Chapter 11: Finding Her Voice

The ride in her father's coach over the narrow lanes was bumpy and progress was slow. Elizabeth Maynard was staring out of the window without seeing much. The presence of her aunt Prudence was comforting, but the figure of her father sitting opposite her filled Elizabeth with cold anger.

A day before, he had shown up in Plymouth and told Elizabeth without much ado to pack her belongings and ready herself for the return to Salcombe. Her scribbled "Why?" on her wax tablet had been met with a curt, "Do as you are told!".

Apparently, he had filled in Aunt Prudence on the purpose, for Elizabeth had heard them arguing whilst packing her clothes with the help of the maidservant. Yet, even at supper, he would not answer her repeated scribbled questions. He seemed angry too, almost seething with resentment. Her questions as to the cause of his ill temper were met with a harsh command to go to bed.

Of course, Elizabeth knew the reason. The letter from Jeremiah Anson had forewarned her, and she could see that her father was still fuming over the things Anson must have said to him.

On the next morning, Elizabeth noted with surprise that her aunt was ready for travel too, and insistent on accompanying her niece. She too was treated with the same air of seething anger that seemed to permeate her father's mood.

Once on the highway, he curtly told Elizabeth that Captain Anson had withdrawn his suit on the grounds that he had better prospects now. He also claimed that the "impertinent upstart" had insulted him. He then told her that he had arranged for a better marriage with the son of an old acquaintance. Elizabeth had then scribbled a question asking for the reasons of the sudden change of heart, to which her father had brusquely answered that Anson was barely a gentleman, but rather an uncouth upstart, a bastard, and without prospects. She, Elizabeth, should be happy that her father had finally identified a proper suitor, namely Mr. Edwin Carrick, the second son of Lord Dalmere.

Elizabeth had fallen into a sullen mood then, something that suited her father quite well. Around noontime they stopped at a wayside inn to take a meal and to visit the privy. Her father had been curt and supercilious to the innkeeper, adding to the hostile atmosphere Elizabeth felt. She realised with certainty that any mentioning of Jeremiah Anson to her father would probably result in a violent reaction, and she resorted to sitting on her bench impassively whilst the coach swayed and bucked on the bad road.

Elizabeth herself was now feeling a seething anger, even loathing. Her father had lied to her. The man to whom she had looked up all her life, the man who seemed to exemplify gentlemanly behaviour, was in truth a cowardly liar. He did not dare to tell her the truth. He tried to hoodwink her into believing that the one man who could make her happy had scorned her. He was betraying the trust she had felt in her father so he could please Lord Dalmere.

Elizabeth had met His Lordship once. In fact, he had been the model for one of the unsavoury characters in the little comedy that she had written. He was a fussy old man, of convinced stupidity, and with an equally appalling wife. Elizabeth expected their son to have sprung from the same mould.

From the dark thoughts she was thinking came a change of attitude. If her father gave no heed to her wishes, if he treated her like some chattel or merchandise to be pawned off at will, then she did not owe him obedience and respect anymore. Recalling Anson's letter, she saw the sentence before her eyes in which he stated his willingness to accept her even without her father's blessing and money. Now all she had to achieve was for her father to disown her.

If she raised a protest now, he would simply silence her by taking away all her writing implements. Remembering his earlier actions, she even suspected that he would do so anyway. He would keep her confined to Morton Hall too. The one thing she had going for herself was the presence of her aunt Prudence. She was Elizabeth's staunch ally, and she would act for her niece.

At the next stop, whilst the Colonel was making use of a privy, Elizabeth pulled her spare wax tablet from the valise under the seat and scribbled on it. She handed it to her aunt then who read, "Please hide this for me!". Prudence Fowler nodded sadly and proceeded to hide the tablet under her skirts where not even Colonel Maynard would dare to look for it.

