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Cover Design: Marshall Ian Key
Cast Adrift © 2008 Marshall Ian Key
eXcessica publishing
All rights reserved
Cast Adrift
By Marshall Ian Key
This book is dedicated,
with love and affection,
to Wendy Stone,
whose talent and generosity
inspired it.
Chapter One
The sight of a tall, handsome naval officer knocking on the door of a house in which a pregnant woman lived by herself would have been an invitation for gossip, perhaps even scandal, in any of the villages in the interior of England. The residents of Dartmouth, a town on the southwest coast where several of Captain Sir Edward Pelham’s lieutenants leased homes, knew better. Sir Edward had also called the day before. A second visit no doubt meant even more bad news for the young woman at of Number 7 Welmore Street.
“It’s Sir Edward, ma’am,” Lucy said. She peered around the door to the drawing room where the pregnant woman sat on a modest sofa.
“Thank you, Lucy. Would you please ask him to come in? And please, Lucy, I thought we had agreed that I was to be called Caroline.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the other girl said with a reflexive bob.
Caroline Stanhope tried to compose herself as Lucy left. She had met Sir Edward only twice before. The first time had been early in November, 1812, mere days after her wedding to Geoffrey. She was dazzled by everything about the HMS Classic, the frigate on which her husband would serve as second lieutenant: its marvelous masts, its impressive cannons, and its courteous and dashing commander. It was a world wholly different than any she had known in her previous nineteen years. The inland city of Exeter might be no more than forty miles distant, but for a family like hers, forty miles might as well be four hundred.
Their second meeting had taken place yesterday, six months after the first. Sir Edward was no less dashing, but his courtesy was far more formal, his dash completely restrained. He had come to inform her of her husband’s death, some two months earlier, from injuries received in battle. Caroline had fainted and Sir Edward, somewhat ill at ease after helping her to a couch, had left as soon as she had awakened.
Within the hour, Lucy Burton had knocked on the door, explaining that she had been sent by Sir Edward to take care of Mrs. Stanhope. She brushed aside Caroline’s protests that she could not afford a maid and by the following morning she was firmly entrenched in the household.
“Sir Edward,” Caroline murmured, rising to her feet as Lucy showed him into the room.
“Mrs. Stanhope,” he said, his hat under his arm. “I hope I see you less, er, that is to say, more settled?”
“Thank you, Sir Edward. I am quite recovered and will not require you to catch me a second time. I must insist, however, that you discharge poor Lucy from her employment. I will have no means by which to pay a maid once I have exhausted the last of my late husband’s pay. I dare say, based on what he once told me, that the Admiralty will ask for reimbursement of the last three months’ pay that I received on his behalf, on the grounds that he had already died without properly notifying them.”
Sir Edward stifled a smile. Geoffrey Stanhope had indeed married well.
“Madam,” he said with a slight bow of his head, “I have deposited a sufficient sum with one of your local attorneys to keep the girl in your service for the next year. If after that you no longer wish to retain her yourself, you have but to tell her.”
“You are too kind, sir,” Caroline said with a smile. “Will you not sit down? Lucy?”
Lucy peered around the door from her listening post.
“Ma’am?”
“Could you make us some tea please, Lucy? I take it from your return, Sir Edward, that you have more to tell me?”
“Indeed I do, Mrs. Stanhope. I would like first of all to relate to you the circumstances of your husband’s death, merely by way of demonstrating the esteem by which he was held by all of the officers and men of the Classic.”
Caroline simply nodded to indicate that he could proceed. She would not faint again. She had spent yesterday afternoon and night in grief, and by morning she had learned, if not to put those emotions aside, then at least how to mask them when appropriate.
“First of all, madam, let me say that your husband was one of the finest officers I have ever commanded. He served under me as a midshipman, and I considered myself extraordinarily fortunate to have him assigned to me upon his passing the examination for lieutenant.”
Caroline allowed herself a faint smile and Sir Edward continued.
