The Elusive Miss Wakefield

By John K. Sutherland

Charlotte Morton was presented with a tragic and difficult dilemma when her twin brother, Oliver, died after an unfortunate accident. Before he died, he made her promise that she would present herself into the family of the young lady Georgiana Stavely, whom he had met only two months earlier. They had fallen in love even upon first meeting and had made their ambitious plans for the future, all of which now lay in ruins. To provide Georgiana with the protection of his name, they had secretly married. He made his sister promise that Georgiana, and the child she would eventually bearhis childwould be protected and looked after. She had never met the young lady but had learned a little of the family from her brother. Some of the stories she heard did not paint an encouraging picture. The opportunity to become a close companion and friend to the young lady, without revealing her own identity or interest, was unexpectedly presented to her. However, she had to take on the identity of another in order not to be recognized as Olivers sister, with all of the difficulties that that would introduce. When Georgianas own brother, Henry, appeared on the scene late one night, the initial gentle deception soon grew into much more than she could easily handle. The circumstance rapidly went beyond her control when Georgiana died giving birth, leaving her to look after the baby, and to deal with Henry. With all that was happening, she knew that she had to take the baby with her and escape the suddenly impossible situation she was caught up in before her deception and other elements of her past caught up with her. She hoped Henry might forgive her for what she had to do and for other deceptions she now must hide from him. She knew that he would never give up on finding her, though it was to be six years coming to that pointand not a moment too soon, with so much hanging in the balance concerning all of their futures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483640358

Book preview

1800: London,

A Clandestine Meeting

Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,

Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.

—William Congreve (The Mourning Bride, 3.8)

She had waited for him to appear for some time. Those who had first seen her enter the breakfast room had noted that she was most well dressed against the unseasonably cold weather, and in a way that put most of the other women there into an envious state of mind. She was not a very young lady, probably about thirty, but had not yet lost her good looks.

Her slight impatience as she had looked about the room, had been obvious to those who delighted in the rewarding pastime of watching how people carried themselves as they scurried about or waited—patiently or impatiently. There was a story to be read in everything that happened, and few such stories were ever as innocent as they might at first seem, and possibly not in this case. She knew she was the focus of general attention, but there was nothing she could do about it, so she accepted it and ignored it as a person of breeding must.

When she did deign to return a curious glance, she met that glance directed at her with unwavering eyes in a barely smiling face, seeing the observer quickly look elsewhere. She was difficult to read. They would wait, observe, and speculate. She had not stayed overnight in this establishment—unless she had gone for a late morning walk in the park opposite—but had arrived for a meeting with someone. Why else would she be here? She almost certainly was married. A single woman would not choose to be here without escort or a companion, nor would be as assured as this one was. She was waiting for a man—that much was obvious. He must perhaps be a resident of the hotel, and she had arranged to meet him in that coffee room. He would be neither brother nor husband, or she would have gone straight up to his room. She had dressed for a man—carefully choosing her clothing to emphasize her not-insubstantial attributes, knowing that her appearance could not be faulted by any man who still had an ounce of life left in him, while causing any respectable woman to wonder what game she might be playing.

Those who observed her saw the possibility of intrigue in every nuance of what happened or did not happen—a deeper breath, almost a sigh, an impatient gesture as though sweeping a fly away from her, a fleeting glance as someone entered the room but not the one whom she expected—or a start, as some piece of cutlery was dropped. The lady’s growing anxiety and impatience (though quite well hidden) had become a little more evident for some minutes as she glanced often at the large clock that sat like a sentinel over by the entryway. He was late! She tried to ignore those who were clearly curious about her. Her obvious stiffness had been soon enough hidden and replaced by a look of silent triumph when she had seen him walk into the dining room at last.

He was dressed as a gentleman—well enough not to attract attention and with no vain ostentation. He had a sharp penetrating eye from which others glanced away when it fell upon them. He seemed nervous as well as cautious. Reassured that he knew no one, he approached the table but did not immediately sit down. The observers waited in anticipation for some sign of affection between them, but they were both too careful to betray themselves that way. Rather than being a meeting between two lovers away from the prying eyes of those who might know them or their spouses, it seemed to be an uncomfortable meeting—at least for him.

She had a smile of welcome on her face that would have softened any heart, but he remained standing and quite tense. Had they been found out, and this meeting was the last they dared have with each other? No one was looking directly at them, and yet they were the focus of attention for many of those in that room who wished that they might overhear them.

