Hornblower and the Hotspur. C. S. Forester

“They say the captains will receive hundreds of thousands of pounds each,” said Maria. “I suppose it will never be our good fortune to win anything like that, dear?”

“It is always possible,” said Hornblower.

It was astonishing, but most convenient, that Maria was quite unaware of any connexion between Hotspur’s recent action with Félicité and Moore’s capture of the flota. Maria was shrewd and sharp, but she was content to leave naval details to her husband, and it never occurred to her to inquire how it had come about that Hotspur, although attached to the Channel Fleet off Ushant, had found herself off Cape St Vincent. Mrs Mason might have been more inquisitive, but she, thank God, had returned to Southsea.

“What happened to that Doughty?” asked Maria.

“He deserted,” answered Hornblower; luckily, again, Maria was not interested in the mechanics of desertion and did not inquire into the process.

“I’m not sorry, dear,” she said. “I never liked him. But I’m afraid you miss him.”

“I can manage well enough without him,” said Hornblower. It was useless to buy capers and cayenne during this stay in Plymouth; Bailey would not know what to do with them.

“Perhaps one of these days I’ll be able to look after you instead of these servants,” said Maria.

There was the tender note in her voice again, and she was drawing nearer.

“No one could do that better than you, my darling,” answered Hornblower. He had to say it. He could not hurt her. He had entered into this marriage voluntarily, and he had to go on playing the part. He put his arm round the waist that had come within reach.

“You are the kindest husband, darling,” said Maria. “I’ve been so happy with you.”

“Not as happy as I am when you say that,” said Hornblower. That was the base intriguer speaking again, the subtle villain – the man who had plotted Doughty’s escape from justice. No; he must remember that his conscience was clear now in that respect. That self-indulgence had been washed away by the blood that had poured over the decks of Félicité.

“I often wonder why it should be,” went on Maria, with a new note in her voice. “I wonder why you should be so kind to me, when I think about – you, darling – and me.”

“Nonsense,” said Hornblower, as bluffly as he could manage. “You must always be sure of my feelings for you, dear. Never doubt me.”

“My very dearest,” said Maria, her voice changing again, the note of inquiry dying out and the tenderness returning. She melted into his arms. “I’m fortunate that you have been able to stay so long in Plymouth this time.”

“That was my good fortune, dear.”

Replacing the transoms which Bush had so blithely cut away in Hotspur’s stern for the fight with Félicité had proved to be a laborious piece of work – Hotspur’s stern had had to be almost rebuilt.

“And the Little One has been sleeping like a lamb all the evening,” went on Maria; Hornblower could only hope that this did not involve his crying all night.

A knock at the door made Maria tear herself away from Hornblower’s embracing arm.

“Gentleman to see you,” said the landlady’s voice.

It was Bush, in pea-jacket and scarf, standing hesitating on the threshold.

“Good evening, sir. Your servant, ma’am. I hope I don’t intrude.”

“Of course not,” said Hornblower, wondering what shift of wind or politics could possibly have brought Bush here, and very conscious that Bush’s manner was a little odd.

“Come in, man. Come in. Let me take your coat – unless your news is urgent?”

“Hardly urgent, sir,” said Bush rather ponderously, allowing himself, with embarrassment, to be relieved of his coat. “But I felt you would like to hear it.”

He stood looking at them both, his eyes not quite in focus, yet sensitive to the possibility that Maria’s silence might be a sign that to her he was unwelcome; but Maria made amends.

“Won’t you take this chair, Mr Bush?”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Seated, he looked from one to the other again; it was quite apparent to Hornblower by now that Bush was a little drunk.

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