“In late January, we were given intelligence of a Spanish treasure ship. We found her right where we should, off the coast of South America, and captured her with little problem. The Spanish, you will recall, madam, are currently ruled by Joseph Bonaparte, the Emperor’s brother. Mr. Stanhope—your husband—was given command of the prize and ordered to carry her across the Atlantic into Portsmouth. A day later, however, long after his departure, we learned that the intelligence had been incomplete. We were faced with a French frigate equal to ours as well as a smaller sloop, and would have fallen to them but for the incredible reappearance of the prize, your husband in command, firing its four meager cannons to remarkable effect and ultimately boarding the frigate.”
Sir Edward paused, as if he thought he had not clearly made himself understood.
“He boarded the frigate, madam,” he emphasized, “with the small prize crew at his back.”
“Thank you, sir,” Caroline said.
“He might have carried it, too, but for the Classic’s failure to bring her starboard guns to bear in time. That is my shame, ma’am, and that of my other lieutenants. Thankfully, we were able to finally capture both ships ourselves, but at considerable price. Your husband, Mrs. Stanhope, was mortally wounded.”
“It sounds a—a brave death,” Caroline said, her voice faltering only slightly.
“Indeed, madam,” the captain said fervently. “I have never seen one braver. He was under our surgeon’s care for the following two weeks, and in the hospital in Hamilton, but in the end, the infection proved too much. If I may say, ma’am, his funeral was one of the largest ever seen in Bermuda.”
Sir Edward was clearly moved himself, and Caroline, unable to speak, nodded again by way of reply.
“My apologies, madam,” Sir Edward said with another bow. “I did not intend to—that is to say, I called on you today with a wholly different purpose. First of all, I have here a summary of your husband’s share of the prize money. The ship was filled with silver, and a lieutenant’s share is, er, considerable.”
Caroline stared in astonishment at the paper she had been handed.
“Sir, I have not seen so much money in my life.”
She finally looked up at her visitor.
“I imagine not,” he answered with a quiet chuckle. “All of the men of the Classic, from the master to the cook, have done quite well by our voyage. And there may be some additional money when the Admiralty purchases the ships we captured. Unfortunately, madam, I can make no promises as to when you will receive those funds. While he was in the hospital, your husband did prepare a will, bequeathing all of his possessions to you and naming you as his executor and his brother, James, as your alternate in that position. I have engaged a local attorney, a Mister Digby, who appears to have a sound reputation among the local businessmen. I left the will with him.”
Caroline’s face fell. She was well aware that wills could be tied up in court for years.
“Which brings me to the next, er, distribution,” Sir Edward continued.
Caroline watched as Sir Edward suddenly grew uncomfortable. Lucy’s arrival with the tea gave him a chance to collect his thoughts and when the young girl had departed, he pulled another paper from his jacket.
“Your husband was delighted to learn from one of your letters, madam, that you were with child. And as you know, his delight was of a very infectious nature. So upon his death, the crew, knowing of your condition, undertook a subscription to provide some additional support for you. They each”—he stumbled over the words despite his careful preparation—“they all, every man-jack of ‘em, contributed two pounds of their own prize money, madam, for a total of 450 pounds.”
Caroline realized that her mouth had fallen open, and quickly clapped it shut.
“Needless to say,” Sir Edward continued, “their example was too much for the gunroom and the wardroom, and your husband’s fellow officers have added an additional thousand pounds. I was under Admiralty orders, madam, and did quite well myself by the capture. So I have, er, matched my shipmates’ efforts with one of my own. In addition, madam, your husband’s brother, William, the commander of His Majesty’s sloop Wallace, was in Bermuda at the same time, and he made a contribution that matched all of ours, ma’am.”
Caroline sat back against the chair, her heart fluttering in her chest.
“But that amounts exceeds…” Her voice trailed off as she silently did the sums in her head.
“Six thousand pounds, yes.” Sir Edward smiled at her. “Needless to say, I was unwilling to bring such an amount to Dartmouth, Mrs. Stanhope. So I took the liberty of investing it on your behalf in the Navy Funds, which pay an annual return of five percent, or approximately 300 pounds. So you see, you will be able to keep the young lady in your employ as long as she proves satisfactory. I have asked Mr. Digby, the attorney, to serve as your agent for the moment in dealing with the Admiralty and the Funds’ administrators. You may wish to ask him to invest your share of the prize money as well, once you receive it, or you may choose another agent if you wish. In any event, I would recommend not depositing all of your money with the local bank, simply because, um…”
“People talk?”
