Page 62 of Once a Gentleman
Chapter Twenty-Three
Andrew shed his oilskin and shook what water he could out of his boots, hampered only very slightly by the pitching of the deck; he had been at sea long enough to be little inconvenienced by a mere squall like this. He paused only to order the distribution of a half-measure of rum to each of the men who’d rowed to shore to retrieve the French officer who had disappeared into the captain’s cabin, and then followed him within.
Colonel de Brimeu had taken a seat at the table bolted to the bulkhead, looking green about the gills already and sneering down at the wine Captain O’Neill had just handed to him.
Andrew had little sympathy for the man’s woes. It had taken twelve days of cooling their heels for the colonel to signal for retrieval, twelve days Andrew had spent with nothing better to do than long for Kit in his arms, brood over what Kit might be doing, feeling, or thinking in his absence, and consider at length every word that had passed between them, alternately seeking signs that Kit loved him and that he did not, depending on the bleakness of his mood.
But now they could be away.
Perhaps he could bring himself to extend the fellow a little bit of goodwill, for turning up at last.
“Ah, Turner,” O’Neill said, dropping into a chair of his own and waving Andrew to another. “Take some wine.” He turned to de Brimeu and spoke a few courteous-sounding words in French, earning himself nothing more than another curl of the lips. The colonel had very thin lips, an extremely sharp nose, and dark, beady eyes that seemed designed to look down the latter at everything and everyone.
“Feel free to speak English, monsieur,” he said, putting an emphasis onEnglishthat made it sound as if he had spoken a word too foul for polite company, “for the benefit of your officer.”
O’Neill blinked at him. “Very kind of you, sir,” he said dryly. “Turner, do be seated, that lantern’s going to brain you if you don’t.” The lantern was indeed swinging about wildly, casting flickering shadows in every direction.
Andrew sat, barely containing his impatience. He ought to be giving orders to raise anchor and sail for England, not sitting here exchanging meaningless, sneering nonsense with this French fellow.
“Colonel de Brimeu has just informed me that we will not be returning to England at once,” O’Neill said, his tone still dry enough to suck the moisture out of even the waves slapping against the hull. “And I had asked him to explain, as my orders were clear enough.”
“Circumstances have changed,” de Brimeu said, staring down that nose of his. “I have no obligation to explain myself—”
“Bollocks,” Andrew interjected, exasperated beyond any hope of recovery. No bloody obligation to bloody well explain himself? When Kit was waiting for him—waiting for a fortnight, and possibly no more than that, if his patience should run out? “Last I checked we were in the service of His Majesty King George the Third, not of whichever bloody Frenchman is currently proclaiming himself your sovereign. You don’t give orders on His Majesty’s ship, Colonel de Brimeu.”
Andrew took a vicious, juvenile pleasure in mangling the man’s name with the most atrociously English accent he could manage, and more in watching crimson flood his cheeks, nearly washing out the green tint of seasickness.
“Mind your tongue, Lieutenant Turner,” O’Neill put in crisply. “It’s not your place to rebuke the gentleman. That said,” he went on as de Brimeu began to look smug, “it is mine, and the last I checked we’re in the service of His Majesty King George the Third, and so on and so forth. You donotgive orders here, sir. I do. Explain yourself at once, and you’d best convince me thoroughly, because I do take orders from the Admiralty, more’s the pity. And they have commanded me to return you to London forthwith.”
Andrew took a sip of his wine, not bothering to hide his grin, as de Brimeu sputtered and let out a string of rather furious-sounding French.
O’Neill replied in the same language, and Andrew sat back and prayed for patience, downing the rest of his wine and quietly refilling the glass to the brim since no one was paying attention. He’d gotten chilled to the bone ferrying de Brimeu aboard, and frankly he’d rather have had the same rum he’d given to the men.
He drank, and he listened despite his near-nonexistent understanding of French, and picked out very little—but he did recognize the few words in other languages: Wellington and Cadíz among them.
At last O’Neill leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “Very well,” he said, and Andrew’s heart sank all the way down to his boots. “Portugal it is. We will leave a report with the fleet off La Rochelle—but I must warn you, sir, you may need to make your case again to Admiral Spencer. I will not jaunt off to Lisbon entirely on my own recognizance.”
“Time is of the essence!” de Brimeu expostulated. “As is secrecy. This matter is most delicate.”
O’Neill shrugged. “If it’s not too delicate for my ears, it’s fit for Admiral Spencer’s. Turner, go and see to it. We sail for La Rochelle at once. And thence, presumably, to Lisbon.”
Gritting his teeth against any reply that could be considered insubordinate, Andrew rose, drained his wine, bowed, and departed the cabin, the conversation restarting in urgent French behind him.
He braced himself against the wind, ignoring the rain immediately lashing his face, and ascended to the quarterdeck. Harrison stood his watch stoically, as he always did, and Andrew gave the necessary orders, rather hypocritically giving no explanation at all and feeling like a bit of a bastard as Harrison’s face fell at the news.
“Write letters as soon as you’re at leisure, Harrison,” he said. “We’ll have a chance to send them home at La Rochelle.”
And his duty done, Andrew went down to his own cabin, where he had some rather difficult letters of his own to pen.
He would write to Kit, both openly and under cover of a mistress who did not exist, and pray that his lover would wait for him.
The New Year had rung itself in, for Kit at least, with precisely the opposite of fanfare. He had sat by the fire in the study, unable to spend the turn of the old year alone in his bedchamber pining for Andrew—and had instead spent it alone in the study, pining for Andrew.
Worry had added to his unhappiness. Andrew had sailed fifteen days before the last day of the year, making him overdue to return, although not enough that Kit could feel justified in his worry.
The combination of anxiety and feeling like a fool for it left him rather miserable.
But by the end of the first week of January, he felt much less like a fool and infinitely more miserable.
