in two endeavors, was waiting for his orders, his father, a knight living in a fine house north of Taunton, having decided to buy him a cornetcy in the army.

  “And the thing is, when it comes to land, all the sines and co-sines suddenly make sense,” Mr. Herrick said. “I can see myself heading a party of redcoats as we dash about the countryside scouting out likely battlefields. Only it’s unlikely we’ll be seeing any action, this fellow Bunniport, or Bonnypear, you know, the Corsican they say the French Directors have made such a favorite—”

  “Buonaparte,” Lt. Croft offered, the name having of late been talked of around the Admiralty. “Though he calls himself Bonaparte, after the French manner, it seems.” />
  To which Mr. Bartholomew, who was rather inclined toward pedantry, could not help adding, “The family is Italian in origin, but fled to Corsica on account of the Ghibelline troubles.”

  “Yes, that,” Mr. Herrick said with a trace of impatience, and seeing little interest from his auditors, Mr. Bartholomew gave up the Guelphs and the Ghibellines with a faint sigh.

  Mr. Herrick went on, “This fellow, whatever he calls himself, has been rampaging all over Italy and parts south. We’ll never get a sniff of battle, lest we’re sent to the islands to die of the Yellow Jack, my brother says, for the French are making all manner of trouble there. But I’m off as soon as the pater stumps up.”

  He became aware that he had seized hold of the conversation to talk about himself, and so he took Sophia’s hand with all the old familiarity of those hours in Mrs. Gregory’s stuffy parlor, and said, “Look there, the band is striking up at last. Heigh ho, let’s cut a caper here, where we’re not knocking elbows into the green walls at Gregory’s!”

  Sophia, remembering that she and Frederick were strictly speaking Lt. Croft’s guests, turned doubtfully toward this gentleman, to see him smiling with encouragement, like a good host.

  She held out her hand with every expectation of enjoyment. And so, though she had come with the modest expectation of sitting in her new gown and gaining pleasure from watching the company dance, she found herself in demand for the entire evening.

  Both Bartholomew and Herrick were known in Taunton society, their fathers well respected; they, in turn, introduced Sophia to their especial cronies, and thence to acquaintances who turned up curious about the brown-haired girl in the old-fashioned gown whom no one seemed to know, but everyone wanted to dance with.

  Perforce this included Squire Forsham’s heir, a shy and somewhat morose young gentleman, the squire feeling that duty required the august presence of the Forsham family at this assembly—against the wishes of his wife and daughter, who lamented that they were forced into proximity with every vulgar person whom they least wished to see.