“Exactly,” Sir Edward said as he stood up. “I will detain you no more, Mrs. Stanhope. My ship awaits off the coast, and I am overdue at the Admiralty.”
Caroline raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“Not to worry,” he said with a smile. “Their Lordships will always excuse a captain who values his subordinates. Almost always, at least. Oh, I am terribly sorry. I also have a letter from Captain Stanhope.”
“Captain Stanhope?”
Caroline took the letter, which was simply addressed to “My Dearest Sister.”
“By courtesy, ma’am,” Sir Edward explained, “those given the rank of Master and Commander in the Navy are called Captain. In this case, Captain William Stanhope, your husband’s brother, of the sloop Wallace. And now I will take my leave. Please do not hesitate to write me or any of your late husband’s friends if we may be of any service whatsoever.”
After a final bow to his lieutenant’s widow, Captain Pelham walked through the streets of Dartmouth on his way to the quay where his gig awaited. He politely touched his hat to each of the women that he passed, servants and upper class alike. None of them, in his estimation, held a candle to the woman he had just left. Like his junior officers, some of them married, others bachelors like Sir Edward, he had felt a pang of envy when his young second lieutenant had brought his new wife on board the ship six months previous. Caroline Stanhope’s beauty was not of the ethereal nature celebrated in art and literature, the beauty currently in fashion among the smart set in London. Rather, hers were the substantial, healthy good looks of a young woman just growing into her adulthood, with long auburn hair, deep brown eyes, and a ready smile that complemented her obvious wit and intelligence.
It was a pity that at her age she would spend the next year wearing black. But of course it was even more a pity that she had lost as fine a husband as Geoffrey Stanhope no doubt would have been. Just as it was a pity that England had lost as fine an officer as Geoffrey Stanhope was, and as fine a captain as he would have become.
He nodded to his coxswain as he stepped into the boat and took his seat for the silent row back to the Classic.
The woman in question was still staring at the envelope he had left. She had read her husband’s last letter three times yesterday, and her tears had soon rendered some of the words nearly illegible. Finally, she had had to set it aside. Dictated in the hospital, and delivered yesterday by his captain, Geoffrey’s letter had openly praised the men in his command, men who had followed him without hesitation onto the deck of the Spanish frigate despite their far smaller numbers. He lamented the loss of two, and implored her not to worry about him; he would be fine once the “medicos” and “sawbones” had fixed him up and returned him to duty. He had jokingly expressed a wish that their new child be a girl, because the boy would undoubtedly look like him, and he would not wish that upon any youngster. A girl, on the other hand, a girl that looked like Caroline, would be a benefit to Dartmouth, to England, and to the entire world. He had signed the letter three days before he finally succumbed.
She was of two minds about this new envelope. The only other letter she had received from Geoffrey’s family had arrived shortly after she had returned from her shipboard visit. Impressed with the embossed stationery, with the Earl of Prescott’s crest on the seal, and with the elegant “Caroline” on the cover, she had opened it eagerly. Inside had been two pages of the most vitriolic invective she had ever read, from the opening salutation—“Cunt:”—to the close—“I shall have my lawyers contact you if you ever attempt to associate your name with that of the distinguished earldom of Prescott.”
The letter made clear that Geoffrey’s father had spared no expense in investigating Caroline’s family. He knew of her father, a former publisher’s clerk and bookseller who had languished in debtor’s prison for years before finally dying two months before his only daughter’s marriage. And he knew of her mother, whose shame at her husband’s arrest had led to her acceptance, while he still lived, of the protection of a married theatre producer in London. His letter had even referenced a cousin whose ignominious surrender to French forces on the Island of Malta had caused him to take his own life.
Geoffrey had laughed when she had cited those very same relations to ward off his attempts, three months before their marriage, to claim her hand.
