Authors: Jane Prescott
“Simmons!” The older man stood rigidly upright and at attention when the officers arrived on the scene. The man who’d led the pair to the tavern continued. “Report, please.”
“McCracken and Wolff, sir. They accosted this innocent woman in the street. I informed miss that they shall be flogged.”
“I see.” The stern officer turned to face her directly. “This is a satisfactory resolution, I trust?”
“It is not at all satisfactory,” she objected. “As I explained to Mr. Simmons, I would not wish any harm to come to them. Proper punishment, it seems to me, need not be meted out with simple brute force. I would rather they be spoken to about the proper manner of treating a woman. This should be sufficient.”
“An interesting theory,” the officer mumbled in response.
“I was explaining the nature of discipline aboard ship, Captain Hargrove, when you should-“
“Thank you Simmons. That will be all. Good show, intervening in this matter. Report back to the boat.”
“Sir.” The older man sharply saluted him and rolled down towards the docks.
The officers looked at one another and, remembering their manners, swept off their hats. “We’ve not been formally introduced. I am Commander Harrison William Hargrove of
The Duke of Norcastle
. This is Lieutenant Montgomery Woods. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
“I am Sarah Whitcastle of Waverly Manor. My father is Sir Charles Whitcastle, a farmer and gentleman of this county.” She curtsied as courtesy demanded and fixed her gaze on him. “Though they were beastly, I must beg of you not to do physical harm to those two men. I ask you upon your honor not to whip them.”
He nodded gravely. “As you will. In this matter, I have little recourse but to see to a fit punishment. I am not convinced that a simple lesson in etiquette shall suffice for men of his majesty’s navy. But I assure you I will restrain my bosun from use of the whip, if it pleases you.”
The silent officer cleared his throat and spoke up. “Commander Hargrove,” he said, in a melodic, Irish tenor. “I have a rather unorthodox suggestion, if I may put it to you both.”
“I’m all ears, Woods. What is it?”
“If she would be so kind as to grace us with her presence, would Miss Whitcastle consider being present for a discussion on courtesy with McCracken and Wolff? It occurs to me that a public demonstration on etiquette- as much for the men’s shame and for their education- might be a breath of fresh air with the assistance of a refined person such as Miss Whitcastle on hand. You would do very little, Miss Whitcastle, a trifle of an effort. You might merely be there as we demonstrate how to address a lady, how to behave in her company, that sort of thing. It could be done tomorrow, at the lady’s convenience, of course.”
Hargrove gave a wry smile. “Ever the keen wit, Woods. It would serve to discomfort the men, no doubt. But I also fear it would put Miss Whitcastle in an uncomfortable position to be on display in such a manner.”
Sarah shook her head. “Thank you for the notion. I would not be as embarrassed as you suggest. However, I am only in Wyecombe for the day.”
The men looked towards the sky and Hargrove shook his head to the negative. “Unless I am in the wrong, as is always possible, I fear you’ll be in need of shelter today. Please, forget this mad suggestion and once more, I am at your service.” He and Woods bowed to say goodbye and Sarah curtsied.
As she walked back to her Aunt’s, she found herself gazing up at the sky. She hoped the men were wrong about the weather. If not, she’d be stuck for an entire evening with Aunt Mary’s cool judgements weighing her down on top of Beth’s incessant private whining. She longed to be at home, curled up in a rocking chair beside the fireplace, with a book in one hand and warm milk within easy reach.
The swirling snow formed new drifts along the road when she reached Summerly Court let her know this was merely a pipedream.
Chapter 2: The Honourable Edgar Jackson
Summerly Court, Suffolk
August 21, 1816
“It is clearly providence that you should be here on today of all days, sir!” Aunt Mary purred from her commanding view of the sitting room. Beth and Sarah were seated on the couch both doing their best to appear comfortable and at ease, while the curly-haired gentleman caller occupied a chair opposite of them. Sarah noticed that the chair had been slightly repositioned from the day before to afford the man a better view of, specifically, her.
“It is certainly my good fortune to meet your lovely nieces and to share this day in such lovely company. I had quite resigned myself to another dull day spent in the counting house with no good thing to look forward to in the evening hours. My brother Robert is, I fear, in London with his new bride and this leaves me rather on my own with the exception of the company of Beowulf.”
“Beowulf, sir?” Aunt Mary asked.
“My hunting dog, madame.”
“My,” she replied, slightly gritting her teeth. “I do wish people would say what they mean in relation to dogs. But I quite take your point, of course. More cakes?”
He’d come to call during tea, just as the sun had come up and the bracing snows of the previous night were melting away. “I couldn’t possibly, thank you. Forgive my not being entirely clear…”
“It is nothing,” Aunt insisted.
“But I will confess I have named this new beast after a rather exhilarating Latin translation of the old English saga. Have you heard of it, Miss Whitcastle?”
Sarah set her tea aside and studied him. Despite a small, roundish bulge at the belly, he appeared to be in robust health and, if a touch short in stature, he had a barrel-chest and broad shoulders that indicated he wasn’t a stranger to hard labor. It seemed that the Honorable Edgar Jackson, youngest son of a northern baron, had spent some time in the service of his country fighting Napoleon prior to a Frenchman’s rifle rendering his left arm useless. Edgar had returned to partner with another lesser brother in founding a mill on the outskirts of Wyecombe.
