Chapter 12: Good News and Bad News

The frantic search for Elizabeth Maynard continued for the next days until the militia men were on the verge of mutiny. They had found neither hide nor hair of the young woman, but finally her wedding dress was discovered on the beach of a small cove. Hearing of this, Colonel Maynard returned to his house and locked himself in. Mrs. Fowler had already left Morton Hall and was now living in the Mermaid Inn, claiming that her brother-in-law was beside himself. Rumours from Morton Hall claimed that Maynard had taken to the bottle, barely eating, and certainly not cleaning himself up. Lt. Greves took it upon himself to release the militia from their duties, and a semblance of normalcy established itself.

In that first night, whilst everybody was sleeping tightly, two darkly clad figures walked towards the harbour where HM sloop Lady Jane made ready for leaving harbour. Captain John Witmarsh had assembled his crew for a surprise cruise along the coast to catch unsuspecting smugglers. Whilst most of the crew were in a storage shed assembling provisions, the two figures approached the gangplank. The smaller one took one step on the plank before she turned. Reaching out with her hand, Elizabeth Maynard gently and silently touched Mr. Joyce's marred cheek.

"It was my pleasure, Miss Elizabeth," the man said with a tremble in his voice.

She smiled once again and ran over the gangplank and aft where Captain Witmarsh was ready to lead her down the companionway and into his cabin.

On the evening of the next day, Lady Jane reached Portsmouth, ostensibly to replace a badly damaged six-pounder gun. At least, such was the reason entered into her log book, and nobody ever asked questions.

In Portsmouth, Miss Maynard alighted from the Lady Jane together with Mr. Witmarsh's young nephew Josiah. With this guardian, she then embarked on a journey to faraway London.

Sir Robert Connington considered himself a lucky man all things considered. He had a wife who matured with grace and who supported him unconditionally. He had a daughter who moved in London's society with perfect ease and who was a solid support for her husband. His inherited fortune was growing steadily, and he prided himself on the relative prosperity of his tenants and their families. He had even served King and country with honour in his youth, and now he was a respected member of Parliament. If there was one regret he had, it was that he disclosed his son's true identity too late. Jeremiah Anson was a fine man, and a good officer. However, due to his father's cowardice, he had now lost a woman whom he obviously cherished deeply.

Connington was aware of his own poor conduct. Of course, he had been afraid of hurting his wife by disclosing his sordid secret. If only he had realised her forgiving nature, he could have done things right much earlier. Now it was too late. That girl in the Godforsaken backwater town had to be married by now, and Jeremiah would never see her again. If only Jeremiah had shown up there in his true identity, the girl's father would have surely seen the advantage of giving his daughter to Sir Robert's only, if illegitimate, son.

"Bad thoughts, Dear?" his wife Catherine asked softly.

"Yes, I'm afraid. I should have been honest from the start. Now poor Jeremiah lost the girl."

"How can you know that? At what point could you have made a difference? Early on? He would have had a different career. He might be dead now, fallen in some battle or skirmish. After Trafalgar? He would never have met the girl then. Be reasonable, Dear."

It was an uncanny coincidence that in this moment their butler entered, waiting discreetly until being acknowledged.

"Yes, Abernathy?"

"Sir Robert, there is a young lady at the door asking to speak with Captain Anson or you."

"She would not have a name, would she?"

"Miss Elizabeth Maynard, Sir Robert."

Sir Robert's eyes went wide and he stared at his wife. Her mouth twitched and she turned to the butler.

"Show her in then, and be quick!"

The young woman who entered the tea room a minute later looked slightly bedraggled. Her hair, though carefully combed, needed washing, and her travel dress was slightly crumpled. Yet she was undeniably attractive, with her dark brown hair, her greenish eyes, an adorable nose, and full, bee-stung lips. Yes, Sir Robert mused, a man could easily lose his heart to that girl.

"Good evening, Miss Maynard, and welcome to our home. This is my wife Catherine. I am afraid that you missed Captain Anson by two weeks."

The girl nodded. "Dank woo!" She dug in her purse and produced a neat, silver framed wax tablet.

Captain Anson and I considered ourselves engaged, she wrote on it and held it for Sir Robert to see.

"Yes, my dear, we know. Poor Jeremiah was devastated thinking that he lost you. Could you convince your father to reconsider?"

She shook her head. "No," she said haltingly, and then scribbled again.

I escaped during the wedding.

"Oh dear!" Catherine exclaimed, but then remembered her duties as hostess. "You look exhausted, my girl. Had you a supper yet?"

Elizabeth Maynard shook her head, and a moment later, Catherine pulled the bell rope.

"Abernathy, have the kitchen prepare a supper for our guest."

"Very well, Milady," Abernathy answered stiffly and turned again.

"Wait, please," Catherine stopped him. She turned to the girl. "Have you already found lodgings?"

"No." The one word, sounding quite odd.

"Then you will hopefully accept our hospitality? We have plenty of room, and Jeremiah would never forgive us if we turned you out."

There was a smirk on her lips, but she changed that into a smile. "Dank woo."