“But I won’t be marrying them, Caroline. I shall be marrying you.”
Even after she had given in to his courting, however, Caroline had no idea the extent to which Geoffrey’s family differed from her own. It was the clothing and bearing of Geoffrey’s oldest brother, James, the sole guest at their wedding other than Geoffrey’s fellow lieutenants and two girls with whom Caroline had been employed, that gave her the first clue. Under Caroline’s questioning, Geoffrey had admitted, again with laughter on his lips, that yes, his father was the Earl of Prescott.
In her memory it seemed as if he was always laughing.
“The Earl?” she had gasped. “Your father is an earl?”
“Don’t worry, Caroline. The chances of my becoming the earl are virtually nil. I have two older brothers.”
Caroline’s tension had abated only a fraction.
“Of course, James has already disclaimed his right to the title after my father threatened to make his, er, predilections public. And William is a naval officer in constant danger on the American station, so perhaps it is a little higher than nil.”
“Geoffrey!”
She had slapped him on the arm.
“But no higher than forty percent. Forty-five at most.”
She remembered how the laughter of that day had carried her through the uncomfortable, even painful moments at the start of their first night of lovemaking, a night that had quickly turned wonderful and that had produced the life that was growing inside her.
William and James had both spoken highly of their middle brother. Holding her breath, Caroline tore open William’s letter and breathed a sigh of relief as she realized that she had not been misled by the address on the envelope this time.
Dear Caroline,
I hope you will forgive my presumption at using your Christian name without a proper introduction, and at addressing you as my sister. But as I sat with Geoffrey the last three days and heard him extol your virtues ad nauseam, I feel I can claim to know you at least well enough to consider you one of my dearest relatives.
By now, Sir Edward will have told you of Geoffrey’s valiant death, and I can add nothing except to say that if just half that number of people attend my own funeral, I will count myself to have done well by my life. Please know that, even with all the visitors he had at the hospital, his final thoughts were of you, and the last words on his lips those of his love for you.
I understand that you have already met James. I have asked Sir Edward to mail a letter to him as well, and I have no doubt but that James, whose manners are impeccable, will call on you shortly to express the family’s condolences.
I also have no doubt that by now you will have heard from the Earl, and no doubt that his letter was offensive. James will explain the matter in greater detail, as I understand that Geoffrey did not have an opportunity to do so prior to his departure on the Classic. For now, let it suffice that our father is quite ill, and often deserted by the mental faculties that served him so well in his youth. For whatever he must have said to you, please accept my regrets and apology.
When next in England, I hope to have the honour of calling on you, and of visiting with your expected child. Until then I shall remain,
Your devoted brother,
William
* * * *
True to his brother’s promise, James was at her door within the week. His clothing was only slightly less elegant than that in which he had appeared at the wedding. His manner was just as friendly, however, and he quickly accepted Caroline’s invitation to lunch. Once seated, he proceeded to disgorge what seemed to Caroline the entire history of the Stanhopes, beginning with the creation of the earldom at the end of the War of the Roses. It took nearly eight minutes for him to reach the last generation.
“Our father then inherited the title at a very young age, just after returning from the war with the colonists. He then married our mother, who gave birth to four children. Are you sure this is not boring you, Caroline?”
“Oh, no,” she dissembled. In any event, it was information that she felt herself obliged to learn.
James took a sip of wine and continued.
“Our mother died in 1801 in a carriage accident, and our father at that point began exhibiting signs of—well, perhaps the word ‘derangement’ may serve best. Intermittent, to be sure, but enough to send him into actual madness when given news that he did not want to hear. Such as my sister’s engagement to a member of the Ninety-second Foot, the Gordon Highlanders. Honourable men, of course, but Scots, you see, and in my father’s eyes little more than savages even now. This Rory Hunter was himself a Scottish laird, at the young age of 27, and a hero of the victory over the French at Alexandria.”
James allowed himself a soft sigh.