After you had not responded to any of my letters, I was not sure you would come. Her smile was not returned. He did not incline his head or bow even a little to acknowledge her. It was not a meeting he was comfortable with. He stood there with a look on his face that was devoid of any obvious feeling, either of joy, happiness, or annoyance—to those who could see his face—as he seemed to debate whether or not to sit down. He seemed ill at ease and gave the appearance that he would rather have been somewhere else. They were not to know that he felt a nagging premonition concerning why she had suggested they meet surreptitiously, as they were doing. As the moments dragged out, it became clear that he was there against his better judgment. They must have been found out.

I was not sure that I would come either. He sat down, loath to attract even more attention to himself and to appear out of place to those who were still curious about him. He kept his concerns about meeting with her to himself. He was aware of the difficulties she might cause him, just as she had for her husband, a year and more earlier, when he had gone against her. She had endeavored to ruin his reputation at a distance after that, until her efforts had suddenly faced the sobering reality of seeing her situation become much less comfortable and secure if she did not desist.

She skated beyond the brief interruption. "I would have preferred Lyons, but I believe you decided that it would be too public, and that you might be recognized. I am at a loss as to why you might not wish to be seen in my company." He had no such lack of understanding.

"We encountered each other once, madam, and that was once too often for me, as your subsequent attempts to contact me each week showed. I returned your letters, unopened. I should have declined to meet you here even. You are dangerous, ma’am."

She laughed gently at the truth of that, but the observers noted that her initially excited look had been replaced by one a little less relaxed. It might not be going as she had intended. "Only in a most playful way where you are concerned. I am not so much dangerous, as attentive to what is important to me."

They amount to the same thing in a woman’s mind when things do not go her way. He was wary.

She could see the look on his face. He was not comfortable recalling their only meeting. "Oh dear. Not a good start. No pleasant smile. No kind inquiry after my health, which, you will be pleased to hear, is good. Madam, and not my name—Serena. You cannot have forgotten it so soon, you said it in my ear often enough once we had moved past the initial introductions so rapidly and decisively. Oh, Reginald, Mr. Morton, how ungallant of you, sir!" She seemed to be the one in control of the way things might go.

He was not comfortable with her using his name so easily in this place. Others might make note of it. She nodded to the waiter who had placed a coffee in front of each of them, disappointed that they had then fallen silent as they had studied each other, and he was not about to overhear even a little of their conversation, and left the silver carafe at one side of the table.

"I remember once that my name flowed so easily, even tenderly from your lips not so very long after we first encountered each other. What we did together happens quite often, you know, between like-minded adults, even in polite society, though always in private. It is never openly spoken of, except as we seem to be doing, though is often the subject of speculation and idle gossip." She looked at him suggestively from under her long eyelashes, almost blushing at the pleasure that she remembered they had shared that afternoon, but he remained silent. He did not share her memory of that moment in the same way.

She sighed. He was going to be difficult, and it was not going to be the meeting she had hoped that it might be. Is that why you did not open or answer my letters, or write more than the very formal one of your own, agreeing to our first meeting? He had been justifiably alarmed by her intent after that first meeting, with her striving to draw him into providing a trail of correspondence that he would be unable to deny. "I still treasure that first one in response to my own, though it was far too formal and precise, and lacked the promise of our subsequent meeting. ‘Dear Madam, my steward and I will meet with your manager’ . . . etcetera. She waved her hand, dismissing the rest of it. Still, we had not then met, had we? And you were not to know what awaited you once you had sent your own man off for the doctor. He would never find him, however—I had seen to that, and even if he had, he would not have known where to find us, or where we might have gone. You were not to know what awaited you after that, though the fact that I had left my own man behind and met with you alone should have alerted you to my possible intent." She seemed to be enjoying his discomfort.

After the waiter was well out of range, the gentleman spoke gently. He laid his hat and cane on the chair beside him. He would be careful not to provoke a scene from which it would be difficult to extricate himself. "Yes, I should have taken warning from that. It may have seemed innocent at first, but there was nothing innocent about what happened after that between us. I rapidly became aware that you knew exactly what you were doing, however, though I was a little too slow to wake up to that. You had carefully planned the entire thing to go as it did, to ensnare and trap me in a difficult situation. I regret that I did not have more restraint and more backbone myself. More character." She laughed at his charming naiveté and simplicity.