Further the coach rumpled and Elizabeth's thoughts meandered on. There would be only one chance for her to express her will she realised. At the wedding ceremony, the vicar would ask bride and groom for their "I do". She envisioned that moment, with her father speaking up for her, "Of course she does." Simply shaking her head would not suffice. Yet, bringing her tablet to the church would not do the trick either. Her father would snatch it away before the vicar could read it. Try as she might, Elizabeth saw but one way out.

"Permission to leave ship, Captain?"

"Permission granted, sir!" Cmdr. Witmarsh answered with a grin.

The boatswain's pipes twittered as Anson stepped on the gangplank. His command was over, and until he took over the Syren, he was a captain on half pay. It was just as well that he left Salcombe. Two weeks ago, Maynard had brought Elizabeth back to Salcombe, and from what Anson had heard, she was kept at Morton Hall and not allowed to visit Salcombe. Once he, Anson, left the town, Maynard might relent and give the poor woman some freedom.

Should she ever decide to defy her father, Anson had laid enough groundwork. Witmarsh was a given seeing how he owed his promotion to Anson's favourable reports, but also due to the mutual dislike between the colonel and the fisherman's son. Mr. Joyce had also promised his support, as had Captain Butterworth and even the mayor, Mr. Hapling. A sum of money, £50, was entrusted to Mr. Joyce for Elizabeth Maynard's use. It was to be held for one year, after which time the money would be forwarded to Anson's bank house. It was all he could do. That, and hope.

On the next morning, Trehearne in his Esmeralda would take Anson, with Libby Mason and their combined belongings, to Torquay. The Torbay Roads served as shelter for the Channel Fleet, and Anson hoped to catch a ship headed for Portsmouth. They could take the regular post chaise from Portsmouth until Guildford, and from there find transport to Fernwood. There would be time to spare until he had to call at the Admiralty.

Such was the plan. Yet he could not help but feel desperation over leaving this place without Elizabeth. The further she slipped from his reach the more he yearned for her. To take his mind off the whole situation, Anson decided to visit the Mermaid one last time. Here, in the low ceilinged common room, he found several acquaintances, and soon he had to call for rounds of ale whilst Salcombe's maritime population drank to his health and success. He felt a little better when he left the inn and directed his steps to his rented house for the last time.

Libby opened for him, and after a supper of cold cuts, he retired to his bed. Sleep did not come easy, but at long last he managed to clear his mind. One of his last thoughts before he slipped into sleep was of Elizabeth.

Although Elizabeth Maynard was confined to her father's house ever since her return, she was not completely in the dark with regards to the events in Salcombe. Her acute hearing picked up the information from the babble and gossiping of the servants. Her aunt, not really at home in the small town, contributed less, but she was willing to run errands for Elizabeth. Coming from one such foray into town, Mrs. Fowler returned with a letter hidden under her skirts which she handed over to Elizabeth without a word whilst assisting her niece with some embroidery.

Once back in the solitude of her room, Elizabeth read the note. It was from Anson, and her heart leaped. In short concise sentences, the note identified five men in Salcombe who would hold themselves ready to help her. It also notified her of the money held in trust by Mr. Joyce. She read over the notice one more time to memorise it, and then took a scissors to cut it up in as many small snippets as she could. Conveniently, it was raining cats and dogs outside. She opened the window and let the paper bits fall into the rain gutter where they were flushed away.

She now had allies to rely on, and a good thing that was, for the wedding to Mr. Edwin Carrick was only two weeks away. Her father had announced the date on the morning after Captain Anson had sailed from Salcombe. Two more weeks to arrange things, two more weeks of desperate attempts to restore her own speaking voice.

From the first, Elizabeth had realised that short of saying "no" in front of the entire church, she had no chance to express her dissent. And so she practised to make sounds again, after almost fifteen years of suppressing her voice. Fifteen years!