“But he was pursued by my father’s men, to the point of being threatened with physical harm, and to the point of that he felt himself required to injure one of my father’s allies in order to defend my sister’s honour. And of course the injured man immediately swore out a warrant for his arrest. So this Hunter and Courtney—my sister, Courtney—eloped to America, where they are now settled outside of Boston.
“This is exquisite wine, by the way. I’m surprised at Geoffrey’s taste.”
Caroline raised an elegant eyebrow and allowed herself a hint of a smile.
“In wine,” James protested, nearly spitting it out as he realized what he had said. “I had no idea he was a—that it is to say, that he appreciated –”
“He didn’t buy the wine,” Caroline said gently, her smile growing. “Mr. Digby, my newly appointed solicitor, sent if over two days ago. I think he expects to make his fortune administering the funds that your brother and Geoffrey’s shipmates were so kind to give me.”
“Yes, I met your Mr. Digby yesterday. He had written me to point out that English law in general—and the local courts in particular—frown on women as executors.”
“Indeed?” Caroline said. “He said no such thing to me. And I am surprised at his willingness to write you without my knowledge.”
“It doesn’t surprise me at all. I know little of the law, but it appears that the role of whomever is appointed executor will be to try to ensure that there is some money left in the estate when Mr. Digby finishes paying his fees from it. However, I will happily end my contact with him.”
“In truth, James, I would prefer that you not. Had he asked, I would have been delighted to refer him to you.”
James nodded.
“To return to my tale, William, the Earl’s second son, had joined the navy in the year two, and Geoffrey quite naturally followed him in the year six. Shortly thereafter, my father learned that I … that I am unlikely to continue the male line, shall we say. That caused another bout of hysteria or madness, and when he threatened to make my situation public, I simply disclaimed my own inheritance of the title. I hope I am not speaking too freely.”
“Not at all,” Caroline said. She wished that he would speak more freely. William had danced around the issue of his brother’s failure to marry, and James was now suggesting that he was unable to sire a child. Why in heaven’s name would that prevent him from becoming the Earl of Prescott? She was reluctant to press him, afraid that it was something that she would be far too embarrassed to have him explain.
“And your marriage, I’m afraid, probably brought on another episode. William suggested that you might have received a letter from him?”
Blushing, Caroline nodded.
“And you still have it?”
“I do,” Caroline acknowledged. “I thought that Geoffrey –”
“Should know of his father’s attitude. Quite right. I will not ask to see it, but based on letters that I myself received, I can guess at its contents. You may wish to consider now, Caroline, whether or not you would be better off destroying it entirely. You might also consider whether or not you would be better off in another town. I have sent a letter to the Earl to inform him of his son’s death. It was sent by as slow a post as I could reasonably find, but it will no doubt inflame his derangement again.”
“And you think he will look for me?” Caroline asked in horror.
“I do not believe it likely, but it is not outside the realm of possibility.”
“For what purpose?”
“Simply because he is angered,” James explained. “He has a substantial sum of money at his disposal, and men who will do anything to receive his very generous wages.”
After James’s departure, Caroline pondered whether moving would even be possible, let alone feasible. It was not a real choice, however. Even with her newfound wealth, she hadn’t the resources to compete with the Earl of Prescott. If he could find her once, he could do so again with little trouble. She had already arranged for the services of the town’s best midwife, and her solicitor, Mr. Digby, appeared to be taking care of her money with efficiency and attention. Even that attention was even too much, at times. She found herself wishing that he would dispense with his biweekly call in favor of a simple, concise written summary of her holdings.
She had done nothing to advertise her new status. Still in mourning, she needed no new clothes other than progressively larger and larger black outfits to cover her swelling belly. She lived quietly, her only indulgence a monthly shipment of books that James had helped arrange from a London bookseller.
Michael Geoffrey Stanhope was born on July 22, 1813, at a half past four in the morning. His birth was remarkably uneventful and within hours he was at his mother’s breast.
Chapter Two
“Will you please stop interfering with my work?”
“I beg your pardon. I just wanted to help.”
“You are taking food from the mouths of my children.”
Caroline looked at Lucy’s fierce glare and burst into laughter.
