the plaster on his cheek that covered black stitches from a splinter that missed his eye by a quarter-inch. ‘A little,’ he said. ‘My Trafalgar souvenir.’
She rummaged in the bag at her feet and drew out a ceramic jar. ‘Goose grease,’ she said. ‘Rub it in at night. Won’t scar so bad.’ She smiled at him. ‘A handsome fellow like you doesn’t need a reminder of battle, does he?’
He took it with thanks and turned predictably red, grateful none of his officers was there to chuckle at their captain. ‘It’s not as though I could forget, ma’am, but if you say it will prevent scarring, I believe you.’
He wondered if a traveller would comment upon his mail-coach journey, since they seemed to be settling into a certain camaraderie he found endearing. Sure enough, a little boy posed the question, curious why he was in a mail coach. Didn’t the Royal Navy pay better than that?
The child’s embarrassed mother tried to shush her son, but Joe laughed. Since they were all so plain spoken and kind, he felt no distance from them.
‘It’s this way...your name...’
‘Tommy Ledbetter,’ the boy announced. ‘I am five.’
‘Tommy, I like to travel by mail coach,’ he said. ‘I like to sit here and watch people like you going about your business in an England I hardly ever am privileged to see, as I serve on the ocean.’
Tommy looked around. ‘We’re not much,’ he said, which made the vicar sitting next to the boy smile and the old lady chuckle.
‘You’re England,’ Joe said. ‘That’s enough for me.’
‘When will the mail coach arrive, Verity?’ Mama asked for the tenth time since luncheon. ‘I hope he does not expect too much from us.’
‘Mama, I am certain he will do what is proper, in such circumstances,’ Verity soothed.
‘Does he have any idea how much we are suffering?’ Mama asked in a voice close to a whine, but not quite.
Verity knew herself to be practical, a trait she had acquired from her father. Still, it was a good question and she knew her mother was in pain from the loss of Davey; they all were.
‘I expect Captain Everard has a considerable idea of suffering, Mama,’ she replied. ‘Quite possibly he does this sad duty often. I imagine it takes a toll on him, too.’
She could tell her mother had never considered this angle of mourning, so consumed had she been with her own loss of a beloved son in October. Perhaps the workings of time on even the most tragic of events would spread its unique balm. Verity could hope, anyway, because she suffered, too.
Verity had suffered another loss not long after Trafalgar, one that ranked low, compared to Davey’s death, but which caused her anxiety of another sort. Barely had they digested the news of his death when Lord Blankenship, the marquis who employed her father as his estate manager, had informed her that her services were no longer required as teacher in the entirely satisfactory school where she had educated tenant children, much to her delight and their gain.
Lord Blankenship, a kind enough fellow, had hurried to assure her that he did not question her abilities. The issue was a personal one. He informed her that an impoverished relative had petitioned him for employment, because the creditors were circling his wounded finances like wolves and all was not well.
‘He claims he can teach and blood is still thicker than water,’ Lord Blankenship said. ‘I had my secretary write this morning that I will employ him in your position, starting after Yuletide. I will give you a small supplement and any sort of reference you could wish, Miss Newsome. I trust you will understand.’
What could she do but assure him she understood? Because he seemed to expect it, she also pasted a pleasant smile on her lips and told him not to worry about her. He left her classroom relieved and justified; she seethed inside, angry because the world was not a fair place for ladies.
Her father had taken her dismissal with remarkable calm; her mother, in agony over Davey’s death, heard her not at all. Mama did question her two weeks later, when Verity stayed home from what would have been a school day. When Verity told her again, Mama patted her hand. ‘You can mourn here with me, Daughter,’ she said. ‘Besides, you do not need to earn your bread. Papa is able to provide, as long as he is alive.’
After then, what? she wanted to ask her parents. Papa earned a modest living that had sufficed, probably because for all of Mama’s flyaway airs, she had a remarkable ability to rein in expenses. The Newsome household probably even resembled the taut ship that Davey, in letters home, said Captain Everard ran.
Now Davey was dead, a promising career gone. In the course of things, he likely would have married and set up his own household, which, he had assured her, would always have room for his only sibling, should she never marry, as seemed the case now.
As she waited for Captain Everard’s arrival on that late December day, Verity chafed on several accounts. The death of her brother had rendered her as sorrowful as her parents, who mourned their son and comforted each other. She mourned her brother feeling much more alone, sorry for his passing above all, but sad that his death had diminished her own future.
The matter seemed dismal beyond belief, but for her parents’ sake, she stifled her emotion; they had enough to worry about. David Newsome, as bright and promising a lad as anyone in Weltby had known, had been consigned to the deep off the coast of Spain, fish food and out of reach. She also stifled her unreasonable anger that Admiral Nelson’s body had been returned to England in a keg of spirits, to be buried in the coming January with high honours in St Paul’s Cathedral. Everyone else was slid off a board into the sea. There was no grave where Mama could plant flowers.
I want what I cannot have, Verity thought, as she went to the sitting room, the better for her to spot a post chaise pull up and deposit a captain with a box of all that remained of David Newsome, Second Lieutenant, late of the HMS Ulysses.
Papa had said they could offer the captain a bed for the night and so they would. Perhaps he could tell them something of Davey at sea, before her dear brother faded from everyone’s memory except the memories of the three people who had loved him best.
She forced her unproductive thoughts to the sitting room, which had been decorated for Christmas with only a modest wreath over the fireplace. Mama had decided that ivy garlands on the banister in the hall were too much this year. Verity had waged a polite battle with her mother that resulted in the removal of the black wreath from the front door. The thing had grown more distasteful by the hour to Verity.
Braced for Mama’s tears, she had removed the odious wreath and thrown it in the compost heap. To her relief Mama only nodded, sniffed into her ever-present handkerchief, and let the matter rest. Verity wondered if she dared search for ivy, because the banister cried out for it.
Any day now, she knew she had to take some interest in her wardrobe, considering that, following Christmas, she was to show herself at Hipworth Hall near Sudbury in Norfolk. Relief expressed on his homely face, Lord Blankenship had announced that he had found her employment as an educationist to Sir Percy Hipworth’s children. Lord B. had informed her that Sir Percy was a baronet of some pretension, but nevertheless a ‘good fellow, once his bluster is stripped away’. His