"Oh, dear Reginald. Are you really so innocent? Yes, you are. You could no more resist what happened between us than a hungry dog might refuse a marrow bone. However, it did go forward as I intended that it would. By the time you woke up to what I had planned, it was too late for you. She smiled, almost sympathetically. But you should not agonize over that as you seem to do, nor feel any twinge of conscience about what happened. Do not blame yourself." She reached across and patted his hand before he might remove it. A clever and patient woman who knows what she wants, and who intends to have it, can overcome the reservations of any man, if she but thinks about how best to do it and lays the scene. My mother always told me that in matters of the heart, one must play the man, and the emotional advantage she always enjoys with her alluring female advantages—if she knows how to use them—and must never reveal her hand until after the game is played. It is just a pity that I chose the wrong man for my first adventure—she hurried to correct what he might think—not you—my husband.

"It is so easy, really. You are all like little boys in front of a plate of sweets, and so predictable when presented with the right stimulating temptation—helpless to refuse a woman’s gentle entreaties as the clothes inevitably come off, with the correct sounds of ladylike resistance and expected protest—albeit to be sure that I was not injured, as my cries persuaded you that I had been. At least that is how I intended I should appear. Despite my tears, and my resistance and reservations, you managed to overrule my weakening protestations and shyness most firmly, eventually, as I knew you would. I thought I gave a most credible performance of being shy and protective of my virtue, despite my injuries…"

"Feigned injuries!" he corrected her. She had been neither shy nor modest once she had seen how easily he had been aroused.

". . . Fleeting injuries, as I tried to keep you from discovering too much of me too quickly, though I did not try so very hard—she blushed at the memory—relenting only when I could resist your necessary, persistent efforts, borne of a most disarming concern for me, no longer. I was truly touched. I kept myself covered quite well, most of the time, though I failed at the last, once my gentle resistance crumbled and left me exposed, vulnerable, and breathlessly and eagerly welcoming of your attentions, but you were not to know that. I tried to make it seem difficult for you, so that you would have to overrule me and then let eager nature take its course. I almost could not contain my excitement or my laughter at how easy it was, with you suffering, as you so obviously were, with that horn colic condition that told me all about you. You were the one who was entirely helpless about then, and I was not about to object to learning more about that—and you." She smiled most understandingly at him as she picked up her cup and sipped at the coffee.

"That was how I also trapped my husband into marrying me, though he needed much more encouragement. I should have taken warning from that. She frowned at that thought, momentarily marring her otherwise perfect countenance. I needed what he had—a fine house, a title, position, money. But then I did not realize how well he might deny me them too, after I saw him leave me, trapping me in exile miles from London—penniless, in the bleak and inhospitable countryside. A fine house then becomes little more than a prison. What use is wealth if one does not control it or use it? What value is a title if one cannot flaunt it in broader society? He denied me both. He made sure that I could not pester him in London, for fear of me seeing my limited allowance cut off totally or that I might be exiled even further out. This is my first visit in a year."

He corrected her, "He did not leave you, as you say. You deliberately made his life with you unbearable. You saw that he would have no choice in going, but without you having thought about the consequences. Surely you did not think he would feel kind enough to you after that obvious betrayal of his affection, to take you with him, or to empower you in any way in society. You tormented and hounded the poor man until he realized that he could no longer live under the same roof with you. You should have known that he would starve you of funds after that when he saw your intent in trying to ruin him, although he does give you a generous allowance—conditional upon you staying away from London, of course, and not stirring up trouble for him." Her eyes flashed to his face. How did he know all that?

She sought to correct him—a little rattled to realize that he seemed to know more than he should. "A pitiful allowance that only a church mouse might live on, and provided I remain in exile as I am, with but one or two visits to my sister a year, and no visits to me by anyone. At least, not worth speaking of. I have no say in taking on or getting rid of difficult or disobliging servants, who all spy upon me for him. Their allegiance is not to me. I was trapped! I felt I would go mad until I realized the possibilities. I was only a prisoner in my own mind. I found the countryside to be not so very bleak once I woke up. I have ambition. I still have my looks for a few more years. I have horses and can ride. I have a carriage. I have freedom—of a kind. You were one such distraction, though what happened between us did not continue as I had hoped it might. A woman must protect and provide for herself as she can, and that is what I set out to do, as I spread my net out to see what I might catch. I wish I had woken up earlier to the possibilities. She carelessly rattled her spoon in the saucer before she caught herself. I do not regret what happened between us. I hope you don’t. You shouldn’t. If it is any consolation to you, you could not avoid doing what we did. I had also hoped that that would be the first of many such encounters between us. She looked at him and spoke gently as she looked pointedly at him and even blushed quite charmingly. I would still like it to be." He did not respond and avoided meeting her eyes.

