wore it on deck for the battle, ma’am,’ he told her, dreading the way her face paled. ‘We all dress for battle on my ship.’ He swallowed the lump in his throat. ‘He is wearing it still, a credit to King and country.’
Mrs Newsome burst into tears and threw herself into her husband’s arms. Oh, Lord, I made a mess of that, Joe thought, as Mr Newsome began to weep. Alarmed, Joe looked at Miss Newsome’s expressive face as she dissolved in tears, too.
There they sat, Mr and Mrs Newsome locked in a tight and tearful embrace, with Miss Newsome suffering alone, no one’s arms around her.
Captain Everard knew he was famed throughout the White Fleet for his unflappable demeanour in battle and the deliberate way he went about plotting courses and thinking through all possible outcomes of a fleet action. Not an impulsive man, he was also noted for the ability to move with real speed when events dictated.
He did so now, moving close to Miss Newsome as she sat in solitary sorrow on the loveseat. He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her as she sobbed into his uniform, convinced that had there been another family member present, his action would not have been necessary.
Recent years had acquainted him with too much suffering, too much sorrow, too much pain. To say that holding Miss Newsome close was the least he could do was a regrettable statement of fact. He wanted to do more. He wanted to bring back the son, brother and second lieutenant who had showed such promise. He could do nothing but hold Davey Newsome’s sister and let her cry.
He would have managed well enough, if her arms hadn’t gone around him and if she hadn’t begun to pat his back, and then hold him close until he cried, too. He was sick of war and death and knew in his soul that Trafalgar was not the end of the struggle for world domination, but merely one step along the way. Damn Boney anyway.
Her parents still wept. Miss Newsome pulled away first, but did not leave the circle of his embrace. She sniffed back more tears and he gave her his handkerchief, hoping he had not committed some massive social blunder. He had visited many bereaved families—too many—but this was the first time he had cried, too, and held a grieving sister close. Perhaps an explanation was in order.
‘Miss Newsome, I do not generally... Well, I do not...’ That is pathetic, Joe, he thought. ‘No one should be alone in sorrow.’
She blew her nose, then endeared herself to him for ever by resting her forehead against his arm for the smallest moment. ‘Begging your pardon, Captain, but you were alone, too,’ she said softly. ‘Let us go into the hall and leave my parents to their grief.’
She picked up her brother’s leather case and took it with her. In the hall, she motioned towards a door that opened into a small but charming breakfast room. She set the case on the table, took several deep breaths and opened it. Her lips trembled as she took out David Newsome’s few possessions. She held up the strip of rolled cloth that held his scissors, some thread, a thimble and needles, and managed a smile that touched Joe’s heart.
‘I gave my little brother a brief tutorial on how to sew on a button,’ she said, before replacing it in the case.
She seemed to be in control of herself again, so Joe knew he could do no less, himself. God, how he hated to deliver bad news.
‘I must inform you that he was terrible at sewing,’ Joe said, which brought what appeared to be a genuine smile to her face. ‘He showed up in the wardroom one evening for dinner with a button sewn on with black thread on his white shirt. I told him to do better, in no uncertain terms.’
‘Did he look at you with those big puppy-brown eyes and appear wounded beyond belief? Sort of like this?’ she said and turned the expression on him.
‘Aye, he did,’ Joe said, astounded again at the resemblance between brother and sister, although he had to admit that the expression was vastly more appealing on Miss Newsome’s face. ‘I told him not to toy with me, but resew that button.’
Should he say more? He knew he should not, but there she was. ‘All joking aside, Miss Newsome, if you had practised such an expression in my wardroom, I would have let the matter slide.’
She laughed, seeing right through his mildest of flirtations in perhaps the most unsuitable moment imaginable. ‘Captain Everard, could it be that you have a softer heart than even Davey described in his letters?’
Good God, had he been served up to the family as a martinet with the heart of pudding in Lieutenant Newsome’s letters home? ‘I hardly know what to say to that,’ he managed.
‘Davey wrote how you never could quite inflict the lash beyond a stroke or two, when probably more was needed,’ Miss Newsome said. ‘Personally, I thank you for that and so did Davey.’
He mumbled something about the idiocy of getting men to follow, when their captain made life unbearable aboard ship. ‘I’ve never been afraid to err on the side of leniency, Miss Newsome, but I do know when discipline is necessary,’ he said in his own defence. ‘I’d rather have a sailor swab an already white deck than suffer the lash.’
He could have added that his ship was known to be a well-disciplined war machine where few men deserted, but it wasn’t necessary to praise himself. He was only going to be here a few more minutes. His Quaker mother, long dead, would have scolded him for puffing up his consequence, had he said more.
But there she was, looking at him with admiration. He did his job as he saw fit and nothing more. He knew it was time to move this conversation along.
‘Let me give you your brother’s uniform and I’ll be on my way,’ he said.
Before she could speak, he went into the hall and retrieved his duffel bag. He had carefully folded the uniform on top, so it came out easily. He set it on the table and Miss Newsome broke his heart into even more pieces by smoothing down the wrinkled wool.
‘I tucked his bicorn beside him before my steward sewed him into his hammock for burial,’ he said. ‘Miss Newsome, I am so sorry.’
She cried again and he patted her shoulder until she drew a shuddering breath and applied his handkerchief to her eyes. ‘See here,’ she said, ‘I have quite ruined your handkerchief.’
‘I have plenty more,’ he told her.
‘I would imagine other families have cried into them.’
‘Aye, they have.’
With a resolution that touched his heart, she returned her attention to her brother’s leather case, which held his shaving equipment, pen and nibs, ink, the Bible, two works of fiction he had passed around for others to enjoy and his private journal.
She picked up the journal and flipped through the pages. ‘Interesting how a life can move along and then it is over and the pages are empty,’ she murmured, more to herself than to him. ‘I will give this to my parents. I don’t have the heart to read it. Maybe later.’
She looked at him in surprise when he unbuckled the sword at his waist and placed it on the table next to the uniform.
‘I left mine back in Plymouth,’ he explained. ‘This is Davey’s