Edgar was a little older than she was, possibly in his mid-twenties, and had an eager, boyish attitude as one who was all nerves and divided attentions. His manner was as polite as one would expect in a formal social visit such as this, but he seemed throughout the conversation to have his thoughts on any number of topics at any given time.
That hadn’t stopped him from stealing glances in her direction. She was still making up her mind about how she felt about those glances.
“I have indeed heard of this translation. I fear my Latin is not advanced enough to enjoy the translation you mention.”
He nodded with satisfaction. “I’m pleased you’re familiar with it. On the occasions I’ve done business with your late uncle, God rest his soul, he mentioned to me you were a prolific reader.”
Sarah considered how to respond. “I suppose I do enjoy a well-woven tale. It is a pleasing way to pass the hours.”
“For my part, I have found it trying to exchange letters or share one’s company with an unlettered companion, male or female for that matter, Miss Whitcastle. Beth,” he said, suddenly switching gears. “Have you had occasion to learn to spell your name, or are we still working on mastering the alphabet?”
The girl squirmed and Sarah could see she was straining at the bit to stay polite. “I have long been able to read, Mr. Jackson,” she hissed, speaking each word with a degree of annoyance that was easily conveyed regardless of her efforts.
“She was ever a precocious child,” Sarah quickly explained. “As the youngest of four, she has benefited from we three elder sisters, and mother and father have insisted upon a fine education for us all. Though I could read at five, I believe Beth was reading at an even younger age.”
“Four, in fact,” Beth sullenly announced, holding up four fingers to make her point.
“Four! My word, I do most sincerely apologize,” Edgar exclaimed with wide eyes. “At four years of age, I dare say I couldn’t pronounce let alone spell my last name. The Whitcastles are clearly as gifted in intellect as they are in beauty.”
Sarah shrugged this compliment off with a nervous laugh. “It’s nothing really. Mother and father deserve all credit. But I would ask you if you are familiar with Byron, Mr. Jackson?”
“I’m certain Mr. Jackson doesn’t wish to be bored with poetry, Sarah, particularly with the work of such a scandalous and low character. Good riddance to the cad!” Aunt Mary interrupted, but Jackson held up a hand to stay her.
“Actually, I’m quite enamored with his work. You will pardon me, Madame Barbour,” he said, using Aunt Mary’s married name. “If I say that I am quite willing to separate the, shall we say, devious nature of the poet from the quality of his work. I am of a mind to say that the most creative creatures tend to be those most besieged by troubled minds. A simple merchant such as myself is left to wonder at their output and, praise be to God, give thanks for a more temperate life.”
A temperate life was the furthest thing from interest to Sarah. Her mind wandered back to the dock. She’d rarely, if ever, gone so far as to step onto the wooden planks of the docks itself, preferring to admire the ships from a safe and reputable distance. Yet today she had an invitation awaiting her to offer correction to two young sailors who, she hoped, might be reformed by instruction rather than pain. Though she knew it would be scandalous if she were caught in the company of sailors, there was a strong temptation to break free from her anticipated routine and seek out a new kind of an adventure.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Aunt Mary announced, though she favored Mr. Jackson with a smile. Usually that combination of words would result in a scowl; but she was on her best behavior. “Still, that is a matter best left to young people I suppose. I have a thought! I spy from my window here that the world has a splendid coat of white, which, though unseasonable, might make for an attractive opportunity for a stroll. My niece is uncommonly interested in seaside walks. Perhaps you’d care to accompany her, Mr. Jackson?”
“I’d be delighted,” he told them, standing up quickly to take her up on the offer. “If Miss Whitcastle should ascent to your good suggestion, of course.”
She liked the look of him and he seemed nice enough, but Sarah had hoped to go by herself to the docks. Still, an opportunity to see the ocean was not to be missed. “Certainly.”
Beth didn’t hide a sigh. She was clearly bored and dreaded being left alone with Aunt Mary. “Beth, would you like to join us?”
She saw her Aunt frown in disapproval, but Beth was up from her chair in a shot. “Let me put my shoes on and I’ll be ready at once!”
With that decided, the trio stepped out of the warmth and back onto the sloping street of Wyecombe. They each struggled with their footing on more than one occasion, but Mr. Jackson was for the most part a steady escort, lending an arm to each of the girls as needed.
“You are a miller, Mr. Jackson?” Beth asked. “What do you mill?”
He chuckled at the suggestion. “It is a slightly different mill than you are thinking of, young Beth. I own a mill with my brother. In truth, I am a junior partner at that. My brother sees to the production of cloth while my primary responsibilities are fiduciary in nature.”
“Fiduciary?”
“I balance the books. That is, I make sure that all of the money is accounted for.”
“Oh.” This sounded to Beth a very uninspiring line of work and she immediately appeared bored with this line of questioning. For his part, Edgar Jackson seemed to brush off the subtle slight very naturally.
“It is, as I was saying earlier, not the most exciting of trades. However, it does carry with it certain benefits.” He paused at a store. “Would anyone care for a sweet?”
This caught Beth’s attention and she hurried before her elders into the store. Sarah smiled at him. “That was well done. I think you’ve regained her affections.”
“I wasn’t simply offering for Beth, you know. I confess to a sweet tooth myself. Do you?”