“Better than counters at eightpence a week,” replied Hornblower, forcing himself to speak lightly.
Before their marriage Maria had taught in a school with graduated fees — readers paid fourpence, writers sixpence, and counters eightpence.
“Indeed yes,” said Maria. “I owe much to you, Horatio. Here’s your nightshirt, ready for you. The torment I went through when Miss Wentworth found I had taught Alice Stone the multiplication table although her parents only paid fourpence! And then the ungrateful minx egged that little Hopper boy to let those mice loose in the schoolroom. But I’d suffer it all again, darling, if — if that would keep you near me.”
“Not while duty calls, my dear,” said Hornblower, diving into his nightshirt. “But I’ll be back with a bagful of guineas for prize money before two years are up. Mark my words.”
“Two years!” said Maria pitifully.
Hornblower yawned elaborately, and Maria rose to the bait thus deftly cast, just as Hornblower had been sure she would.
“And you said you were not ready for sleep!” she said.
“It has come upon me now,” said Hornblower. “Perhaps the admiral’s port is beginning to take effect. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I shall say ‘good night’ now, my love.”
He kissed her as she sat before the dressing table, and, turning hastily away, he climbed up into the big bed. There, lying on the farthest edge, keeping rigidly still, he lay until Maria had blown out the candle and climbed up beside him, until her breathing grew quiet and regular. Only then could he relax and change position and give rein to the galloping thoughts coursing through his mind.
He remembered what Bolton had said to him with a wink and a nod when they found themselves together at one time during the evening in a corner where they could not be overheard.
“He means six votes to the Government,” said Bolton, jerking his head towards the Admiral.
Bolton was as stupid as a good seaman could be, but he had been in London recently and attended a levee and had heard the gossip. The poor old King was going mad again, a Regency was imminent, and with the Regency the Tories might go out and the Whigs might come in — the six votes of the Leighton interests were valuable. With the Marquis Wellesley as Foreign Secretary, and Henry Wellesley as Ambassador in Spain, and Sir Arthur Wellesley — what was his new title? Lord Wellington of course — as Commander in Chief in the Peninsula it was not surprising to find Lady Barbara Wellesley married to Sir Percy Leighton, and still less to find the latter given a command in the Mediterranean. The virulence of the Opposition was growing day by day, and the history of the world hung in the balance.
Hornblower shifted restlessly in bed at the thought, but a slight movement by Maria in reply fixed him rigid again. It was only a small party of men — the Wellesleys chief among them — who still had the resolution to continue the struggle against the Corsican’s dominion. The smallest check, on land, at sea, or in Parliament, might pull them from their high positions, bring their heads perilously near the block, and tumble all Europe into ruin.
Some time during the evening Lady Barbara had been pouring tea, and Hornblower had found himself standing alone beside her, waiting for his refilled cup.
“It gave me pleasure,” she had murmured, “when my husband told me you had been given the Sutherland. England needs all her best captains at present.”
She must have meant more than she said then. Probably she was hinting at the necessity for maintaining Leighton in his command. It had been no indication, all the same, that she had exerted herself to obtain the appointment for Hornblower. But it was satisfactory to be able to think that she had married Sir Percy for some other reason than love. Hornblower hated the thought of Lady Barbara being in love with anyone. He began to remember every word she had said to her husband, every look she had given him. Certainly she did not seem in the least like an adoring bride. But the fact remained that she was Leighton’s wife — that she was in bed with him at this very minute. Hornblower writhed in fresh anguish at the thought.