She sighed. Ah well! Then perhaps not. I wonder how it was that I scared you off. She toyed with the spoon again. "If you fear that you might have been deficient in your performance in that office of lover in some way that is causing you some anxiety, you should relieve yourself of that concern. I found it a most promising start, and entirely satisfying. It was much better than I had expected for our first meeting, and without the usual shyness or clumsy overtures. I like decisiveness in a man, and you were so decisive! We could have continued for years. You would have been a most suitable alternative to the London scene, even though you were already married. I would have been most discreet, as I am sure you would have been too."

He did not join in the conversation, which he found to be discomforting.

"I analyzed the circumstance after that, to decide what I might have done to have put you off me so well when you did not respond to any of my letters, nor would meet with me again. He had been most careful that way, after what had already happened between them. He did not trust her. There were always women who sought to turn a simple situation into something not at all simple. You caused me to engage in a good deal of soul-searching. What might I have done wrong? Was I not loving enough or eager enough for your attention? I thought I was. I deliberately cast all reservations about what I must do to one side and left you in no doubt as to what I intended for you. I started with a gentle touch at your shoulder, a warm sigh and my breath upon your face as you examined my neck and shoulders for injury. After that, as you progressed further with your more daring discoveries, my resistance slowly crumbled. I do not know how I could have been more appealingly attentive or passionate after that. She looked for some sign or remembrance in his expression, but saw nothing. I cannot imagine that your wife still appeals to you in that way, having borne you four—or is it five—children? I imagine she might be almost as loose and as unexciting as a horse’s collar upon you, whereas I . . ." She left the rest unsaid. It was obvious that he vividly remembered that moment from his heightening color. Or was it what she had said and the way she had said it?

He did not answer that pointless question or disparagingly vulgar observation, which reflected her lowly origins, but once more entered the mostly one-sided conversation. He tried to smile for the benefit of those curious few, still observing them from afar, but it was a wooden smile. "What we did, madam"—she did not like his constantly calling her madam; it was far too formal considering what they had shared just a short time before—"was more than enough. It was also wrong. You drew me into that meeting with you, on a pretext—nothing more—concerning a piece of land between our two estates that you suggested was in need of clarification as to where the boundaries might lie. You said something in your letter, madam, of disputed ownership."

"Serena, please. My name is Serena. It once sounded so gentle and so pleasant on your lips. What gentleman could refuse a lady who appealed to him as I did to you after I had fallen when my horse was startled by a rabbit? I was in pain and the very breath knocked from me. Did my cries and prostration not convince you that I was hurt? I feared I had broken some bones."

"You were much more than convincing, else I would not have sent Chollacomb off after the doctor. I did not realize until afterward that you had not fallen by accident, as you said, but had done so deliberately. You were also not in pain, or what followed between us would most certainly not have happened as easily as it did. I should have realized earlier what you were up to. You missed your calling!"

She smiled, though she did not feel like it. It had not been a compliment. How she could find humor in any of it escaped him. "I do hope you mean that in terms of performing on the stage, as I once aspired to, rather than of performing in that other, much older profession, in the Academy of despoiled virgins, the Pushing School, though both are most challenging roles and provide their own rich rewards to a clever woman, wise to the ways and needs of men—the right class of men. Similar rewards too, in the end, if one is careful in one’s choice of men. She was enjoying his discomfort. Or is it that you are moralizing? It is a little too late for that on both of our parts. I was sure that I convinced you that I was at least severely bruised (I was), if not worse, with broken bones, and I needed your help and close attention. We were far away from any doctor. We were also very close to a cottage on my own estate that I knew would be empty that afternoon, as well as being out of the way and not likely to be easily found by your man. I had planned it all so well. You carried me there after I had swooned from the pain. You were most gentle with me as you loosened my clothing and bathed me to revive me. I could see that I excited you, even then. When you dared go no further, I miraculously recovered my senses and clutched my clothing to me, upsetting that bowl of water onto us both so that my remaining clothing had to come off me as I lay shivering under that thin sheet. Almost under that sheet! Some of the time!" She recalled it all too well for his comfort. He looked around nervously, hoping that no one else might overhear her shocking recollections or see the look on her flushed face as she recalled that time.

He tried to redirect her thoughts. "So why this meeting, this time? What is the grave urgency you refer to that you insisted I meet with you here? I thought I had discouraged any further ambitions you might have in that other direction."