“Lucy Burton. You know perfectly well that you have no children.”
“Nevertheless,” Lucy said with asperity, “I will someday and I should like to have a respectable job, a job that includes baking the bread.”
“Oh, all right. It’s just that with Michael sleeping so much better now, I thought I could begin to help you again.”
“I let you help me before the babe was born to take your mind off of things. Now you have him to attend to, and I am perfectly capable of handling the household duties on my own. Caroline.”
“Very well. Lucy. I shall retire once again to my books. Oh, Lucy, did you see the latest copy of the newspapers that Mr. Stanhope was so good to send me?”
Lucy had always been careful to hide her inability to read, and simply gave Caroline a smile and said she had not.
“Oh, Lucy. It’s so exciting. Geoffrey’s brother William is to be received at St. James. While Lord Wellington was driving the French out of Spain, our soldiers were attacking two islands in the Americas. And apparently Captain Stanhope acted so promptly and courageously in covering their retreat both times that he may perhaps be knighted.”
“How marvelous,” Lucy said.
‘Isn’t it?” Caroline gushed. “Oh and Lucy, Mr. Digby will be here at eleven o’clock.”
Lucy’s face quickly darkened.
“I don’t like that man.”
“You have made that all too plain, Lucy, and for the life of me I do not understand why.”
Lucy bit her tongue and continued kneading the dough.
“He has ably managed my money,” Caroline continued, “and he has assured me that Geoffrey’s estate will be settled very soon.”
Lucy slammed the dough down on the counter.
“Why do you dislike him?” Caroline pressed her.
With a sigh, Lucy looked up at her mistress.
“Because, Caroline—because he leers at you.”
“Oh, he does not.”
“When you are not looking, he is continually glancing at your breasts,” Lucy insisted.
Caroline stared at the girl in shock.
“That one day, two months back,” Lucy said, “when the baby didn’t take enough milk? And it stained your dress? I thought he would come out of his trousers.”
“Lucy!” Caroline was horrified by the very idea. “He is a gentleman.”
“He is a man,” Lucy said as she resumed her work with vigor. “Gentle ain’t in it.”
“Nevertheless,” Caroline said.
“Nevertheless,” Lucy mumbled with a significant look at her mistress’s dress.
When Caroline’s lawyer arrived promptly at eleven, he was greeted by a girl in a clean apron and a forced smile. Lucy promptly showed him into the drawing room and curtly informed him that Mrs. Stanhope would be with him shortly.
It was the first time that she had kept him waiting. He was displeased.
Jonathan Digby, Esq., was predisposed to displeasure. He had begun his provincial practice with high hopes, assuming that it would bring him into contact with those he considered his betters. He fully expected that those gentlemen would recognize a kindred spirit in their midst. They would then help him ascend the ladder of social and political influence. Instead, he found himself only a step above absolute penury, relying for his bread on the crumbs thrown his way by the local merchants who saw him as a cut-rate solution to their tawdry problems.
The awe he had felt when Sir Edward Pelham had entered his office had long since disappeared, giving way first to envy and then to resentment. He resented Caroline Stanhope’s possession of funds that were now valued at over six thousand pounds. He resented the way that her brother-in-law continually questioned the fees that he charged Geoffrey Stanhope’s estate.
He also resented Caroline’s failure to act as if she had six thousand pounds, whether she deserved them or not. She still had the same threadbare sofa that she had had when he had first called upon her. The drawing room still possessed the same hideous drapes, the same horrid carpet, and the same floor still badly in need of polishing. It could only be, he thought, that she believed that it was not worth spending any of her six thousand pounds in Dartmouth, because the town was only a temporary residence for her at this point. He resented that above all else. Her temporary residence was his permanent prison.
He stood when she entered, disguising a frown at the thick, black dress she had selected for their meeting. It was true that she always wore black, but not always in a fabric quite this heavy.
“Mrs. Stanhope.” He bowed ever so slightly. “I trust I see you well.”
“Thank you, Mr. Digby. I am well.” This time she had not missed the way his eyes swept up her body as she entered the room. “What may I do for you?”