shouldn’t have told her, she who set the box on his letter in the first place. He knew Mrs Fillion had been through much, with children of her own at sea, and bad news when her lodgers died in the service of king and country. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
‘Look here, ma’am, don’t weep on my account,’ he added hastily. ‘As it turned out, once the Bold picked me up and revictualled, we left the Carolinas and never returned. I was a foolish lieutenant. Our paths were destined never to cross again.’
Mrs Fillion wasn’t buying it. ‘Love doesn’t work like that,’ she argued. She dabbed angrily at her tears. ‘If you had known her answer, you would have found a way.’
‘Poppycock and humbug, Mrs Fillion,’ he stated firmly.
He misjudged the redoubtable owner of the Drake. ‘Listen to me, Captain Grey,’ she demanded.
Unused to being dressed down, he listened.
‘I think you should go to the United States,’ she said, lowering her voice so the other Navy men couldn’t hear. ‘Find Miss Winnings.’
‘What is the point, madam?’ he said, exasperated, more with himself than with her.
‘She said aye eleven years ago,’ Mrs Fillion replied.
He knew he was wearing his most sceptical expression, but she touched his sleeve, her hand gentle on his arm. ‘Have a little faith, Captain.’
He had to laugh. ‘Madam, I am as profane a captain as you will find in the fleet, as are most of my associates. We rely on time and tides, not faith.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ She looked around the room. ‘I doubt there is a captain or lieutenant in here who doesn’t rely on faith, too, say what you will.’
What could he add to that? He wasn’t up to a theological argument with a hardworking woman he had long admired. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he muttered, then leaned over and gave Mrs Fillion a whacking great kiss on her cheek. For both their sakes, he chose not to continue the narrative. He could pretend he had reassured her, and she was kind enough to think so, too. That was how polite society worked.
He knew it would be wise to leave the dining room then, and spare Mrs Fillion from more discomfort. He looked in the card room, not surprised to see the perpetual whist game about to get underway. He couldn’t remember who had named it that, but during wartime, there was always someone in port to make up a whist table. Some of the officers preferred backgammon, and there was a table for that, too.
Lieutenant Chardon, his parents French emigrés, was looking for a partner to sit in the empty chair opposite him. The other two partners, good whist players, were already seated.
‘Captain Grey, would you partner me?’ the luff asked.
Jem considered their chances of taking sufficient tricks from the proficient pair looking at him with similar calculation. He knew the state of Chardon’s purse—his parents dead now, and Auguste Chardon living from hand to mouth, thanks to the Treaty of Amiens. Jem knew they could defeat their opponents, who were post captains like himself, with ample prize money to see them through the irritation of peacetime. Chardon needed a big win to support his habit of eating and sleeping under a roof.
‘I’d be delighted,’ Jem said, and sat down.
‘Our Yankee captain,’ one of the opposing captains said, and not with any real friendship.
Jem shrugged it off as he always did. There were worse things to be called. Hadn’t his older friend Captain Benjamin Hallowell, also a Massachusetts Yankee, managed to become one of Sir Horatio Nelson’s storied Band of Brothers after the Battle of the Nile?
‘Aye, sir,’ he said, broadening his relatively unnoticeable American accent.
Jem motioned for Lieutenant Chardon to shuffle the deck.Ninety minutes later, he had the satisfaction of watching the captains fork over a substantial sum to Chardon. A note to Mrs Fillion had brought sandwiches and beer to their table. Jem wasn’t hungry, but he suspected Chardon was. How nice to see him eat and play at the same time.
After the captains left, grumbling, Chardon tried to divide the money. Jem shook his head. When the lieutenant started to protest, Jem put up his hand.
‘I have been where you are now,’ he said simply. ‘This discussion is over, Lieutenant Chardon.’
And it was; that was the beauty of outranking a lieutenant. He invited Chardon to join him down the street at a fearsome pit of a café serving amazing sausages swaddled in thick bread. He ate one to Chardon’s three, bid him goodnight and returned to the Drake, before the lieutenant, not so poor now, could go in anonymity and without embarrassment to his meagre lodgings. In due time if Chardon survived, once war resumed, he would have his own prize money earning further income in Carter and Brustein’s counting house.
‘You may prefer me not to say this, Captain Grey,’ Chardon told him as they parted company. ‘You are a man of honour.’
Jem Grey returned the little bow and made his way back to warm and comfortable quarters at the Drake. He could unbutton his trousers, kick off his shoes, lie down on a bed that did not sway with the current, and contemplate his next step, now that he knew Theodora Winnings had loved him eleven years ago.
After a beastly night worrying how long Teddy Winnings had waited for him to reply to her letter, James scraped away at the whiskers on his face, slouched downstairs to the dining room, and settled for a coffee and a roll, which didn’t please Mrs Fillion.
‘I really hope you’re not still troubled over that unfortunate letter,’ she said as she poured him a cup. ‘I worried enough for both of us.’
‘No, no,’ he lied, then repented because he knew Mrs Fillion was intelligent. ‘Aye, I did worry some.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
He looked around the dining room, wishing there were someone seated who had more courage dealing with Mrs Fillion. He saw none, and he knew most of the room’s occupants. Men could be such cowards.
‘I don’t know,’ he said frankly.
Honesty appeared to be the best policy with Mrs Fillion. She declined further comment, to his relief passed on to her next customer, coffee pot in hand.
He had a headful of things to do, but lying awake nearly all night had pushed one agenda directly to the top of his mind’s disorderly heap. His jaw ached. A man feeling as low as he did could only take the next step, which he did. He drew his boat cloak tight around him and walked to Stonehouse Naval Hospital.
Unwilling to face the nosy clerks in Admin, Jem walked directly to Building Two, where an orderly met him at the door.
‘Where away, captain?’ the man asked, in proper navy fashion.
‘Surgeon Owen Brackett,’ he said. ‘Tell him James Grey would like a word, if it’s convenient.’
The orderly touched his forehead and gestured to a sitting room. It
