Friday, 22 May 2009

• Pleasant Days

   

  Wentworth woke to the sound of persistent scratching. Looking around, he remembered the hide, and how the carefully laid plans to recover the Baron's Bride had gone all arsy-versy when he discovered Anne Elliot—

  A soft moan met his ears and a slight weight shifted about his chest. "What is that noise?" Anne’s breath caressed his throat as she whispered.

  He liked the way she clutched his shirt, but endeavoured to give his answer the proper gravity to match her concern. "It is a fox, or a dog. They have caught the scent of—" He didn't think it wise to mention her wounds and the blood. "—us. They think we have food." He stroked her arm. "They can't get in, the door is far to heavy."

  She said nothing in reply, and soon her breathing was regular and shallow.

  The harsh wind still lashed at the entry, and he considered the time. His amazingly accurate inner clock assured him it was still nighttime. His elbow shrieked with pain. None of that mattered. Anne was in his arms and he was warm. He felt around to see that she was still covered. After she'd fallen to sleep, he'd pulled her onto his lap, like a child, and now he was sore and cramped because of it. He shifted her a little and straightened his arm. There was no choice but to let it rest across her waist. There was no choice but to enjoy the intimacy of their predicament.

  He woke again, not sure how much time had gone by and noticed the wind was easing. Thankfully, the pain in his elbow had ceased. He rested his head against the bale of wool. For a moment, he thought himself an idiot for not cutting the cords and opening it, giving them a more comfortable, and no doubt warmer place to sleep. As he thought of the more comfortable circumstances, his imagination soon wandered down dangerous roads. Along with comfort, there would still be their enforced closeness, and his enjoyment of it. He knew himself well enough that with no impediments of pain or discomfort, there would have been no barriers to his desire.

  Anne shifted. Her small, sharp elbow dug into his ribs. He gasped as quietly as possible and reconsidered the dangers of his previous thoughts.

  *

  Anne opened her eyes but immediately closed them against the harsh shaft of light that filled the hide. Her head ached along with all her joints, and she was still as cold as when they climbed into the miserable hole. She gradually opened her eyes, and saw that Frederick was looking outside. "Is the fox gone?"

  He looked at her, but was still deep in thought. "Yes, it is. They're only on the prowl at night." He lowered the hatch, but pulled close a stone to keep it from closing entirely. He had completely dressed; waistcoat, coat, neck cloth, and boots.  He held out her spencer to her. She took it, but the idea of putting on the garment was overwhelming.

  Frederick moved close. Thankfully, he blocked the sun from her eyes. He smiled, and to her annoyance, looked well rested. "The sun is well up and the dew long gone. For all the heaving and blowing, there was no rain last night.” He patted the coat vaguely. “I've no more linings with which to dress your feet, so I kept these for you." He held up his own stockings. "I thought we could put them over the dressings. They will help to keep your feet a bit warm."

  Anne took them and held them along with the jacket. "I don’t believe I have the strength to walk." Her feet ached more than her head or her joints. "I do not feel well at all."

  He scowled for an instant, and then leaning forward, pressed his lips to her forehead. His skin was cool, and his chin was coarse with his unshaved beard. She remained still, unsure what he was about, for unbidden affection was hardly to be expected under the circumstances.

  Frederick sat back, thinking. They stared at one another for a moment. "That is how my mother would check for fever."

  She was shocked at his casualness. Without warning, she burst out laughing.

  "What is so funny?"

  She could not stop laughing try as she might. Eventually she mastered herself. "Did you ever use that method to check for fever in your crewmen?" She put her hand over her mouth and laughed some more.

  For a mere instant, Frederick looked disgusted. Just as quickly the look changed to amusement. "Hardly. That was the province of the ship's surgeon. I cannot vouch for his methods." He was still amazingly close, and he stared with an intensity she had not known since his departure from Somerset.

  The moment was sweet and Anne was taken back to a summer garden in the year ’06. The damp, dank hide was gone and the smell of roses was everywhere. Frederick’s brother, the curate, had introduced them early in the summer season. Over the course of the next month, she had made a point of engaging in conversation with him whenever they met. Her limited knowledge of the wider world made her wonder at his stories of life at sea. They were just the perfect blend of explanations of life aboard ship, wry observations his fellow officers and the men who served under him, and the battles and engagements which had brought him the notice of his superiors. The stories allowed her to know him intimately. Even with other young ladies hanging on his every word, she fancied he told them with such energy and wit just for her.

