promised salary was adequate, but only just, and Sir Percy’s letter had also included passage on the mail coach. ‘He says he will have a dogcart there in Sudbury for you, which I consider a good beginning,’ Lord Blankenship had told her.
To Verity it seemed like the barest of courtesies. Had her future employer expected her to walk with her baggage to wherever Hipworth Hall found itself? Suppose it was raining or sleeting?
Verity Newsome, you are feeling sorry for yourself, she scolded. Positions of any kind for ladies of a certain age—hang it all, you are nearly thirty—didn’t spring forth unbidden from the brow of Zeus. True, she could remain at home in idleness, but that had even less appeal to a capable woman. To Norfolk she would go.
Dusk was fast approaching. She told her worries to go on holiday until she felt more inclined to deal with them and returned her attention to the window.
And there he was. Not for ordinary mortals was the bicorn of a post captain, which made the man walking up the lane with a swinging stride appear considerably taller than he likely was. He wore a dark cloak and had slung a duffel on his shoulder. She smiled because he looked like a man home from the sea and maybe not too happy about it.
The smile left her face. He carried a smaller grip, one she recognised. Davey Newsome had come home, too.
Joseph Everard raised his hand to knock, but the door opened before he needed to. He found himself looking at an older female version of his second luff, down to lively eyes and curly black hair.
‘You bear a remarkable resemblance to your brother,’ were the first words out of his mouth. He could have smacked his forehead for his idiocy when those brown eyes, so like Davey’s, filled with tears.
‘I’m sorry. That was clumsy of me,’ he said. ‘I am Captain Everard of the White Fleet, your late brother’s commanding officer. May I come inside?’
‘Of course you may,’ the woman said quickly. ‘How clumsy of me! You’ll think we never have visitors.’
‘Not at all, Miss... Miss Newsome, is it?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t actually arrive in a coach and four with post boys, did I? I like to take the mail coach and so I walked from Weltby.’
She ushered him inside, let him unsling his duffel like the common seaman he suddenly felt himself to be, then helped him from his boat cloak. With a start, he realised he was being organised by a woman used to management and, by God, it felt surprisingly good. With the heavy cloak slung over her arm, she handed it to a maid who had stopped at the sight of so much naval splendour, here in quiet Kent.
Or maybe it was the crosshatch of black stitches that still ruined whatever looks he had imagined were his. He had taken off the blamed plaster in hope that the air might prove more useful to its healing. He might even apply goose grease tonight as he prepared for bed back at the inn.
‘Your hat, Captain?’ Miss Newsome said and held out her hand.
He doffed it and gave it to her, hoping that his hair wasn’t sticking up on the side. He had never given his wretched cowlick much thought before, but for some reason, it mattered, standing in the hall of David Newsome’s childhood home. At least he had the good sense not to lick his fingers and try to tame the thing. Certainly there were worse physical afflictions.
His bicorn overwhelmed the maid, who gave him a plaintive look. ‘Just rest it on its side,’ he told her. ‘It won’t bite.’
The girl grinned at him and darted away, in spite of the fact that his boat cloak threatened to trip her.
‘I...er...assume you don’t see too many navy men in Weltby,’ he said, wishing he knew more about polite conversation. ‘At least the servants don’t.’
‘No, indeed, Captain Everard,’ Miss Newsome said, her eyes on his stitches. ‘A Trafalgar souvenir?’
Joe knew better than to say that the same flaming mast that crashed to the deck and killed her brother managed to shoot a splinter through his cheek. ‘Aye, it was. Should’ve healed by now, but for several weeks the surgeon couldn’t decide whether to suture it or leave it alone. He finally decided to stitch me up. Consequently, I am not as far along the path of recovery as I could wish.’
He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Miss Newsome gestured towards the hall. ‘My parents are in my father’s book room. Y-you could bring Davey’s effects to them, if you please.’
‘I will.’
He walked beside her down the hall, pleased not to have to shorten his stride to accommodate her. He was on the tallish side, but so was Miss Newsome.
She was dressed in black, a daunting colour for most females, except that it became her, with her pink cheeks, pale face and black hair. She was by no means thin, but he found her pleasant shape more to his liking, anyway. She looked practical and kind, which he found soothing.
‘My father is an accountant and estate manager for Lord Blankenship, who owns numerous properties in Kent and East Sussex,’ she said. ‘I have lived on this estate all my life.’
‘It must be a fair property in the springtime,’ he said, wincing inwardly at his paltry supply of conversation.
Either it passed muster, or Miss Newsome was even kinder than he suspected. ‘It’s glorious in April, when the lambs are new,’ she said. ‘Here we are.’
They stopped before a closed door and she tapped lightly. He heard no reply—years of bombarding could do that to ears—but she opened the door and gestured him inside.
He knew a book room when he saw one. His own chart room aboard the Ulysses was tidier, mainly because space was more of a premium on a frigate and demanded economy.
His eyes went immediately to the map of the world, where the Newsomes had traced his lieutenant’s travels with pins and thread. With a pang, he saw how few pins there were and how the enterprise ended at the coast off Spain known as Trafalgar. His own world map in his cabin crisscrossed the oceans many times, and touched on all the continents except Antarctica, proof of nearly thirty years at sea. Where had the time gone?
After Miss Newsome’s introductions, he executed a workaday bow, which was the only kind he knew, and sat in the chair Mr Newsome indicated. In double-quick time a servant arrived with afternoon sherry and almond-flavoured tea cakes.
The sherry was dry the way he liked it and the tea cakes moist and flavourful, two adjectives that his steward had never thought to associate with ship’s fare. Joe could have eaten them all.
Instead, he held out the handsome leather case that Second Lieutenant Newsome had brought on board the Ulysses a bare eight months ago. He could have told the Newsomes that the other officers had chuckled over the unscratched leather and working clasps, perhaps trying to remember when they had been that young and green. He chose to say nothing.
‘I put your son’s second-best uniform in my own duffel,’ he said, ‘as well as his sword. I will leave those with you.’
‘Where is his best uniform?’ Mrs Newsome demanded.
Surprised,
