The road to Much Wenlock
County Shropshire, England
March 20, 1815
From across the carriage, Captain Theobald Raynalds, formerly of the Royal Navy, regarded the sleeping figure of his closest friend with a critical scowl. Christian Churchill’s fashionable clothes were wrinkled, his dark hair stood out in all directions, and his open, drooling mouth made him look more like a village idiot than the well-favored dandy he was when awake.
He turned to his sister, Winnifred, who’d been no better company throughout the carriage ride to their new residence. She’d raised her eyes from her book only to look out at the rain or inquire how much longer they would be on the road.
“Pray, what are you reading that engrosses you so?” This time, he was determined to engage her in conversation, as a distraction from his worries, if nothing else.
“Pride and Prejudice,” she answered without looking up.
“I see,” he said, “and may I know what sort of book it is?”
“A romance, of course,” she intoned with impatience. “What else do I read?”
While he knew her tastes quite well, he’d hoped she might abandon the book in favor of discourse. Talking, no matter how banal the subject matter, would take his mind off the worries eating at him.
Chief among these was his choice of Much Wenlock as his primary place of residence. Would it turn out to be a regrettable error in judgment? If the local gentry treated him with the same condescension as had the bluebloods of Portsmouth and the gentlemen officers in the Navy, it certainly would.
But surely the house he’d leased would create the right impression. Of all the properties in his price range, Greystone Hall was by far the most grandiose—or would be again after a bit of sprucing up.
Scraping his teeth across his lower lip, he turned back to the window. Catching his own reflection in the glass, he saw red-rimmed blue eyes and sandy hair molded to the shape of his hat. He’d set it beside him in the hope it would dry before he arrived at Greystone Hall, but it still reeked disagreeably of wet beaver.
He licked his lips and looked out at the rain-dappled view. They were passing through the heart of the village, which consisted largely of medieval buildings with dark, crisscrossing timbers.
With much creaking and swaying, they proceeded down what appeared to be the main thoroughfare, crossed over a narrow bridge, and continued along a country road. On either side, cottages, farmhouses, and barns were painted upon a background of every shade of green imaginable.
A gang of urchins in wet, filthy rags appeared out of nowhere and chased the landau down the cobbled road. Theo, reminded of his impoverished beginnings, reached into his pocket, cracked the window, and tossed a few coppers out to the children.
When at last the landau drove up the circular gravel drive leading to his new home, Theo was surprised and somewhat dismayed to see a barouche parked near the front portico. His head ached, his stomach burned, and his war wound throbbed like the devil. He was, in fact, so little disposed to be in company of any sort, it vexed him greatly to be thus importuned.
Regrettably, his goal of social acceptance obliged him to play the hospitable host. For he dared not risk giving offense to any of his new neighbors, however presumptuous they might be.
As they drew nearer, he saw that the barouche was an exceptionally fine one. There was a postilion astride one of the four chestnut horses, a coachman in the driver's box, and a footman leaning against the rear rails. All wore long cloaks, dripping three-corner hats, and drooping perukes.
The sight of his butler, approaching with a large black umbrella drew Theo’s attention away from the carriage. Mr. Murphy, an Irishman with ramrod-straight posture and flinty gray eyes, had come ahead of his employer from Portsmouth. The first twelve years of Theo’s life, he had lived there in destitution and misery and, for the last ten, in material comfort and equal wretchedness, but for different reasons.
When the landau came to a stop, Churchill hopped out first before helping Winnie disembark. Theo, hat and ivory-handled cane now in hand, watched from a stooped position in the low doorway as his friend escorted his sister to the house under the cover of the butler’s brolly.
After the pair went inside, Mr. Murphy returned to his master and offered to help him down the steps. Theo politely declined. He could not bear to be treated like an invalid, even by his own manservant.
Once on the ground, he limped toward the house while admiring its grandeur. Even in a downpour, it was an admirable example of Elizabethan architecture. The two-storey bay windows with their overhanging wisteria he found especially charming. So were the grounds with their statuary and meandering paths. Once they were cleaned up, he hoped to stroll there as often as the weather permitted.
In the entry hall, Murphy took his hat and said, “You have a visitor, sir. A gentleman by the name of Baldwyn. Sir Steven Baldwyn, to be precise. You will find him waiting upon you in the parlor.”