"Abernathy, have one of the girls ready the guest room, the one facing the garden that Captain Anson used."

"Very well, Milady. Anything else?"

"Yes. Have the girls ready a hot bath. Our guest has been traveling for a while."

"She is absolutely delightful, Vanessa!" Catherine Connington stated. Her daughter was visiting, and she was telling her about their houseguest. "So bright and witty if you allow for her form of communication. And that after her terrible experience as a child!"

"I take it, Mother, that she passed your inspection," Vanessa laughed.

"I have no say in whom Jeremiah will court," Catherine protested, much to her daughter's amusement.

"Can I meet her then?" Vanessa asked with an amused smile.

"I was hoping that you'd ask. She came but with a small valise. She escaped an arranged wedding with a certified scoundrel, and she could not bring along a wardrobe. I was thinking, with you and her of the same age, you might want to take her to that young woman you like so much."

"Miss Wilson? You know that any excuse to go there is good for me."

"Tell them to send us the reckoning. Nothing extravagant, just something that will make her feel comfortable again."

"I think I know what you have in mind. Now, where is she?"

"She should be down any minute. Let us change subjects now. We don't want to fluster her."

"You do like her," Vanessa stated with a smile.

An hour later, Vanessa Emerson liked her too. It was hard to dislike Elizabeth Maynard. She was a little bit shy in the beginning, but once she thawed, her stylus would flit over the wax tablet at a breathtaking speed. She was witty too, just like Catherine Connington had said. She spoke a few words only, mostly monosyllables, and with an odd pronunciation, much like a small child learning to speak. Of course, Vanessa had learned the reasons for this from Jeremiah, and she felt a strong empathy for the poor young woman.

As she had promised to her mother, Vanessa then took Elizabeth to a clothing house. The proprietress was a newcomer in London's fashion, but she was backed by Gwendolyn Archer, the daughter of Sir Robert Norton, and for good reason. So far, only a small group of customers made use of her talent, and Vanessa was happy to be one of them. They left two hours later with three dresses and a coat ordered, and with a ready made dress that fit Elizabeth as if it had been tailored for her.

A boot maker was the next stop. Only one extra pair was needed as Elizabeth was already wearing a very fine pair of brown boots. A shop for lingerie came next, and here, Vanessa brooked no protest. Seven sets of finest linen shifts and drawers were purchased and would be sent to the Conningtons' house. A hatter was also on the list, and they chose two modest but well made hats for Elizabeth.

Elizabeth was exhausted by then, being quite unaccustomed to this sort of activity, and Vanessa relented. Back at the Conningtons' townhouse however, Elizabeth gave the surprised Vanessa a silent hug in which she conveyed her deep gratitude. Whilst Vanessa and her mother sat at tea, Elizabeth excused herself claiming fatigue. That was not a lie, but her true reason lay elsewhere. In a shop next to the hatter's she had found something else that she truly needed – sheet paper, ink, and quills.

"Fleet in sight, sir!" Mr. Carling announced when Anson appeared on deck, torn from a belated breakfast by the call from the mast top.

"Thank you, Mr. Carling. Please bear down on them. Mr. Andrews, kindly give our recognition signal!"

Whilst the signal midshipman complied, Mr. Carling gave the orders to alter the course. Syren responded to the rudder like a well-trained horse. There was nothing to complain about her as Anson told himself again.

They had been on a five-week detached cruise along the Belgian, Dutch, and German coastlines, worrying the civilian shipping from Antwerp to Bremen, and catching four blockade runners in the progress. The French brig Odile, the schooners Vrouw Maartens and Anneke, and the ketch Briel, all Dutch, were now on their way to Sheerness with prize crews. The Anneke was a very good catch as she carried a cargo of lace from Brussels destined for Amsterdam. The cargo would bring far more money than the ship itself.

"Sir, Flag to Syren, 'Welcome. Report to flag.'"

Anson nodded. "Acknowledge."

He was already wearing one of his better uniforms. He looked around, and there was Stevens with Anson's sword and the oilskin bag holding his logbook and reports. He nodded with satisfaction. Stevens was always quiet and appeared to be not overly bright, but he anticipated Anson's needs with uncanny precision.

With the western wind abeam, Syren was running at almost 8 knots and she was quickly closing the distance to the squadron. Anson nodded at his personal coxswain, Mr. Horner. He, too, had decided to follow his captain to his new command. Now he assembled the crew of the captain's gig.

Anson made a grimace. With the choppy North Sea waves, it would be a wet crossing. He looked at Stevens.

"Bring me my oilskin boat cloak and the southwester!"

For the next ten minutes, Anson watched their approach. He was nervous. It was his first report to the fleet commander, and Vice Admiral Sir John Brent was not known for a laissez-faire attitude. With the men ready at the stations, Anson gauged the speeds of the flagship, HMS St. George, 98, and his own frigate, and when he felt that the right moment had come, he turned to the quartermasters.

"Helm a-lee! Man the braces! Sheet home the tops'ls! Back the spanker!"