  Summer was passing and with each social engagement that brought them together, it was more and more clear to the natives that the lieutenant had made his choice. Anne did not even recognise herself as the victor until one evening she noticed him entering the garden of Pooles. He was one of many guests invited to their weekly rout, and while young ladies unreservedly offered him their company as he crossed the lawn, he offered up just enough politeness to keep him in their good graces, but nothing more. When he spotted her, he came straight to her and began to tell her about his brother and a set-to he had with a neighbour. The story itself was mundane, but his telling of it was bewitching.

  As he continued, Anne knew herself to be in love with him.

  His intensity of spirit and enjoyment of the simplicities of life, were captivating. Everything he deigned to touch in her small, cloistered world, took on a brightness that was at once unfamiliar, enchanting, and a little bit frightening to her. And here they were again, in a tiny world that was only large enough for the two of them.

  Suddenly, Anne was again exhausted and nothing seemed funny or even pleasant.

  "You are not very feverish, but you are a bit warm."

  She pulled the coat close. "I am cold, and I am very thirsty."

  He nodded and reached into the coat, pulling a small bag from an interior pocket. "You likely swallowed a lot of water last night. All that salt is working on you." He handed her a round, flat, lightly browned bun. It was stiff, and very light. "It's a ship's biscuit."

  She handed it back immediately. "I remember you telling me about these. They are always infested with weevils, you said." Merely touching it made her queasy.

  Frederick laughed. "It was fresh Tuesday. It's had no chance to become infested, I assure you." She took it back and took a hesitant bite.

  She chewed and scowled. "It has absolutely no flavour." She examined it closely despite his assurances.

  "May I?" He broke off a small bite for himself. "It is astonishing that something made from good, wholesome, English corn, flavourful in practically any other application, can be stripped completely of any sort of character. It is quite a miracle, I think."

  His cheeriness and good humour would have won her over any other time. But, this morning, it was a little tiresome. She wished fervently she could feel differently. She offered him the last of the biscuit.

  He took it and ate it up. "As soon as I find some fresh water, it is yours."

  She began to put on the spencer, but his heavy coat got in the way. The cramped quarters worked against her, and her weak limbs made the chore nearly impossible. He drew nearer and guided her hands and arms in the proper places, and then pulled it closed and buttoned it for her. He then pushed up the hatch, stood, and offered her a hand.

  She held tightly as she willed herself to rise. "I still don't think I can walk." Her feet smarted when her full weight was on them, and her legs ached all the more.

  Without warning, he lifted her onto the ledge of the hide. "I never expected you to walk. I will carry you." He leaned on the ledge, his hands on either side of her. He did not move.

  The wind was light, the air smelled fresh and strongly of the nearby sea. The chill and scent were refreshing after their night in such close quarters. "You cannot do that." She looked about, and said, "I see nothing of civilisation, what if it is a great distance to help?"

  He scoffed. "You are light as a pin—I would be surprised if you are more than nine, nine-and-a-half stone." He handed her the coat and jumped out of the pit in one smooth motion.

  She took his hand and struggled to her feet. "How can you know such a thing?" He too was looking around, most likely calculating what direction they should walk.

  He was resolved and pointed towards the north. "You have been laying on me all night. I have had considerable time to make estimations."

  Initially, the idea that he'd given her much thought at all was pleasing, and annoying. However, before she could give her annoyance voice, while remaining silent on the pleasurable aspects of it, he offered up the coat. "On it goes."

  She began to comply, and then stopped herself. "You should wear the coat. It is after all yours."

  "Yes, but you are not up to a long walk," he said, as he took her hand and placed it in the sleeve. "I will be carrying you. And though you are very light, even a light load, after time, is an effort. I shall be warm enough thanks to you." He continued to put her in the garment.

  His point was very sensible and completely unassailable. To have her own sentiments handed back to her with such ease reminded her how capable he was in presenting the rightness of his thinking. She silently surrendered as he buttoned the coat. In a moment, he picked her up with such grace and ease that perhaps he was right about her weighing so little.

  *

  At first, she encircled his neck and endeavoured to take some of her weight off his arms, but she was too tired and soon had to allow him to be a hero. At present, she was asleep. The sleep was good for her, and put off the misery of thirst and hunger. Her dozy state was also to his liking as she did not gasp when his footing slipped on the stones that made up the shingle. While he missed her company, journeying by foot was simpler this way.

