Even Dolley was worried. William had been gone for eight months. There had been no word in all that time, from him or from the Admiralty.
A month ago when she had first allowed herself to question, Dolley had convinced her that five months or eight was almost the same at sea. The water had its own way of counting the minutes and the ship was a slave to it and to the wind.
This morning she could stand it no longer and had called Dolley to the captain’s study and he had tried to distract her with stories of drawn out cruises. She hardly listened and finally stopped him by simply saying his name.
He remained standing when she took a seat in one of the chairs in front of William’s desk. The two contemplated the empty seat in silence.
“I ain’t never been left behind, not before this.” Dolley twitched his shoulder and empty sleeve. “It’s worse than scurvy.”
“Yes, and women do it all the time.”
“Aye, ma’am.”
“You do agree then that something is wrong?”
“Seem’s it,” he admitted grudgingly, “but we’ve had no word from London.”
“And I can wait no longer. We must find someone to contact at the Admiralty.”
“Did he leave you no letter? Nothing?”
She was about to deny it when she remembered. “He did, Dolley. He did!” She jumped up from the chair. “Almost two years ago when he went on that short trip. When Angus came to stay at Talford Vale for the first time. He left a note for Angus but there was also a message for me.”
“That’s good, ma’am.” He hurried to the door to hold it for her and then stopped. “Is it still at the Vale?”
“It must be. In my glove drawer.”
Dolley shook his head doubtfully.
“Yes, I’m sure that Malton left the gloves there when she went to pack up my clothes. They were worthless and worn.” Dolley’s eyes showed a little more hope.
“I am going over there immediately.”
“You need someone with you, ma’am, even with the house empty and closed up.”
“I will take Angus with me. The note is for him after all. And Dolley, I will be safe. The caretaker there is well known to me.”
Angus came promptly, nodding solemnly when she explained their mission and came with her to the front door in silence.
Lavinia grabbed a shawl from the back of a chair near the door and they hurried out, down the steps and across the grass.
The late May day was not particularly pretty. It had been a miserable winter—so cold and wet that even this imperfect spring was welcome. She had yet to go barefoot, but the sun was breaking through the clouds today and with it she could feel the air warm even as she walked.
She walked briskly when what she really wanted to do was run, but there was no need. The letter had been in her glove drawer for more than a year. It was not going to be any more or less legible with a few more minutes’ delay. She hurried nonetheless. Holding it, touching it, reading it would bring William closer than he had been for eight months.
Angus glanced at her three times but did not speak. He was growing and it took little effort for him to match her stride.
The caretaker welcomed them as though he longed for some company and she left Angus with him while she went upstairs to her old bedchamber.
The caretaker’s voice echoed up to her as she made her way through the nearly empty house.
“Any word from the captain?”
It was a constant question in the close-knit village. Lavinia longed to give him an answer different from their standard “not yet, but soon.”
Her room was exactly as she had last seen it the night William had come to rescue her. Of course, the personal items were gone, and with them any inclination to feel sentimental about this place that had been anything but a happy home.
She pulled open the drawer to her dressing table and lifted out the yellowing pair of gloves that were exactly where she thought they would be. The letter was beneath them. She picked it up and went to sit on the window seat, holding it close against her heart.
She remembered the moment he had given it to her. The first time she had been in his study. He had told her that opening it did not necessarily mean he was dead, only that there had been complications. He could be a prisoner, or sick, or injured, or simply delayed. Then, those options had seemed reasonable. Now they did not make her feel any better at all. She unfolded the paper and read.
It contained nothing that she did not already know: the name and direction of his prize agent and a written statement that she would be responsible for Angus until his grandparents were contacted and travel to Scotland was arranged. Businesslike and direct: a thousand heartbeats from what she wanted from him. It did give her an idea of how to proceed, though. His agent. If his prize agent was not the exact person to contact he could at least tell her who to speak with at the Admiralty.
She stood up and faced the window, holding the sealed smaller letter close to her, staring down to the boathouse, then up at the clouds and the almost blue sky.
