He turned her to the light and observed, ‘You are looking well – very well
– quite a remarkable pink.’
‘Dear, dear Dr Maturin,’ she said, ‘you really must not salute young ladies like that. Not in England. Of course I am pink – scarlet, I dare say. You kissed me!’
‘Did I, my dear? Well, no great harm. Do you take your porter?’
‘Most religiously, in a silver tankard: I almost like it, now. What may I offer you? The admiral always takes his grog about this time. Are you in Plymouth for long? I do hope you will stay.’
‘If you could give me a cup of coffee, you would do me a most essential service. I lay at Exeter, and they gave me the vilest brew. . . No, I am on the wing – I sail with this tide – but I did not like to pass without paying my respects. I have been travelling since Friday, and to sit with my friends for half an hour is a charming respite.
‘Since Friday? Then perhaps you have not heard the splendid news?’
‘Never a word, at all.’
‘The Patriotic Fund have voted Captain Aubrey a sword of a hundred guineas, and the merchants a piece of plate, for destroying the Bellone. Is it not splendid news?
Though no more than he deserves, I am sure – indeed, not nearly enough. Will he be promoted, do you think?’
‘For a letter of marque, a privateer? No. And he does not look for it. Promotion is the very devil these days. There are not enough ships to go round. Old Jarvie did not build them, but he did make men post. So we have herds of unemployed captains; shoals of unpromoted commanders.’
‘But none so deserving as Captain Aubrey,’ said Sophia, dismissing the rest of the Navy List. ‘You have not told me how he is.’
‘Nor have you asked after your cousin Diana.’
‘How shocking of me; I beg your pardon. I hope she is quite well.’
‘Very well. In charming spirits. We drove from Dover to Brighton together some days ago: she is to spend a week with Lady Jersey.’
It was clear that Sophia had never heard of Lady Jersey. She said, ‘I am so glad. No one can be better company than Diana when she is in – ‘she quickly changed ‘a good temper’
to a weak ‘in charming spirits.’
‘As for Jack, I am sorry to say I cannot congratulate him upon charming spirits; nor indeed upon any spirits at all. He is unhappy. His ship is a very miserable vessel; his admiral is a scrub; he has a great many worries ashore and afloat. And I tell you bluntly, my dear, he is jealous of me and I of him. I love him as much as I have loved any man, but often these last months I have wondered whether we can stay in the same ship without fighting. I am no longer what small comfort I was to him, but a present irritation and a constraint – our friendship is constrained. And the tension, cooped up in a little small ship day after day, is very great – covert words, the risk of misunderstanding, watching the things we say or even sing. It is well enough when we are far out in the ocean. But with Channel service, in and out of the Downs – no, it cannot last.’
‘Does he know of your feelings for Diana? Surely not. Surely, to his best friend, he would never. . . He loves you dearly.’
‘Oh, as to that – yes, I believe he does, in his own way; and I believe if he had never been led into this by a series of unhappy misunderstandings, he would never have “crossed my hawse”, as he would put it. As for his knowing the nature of my feelings, I like to think he does not. Certainly not with any sharp clarity, in the forefront of his mind. Jack is not quick in such matters; he is not in any way an analytical thinker, except aboard a ship in action: but light creeps in, from time to time.’
They were interrupted by the appearance of the coffee, and for some time they sat without speaking, each deep in thought.
‘You know, my dear,’ said Stephen, stirring his cup, ‘where women are concerned, a man is very helpless against direct attack. I do not mean in the nature of a challenge, which of course he is bound in honour to take up, but in the nature of a plain statement of affection.’
‘I could not, could not possibly write to him again.’
‘No. But if for example the Polychrest were to put in here, which is very likely in the course of the summer, you could perfectly well ask, or the Admiral could ask him to give you and your sister a lift to the Downs – nothing more usual – nothing more conducive to an understanding.’