"You did! You also ignored me for too long. I had to do something to get your attention. If you do but think about it, you will know why we are here."

"I don’t know." She smiled at him patiently, as though she knew a secret that he didn’t.

"Of course you do, Reginald. I made no pretext of my ambition with you after I had first bowled you over, and after your oh-so-excited visit to Eve’s custom house. My Eve’s custom house—and so eagerly too. It did not take long for us to become riveted together that first time, with you plowing a notable furrow in my delicate and tender little garden and then fertilizing it most excitedly too—several times." She could see that he had closed his eyes, possibly reliving that moment, or shocked that she dared to describe it in those graphic terms. "Then, once I seemed to have most tearfully forgiven you for your moments of weakness as you held me close to comfort me, what we then proceeded to do most passionately yet again, and in a much more protracted and satisfying fashion, but with the same wondrous outcome together. I had not known you might recover so well or so quickly. Perhaps your wife is not attentive to you in that way as she should be—as I would be. She still held hope of a continuation of what they had started. I was in a most forgivingly guilty mood, if you recall, needing so much more consolation, and reluctant to see you leave me in any way until I had recovered my disordered feelings. You seemed concerned that hysteria might take over, as it threatened to do if you left me too soon after what you had done to me. She fluttered her eyelashes at him as she dealt with such a delicate subject. Tears, uncertainty, guilt—such useful little props. So ever the gentleman, you didn’t leave me. You were completely helpless. He remembered. Your efforts to help me dress failed several times after that. I broke down in tears once more and needed comforting and support, as I was in danger of falling again. I could see that you were not sure how you might get me safely home without it all being discovered about us. Me, in my tearful and mostly disrobed state, having difficulty getting dressed by my own efforts or even with your help—you, constantly being faced with maddening temptation. I needed your close and attentive presence, reassurance, and support for quite some time, as well as your tender, calming ministrations to help me regain my previous composure and to settle my disordered spirits."

He decided that he should bring this discomforting interview to an end. So there must be a point to all of this. Why are we here? She looked at him for some moments before she spoke.

Her voice had become more hard and calculating. There are often repercussions from… what we did! She watched his face, waiting for understanding to dawn, then saw a sudden awakening to what she meant, cross his face. "There, I knew you would be able to recall that, and to understand. Yes… there will be fruit from our passionate labors. I am with child, Reginald. Yours! Once is all it can take, you know, though in your eagerness we were not so restrained that afternoon before you were able to see me calmed, and then at least partially dressed once more. I know I presented a most well-used and disheveled appearance for the servants to see when I arrived home, but that was my intention. I am sure that they dutifully reported it to my husband. You were not sure you could safely leave me before your own man might return to discover he had been sent off on a snipe hunt, and what we had undoubtedly done in his absence. We could have continued after that for several months as we grew even closer before I broke the joyous (or not so joyous) news to you. I wanted to—I had hoped that we would. She paused for some moments as she watched various emotions cross his face. It is yours." She bit daintily into a biscuit.

"I don’t know that."

"I do. She sipped at her coffee as she smiled at him over it, but then frowned a little. That is the second or third ungallant thing you have said to me. She smiled in her self-assurance at the power of her situation. You have barely touched the coffee. It is really quite good, and so are the biscuits. Though the company is a little too attentive." He made no move to do so, as she looked about the room.

What of your husband? He dragged her thoughts back, though they had not gone very far.

What of him? He was easily dismissed. "You were right. I sent him off two years ago. I was already carrying his child by then, though it took us almost a year to manage what you and I did in one afternoon. Men are such predictable beasts! And such fools! It took so long to become impregnated that I almost gave up on him. I was truthful with him then too, just as I am with you about this pregnancy. I doubt that he could so easily impregnate me with this one at that distance and after such a long time apart, considering the difficulty he had the first time."

She looked at the disbelieving expression on his face. "It is yours, as I am sure will be evident when it is born and is revealed with those unmistakable features that all of the Morton children show—the hair, the eyes, the general features, and all of you, most handsome. I envy you that." She had him at a disadvantage. He had not liked her using his name again.

Why did you ask me to meet you here? It cannot have been just to tell me that.

