Page 20 of Once a Gentleman
Chapter Nine
Gulls swooped and cried, and Andrew tracked a pair of them far above, their white and gray almost invisible against the overcast skies. He dropped his gaze down to theHoratiowhere she lay supine in the grasp of the dry-dock.
Workmen dotted the hull, on ladders or suspended from ropes; in a few places on the port side, the ruddy sheen of fresh copper sheathing had begun to obscure the timbers beneath. There had been a great deal of rot, far worse to starboard. On that side of the ship, there were still gaps in the planks left to be repaired.
Andrew leaned against a railing set beside the steps leading down to the dock and watched a while, wishing he could strip down to his shirtsleeves and take part without losing all authority and dignity he possessed. Itchafed, to be so useless. That his lot, wealth and idleness, would be the envy of any able-bodied seaman hard at work mattered not at all. He longed to be away, the soles of his feet all but itching with their restlessness. Life had been rather more pleasant the last three days, since he and Hewlett had made their peace, but accord with one’s secretary, no matter how lovely his eyes and lips and arse might be, made a poor substitute for the deck rolling beneath him and the stars wheeling above. If he’d had the chance to touch that arse and kiss those lips, see those bright green eyes clouded with passion, well, then…
“Sir!” called a familiar voice, startling him out of his reverie. The dock and the sea and the tang of rotting fish came rushing back all at once, replacing something Andrew had best forget. “Sir, good morning!”
Andrew glanced over his shoulder to find Midshipman Harrison jogging up behind him, round-cheeked face split in a smile. He found himself smiling too, unable to resist Harrison’s good cheer.
“Here to look at the progress they’ve made, Harrison?”
“Indeed I am, sir.” Harrison stopped beside him, puffing a little from the exertion. He was spry enough while aboard ship, but he seemed to have gained a few inches around the middle during their time ashore. His wife was a formidable housekeeper, it seemed; Andrew recalled many a night when Harrison had waxed poetic about her pies, as they resignedly worked their way through yet another portion of hard biscuits and salted meat.
What would it be like, to come home to someone who would feed and cosset him, to a home that was truly warm? He pushed away his momentary twinge of envy. “Still be near two months, I’d imagine.”
“Aye, sir, I would guess so. They’ll be replacing most of the starboard side, and the mainmast’s still being found, and I know Captain O’Neill wanted the keel replaced as well…”
Andrew listened to Harrison’s discourse with half an ear, letting it wash over him, and putting in a word or two as necessary. Harrison was a dedicated officer, despite his lack of advancement. Most midshipmen of his years—and Harrison was long past the age at which he could have expected to make lieutenant, being well into his thirties—wallowed in their bitterness at being passed over again and again. Harrison simply shrugged and got on with his duties, and somehow made his pay stretch to supporting the children he seemed to conceive with clockwork regularity each time he saw his wife.
Harrison was cheerful and intelligent, managed the ship’s three other midshipmen, all only lads, with unfailing kindness, and bore the vagaries of the sea with a sangfroid Andrew could only admire. He spoke of the ship with animation, affection, and a deep knowledge of her inner workings, a knowledge that Andrew had often relied on, despite his superior rank.
And yet he had never sought Harrison out when ashore. Never to meet for supper, nor to have a mug of ale—and certainly not to associate in any more intimate way that might involve being introduced to Mrs. Harrison, or inviting them to his own home. Hewlett would like Harrison, Andrew felt certain. His honesty and his open-hearted friendliness, and the absolute solidity of his devotion to his wife and his children and his duties as an officer.
“Why don’t you dine with me, Harrison? You and Mrs. Harrison, too.” The words flew out of Andrew’s mouth before he even realized they were on the tip of his tongue, and he wished instantly he could recall them.
Harrison trailed off in the middle of the sentence Andrew had so rudely interrupted, and then said after a pause, “Dine?”
The note of surprised disbelief in that one word made Andrew feel like a cad. It had been five years that he and Harrison had served side by side, and not once had he thought to issue such an invitation. It occurred to him, dreadfully belated as the realization was, that perhaps Harrison had expected such an attention long ago. And that perhaps—no, definitely—he had deserved it. Harrison wouldn’t have invited him first; as Andrew’s junior officer, it would have been impertinent.