The first thing to strike Theo’s eye upon entering the room was its remarkable transformation. Only a week ago, cobwebs clung to the plaster moldings, dust and bird droppings covered the woodwork, sheets concealed the furnishings, and two speckled hens nested in the enormous fireplace.
Not only had the parlor been restored to the showcase of good taste and refinement he had seen beneath the neglect, it also had been personalized through the display of some of his most cherished possessions.
The model he built of HMS Andromeda, the frigate he commanded at Trafalgar, occupied the center of the mantle. Two of his swords hung over the chesterfield sofa on the opposite wall. The fortified wines he confiscated from a Spanish pirate’s galleon were proudly displayed atop a marquetry table beside the door.
Sir Steven, who was admiring the model when Theo came in, was a stout, ruddy-faced fellow with bushy gray sideburns, rosy cheeks, and deep laugh lines around his bulging blue eyes. His suit was of good quality, although a few years behind current fashion, as was to be expected of one living so great a distance from London.
“Sir Steven,” Theo said with a slight bow. “How good of you to call upon me.”
“As the highest ranking nobleman in the parish, I consider it my duty to welcome you to the neighborhood,” the gentleman replied portentously. “I do hope your journey was not too fatiguing.”
“It was excessively fatiguing.” As he said it, Theo limped toward the crystal-encased spoils of war. “May I offer you a drink? I have port, brandy, sherry, and Madeira. Would any of those suit?”
“Thank you, but no,” Sir Steven said. “I shall not importune you long enough to warrant a snort—or even a seat, for that matter. I only came to invite you to an assembly to be held tomorrow evening at the White Hart Inn on the High Street. Your attendance will enable you to meet all your neighbors of worth at once—saving you the trouble of calling upon each family individually.” With a jolly chuckle, he added, “Not that it would take much time. As you will soon discover for yourself, there is a want of polite society in the area. Apart from us and the Bennets—and now you, of course—the next nearest family of quality is in Willey, a tiny hamlet a few miles to the east.”
Theo was delighted Sir Steven had so quickly counted him among the “polite society” of the parish. “How kind you are to include me.”
As he poured himself a generous glass of brandy, his guest continued. “I do hope you enjoy dancing, sir, for I daresay you will find a surplus of pleasing young ladies eager to be your partner.”
Theo took a gulp of brandy while, he inwardly debated how to respond. Should he tell Sir Steven what he wished to hear or speak the truth? Deciding honesty was the better way to go—if for no other reason than to nip false expectations in the bud—he said, “I feel it only fair to warn you that I have not come to Much Wenlock in search of a bride.”
“How sorry I am to hear it, Captain Raynalds.” Sir Steven sounded more let down than sympathetic. “Though I feel certain you will change your mind when you meet the eldest Miss Bennet, who is acknowledged by all to be the beauty of the county. The gentleman who captures her special attention will be the envy of his peers.”
Theo downed another swallow of brandy. “Is the lady well-bred in addition to well-favored?”
“Indeed she is, my good fellow,” Sir Steven returned heartily. “Her father is Sir Malcolm Bennet of Craven Castle—a baronet. Though she will not inherit, as the estate is entailed away from the female line, she has other virtues that more than make up for her lack of fortune.”
Despite his aversion to marriage in general, Theo was intrigued. “I see. And what, pray tell, might those virtues be?”
“Well, let me see…” Sir Steven tapped the side of his nose as he gathered his thoughts. “For starters, she is an excellent dancer, an accomplished rider, fair with a needle, and equal in wits and fortitude to any man I have yet to meet.” He coughed into his hand before adding, “Though there are those of our gender, I daresay, who would not look upon a lady’s admirable intellect as an incentive to courtship.”
Theo licked the brandy from his lips. “Fortunately, I do not count myself among that narrow-minded group.”
God in Heaven! What was he saying? What was he thinking? After Edwina’s gutting rejection, he had avowed never again to trust his heart to a conniving female. And now, here he was, allowing himself to be drawn in by the vague description of a young lady other men refused to court! Was he really so ready to abandon his senses?
No, I am not!
“She sounds charming, sir,” Theo said, regathering his resolve. “But, as I mentioned earlier, I do not look upon marriage with a friendly eye at present.”
