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Though her voice was sweet and attractive enough, the coolness of her manner made his eyebrow lift.

She was aware of his hospital stay, then?

That meant she was likely also acquainted with what landed him there—the night’s elation and carousing, the wild flight from the authorities, his unfortunate fall.

Well, there had been no reason for Barstow to keep mum about it.

But why should she be so cold about it? Whenever Horace regaled Mary Pence with his escapades, she would giggle and declare she wished she had been there. ( Forget about Mary Pence! )

Perhaps Mrs. Sebastian held herself aloof to avoid breaking down.

She might be sad or bitter or both over her husband’s bad luck.

God knew, if Barstow had also had the good fortune to fall off a roof and break his leg that fateful night, he would likely be alive today, and Langworthy would not be sitting in this parlor in his place.

Aloud he merely said, “Indeed, so I was. In the hospital. Where Barstow kindly saw me deposited in a bed before he took himself off to rejoin the ship. I cursed my fate, then, imagining myself deprived of who knew how much action and prize money, but alas, we neither of us were fortunate in that respect. Though he, of course—though he—that is, I am sorry for what happened to him. I did not mean to make it sound—”

“Mr. Langworthy,” breathed Mrs. Barstow, “you must not apologize for being alive, though my son is gone. One has nothing to do with the other, and I would hate to be so selfish to wish you harm or misfortune simply because you were spared. Please. It is so kind of you to come.”

“It is kind,” Mrs. Sebastian murmured, as one who worked to convince herself. “You are from Portsmouth, I believe, so this journey has cost you not only money, but also time away from your friends and family.”

“Oh—” He gave a vague, deprecating shrug because he could hardly say, To what friends and family do you refer, madam?

“I imagine we are to congratulate you on more than your survival, sir,” she went on, taking up her sewing again.

“For I believe Sebastian said two years ago that you were engaged to be married. In your own letter, you said you were delayed from returning to England because you were held prisoner in Spain until the Peace. Now that peace has come and you have your liberty, you must also have married. Therefore please thank Mrs. Langworthy as well for letting you come.”

Sarah made her speech with all goodwill—indeed, she had been reproaching herself for ingratitude after hearing her mother-in-law’s sincere gladness—so her surprise was great when their visitor’s brow knit and his eyes darkened.

“Thank you, Mrs. Sebastian Barstow,” he replied, cool as cool. “But I am not yet married.”

“Oh!” Stricken, she wondered if something had befallen his intended bride, and she had cruelly rubbed upon the sore. The other Barstows must have feared the same, for they were careful to avoid each other’s eyes, despite their curiosity.

Though there was nothing in all the world he would less like to discuss, Langworthy said gruffly, “Miss Pence has engaged herself to another. Therefore, I am…entirely free to go where I please.” To forestall any pitying remarks, or, worse, any wild attempts to change the subject, he did it himself.

“Speaking of—er—ladies,” he resumed hastily, “did Barstow ever tell you of the time when Captain Blackwood was charged with bringing a Mrs. Dulles from Portsmouth to Southend? No? Well, then. The crew thought conveying female passengers a task beneath our dignity in time of war, but she proved a most interesting figure…”

His attempt to distract them succeeded, though not, perhaps, for the reason he imagined.

Frances would say later, “It was all I could do, to keep my mouth from hanging open, when he told us Mrs. Dulles had been an actress on the stage and was the admiral’s ‘special friend’!

” (This, with a sidewise glance at her younger sister Maria.)

“Mrs. Dulles was the only true woman ever carried aboard the Penelope ,” Langworthy told them, “but there were other temporary ones.”

“What can you mean, ‘temporary’?” asked young Maria. Quite captivated by their new acquaintance, she had crept closer with the lapdog Poppet in her arms, until she was nearly at his feet.

“Did your brother ever tell you of our first time crossing the line?”

“What line?”

“You ask me ‘what line?’ And you, a sailor’s sister?” he teased. “I refer to the equator, of course.”

“Certainly he did,” said Mrs. Barstow.

“He said there were frolics and pranks, and the first lieutenant Beeton dressed up as King Neptune to ‘baptize’ the newer sailors,” said Sarah.

“I suppose one might call them frolics and pranks,” he conceded, “but I was right glad Barstow and I were in it together, along with perhaps another score of the crew. And because we were members of the Gunroom, we got off more easily than the landsmen and ordinary seamen. They were the temporary ladies I mentioned, for a few of them were made to wear ladies’ clothing for the ceremonies.

Four of Neptune’s constables came for us all and locked us on the lower deck, and with the hatchways battened down it was dark and hot as—as a place you would rather not be.

Barstow and I were let out first, however.

They blindfolded us and led us along, everyone tossing buckets of water over our heads.

Then we were made to lie along a plank, where they proceeded, with far more water, lather, and vigor than strictly necessary, to shave us, before tilting the plank up and dumping us in the sea.

Just to press the point home, a couple men bobbed in the water to administer one final ducking, and then the ‘frolic’ was ended.

Let me just say, I had reason that day to be glad again that Barstow had taught me to swim. ”

He gave a hearty laugh, slapping his knees, before noticing the utter astonishment, not unmixed with dismay, on the ladies’ faces.

Prodigious! Clearly his comrade’s letters home had been watered with vagueness and euphemisms to make them more palatable, for his womenfolk stared at Langworthy as if he had just described to them the alien customs of South Sea islanders.

His laugh broke off, and he felt his face warm. Belatedly he recalled that Barstow’s father had been a clergyman, though, by gum, Langworthy would never have called his friend strait-laced.

