Page 1 of Secrets Across the Sea
Boston, Massachusetts – 1807
“Of all the asinine, dimwitted, buzzard brained…”
“James,” Mrs. Elinor Darcy smiled as she tilted her head.
If Father proved wise, he would heed her warning, Fitzwilliam mused. He himself had witnessed her use that same method on him… his sisters too. Yet, no matter the recipient, the outcome never proved pleasing to those who mistook her sweet smiles for weakness.
“My apologies, dear. But have you seen this?” he fumed, thumping the paper in front of him; the attention of his entire family gained as he read the news, “On Monday the 22nd, a 50-gun British vessel known as the HMS Leopard attacked and boarded the USS Chesapeake, a 38-gun American frigate, off the coast of Norfolk, Virginia with the aim of recapturing deserters believed to be on board. The USS Chesapeake, unprepared for any attack so near their own shores, found themselves forced to surrender after three of their men were left dead and eighteen wounded in the encounter. Of the survivors, four were taken by the HMS Leopard on charges of desertion, however, as three are American citizens, it is believed they may yet be released.”
Newspaper tossed carelessly on the table, Mr. James Darcy made his way to the fireplace mantle. “First, they take American born sailors and force them to serve aboard their ships, now they attack ships without provocation… and in friendly waters on almost every occasion!” Shoving a clay pipe into the small pouch of tobacco he held, Mr. Darcy risked breaking the fragile vessel as he muttered, “Seems Britain is wreathed with naught but pudding-headed sappies now.”
Father would surely break his new pipe if he kept mistreating it so, Fitzwilliam Darcy considered as his father continued to dig at the tobacco as one might unyielding earth. Many times had news involving Britain inflamed his father, and at least three of his delicate clay pipes had not survived the tight grip of angered thoughts.
“Darling,” Mrs. Darcy noted as she came to rest a hand on the arm of her husband, “such anger cannot be good for your constitution. Besides which, though I know how much you and your late father lean toward the viewpoint of the Americans, you forget I am of strong British heritage. My father was an earl, my brother now holds that same title, and though our son and daughters hold no such titles of their own, they are–in my opinion–as much British as American. More so in fact, for you, though American born, are in actuality a British citizen. You may recall studying at Oxford and courting me in London?” Lips thinned as she moved to stand in front of him, she added, “I do wish you would not slur all those in Britain; particularly my family, myself, and to some degree, our children. One day Fitzwilliam, Georgiana, or Catherine might find it their home; let them decide for themselves if they intend to follow in your family line or mine.”
“I am sorry Elinor, and,” he said, a soft smile forming, “I promise never to forget our days together there. Indeed, I never could. However, though such memories always lighten my heart, they have not blinded me to high-handed actions–like those I just read–nor do I believe the sharing of them to our children shall irrevocably harm their opinion of your home nation. Our children, after all, have a great deal of sense; and the same stubborn natures you and I each possess.” Inhaling as he lit his pipe, he paused before, at last successful, chuckling. “Besides which, with that stubborn nature, no matter what they choose they shall, in fact, be following in both our family lines.”
Letting her hands rise and fall, Mrs. Darcy allowed her own mirth to meet her husband’s. “Hopeless.” Turning toward the settee where Georgiana and Catherine sat, she chose the close of all conversations political, “Girls, your master shall be here shortly; painting today if I recall. Go ready yourselves.”
“Yes, Mother,” the two agreed, eyes darting toward their father as they went.
“Enjoy yourselves today, my girls,” Mr. Darcy grinned, moving to kiss the two on the forehead as they passed. “I shall be home before the sun sets.” Turning to his wife he asked, “Shall you still be joining me?”
“Of course, dear–I told the girls so last night. I shall be ready to leave in say, a quarter of an hour?”
Nodding, he kissed her cheek before moving to the door, “I shall see to it the gig is gleaming and polished by the time you are ready.”
“The gig?” she questioned, brows raised. “Why not the carriage?”
“And have a driver or worse still, even a footman, on a fine day when I wish to be alone with my lady? I should say not!”
“Hopeless,” she laughed. “Utterly so. I trust you shall find a way for the basket I am bringing to the Pierce’s to ride with us?”
“Of course,” he winked as he walked through the door, “Of course.”
