garment for the occasion. She shook out a muslin dress from the valise, one she had worn many times, and took it and the pasteboard folder downstairs. She left the dress with the parlour maid, asking that someone iron it for her, then let herself out of the Drake.
It was still early; no one was about in the street except fishmongers and victuallers hauling kegs of food on wheel-barrows. From her life in Portsmouth as Andrew Daviess’s wife, she knew he had been efficient in his profession, even up to the shocking day he was accused by the Admiralty of felony and manslaughter in knowingly loading bad food aboard ships. In the months of suspended animation that followed, she had seen him shaking his head over and over at the venality of his superior, whom he suspected of doctoring the all-important and lucrative accounts to make the errors Andrew’s alone. He could prove nothing, of course, because his superior had moved too fast.
And finally Andrew could take it no longer, hanging himself from a beam in their carriage house, empty of horses since they could no longer afford them and pay a barrister, too. He left no note to her, but only one he had sent to the Lord Admiral proclaiming his innocence, even as his suicide seemed to mock his words.
Now the whole matter was over and done. She knew that by marrying the admiral, who had no idea what a kettle of fish he had inherited and with any luck never would, her life with Andrew Daviess was irrevocably over.
When she arrived at St Andrew’s, the vicar was concluding the earliest service. She approached him when he finished, explaining that in another hour, she and a gentleman would be returning with a special licence.
‘I am a widow, sir,’ she said, handing him the pasteboard folder. ‘Here are my earlier marriage lines and my late husband’s death certificate. Is there anything else you need from me?’
The old man took the folder and looked inside. ‘Sophia Paul Daviess, spinster from Dundrennan, Kirkcudbright-shire, Scotland, age twenty-two years, 1806’. He looked at Andrew’s death certificate, shaking his head, so she knew he had read the part about ‘Death by his own hand’. He handed the document back. ‘A sad affair, Mrs Daviess.’
‘It was.’
‘And now you are marrying again. I wish you all success, madam.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She hesitated. ‘For reasons which you must appreciate, I have been using my maiden name, rather than my married name.’
He walked with her to the door. ‘I can imagine there has been some stigma to a suicide, Mrs Paul.’
If you only knew, she thought. ‘There has been,’ was all she said.
‘Those days appear to be ending. I’ll look forwards to seeing you again in an hour.’ The vicar held out his hand. ‘If you wish, I can enter this information in the registry right now, so you needn’t be reminded of it during this next wedding.’
It was precisely what she wanted. ‘Thank you, sir.’
As she returned to the Drake, she looked up to the first storey and saw the admiral looking out. He waved to her and she waved back, wondering how long he had been watching and if he had seen her leave the hotel.
When she came up the stairs to the first floor, he opened his door. ‘You gave me a fright, Mrs Paul, when I knocked on your door and you weren’t there. I reckoned you had gone the way of The Mouse, and that would have been more than my fragile esteem could manage.’
‘Oh, no, sir. I would not go back on my word, once given,’ she assured him.
‘I thought as much,’ he said, ‘especially after the ’tween-stairs maid said you had left a dress belowdeck to be ironed.’ He thumped his chest with his hook, which made Sally smile. ‘What a relief.’
‘I went ahead to the church with my marriage lines and Andrew’s death certificate. I thought he might want to see them and perhaps record them. Such proved to be the case.’
‘So efficient, Mrs Paul,’ he murmured. ‘I shall be spoiled.’
Not so much efficient as ashamed for you to see that certificate, she thought. Oh, seek a lighter subject, Sally. ‘That’s it, sir. I will spoil you like my old ladies—prunes in massive amounts, thoroughly soaked for easy chewing, and at least a chapter a day of some improving literature such as, such as…’
‘I know: “The prevention of self-abuse during long sea voyages”,’ he joked, then held up his hand to ward off her open-mouthed, wide-eyed stare. ‘I do not joke, Mrs P! You would be amazed what do-gooders in the vicinity of the fleet think is important.’
She laughed out loud, then covered her mouth in embarrassment that she even knew what he was talking about.
‘I was a frigate captain then. I preserved a copy of that remarkable document and asked all my wardroom mates to sign it. The purser even added some salacious illustrations, so perhaps I will not let you see it until you are forty or fifty, at least.’
She couldn’t think of a single retort.
‘What? No witty comeback?’ There was no denying the triumph in his eyes.
‘Not to that, sir,’ she admitted. ‘Perhaps I will not read you improving chapters of anything.’
She was spared further embarrassment by the ’tween-stairs maid, who brought her ironed dress upstairs and shyly handed it to her. Admiral Bright gave the little girl a few coins before she left.
Sally went into her own room and put on the dress, but not before wishing it would magically turn into a gown of magnificent proportions. Just as well it does not, she scolded herself as she attempted to button up the back. I don’t have the bosom to hold it up right now.
She also remembered why she hadn’t worn the dress in ages. By twisting around, she managed to do up the lower and upper buttons, but the ones in the middle were out of reach. She stood in silence, then realised there was nothing to do but enlist the admiral. She knocked on the door. She felt the blush leap to her face, even as she scolded herself for such missish behaviour, considering that in less than an hour, she was going to marry this man.
‘Admiral, can you possibly tackle the buttons in the middle of this dratted dress? Either that, or call back the ’tween-stairs maid.’ She looked at his hook and frowned. ‘Oh, dear. I forgot.’
Admiral Bright was obviously made of sterner stuff. He came into her room and closed the door behind him. ‘What? You think I cannot accomplish this simple task? Who on earth do you think buttons my trousers every morning? Turn around and prepare to be amazed.’
She did as he said, her cheeks on fire. He pressed the flat curve on his hook against her back to anchor the fabric, then pushed each button through, his knuckles light against her bare skin.
‘No applause needed,’ he said. ‘Turn around and stop being so embarrassed.’
She did as he said. ‘You’re going to wish The Mouse had showed up.’
‘No, indeed, madam. I have something for you, and you will have to manage this yourself.’
He took a small sack out of his coat front and handed it to her. ‘I got this in India. It should look especially nice against that light blue fabric.’
Holding her breath,