Maybe the family saved all the strait-lacing for the female members.

For her part, Sarah was conscious of a peculiar fluttering in her midsection which she did not like one bit because she knew from experience it presaged a thought she had never thought. A realization she had never realized.

On this occasion, that her dear husband had more sides to himself than he had revealed to her. Those stories in his letters which she had read once and no more, thinking them too rackety, too Horace-Langworthy for her taste—those were not even the worst of it!

There had been more. Who knew how many! More riotry and whatnot, which he had withheld from her.

It was one thing for Sebastian to excise incidents like the voyage of Mrs. Dulles the admiral’s mistress from correspondence with his mother and sisters, and to dilute the crudeness of “crossing the line” to spare them concern, but why should he not have told her, his wife?

Why tell her stories which were a degree milder, but not tell her all?

Had he meant to protect her? Or had he thought (with good reason) that she would not like such things and therefore should be spared them?

But—she did not want to be spared! She loved him!

She was his wife, meant to share the entirety of life with him and to be told of those experiences for which she could not be present, whether she liked them or not.

He had known she would disapprove of admiral’s mistresses and naval traditions which bordered on violence (were the perils of war not enough to be going on with?), but that did not mean she did not want to know of such things.

But he had never told her.

Had chosen not to tell her.

Indeed, who knew how much he had withheld over the years?

The few disconcerting episodes Sebastian elected to share all included the man now seated across the room, and she had naively assumed there was no more to tell.

Had naively assumed that what few there were could all be blamed on Horace Langworthy in any case.

Dismally she thought of the letters she had written to him —letters which held nothing back, brimming with the concerns and color of her days. She wondered now if Sebastian had found them tedious. Humdrum.

“My goodness,” Mrs. Barstow was saying, having recovered her composure again. “I am not sorry I did not know all the details before of such a…custom, or I would have been quite anxious to know that my son must face it. But he did face it and…survived, so there is that.”

“I hope you have a hundred more stories like that to tell us,” said Maria greedily, and Sarah could tell from the light in Frances’ eyes that she thought the same but was trying to be grown-up about it.

“Yes,” agreed their mother, her voice growing in confidence.

“I admit I was a little taken aback, but it was silly of me. So no more of that, either. The most generous thing you can do now would be to tell us more of your adventures with Sebastian. He wrote to us, of course, but, as you now understand, he did not tell us everything . Therefore, whatever you might have to share will add immeasurably to our little trove.”

“Yes, yes!” cried Miss Barstow and Miss Maria, and even little Master Bash bounced on his chubby legs in sympathy, but Langworthy could not help but notice Mrs. Sebastian remained subdued. Her closed lips smiled, but the smile did not involve her eyes.

Faced with this reminder of drawing-room manners, some men might have hung out the white flag, defeated by the company of so many genteel ladies, but rebellion stirred in him.

Amplified, perhaps by Mrs. Sebastian’s continuing aloofness.

Where the rest of the family threw off ceremony, eager for what he might share with them, she alone kept her distance?

She alone did not trouble to hide her displeasure?

Well! She was not the only one that day facing what was not altogether delightful to face. Look at the task he had set himself, for instance—or the task Barstow had set him, and which he had accepted!

So that’s how it’s going to be, he thought resentfully . If she will not pretend to what she does not feel, neither will I. If she will not assume a role, neither will I. He would be himself, come what may.

If anything, truth be told, Horace Langworthy was a little more than himself in the minutes that followed.

Having begun with the harsh customs associated with crossing the line, he was reminded of other shipboard pranks, some harmless and others making the Barstows catch their breath.

Maria’s and Frances’ questions about the names he mentioned led to further tales of fellow officers, and it being a rare ship not burdened with some bullying lieutenant frustrated in his attempts to rise, Beeton’s name was heard several times, arousing indignation in the Barstows.

“That Lieutenant Beeton better beware of meeting me!” declared Frances. “Imagine using one’s superior rank to vent one’s ill feeling! I don’t see why he harassed poor Sebastian, however. With no great connections, my brother had no more chance of advancement than he.”

“I suppose he spread his unpleasantness evenly about,” suggested Mrs. Barstow.

“He did.” But even as he said this, a shadow settled on his features.

Langworthy had always suspected Beeton was especially beastly to Barstow and himself because he envied their closeness.

Funny, that. If Beeton had got his wish and been Barstow’s bosom friend, would it now be the Penelope’s embittered first lieutenant sitting in this crowded parlor?

He glanced at the mantel clock. He had been there nearly three quarters of an hour and must now either take himself off or do what he came to do.

Seeing the direction of his look, Mrs. Barstow clasped her hands together and said, “Mr. Langworthy, I should have asked sooner, but would you have leisure to stay for dinner? We keep country hours and never dine later than two.”

But he was determined now and was shaking his head before she finished speaking. “Thank you, Mrs. Barstow. I am not certain—”

“Or tomorrow, if today will not be convenient?” she pressed. “Surely having come so far from Portsmouth you do not intend to turn right around and go back?”

“I have not yet decided on the—er—length of my stay here. Yet. That is—”

“Must you go already today?” wheedled Maria, now using Poppet’s paw to pat the visitor’s knee.

“Er—there is just one more thing before I go,” he answered, giving the dog’s head an absent pat.

They turned expectant faces to him, prepared to grant whatever he might ask, and he felt his palms dampen.

“Mrs. Sebastian Barstow, if I might have a—private—word with you?”