The Deception at Lyme Page 21

  Twenty-six

  He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for him, by calling him “poor Richard,” been nothing better than a thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done any thing to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead.

  —Persuasion

  True to his word, Captain Wentworth performed discreet enquiries into the naval careers of Lieutenant St. Clair, Captain Tourner, and Mr. Musgrove.

  The last was simplest. Dick Musgrove was a younger brother of Charles Musgrove, husband of Anne’s sister Mary. Captain Wentworth was on genial terms with the entire Musgrove family, including Charles and Dick’s parents, and already knew part of Dick’s history.

  A troublesome youth, Dick Musgrove had been sent off to sea in hopes that naval discipline would make a better man of him. It had not. By the time Captain Wentworth had the misfortune to inherit him, he was as lazy, brutish, and self-serving a midshipman as Wentworth had ever dealt with, and the captain’s efforts to instill sense and better self-regulation in the recalcitrant young man had proved as futile as raising sail in a dead calm. Wentworth had literally breathed a sigh of relief when, in consequence of another ship’s heavy casualties, Musgrove had transferred to another frigate in desperate need of midshipmen. Any pangs of conscience Wentworth might have felt at passing off a problem officer to Dick’s new captain were alleviated by that captain’s having passed off a different problem midshipman to Wentworth the year before. It was simply the way of things.

  But death and time have a softening effect on memory, resulting in Dick’s mother recalling him more fondly in death than he had ever deserved in life. Whenever the senior Mrs. Musgrove indulged in sighing over her “poor Richard,” she fancied Wentworth a sympathetic listener. No other captain, she said, had taken such good care of her son during his years in service. (That much was probably true.) And so, when Wentworth wrote to Mrs. Musgrove seeking names of the ships on which Dick had served after leaving the Laconia, she had been happy to review her son’s old letters (most of them requests for money) and send him by return post a chronological list.

  Dick had indeed served under Captain Tourner aboard the Magna Carta. It had been the last ship on the list.

  Wentworth anticipated similar ease of obtaining intelligence regarding Lieutenant St. Clair. A letter to one of his own former instructors at the Naval College in Portsmouth had yielded a comprehensive summary of St. Clair’s history, and he now looked forward to obtaining a more personal account from Admiral Croft. Wentworth’s sister and her husband were come for a brief visit to satisfy Mrs. Croft’s desire to meet Alfred, and the admiral’s desire to tease Wentworth about his sudden and unexpected new commission as a foster father.

  “Well, well, Frederick!” The admiral issued a hearty laugh. “Master and commander of the Elliot heir! This was a sea change you did not see coming, I warrant. How are you liking your new course?”

  “I find it quite satisfactory,” Wentworth replied.

  “I suppose a young fellow like you needs something to do now that the peace has set us all ashore, but I expected your new wife to have provided sufficient occupation. Women are quite good at finding little tasks and errands for their husbands to attend to, are you not, Sophy?”

  Mrs. Croft cast the admiral a look of affectionate exasperation. “Pay him no mind,” she said to Wentworth and Anne. “He has been as eager as I to meet your new charge.”

  “Charge, ha! I wager the little commodore is already the one issuing orders. Deny it if you can, Frederick. There! I see in your face I have got the truth of it. Well, where is he? Let us determine whether he passes muster.”

  Alfred indeed passed inspection. When the proper number of compliments had been paid and signs of promise observed, they all gathered in the sitting room, where they were joined by Mrs. Smith. Later, Wentworth and the admiral retreated to the study.

  Though he had seen the room before, Croft looked round and nodded appreciatively. “I have been thinking of making over the study at Kellynch Hall in this manner. Do you think Sir Walter would approve?”

  Wentworth thought Sir Walter would die of an apoplectic seizure at the very suggestion, and told the admiral so.

  Croft laughed. “He probably would. Though I suppose the question would then fall to his heir, and you could persuade Alfred to decide in my favor.”

  “No persuasion will be required. Alfred will grow up adoring his aunt and uncle Croft.”