She had been hidden then behind a latticed door, and she had watched in horror as the cruel men had first violated her poor mother one after the other, and then hacked her into pieces. Nobody had ever told her what sex was, nobody had ever explained the male anatomy and the mechanics of copulation. What she saw filled her with a mix of horror and fascination. She felt guilty for the fascination, but also for having survived the attack whilst her mother hadn't.

Afterwards, everybody had wanted her to tell what she had seen. She was mortified, not willing to explain those things for which she had no words, no concept. She had stayed mute, wishing it all to go away. Strangely it did. Once the officers and constables accepted that she had turned mute, they stopped asking. Young Elizabeth realised that the questions would start again once she "regained" her speech, and she kept silent.

Over the years, the wilful silence became a part of who she was and slipped from her conscious control. The music became a surrogate as did the writing. The muteness also kept away strangers, visitors, people who would ask questions. Now, she could not speak anymore even if she tried. Or could she?

During the past weeks, she had spent hours in front of her mirror, her mouth forming the all-important short word. She dared not try to speak loudly, for fear of her father overhearing her, and so she tried to whisper the word. One night, a week ago, a severe autumn gale had punished the little town. The wind, the clatter of shingles and window shutters, the rain lashing windows and roof, had created such a cacophony of sounds that Elizabeth had dared to raise her voice.

"Noooh! Noooh!" she had told her mirror image. "Nooh!" She had liked the sound of her own voice. "Noooh! Noooooh!"

Now she was practising another word. Looking into the mirror again, she stared at her image. "Nebber! Nebber! Nebber!"

Her whispered words sounded not quite right, but they would have to do. With a grim smile, she fixated her mirror image again. "Noooh! Nebber!"

How could two such negative words hold so much promise?

"Orders given to me, Jeremiah Anson, Captain, Royal Navy:

"Sir, you are hereby requested and required to assume command of His Majesty's frigate Syren of 32 guns, at present under extended revision at the Sheerness dockyards.

Signed by Mr. Chauncer, Asst. Secretary to Their Lordships."

Anson looked around on the deck. There were some forty men, mostly the idlers of the crew, who were busy fitting the ship out with the help of the dockyard workmen. Without the ordnance, the deck looked even more empty, but still – this was his command now. In a few weeks, this frigate would be sailing the Channel and the Dutch coast, and he, Jeremiah Anson, would be in command. It was an exhilarating feeling.

He had been early, but as Sir Robert had pointed out, the earlier he read himself in, the earlier he could draw his pay as captain of a Fifth Rate. The Royal Levée would be a week hence, and his new Nº1 uniform was ready for the occasion.

Sir Robert had arranged to attend the same levée with his wife so that he would see his son being presented to the King. Anson was lodging in the Conningtons' London townhouse, but he had also visited his half-sister Vanessa and her husband. If either of them had misgivings over his new status, Anson could not detect them.

Returning to the present, he looked at his First Lieutenant.

"You may dismiss the men, Mr. Carlton."

"Aye-aye, sir!" Carlton answered. He was relatively young for a First Lieutenant, two years younger than Anson himself.

The crew returned to their task and Anson retired to the cabin. Taking over the ship whilst still in the dockyard was a lucky break, for it afforded Anson with the chance to furnish the captain's cabin to his liking. Mentally he listed items such as brass lamps, a comfortable chair, an upholstered bench, but also curtains and simple paintings for the bulkheads. The furniture left behind by his predecessor was Spartan and ugly.

Anson went over the ship's books and ledgers trying to learn as much as possible. When he emerged from his cabin, he explored the ship from the hold to the fo'c'sle. With the ballast removed and the water casks gone, he had a rare look at the timbers of his ship. She looked sound enough to his eyes.

The outside works were almost finished. A fresh copper bottom was still shining almost golden in the autumn sun, and above the water line the painters were busy applying the ubiquitous black paint interspersed with yellow gun ports. A captain of more substantial means might have added a few touches of gold paint, but Syren was largely devoid of carved ornaments, and Anson did not see the point anyway. He would have a seaworthy ship, and that was enough.