Page 9 of Unforeseen Affairs
It had been a month or so since Colin had seen her, the last time her mother had hosted a dinner. Alice had worn a fetching peach gown generously trimmed with lace; she’d looked as cheerful and frothy as a cup of sherbet.
Thatwas how young ladies ought to dress. Not the way Miss Charlotte Sedley did, severely clad in a narrow, dark gray skirt and plain white blouse. Colin frowned at the newspaper before him, bothered by this sudden intrusion of the strange young lady into his thoughts. After all, he was unlikely to ever see her again.
“Your mother,” the commodore said, cutting into the tense silence, “has told me you’ve refused to attend her… entertainment next week.”
“That is correct.”
“And may I inquire as to why?”
Hidden behind the newspaper, Colin clenched his jaw. He knew he ought to set it aside and give his father the respect he was due not just from his rank, but his position in the family. But he’d discovered this past year, living under the same roof for the longest period in over a decade, that some childish recalcitrance still remained within him.
“Because I don’t care to see her hopes dashed,” he said, more forcefully than he’d intended.
His father cleared his throat.
Now he’d done it. Colin gingerly folded the newspaper and set it aside, still avoiding the old man’s gaze.
“You don’t care to see her hopes dashed?” his father repeated, his voice booming.
The commodore’s voice had once been matched by his large, imposing form, though after fifteen years retired he’d shrunk to a mere shadow of himself, hunched over and weakened, his once red hair now sparse and white. But that voice, wielded for decades as a means of intimidation, somehow remained as powerful as ever.
“Then I wonder, boy, why you’re refusing the invitation, even as you sit here ashore on half-pay, spending your days doing nothing of import.”
Colin’s head felt heavier, as if it were he, and not Beaky, who had overindulged the night before. He stared straight ahead, at the small line drawing of the HMSIapyxon the wall. The closest thing he’d ever had—and would likely ever have—to his own command. He knew every gun, every sail, every rigging, could see them all in his mind’s eye. Some nights he’d close his eyes and imagine he was on watch, walking the entire length of the ship over and over again.
“Bernard would never,” his father scoffed, setting aside one letter and reaching for another.
Colin felt a pain in his gut at that.
“I’ve spoken with a new doctor,” he said hesitantly. He did not like discussing these matters with his father.
The commodore clearly did not appreciate that.
“Is that so?” he sniffed. “Is Dr. Cowgill, who delivered you into this world with his own two hands, not adequate for your needs?”
Colin felt a burst of anger, and tamped it down as much as he could. But not entirely.
“No,” he blurted. “He is not.”
The old sawbones, who by all rights should have retired years ago, had listened silently to Colin’s concerns with an empty expression, then prescribed him a regimen of tobacco smoke enemas. Colin might not be a man of science, but he had failed to see how blowing smoke up his ass would clear his head and keep him steady.
“Hm,” was his father’s dubious reply.
Interminable seconds ticked by. Colin now wished very much that he’d gone to call on Beaky. At least then he’d be enjoying Alice’s charming company, rather than listening to his father excoriate him as if he were Colin’s commanding officer.
“I’ll admit you had a bit of luck in that… piratical debacle,” his father said as he perused another letter. “Not worth the ink spilled over it, let alone a knighthood, but who am I to criticize Her Majesty’s whims?”
Twenty-five thousand pounds in prize money.
And that just his share from the first ship he’d captured, to make no mention of the second. All of it with the captain and first lieutenant sick as dogs below deck. Everyone in the country had been duly impressed when the story reached England’s shores. He’d been gazetted, for goodness’ sake. Everyone acknowledged his accolades as a tremendous honor. Everyone, that is, except Commodore Elijah Gearing.
Colin had come to realize that the only thing that might earn him the man’s praise was if he were to figure out how to resurrect his elder brother.
“The fact remains that you’ve now refused two postings.” His father looked up from the letter currently in his hand and leveled a hard stare at Colin. “You had better take care with your next steps, or some will think you… unfit for service.” He paused,letting the stern words hit their mark before proceeding with the final shot. “That you’ve lost your senses.”
Anger gripped Colin’s heart. He tightened his fists, willing his head to steady, praying for the room to stop swaying.
“Very well,” Colin finally capitulated. “I’ll attend.”