  “Well, even if he does not, I have no doubt he will turn out a fine young man. You always did well by your boys and midshipmen.”

  “Those among them who were disposed to take direction,” Wentworth replied, thinking of Dick Musgrove.

  “As I told you when you received your first command, there are always a few maggots in the flour. You just do your best to keep them from contaminating the remainder.”

  Wentworth recalled the conversation. Admiral Croft, for all his present status and power, was a salty old sailor at heart. In a profession where promotion was often driven by influential connexions, he had advanced largely by his own merit, and for this Croft won Frederick Wentworth’s respect even before he won the affections of Frederick’s sister, Sophia. He was a forthright, sensible man of sound judgment, and when he gave advice, Wentworth listened.

  “One of your own former midshipmen is presently in Lyme,” Wentworth said. “Andrew St. Clair.”

  “Is he? I shall have to look him up. Do you know where he is lodging?”

  “At the George, I believe. He lent assistance the day of Mrs. Clay’s accident. Alfred is fortunate that he happened along.”

  “I am not surprised. I remember him as a quick-witted fellow.”

  “Might I enquire what else you recall about him?”

  The admiral shrugged. “I took him on straight out of the Naval College. There are some captains, you know, who do not want College Volunteers—they think the young men are too bookish, and prefer their officers-in-training to have acquired all of their knowledge aboard ship, as they did. But I believe a mixture is good, and St. Clair was the most promising of his class. He quickly moved up the ranks to midshipman and master’s mate before being made lieutenant. When he received his commission with the Temper, I was sorry to lose him.”

  “Have you followed his career since?”

  “Our paths crossed occasionally while I was in the West Indies, but after the Admiralty sent me to the East—well, it is difficult enough to keep abreast of people and developments in your own fleet and at home, let alone a single officer on the other side of the world. Why do you ask?”

  “I have heard his name mentioned in connexion with some incidents aboard the Magna Carta during his period as first lieutenant.”

  “What sort of incidents?” Croft’s earlier jocularity had faded; he was now more the flag officer preparing to hear an unwelcome report.

  “The discovery of some unusual cargo. And the action with the Dangereuse.”

  “Where did you hear of this?”

  “A friend whose cousin served with him.”

  The admiral was quiet for a moment. Standing beside a shelf upon which rested several nautical instruments, he picked up Wentworth’s sextant. “Assure your friend that if there was anything amiss, the Admiralty would have addressed it.”

  “The Admiralty was busy fighting a war when these incidents occurred. The lords might not even be aware of them.”

  “Because they might not exist. Or they might not be what they appear.” He slid the sextant’s arm along its scale. “You are hearing of this thirdhand, years after the fact. Jettison it from your thoughts.”

  “That will not be easy.”

  “Frederick, if something inappropriate did happen aboard that ship, for the sake of your career, you do not want to be involved. Not every enemy should be engaged; sometimes it is best to let one pass.” He returned the sextant to the shelf. “I will pay a call to St. Clair if it will reliev
e your conscience, but I want you to drop the matter.”

  Wentworth knew not what to say. This was a side of Croft he had seldom seen. In all the years of their acquaintance, he had known Croft primarily as a brother and mentor, not as a commanding officer. They had spent most of the war on different seas. Wentworth had never been on the admiral’s flagship during action, had not seen him plot strategy, had not heard him issue orders.

  Had not felt the weight of words he left unsaid.

  Admiral Croft, sensing Wentworth’s discomfort, forced a laugh. “Come, Frederick, do not a new wife and son warrant more of your attention than some long-ago incidents on a ship you were not even responsible for? You are a husband and father—you have new orders now. Take care of your family. And of Mrs. Smith. That good lady was saying again today how your friendship has improved her condition tremendously. By the way, she mentioned something about your helping her reclaim her husband’s estate?”

  The admiral’s being more himself again, Wentworth shook off his own unease. “Yes. Mr. Smith’s West Indian property is enmeshed in a legal tangle.”

  “Then that is another matter you should drop. If there are solicitors involved, they are the only ones sure of seeing any money. Let the pirates sort it out.”