“Yes, to dine,” he replied, putting a great deal more sincerity into the repetition. “You must have told Mrs. Harrison many times what a trial I am. Surely I’m owed the opportunity to charm her and thereby salvage my reputation.”
“I’ve no doubt you could charm her, sir,” Harrison said, without a trace of his usual cheer. “She’d be honored, I’m certain. She’s heard a deal about you—not that you’re a trial, needless to say!”
It took a moment for Andrew to understand, and when he did, he didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. If Harrison thought Andrew would attempt to seduce his wife, his opinion of him must be—well, his opinion must be precisely what Andrew had allowed it to become, over the course of years spent hiding what he was. He consorted with lightskirts and barmaids while ashore, laughed about his exploits while at sea. And three years before, an admiral’s much younger wife had spent the whole of a garden party held for the officers under his command making it clear she would welcome Andrew into her bed, or a sofa, or indeed a pantry, should he wish.
He had not wished. The admiral had nonetheless been unimpressed. Andrew had long suspected that his failure to be given his own ship, let alone make post, stemmed from that bloody garden party and the admiral’s misplaced resentment. Had he blamed his flighty, coquettish wife for her behavior? Of course not—and Andrew had been under a cloud ever since, though the admiral had known well enough how he’d be laughed at if he’d taken any direct action that would have seen Andrew on half-pay or worse. And so he served endlessly aboard a frigate as first lieutenant, with Harrison the permanent midshipman and Captain O’Neill, who’d never get a ship of the line, not when he spoke as roughly and tactlessly to his superiors as he did to his crew.
It didn’t matter. Captain O’Neill was an honorable man, a canny seaman, and the best navigator with whom Andrew had ever served. Harrison was loyal and competent, and Andrew had led him to believe he cared so little for him that he’d attempt to fuck his wife.
Andrew cast about desperately for some way to refute that, without out-and-out telling Harrison he’d sooner fuckhim. “I’d meant to have,” bloody hell, bloody hell, he didn’t know anyone suitable, “Lieutenant Finnegan and his wife, as well!” he finished triumphantly. “Finnegan’s ship is docked at present too—theScarborough, took three twenty-four pounders below the waterline. You know him, don’t you?” he went on, rather frantically.
“I believe we’ve met,” Harrison said slowly. “That’d be—of course, sir. Of course we’d be delighted. Louisa will be beside herself. Hasn’t had a chance to wear a new dress, and she’s been after me to find an occasion.”
“Good,” Andrew said with false heartiness, and clapped Harrison on the shoulder. “Thursday, if that suits you?”
Harrison nodded and murmured his thanks, and Andrew took his leave, glad to be away. Good Lord, but what a cock-up. He knew very well Harrison was now under the impression that Andrew had invited him only to make up the numbers at his table, when it was Finnegan who’d been the bloody afterthought.
Was there really no limit to his ability to offend?
Hewlett would know what to do. With that firmly in mind, Andrew set off for home.
“Don’t invite Lieutenant Finnegan.” Kit set down his pen, resigned to losing his place in the ledger he’d been combing through in search of an incorrect payment made to Turner’s wine-merchant. Turner had burst into the study several minutes before, more agitated than Kit had ever seen him, spilling out some absurd story of a dinner invitation that had been given in the clumsiest possible way. Perhaps solving the problem did fall somewhat under Kit’s purview as Turner’s secretary, but really. “Then Mr. Harrison won’t feel as if he’s a, what did you say? An afterthought. He’ll be the guest of honor.”
Turner whirled about, making his fourth pass in front of the desk and pacing back toward the fireplace. “What do you mean, don’t invite Finnegan? I can’t give a bloody dinner with only the Harrisons. He doesn’t trust me around his wife without at least one other lady present, and what the buggering hell would I talk to Mrs. Harrison about in any case—”
“I didn’t sayonlyinvite the Harrisons,” Kit interjected firmly, raising his voice over Turner’s vulgar diatribe. He went on, with exaggerated patience, “I said not to invite the Finnegans. Find—”