“Absurd,” she spoke to the closed door before turning. “Now then, Fitzwilliam, what shall you do today? I trust you do not find yourself alone or unoccupied.”
“I intend to check on our tenants to the North. Mr. Quinton has injured his arm, and I fear he may struggle to bring in a full harvest this autumn.”
“Poor man. Take a jar of preserves if you will and my best wishes for his health. I wish I could visit him myself today but tell him I shall do so before the week is out.”
“I shall… now hurry,” he advised, lips curling as his mother glanced up at the clock worriedly.
“I love you,” she cried, kissing his cheek before grabbing her gloves and bonnet then scurrying toward the kitchen. “I do hope I did not forget to put anything in the basket; the Pierce’s have been ill a fortnight and need all the assistance they can!”
“I love you too,” Fitzwilliam called after her with a shake of his head.
A whirlwind day, and it could hardly be said to have begun, he noted as he moved toward the stairs to fetch his own gloves and hat. Was there anything else he ought to do before leaving? Say goodbye to his sisters. His watch needed winding. And, of course, he had better not forget the preserves for Mr. Quinton, or he would never hear the end of it.
∞∞∞
Mounting his gelding, Fitzwilliam Darcy inclined his head to Mr. Quinton. “My thanks for your hospitality. I shall see to it five men are sent to you as soon as you send the word–it appears you shall have a fine harvest!”
“I thank you, sir,” Mr. Quinton said, his hat held in his good hand as he gazed upward. “I promise to pay you for the use of your men as soon as the harvest is in.”
Hand raised, Fitzwilliam answered, “Please, the rent you pay is more than enough… my family would, after all, have your roof fixed if it leaked. This is no different.”
“It is a far cry from a leaky roof, but I thank you all the same.” Waving as Fitzwilliam turned his horse to leave, Mr. Quinton added, “Be sure to give my regards to your mother, and thank her for the preserves! Never known a kinder woman.”
“I shall be sure to. Be well,” Fitzwilliam called over his shoulder as he worked his horse to a trot.
Mr. Quinton was not wrong. His mother surely was one of the kindest women. Generous, compassionate, and, as his father had said, stubborn. A fine quality when she chose to help another. Perhaps less than desirable when he had wished to avoid his studies.
Shifting the reins to his other hand, Fitzwilliam tugged uselessly at his cravat. His days at Oxford had never proved as hot as this, save in one or two classrooms on the rare cloudless day in the middle of the year.
Perhaps Mother might be persuaded to send one of the servants–or better yet, himself–into the icehouse for a small chunk of ice?
After being out all day, even she might see the wisdom in using the ice for unextraordinary uses?
Wiping his damp brow, he nodded.
Yes. He would certainly ask.
∞∞∞
Home in sight, Fitzwilliam prepared to nudge his mount into a gallop before thinking better of it. It would not be kind to the animal in such heat. Besides which, Mother would be cross if he and his horse came home with more dust and lather than required. No need to be out of her good graces before he even suggested having ice.
“Whoa,” he directed, giving slight pressure to the reins as he did. “What in the blazes?”
Dozens of people milled in front of their residence; soft murmurs, slumped postures, and either wringing hands or hats clenched before them as he rode near.
Were those young women on the porch holding handkerchiefs to their eyes his sisters?
Stilling his gelding, Fitzwilliam dismounted just before he reached the crush of people, the sudden silence causing him to stiffen.
What in the duce was the matter?
“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Jarvis said, tone equal parts direct and hesitant. “I. I am sorry. I wish I had the words to… rather, I would say anything else if I might. However.”
“However?” Fitzwilliam questioned, brows pinched as he looked between the man before him and his two weeping sisters. “What has happened? Tell me at once!”
“Your parents…” he forced, hands rubbing against his sides, “they met with an accident. No one saw what spooked the horse, only… only how, in spite of your father’s best efforts… their gig flew off the road, end over end. They… they neither of them survived.” Wiping at his eyes, he continued, “You have all of our condolences. They did not suffer long, should that lend you any comfort. It all occurred in a moment.”
Dead? No. There. There had to be a mistake. Yes. A mistake.
Moving toward his sisters, the reins in his hand fell to the ground.
A terrible mistake. A…
“Oh, Fitzwilliam,” Georgiana cried as she threw herself into his chest; Catherine leaning against a post as she stared past him.
A horrible mistake.