“Aunt Lavinia?”
Angus stood at the door. He was all boy but she could begin to see the kind of man he would become. Tall—taller than Harry would be—rugged, and not always tidy. He would endear himself to anyone with the boyish smile she knew he would never lose. And drive the love of his life mad with his inclination to leave books open everywhere and speak Latin as often as he spoke English.
Not a month after the captain left she had suggested that he call her aunt. His pleased grin was all the agreement he gave her and she knew then that he would be as much a son to her as Harry was.
He came to her. She handed him the sealed note. He took it and like her, did no more than hold it.
“He is coming back,” he insisted with manly obstinacy, while the boy in him was miserable.
She pressed her lips together and gave a slight, unconvincing nod. He moved away from her and ripped the seal.
He turned back a moment later, dry-eyed with effort and handed the note to her.
She read it with infinite attention to every curve and swoop of William’s written words. Why had she never noticed that his sprawling lavish hand was as generous as his heart?
Tears filled her eyes and she did not look at Angus lest they spill down her cheeks.
She read the note again, this time translating William’s words into the feelings of the man she had come to know: the undying loyalty he felt for Carroll MacDonald, that loyalty now given to his son, the longing to be part of the boy’s life and watch him grow to manhood. She looked at the last line again and knew with certainty that Remember me with kindness was his guarded version of I love you. To her horror, tears splashed from her eyes and onto her hand.
“Don’t cry!” Angus shouted. “He is alive! I know it.”
Grabbing the note from her, he raced from the room.
She made to run after him, but the tears came too freely and they were the last thing he needed to see. More than he, she needed time to come to terms with her fear. She walked down the stairs and left the house, giving the caretaker the barest of thanks.
The sun had taken over the sky but it was not nearly warm enough for her Jamaica-raised soul. She walked to the boathouse and out onto the terrace where it would heat the stone and surely warm her. She stood, staring at the quiet water of the lake.
How many other wives waved goodbye? Put on a brave smile? The prospect of years of separation was not the worst of the farewell. No, the worst was accepting what she was facing now. That he might never come back. That one night together could well be the sum and total of her married life with William Chartwell.
It might as well be one as one hundred. For even one million days and nights would not be enough.
How could women do this? She closed her eyes and found the answer in her heart. She could not speak for every wife, but she knew that she could smile and wave goodbye because she loved him. And loving him meant accepting that his place in the royal navy was an essential part of who he was, as essential to him as the sun was to the earth.
She loved him.
She stood against the balustrade for a long time, staring at the water. Come home, please come home, she begged, even if you never learn to love me.
The sun glinted on the small waves and she wondered if she could ever swim again without thinking of him. She might not be a mermaid, but he held her as surely as any man ever held a charmed creature.
She took a long route to the house, stopping by the new greenhouse that had been built precisely to the captain’s specifications. The gardener showed her the progress of the newest of the plants and waxed enthusiastic over the specimens the captain was sure to be bringing back with him.
She stopped at the stables as well. Horses were of as little interest to her as they were to the captain. He had long ago explained that most seamen were indifferent horsemen at best and he was no exception. Despite that, he cared enough to have the best cattle and a groom who knew them. The groom told her that the captain would be delighted with the new foal that was the beginning of a fine stable.
Finally she made her way around the side of the house and through the new rose garden that represented her conviction that he would return. The bushes were beginning to bud, though they were weeks away from a full bloom.
By the time she reached the front of the house she was as sure as Angus, the gardener, and the groom that William would be home—that her tears were a foolish weakness grown from a newly realized love.
She heard a carriage on the drive and moved along quickly, patting her hair, which was, she could tell, less than perfect. It could be the vicar, but truly she could not think of anyone else who would come to call in more than a cart or astride a horse.
This was a grand conveyance and she realized with a great soaring joy that it must be William. She began to run, laughing and crying, neither adequate to her emotions.
The coachman jumped down and opened the door, lowering the steps. A man stepped out and looked about.
“William!” she called out, loud enough to be heard in London. “William! Welcome home!”