  * * *

  When Darcy next met with Wentworth, he sensed disquietude in the captain. They retired to Wentworth’s study, where his host poured wine as before and invited Darcy to take a seat. He chose the newly mended chair, commenting that it seemed the repair had proved successful.

  “I wish I could say the same for my enquiries,” Wentworth replied.

  Darcy wished so, too, and had come in expectation of hearing something useful to their investigation. He would not, however, allow disappointment to overtake him until he heard Wentworth out. “Were you able to learn anything?”

  “I was. To begin with, the Musgrove your cousin mentioned is in fact the Dick Musgrove I knew. He not only served aboard the Magna Carta at the same time as your cousin, he also died on it—though in a different action. I asked his mother to forward me a copy of the letter Captain Tourner sent at the time.”

  He handed Darcy the letter. It included few particulars, and was very similar to what the Fitzwilliams had received from Captain Tourner upon Gerard’s death: It is with deep regret that I must write to inform you … died in action against … fought bravely … take comfort in knowing … an honorable death in service to His Majesty.… So similar, in fact, that it was almost the same letter.

  Darcy returned the letter to Wentworth. “What about Lieutenant St. Clair?”

  “His history required more probing than I anticipated.” Wentworth folded the letter and set it on his otherwise clear desk. “Andrew St. Clair has had a curious career. He comes from a landed but not extraordinarily wealthy family, and entered the Royal Naval College at age thirteen. He completed his Plan of Learning in just two years’ time, earning the notice of the Lords of the Admiralty, and after a year at sea he was raised to the rate of midshipman. He distinguished himself both during and outside of battle; under Captain—now Admiral—Croft, he was on several occasions chosen to navigate captured prize ships into port, and eventually served as a master’s mate—sort of a senior midshipman, with more responsibility. He sat for the lieutenant’s examination as soon as he was eligible, passed on his first attempt, and was promoted at nineteen to second lieutenant of the war sloop Temper.

  “The Temper saw considerable action, and Lieutenant St. Clair performed well enough to earn appointment to a ship of the line, the Claudius. Since he moved to the Magna Carta, however, his career seems to have stalled. Though from there he went on to ships that have participated in significant battles and taken prizes, he has bounced from appointment to appointment in a series of essentially lateral positions, never receiving promotion above lieutenant.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Given the promise he demonstrated early in his career, I would expect him to have made post-captain by now, but he has not even risen to commander. It could simply be that other candidates with superior naval connexions have been given preference, but when I hear of a record such as this—frequent moves between ships, with no true advancement—it often signals a troublesome officer that every captain wishes to quietly pass off to someone else. We all suffer them. The fact that the beginnings of St. Clair’s professional stagnancy appear to coincide with his service aboard the Magna Carta—scene of the dubious behavior you reported to me—leads me to wonder if that is indeed the case here.”

  “Did Admiral Croft offer any insight?”

  Wentworth hesitated. “No. In fact, he discouraged me from pursuing this further. Most of what I did manage to learn, I obtained from other sources before I spoke with him.”

  “Were you able to discover anything about the Magna Carta’s action with the Dangereuse, beyond what St. Clair imparted to me?”

  “Very little. From what I did find out, it seems the engagement was a debacle. The Magna Carta was escorting two merchant vessels—the Montego and the Port Royal. They were approached by a French frigate and a war sloop. The Port Royal made off with haste—merchant ships often do in such situations, getting out of the way and letting their warship escort do its job—but the Montego remained. Tourner initially had the advantage of position; as the French ship advanced, he had an opportunity to wear round and rake her, but he would not engage. Instead, he tried to outrun the Dangereuse. The French closed in, started firing broadsides, and crippled the Magna Carta to the point where they grappled and boarded. Were it not for the Montego firing some lucky shots that dismasted the sloop, Tourner would surely have been boarded by the crews of both French vessels and lost his ship. As it was, the Magna Carta was fortunate enough to prevail in melee and force the French boarding party to retreat. Tourner was lucky to avoid a court-martial over the encounter.”