Once again, Anson was reminded of a fine charger on the parade grounds by the promptness with which Syren tacked. In no time at all, she was on the other bow, and as her sails began to draw again, they were a cable length to leeward from the flagship.

"Two reefs into the t'gallants, Mr. Carling!" he ordered, thus adjusting the frigate's speed to that of the three-decker battleship.

Already, the gig was being lowered and the crew tumbled down onto the seats. Anson followed more carefully, allowing for the lack of his left hand and for the slight pain in his leg brought about by the biting cold. He managed, however, and now the gig squared away from the frigate using her small lateen sail. It was indeed a wet ride, and Anson wrapped himself tightly into the oilskin coat.

As they approached the 98-gun three-decker, Anson eyed the Jacob's ladder with distrust. He planned his movements very carefully. When the bowman hooked the gig to the chains, Anson took off the southwester and clapped the three-master hat onto his head. Dropping the oilskin coat, he watched the movements of gig and ship until the boat was lifted. Left foot on the lowest rung of the ladder and right hand clasping the rope were but one movement. Then his right foot was on the next rung, and he continued the climb carefully but with relief.

There was something to be said for Navy ceremonial. Four boatswain's mates stood ready with their pipes when Anson stepped through the port and onto the impossibly wide upper deck. There was the flag captain, Captain Morris, ready to greet him.

"Welcome aboard, Captain Anson!"

"Thank you, sir," Anson answered politely.

"That was neat sailing. Admiral Brent will like that. Syren just had an overhaul?"

"Fresh copper, and just about the entire running rigging, sir." Anson answered with just a trace of satisfaction.

"That's bound to make Sir John happy. You had a good cruise?"

"We caught four sail, a brig, two schooners, and a ketch. Three of them carried cargo."

"That's good to hear, Captain, but let me show you the way to Sir John's cabin."

Morris led the way aft. The admiral's cabin was located on the upper gun deck. As soon as Anson entered, his shoes sank into a soft carpet and he felt like he had been transported into Sir Robert Connington's townhouse. There were paintings hanging from the bulkheads, and heavy chintz curtains adorned the stern windows. Chairs with carved backs stood around a massive oak table that was covered with a fine damask table cloth. Everything about the cabin was grand, perhaps with the exception of its owner. Admiral Brent stood a shade over five feet to Anson's six feet and two fingers.

"Captain Anson, Sir John," Morris announced.

Brent briefly looked Anson over before he nodded in acknowledgement.

"Good day, Captain."

"Good day, Sir John," Anson replied.

"How long have you been in command of Syren, Captain?"

"Nigh on two months, Sir John."

"Quite. The receiving ship lost part of your crew?"

"Yes, Sir John. Almost sixty. We replaced them from the assizes and through recruiting. We're only fifteen short of complement, counting the prize crews."

"So you caught prizes, Captain?" Brent interjected with lively interest.

"Yes, Sir John. A brig, two schooners, and a ketch, all except the brig sailing with cargo. The brig was sailing in ballast, but she was shipping eight bronze nine-pounders."

"Why don't you have a seat, Captain, whilst I look over your reports?"

"Thank you, Sir John," Anson replied handing over his reports.

A steward appeared. "Coffee or tea, sir?" he asked.

"Tea, please."

"Cream? Sugar?"

Anson made big eyes. Brent was living in style. "Both, please."

The admiral took his time looking over the reports whilst Anson enjoyed a truly masterfully prepared cup of tea. In the end, Brent took off his reading glasses.

"An auspicious start to your command, Captain. Syren is a handy ship?"

"Very much so, Sir John. At least, from my limited experience."

"It were a waste to keep you tied to the squadron. During the winter months, the enemy relies much on coastal shipping for moving supplies. Keep worrying them, Captain. How are you set for provisions?"

"I can hold the sea for another two months, Sir John, more if I can take water."

"Very well then. Keep watching the coastline until early April. Use your own judgement to select likely targets. I need not tell you the difference between daring and foolhardiness?"

"No, Sir John."

"I thought so, Captain. Stay with the squadron until tomorrow. That should give your crew the chance to send letters. Commander Edwards will take his Merle to Sheerness tomorrow and transport the mail bags."

"Thank you, Sir John."

"I shall entertain a few of the gentlemen at dinner tonight. You are also invited. We start with the Second Dogwatch."

"Aye-aye, sir. Thank you, Sir John,"

Carling met him at the port. "No special happenings, sir. I sent over to the flagship for the mail. There's four letters addressed to you, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Carling. We shall remain with the squadron until tomorrow. Have me called if my presence is required."

In his cabin, he dropped the boat cloak and took off his moist uniform coat. The shirt was also wet around the collar, and he took it off, too. Stevens had a fresh shirt out for him, and he gratefully slipped the dry garment over his head. In shirt sleeves he sat down at his desk, looking at the envelopes in the weak light from the salt-encrusted stern windows. When his eyes caught the handwriting on the smallest one, his hand shot forward. Impatiently, he tore it open and fumbled for the letter within. Here it was. He carefully broke the seal and unfolded it.