‘Oh, I could never do so. Dear Dr Maturin, do but think how immodest, how pushing – and the risk of a refusal. I should die.’
‘Had you seen his tears over your kindness, your hampers, you would not speak of refusal. He was all a-swim.’
‘Yes, you told me in your dear letter. But no, really, it is quite impossible – unthinkable. A man might do so, but for a woman it is quite impossible.’
‘There is much to be said for directness.’
‘Oh, yes, yes! There is. Everything would be so much simpler if one only said what one thought, or felt. Tell me,’
she said shyly, after a pause, ‘may I say something to you, perhaps quite improper and wrong?’
‘I should take it very friendly in you, my dear.’
‘Then if you were perfectly direct with Diana, and proposed marriage to her, might not we all be perfectly happy? Depend upon it, that is what she expects.’
‘I? Make her an offer? My dearest Sophie, you know what kind of a match I am. A little ugly small man, with no name and no fortune. And you know her pride and ambition and connections.’
‘You think too little of yourself, indeed you do. Far, far too little. You are much too humble.
In your own way you are quite as good looking as Captain Aubrey – everybody says so.
Besides, you have your castle.’
‘Honey-love, a castle in Spain is not a castle in Kent. Mine is mostly ruin – the sheep shelter in the part with a roof. And the great part of my land is mere mountain; even in peace-time it hardly brings me in two or three hundred English pounds a year.’
‘But that is plenty to live on. If she loves you just a little, and I cannot see how any woman could not, she would be delighted with an offer.’
‘Your sweet partiality blinds you, my dear. And as for love – love, that amiable, unmeaning word – however you may define it, I do not believe she knows what it is, as you told me once yourself. Affection, kindness, friendship, good nature sometimes, yes: beyond that, nothing. No. I must wait. It may come, perhaps; and in any case, I am content to be a pis aller. I too know how to wait. I dare not risk a direct refusal – perhaps a contemptuous refusal.’
‘What is a pis aller?’
‘What one accepts when one can do no better. It is my only hope.’
‘You are too humble. Oh, you are. I am sure you are mistaken. Believe me, Stephen: I am a woman, after all.’
‘Besides, I am a Catholic, you know. A Papist.’
‘What does that matter, above all to her? Anyhow,
the Howards are Catholics – Mrs Fitzherbert is a Catholic.’
‘Mrs Fitzherbert? How odd you should mention her. My dear, I must go. I thank you for your loving care of me. I may write again? There was no unkindness because of my letters?’
‘None. I do not mention them.’
‘Not for a month or so, however: and perhaps I may pass by Mapes. How is your Mama, your sisters? May I ask after Mr Bowles?’
‘They are very well, thank you. As for him,’ she said, with a flash of her eye, the calm grey growing fierce, ‘I sent him about his business. He became impertinent -“Can it be that your affections are engaged elsewhere?” says he. “Yes, sir, they are,” I replied. “Without your mother’s consent?” he cried, and I desired him to leave the room at once. It was the boldest thing done this age.’
‘Sophie, your very humble servant,’ said Stephen, standing up. ‘Pray make my compliments to the Admiral.’
‘Too humble, oh far too humble,’ said Sophie, offering her cheek.
Tides, tides, the Cove of Cork, the embarkation waiting on the moon, a tall swift-pacing mule in the bare torrid mountains quivering in the sun, palmetto-scrub, Señor don Esteban Maturin y Domanova kisses the feet of the very reverend Lord Abbot of Montserrat and begs the honour of an audience. The endless white road winding, the inhuman landscape of Aragon, cruel sun and weariness, dust, weariness to the heart, and doubt. What was independence but a word? What did any form of government matter? Freedom: to do what? Disgust, so strong that he leant against the saddle, hardly able to bring himself to mount. A shower on the Maladetta, and everywhere the scent of thyme: eagles wheeling under thunder-clouds, rising, rising. ‘My mind is too confused for anything but direct action,’ he said. ‘The flight disguised as an advance.’