  He too was getting terribly thirsty and stopped to examine the countryside for any signs of fresh water, or habitation.

  Relief came when he noticed a curl of smoke against the dark backdrop of stunted trees and rocks.

  He could not see precisely from where the smoke rose, so estimation was tricky. His arms ached, but he dared not put her down lest she wake. He took a deep breath, concentrated on the roar of the sea, and headed to the smoke.

  As he approached a stand of trees—the smoke seemed to be coming right from the centre of them—Wentworth heard a low barking voice as he drew closer to the source. It gave him hope of a respite.

  In a few minutes, he heard some remarkably loud and abundant cursing from little distance ahead. There was no telling precisely what the sharp voices meant—considering the mission to find and apprehend smugglers on which he found himself—he considered avoiding the place all together. All the same, their need for water, and hope of a place to rest for a while was more important than perhaps offending her sensibilities with what would most likely turn out to be nothing more than crude society born of isolation.

  The trees thinned considerably and he could see the source of the noise. In front of badly neglected cottage, a bent, ancient man was directing a tall, powerfully built younger man in chopping wood. It seemed the younger man was not so talented in the chore. Wentworth watched for a few minutes to gain his bearings of the area and the men, It was almost comical the way each time the younger man tried to strike the upright stick of wood, it skittered away. Occasionally, it struck the old man in the shins. When that happened, he certainly didn’t thank the youth, but gave him a thoroughgoing tongue lashing in Gaelic.

  Wentworth recognised the language thanks to a dear Irish friend of many shared commissions. On their first voyage together, the friend showed his frustration with Wentworth’s ignorance of the life by cursing him out in a foreign tongue. It was soon learnt the tongue was Gaelic, and after winning a bet, Wentworth demanded to be taught enough of the language to hold his own. To his credit, while the captain would never be mistaken as a native, he could find food, drink, female company, and even respectably outfit a ship in spoken or written Gaelic. Again, taking into account the likelihood that these men were smugglers, or were connected to that crime in some way, it might serve him well if these fellows thought him to be a poor fellow Irishman forced to live in England, and sail her cruel waters in order to earn his daily bread.

  Bold as a tomcat, Wentworth entered the clearing around the house. He saw a rough bench near the door and made for it. As he settled Anne, he took stock of the yard and the cottage. The small house lived up to, and surpassed his first impression of gross neglect. There were numerous jumbled piles of split wood leaning against the walls of the cottage and about the yard. There was more than enough to keep the place like an oven for the entire winter, or, enough wood to fuel very bright signal fires whenever necessary. The man also had a penchant for buckets. Most were broken and rotting away into the sandy soil. Others were upright and perhaps still contained whatever they were meant to hold. None looked new, or cared for in any way. Wentworth could examine no more without raising suspicions, so he took a seat next to Anne. The bench screeched, waggling a bit. He prayed it would not toss them into a heap on the ground if it broke apart. 

  The woodcutters had stopped their enterprise and were watching the couple closely. They said nothing but stared intently. It was then the captain noticed the younger man had almost freakishly large hands. The handle of the axe looked like a spindly stick in his grasp. The old fellow was the most weathered man of any Wentworth had ever encountered. Both were deeply suspicious of their sudden company, and for a moment, he regretted bringing Anne into what could very well be a deeply dangerous circumstance. 

  Nevertheless, Anne was rousing a bit and it was too late to retreat. She pulled the coat closer and then nodded to the men. She did not notice their lack of manners, or was too exhausted to say so, sighed and leant against his shoulder.

  If he could beg some water, and perhaps a scrap of bread, they would be on their way. He now felt his decision was terribly wrong. If he played as innocent as a lamb, and presented themselves as poor travellers, perhaps he could get them out without a mishap. "Would you have some water? My friend is in great need." He salted his request with what he hoped would be enough of an accent to gain a little trust.

  The old man drew a dirty kerchief from his coat pocket and blew his nose, but made no move to answer the plea. The younger man shifted from one foot to the other, looking now and then to the older man. Neither did any more to assist them.

  Wentworth was about to ask again, when the old man called: "Aine." Wentworth had not noticed any noise inside the cottage, but now there was the sound of several pairs of feet. The door to the cottage creaked open, and a woman emerged from the shadows. He first noticed she was rather tall, and very large with child. The man pointed to the bench.

  She turned to them and smiled.
  

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