  “Why would he not engage?”

  “That, I could not determine. The only person who knows with certainty is Captain Tourner himself. And perhaps his second-in-command: Lieutenant St. Clair.”

  Twenty-seven

  “Nothing can exceed the accommodations of a man-of-war; I speak, you know, of the higher rates. When you come to a frigate, of course, you are more confined.”

  —Mrs. Croft, Persuasion

  The grandest vessel Lyme’s shipyards had ever produced, the Black Cormorant was a source of pride even to those who had not toiled at her creation. Built to cross oceans and return with exotic goods, she possessed the size and strength of a small warship. Her holds were spacious enough to carry the large cargos required to make transatlantic voyages worthwhile, and her deck would eventually bear cannons enough to protect them.

  It was a morning launch, the timing dictated not by any human creature’s convenience, but the tide. The ocean lapped onto the shore, as if reaching to draw in its newest pearl. When the water had come in as far as it could, the ship would be released to meet it.

  All Lyme, it seemed, had turned out for the event. Visitors and residents, mariners and merchants, gentlemen and ladies, young and old, all crowded the shore to witness her first entry into the sea that would carry her to lands most of those gathered would never look upon, save in their own imaginations. Even the excise men took a break from their work, leaving the Customs House to observe the proceedings—probably calculating in their minds how much revenue would be generated by the merchantman’s cargo holds when full.

  Elizabeth, Darcy, and Georgiana recognized numerous people; Lily-Anne had come, too, but had a far more restricted circle of acquaintance. Thankfully, while the adults scanned the crowd for individuals they knew, the toddler was content to quietly observe the busy scene from her father’s arms. The Harvilles and their sons were some distance away, separated from the Darcys by too many people to allow for any greeting more personal than a wave. Sir Walter and Miss Elliot, their black mourning clothes a somber—though, of course, elegant—contrast to the more festive attire of those around
them, surveyed the scene with an air of royalty looking down upon the masses. Elizabeth also spotted Mr. Sawyer, the surgeon who had attended Mrs. Clay. She had yet to sight the Wentworths.

  “I do not see Miss Ashford,” Georgiana said. “She told me that she planned to come.”

  “Perhaps she is watching from the other side of the ship,” Elizabeth said. She speculated that Georgiana’s disappointment more likely derived from the absence of the brother who would accompany Miss Ashford, but she kept the thought to herself as Georgiana continued to survey the spectators.

  “Mr. Elliot has secured himself a position close to the proceedings,” Darcy observed.

  Elizabeth followed his gaze to the ship. Mr. Elliot stood near the bow, the end farthest from the water. Between him and the vessel, a cluster of yard workers made some sort of preparation to the wooden rails alongside the cradle on which the long hull rested, its bow higher than its stern. At the moment, his back was to the ship as he scanned the crowd.

  “Though not quite close enough to be mistaken for, say, one of the owners,” she replied. “I wonder if he is seeking someone in particular. Captain Tourner, perhaps?”

  “No—that is Tourner over there.”

  Darcy directed her gaze toward a corpulent, weathered man dressed in civilian attire that nevertheless created a naval impression; perhaps it was the gold lace on his cuffs. He stood not far from Mr. Elliot, who surely would have seen him by now were he the individual he sought. The captain was engaged in conversation with the man who appeared to be directing the proceedings.

  Mr. Elliot’s gaze traveled until it reached the Darcys. Recognition crossed his countenance, and Elizabeth felt obliged to nod in acknowledgment. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I hope he was not seeking us.”

  As Mr. Elliot made a nod of his own, an “Oh!” from Georgiana drew Elizabeth’s attention.

  “Here comes Miss Ashford,” Georgiana said, “and Sir Laurence.”

  Elizabeth turned round to see the pair not approaching, but already upon them. The baronet greeted them—including Lily-Anne—with his usual congeniality. Elizabeth expected her daughter to flirt with Sir Laurence again, as she so often did when he came to call at the cottage, but apparently she had decided to leave the baronet to her aunt. She burrowed her face into the crook of Darcy’s neck.