"Of course not. I wanted us to meet so that we might reach an understanding with each other, as a continuation of that closer relationship seems to be beyond us, though I would not object if you would now wish to pick up where we left off. She would still have welcomed that, but the signs from his expression were not promising. Ah well, it does not matter. I find that with having no husband close by me, and being held a prisoner where I am with nowhere else to go, that I am lonely (and destined to stay that way, it seems) and I never have enough money to bring up even one child, but then I may send him off to my sister in London. Every time I look at him, he reminds me too much of his father. He will probably turn out to be the same too—weak, unfeeling, and spiteful." She uttered that last word with distaste at the memories that evoked. "It will be even more difficult for me with a second underfoot, and I seem to have developed a desire to experience some rather expensive tastes and other pastimes, as I sense a denial of any closer relationship between us."

"You will need to change those desires. You have approached the wrong man. You cannot blackmail me, and I have no intention of encouraging any relationship between us other than a very remote one."

"Blackmail? She looked shocked and looked about herself to be sure that no one had overheard that word, though not really caring if they had or not. What a dreadful word to bring into this gentle conversation! I merely seek to ensure that my child, our child, will not come into the world without some basic advantages, as you seem ready to deny him a father that he can openly acknowledge, or that will acknowledge him—she looked at him—unless… No, I expect not. I believe that he should be hosed and shod, do not you, even if he will not know his heartless father?" There were others gaining a sense that there was something exceptionally personal being discussed for the gentleman to be so flushed and possibly angry.

You approached the wrong man, as I told you. Blackmail is what it is, and blackmail—and those who conduct it—blackmailers, are never satisfied but tend to become more and more greedy. He recognized that others were taking an interest in their conversation. Do your damnedest, madam. But be careful how you think to move this forward.

She smiled in turn, but her eyes did not match that smile. She felt she had a strong hand, despite his response, and had come to realize as their conversation had progressed that he would resist. "I probably will. I am sure your wife, with three young daughters between two and four, and twins, a son and another daughter, Oliver and Charlotte, at breast, would not wish to hear of this. She seemed to know too much about his family. I should write to her. She would understand the pleadings of a wronged—a much-wronged—woman at your brutal hands when you had come upon me unexpectedly. But then all men are brutal that way. That is what makes them so appealing and exciting as they overpower us at the last with their violence and passion as they lose themselves upon us! You took me quite by surprise with your ruthless and passionate attack, or so I shall tell her, with details of your subsequent efforts to encounter me on my own estate as you laid in wait for me, to brutalize me further, which I shall assure her that you did. Then once you had damaged me beyond recovery and ruined me, my approaching her to lay all before her as I tearfully beg her forgiveness for having aroused the beast… she might feel betrayed that she could no longer trust you after such a history of…" She left the rest unsaid.

"And would you do that? Would you risk that, with so many lies?"

Not lies, Reginald. Convenient and constructive deceptions! What risk is there to me? You have convinced me that I have no other recourse, as you seem to intend to abandon me. I have nothing to lose, therefore I risk nothing. Why not?

"Because I would deny it. There are no letters between us that might compromise me. I was most careful over that when I suspected what your intent might be. No one knows that I met with you then, or what happened between us, but they do know of other of your recent and not-so-recent liaisons. The whole of Brokeston is aware of them by now, and that you appear to have the moral restraint of an alley cat. If only I had known that before I met with you then. No one knows that I am meeting with you now in this out-of-the-way place. His eyes flickered about the room again to be sure that he knew no one. I believe my wife will believe me, rather than you. She is aware that I love her, even after so many children. The least damaging course of action is for me to report this conversation to her when I return home, and even to confess what happened between us two months ago, and in a way, that will undoubtedly conflict with your own telling of it. She and her friends have long suspected your ambitions in our society. She also knows me. It may be difficult for a while, but we will survive it. I have always believed that honesty is the best medicine for such trouble. It is only a pity I did not tell her of this two months ago, as I should have done, but I had hoped that it would fade from mind and that I would not hear any more of it."

"It did not fade from my mind. Not now. Not with this growing in me! You put it there. Her hand rested briefly upon her abdomen. That gesture was noted by others. The nature of their meeting now began to make sense. The lady’s expression had gradually frozen at his intransigence to her threats. Be careful… Have you never heard the expression that ‘hell hath no fury, like a woman scorned’? He said nothing but stood up from the table.

She could not let him leave without a warning. "If not now, then sometime in the future, you shall be made to recall this conversation—it will be too late to regret walking away then." She was angry, but it was under control.

"I already regret it in every way, but not the walking away." He picked up his hat and cane and nodded his head to her with a fixed smile on his face as he bade her goodbye. He turned his back and walked off, settling her bill before he left in order not to invite more awkwardness.

Those who had observed them were aware that the issue that they had met to discuss, whatever it was, was most personal—possibly a lovers’ quarrel, but it had not been resolved to the satisfaction of either party.

She swore in a most unladylike way under her breath as she smiled calmly. She drank more of her coffee and nibbled at a biscuit, all for the benefit of those who had seen him leave, apparently in anger if his fixed expression were any indication, and watched for her response. She seemed most cool, confident, and composed. They were not to know that she was seething within. She had miscalculated, and had lost, for the moment. He would pay, one way or another. Even in blood, if need be. She would be patient. She would visit Mrs. Morton in a month or so and inform her of her husband’s infidelity, and of his violent ways, along with other choice, discomforting comments about what he had done to her.

Once he had escaped from that difficult meeting, Reginald Morton resolved to close off two obvious avenues of difficulty as soon as he might. He would disclose the entire matter to his wife as soon as he arrived home, with all of the problems that would then ensue for him. Better she heard it from him rather than her. It would be a difficult year, but he would survive it. He would also acquaint his friend of his wife’s devious nature and let him know of her threats. He would tell him everything that had happened that fateful first day, and in their following meeting in that breakfast room. Their friendship might not survive that disclosure, but it should be done. He would try to minimize the damage that she might do and let her husband know that he would be likely to hear from her about it, and in exaggerated detail. It had not been an easy letter to write, but at least he would try to minimize the damage that she intended. He was not to know that the fate of his entire family, and of two other families, had been put onto a different and more cruel track by his meeting that morning, but that was the fickle nature of fate.

1813: A Fateful Meeting

"Only girls draw, Henrietta." The demeaning comment was accompanied by the youth gripping the younger boy by the back of the neck, hoping to elicit a shout of pain after he had crept up behind him on the deck of the Bellerophon to see what he was doing. You’re not supposed to be on board any of these ships.

Henry quickly closed his book on the drawing he was working on and dropped it at his feet. He had been drawing the sailing ship lying to starboard of them in the harbor and capturing it in every detail. He escaped the pressure by first throwing his head back into his cousin’s face and then bending forward quickly to grab his cousin’s ankles, while, at the same time, pushing back with his own lower body to drive his cousin off balance, forcing him to let go as he staggered back. The older boy, William—more a man now in terms of age, if not intellectual maturity with three years between them—still had a grip on his cousin’s arm, until the youth, just turned fifteen and almost as big as his older cousin, struck his arm away. He turned quickly, almost throwing the older boy off his feet as his elbow purposefully caught him hard in the midriff, eliciting a gasp of pain.

There had been frequent rough altercations in the past between them, which the older youth recognized would soon go against him as his cousin grew, but perhaps not just yet. Nonetheless, he was cautious—especially of his opponent’s feet and elbows. Henry had learned something new and had caught him off guard by his response. His cousin’s head, thrown back against his own in that exchange, had left a tingling feeling in his cheek where it had grazed.

Does my father know you’re here, Henrietta? You could get injured, fall overboard and drown, or get hit on the head if a load were to let go, and no one would be the wiser. There was no risk of that now, as the ship had been moved away from dockside after being provisioned, while still being supervised by attentive seagulls waiting for scraps of food to be thrown overboard from the galley. The youth’s words sounded more like a threat than a kindly caution. "He doesn’t like boys underfoot, especially not you poking around. Neither do I."

William had seen him with his book open on the deck of the ship and had approached as noiselessly as he could to see what his cousin was doing. He had no use for the finer things in life, neither artistic nor musical, unlike his more accomplished and versatile cousin. He was jealous of him and was proud of being able to admit that he had never read a book and intended never to change that fact. His younger cousin, Henry, annoyed him for many reasons. Henry could not easily be provoked into irrational violence, as others could, and always spoke carefully and politely as though nothing might arouse his temper—not even being called Henrietta. When he responded, however, it had been with surprising agility and strength. William found it irksome to the highest degree that his younger cousin could so easily ignore his goading and had managed to smile at him to annoy him even more. There was no love lost between the two. The older boy had bullied Henry, ever since Henry could remember, until he and his parents had moved out of the family home and relocated to London with his ailing grandparents. Henry’s father had rescued them as well as his own family from what had become an intolerable situation, living with his elder brother and heir to all of the Stavely property.

A much older man climbed up to the deck from the aft cabin and took in the two of them there, with a fast glance. William’s father, Matthew, had heard the exchange between the two cousins. He was clearly angry to see his nephew there for some reason. "How’d you get over here? What are you doing? Why are you poking around here? I told you to stay off my ships. He was angry, as well as concerned. His eyes moved around the deck to make sure that no one else might have accompanied the lad and to see that certain things on deck had not been disturbed. He didn’t approve of the lad being where he was at this particular time, nor of drawing his ships either, which he had probably been doing. Satisfied with what he saw, he moderated his tone, aware that they could be overheard from the nearby dock. What are you doing here, nevvy? Does your father know you’re here? He clipped him about the side of the head as he scowled at him, waiting for an answer. Well?"

The boy looked at him, almost defiantly. "I am drawing, Uncle. My father knows I am here and gave me his permission." His uncle pinched his ear, as he wondered if the lad was telling the truth and as he entertained various other thoughts about why his nephew might be here.

"But you do not have mine, and these are my ships, not your father’s. He did not like his nephew or even his own younger brother taking an interest in what he did. I told you not to come aboard any of the ships without my permission. It’s too dangerous for the likes of you. You could fall down a hatch, get injured if a sling let go, or drown in the harbor, and then what would your father say? So how’d you get over here?"

Henry pointed wordlessly to the small rowboat, tied off to the railing and out of sight of anyone on the dock. Well then, you’d better get back in it and get yourself ashore, else you’ll find yourself heading out to sea with us. That was only one of the possibilities he had entertained, except Henry had said that his father had known where he was. "See him off the ship, William, and make sure he doesn’t come back aboard. I still have some things to do on the Perry—he referred to a ship further out in the river channel—before the tide changes, and we don’t need any more distractions. We are cutting it close as it is." Henry did not miss the telling look they exchanged, nor the movement of the older man’s head to the side, and recognized that he would not get ashore without incident, but then father and son were alike in that way. They were both bullies, and they were both nervous about something.

Henry felt his arm grasped with some pressure, and he was forced to the railing with his arm twisted up behind him, though offering as much resistance as he could. He was obliged to leave his book where he had dropped it and was given no choice in the matter. The intention was clearly that he was not to go ashore in the boat at all, but in a more ignominious fashion, but he was not making it easy as he trampled and kicked behind at his aggressor, as his cousin maneuvered to throw him overboard. If he resisted too hard, his uncle would no doubt help. His book would probably follow him shortly after.

Henry was pushed over the rail and dropped into the water as his cousin laughed at him and at his struggling. It had all been overseen by his approving and smiling father as he climbed down into another small boat and rowed steadily across to the farther ship, the Perry, to give final orders to her captain. As William watched Henry struggling in the cold water, he noticed what Henry had done to his clothing and his shoes. He cursed Henry for messing up his stockings and shoes as they had struggled and for disordering his coat and neck cloth. His attention was distracted as he took out his handkerchief and began to polish off his silver buckles in the shape of an S, the first letter of their family name—Stavely. He was proud of his shoes. His father had a matching pair with similar buckles.

While William was distracted, polishing the scuff marks off his shoes and expecting his cousin to wisely strike out around the ship to dockside, he did not notice that Henry had climbed back aboard the ship rather than take himself off, as a wise lad would have done. Within a few seconds of Henry reaching the deck, unobserved, William was unexpectedly sent overboard in a similar ignominious fashion with a hard push, amid a good deal of surprise and spluttering, but all unseen by his father who was climbing aboard the distant ship and would have heard nothing over the constant cry of seagulls. They knew that the tide was about to turn and would stir up interesting tidbits for them once the flow increased. After that, various sluices that were bursting with other morsels from slaughterhouses and the usual refuse from humanity would soon release their contents onto the falling tide to join the other various bits of flotsam and jetsam to be swept off downriver—out of sight, out of mind, until the returning tide brought some of it back in again.

Henry, smiling to himself at what he had done, had thought to escape after turning the tables like that by climbing down into the rowboat and making for dockside while his cousin was getting himself aboard, but discovered that William had climbed first into the small boat—blocking his intention—and was even then climbing aboard the larger ship with murder in his eyes. He watched Henry, as he slowly peeled off his sodden coat and laid it on a hatch cover as he began to retrieve a pistol from a satchel lying in the same place and began to level it at his younger cousin, obviously intending to shoot him in his anger. The animosity between them, more hatred now, had never been so obvious before, as it was on William’s face.

Where’d you learn to swim? Henry made no answer. "I never did like you or your father, with your niffy naffy ways and behaving as though you were better than us. You’ll not be