Weary of standing and quite convinced Sir Steven had no intention of leaving as soon as he’d promised, Theo urged his guest to take a seat in the tufted wingback nearest the fire. When the Baron was settled, Theo limped to the sofa and followed suit with no little effort.
Obviously observing the trouble his host took to sit, Sir Steven said, “Please forgive my forwardness, Captain, but might I presume your…erm…disability prevents you from dancing?”
“It does,” Theo answered crisply.
Though relieved the subject had turned away from Miss Bennet, he did not care to volunteer the details of his injury to a man he knew so little. Full disclosure, after all, might prove as damaging to his contentment here as it had in Portsmouth.
“I do hope your limitations will not prevent you from attending tomorrow’s assembly,” said the Baron in a tone of concern. “For there will be cards and chamber music in addition to dancing.”
“I would not think of missing it,” Theo assured him. “Provided, of course, my sister and friend are included in the invitation. Both are lodging with me at present, you see.”
“Of course your companions are welcome to come.” Sir Steven’s countenance visibly brightened. “Perhaps your friend will take a shine to our Miss Bennet. Does he enjoy dancing?”
Envy gnawed on Theo’s heart. “He does, sir, as befits his unfailing good humor.”
“Pray, is he single as well as amiable?”
“He is, sir.” Theo felt a pang of guilt as he said it, but his friend’s secrets were not his to tell. To mitigate the falsehood, he quickly added, “What I cannot tell you, however, is if he is a catchable fish at the present time.”
“That will depend upon the bait, I should think,” said Sir Steven with a congenial wink. “But enough about your friend. I came here to learn more about you and your adventures at sea. Did you fight at Trafalgar? Did you know Admiral Nelson?”
“I had the charge of a frigate at Trafalgar—the one on the mantle, actually.” He gestured toward the model of Andromeda. “And, yes, I saw a good deal of action at the Cape—all under the command of the illustrious Admiral. Until, of course, he was struck down by that ruthless French sniper.”
Sir Steven sat forward in his chair and rapidly rubbed his plump hands together. “How thrilling! Do tell me more of your exploits.”
Theo balked at the suggestion. “Do you truly wish to be regaled with all the gory details?”
“Upon my word, I shall not find it the least bit off-putting,” Sir Steven assured him with a cajoling grin. “I favor nothing better than a good battle story, and it is rare to meet a man who can tell one worth a farthing in this part of the country.”
Theo hesitated, not entirely comfortable with the prospect of drudging up the past. At the same time, he wanted very much to please Sir Steven, who would surely play a key role in his acceptance into the “good society” of the parish.
Deciding to play to his audience, however much it might pain him, he cleared his throat and began with a preamble. “Well, sir, since you are not squeamish, I shall indulge you—but only if you promise to stop me when you grow weary of my droning.”
“I shall, I shall.” Sir Steven’s voice rang with enthusiasm. “Not that there is the least danger of my being bored.”
“Very well.” Theo, drawing a deep breath, hauled the chronology of his career from the depths of his memory. When all was assembled in proper order, he told the Baron he’d joined the Royal Navy as a cabin boy at the age of twelve and thereafter advanced through the ranks until he was given command of a sloop at the age of seven-and-twenty.
“Are you sure you are not bored by the minutia of my dossier?”
“Quite the contrary, I assure you,” Sir Steven replied. “I am positively enthralled.”
Satisfied that his guest was indeed interested, Theo cleared his throat and continued. “A year later, I took command of a frigate, after which I served briefly in the West Indies before returning to Britain. A few months thereafter, with the resumption of the Napoleonic War, my ship was deployed into the English Channel and the Bay of Biscay, to take part in the Battle of Finesterre.”
When Theo took a break from talking, Sir Steven cajoled, “Come, come, Captain. You cannot expect to satisfy me with such a brief accounting of the part you played in the battle.”
Theo licked his lips and raked his fingers through his hair, which he wore almost as long as he had in the navy. “Well, sir, since you insist upon knowing the specifics, we were dispatched to scout for the Franco-Spanish fleet patrolling off the Cape. After spotting the enemy, whilst towing a captured merchant ship, we closed in on the frigate following the van, intending to cut her off and board her. Before we could, however, the whole of the enemy fleet did an about-face. All at once, we found ourselves facing the entire enemy armada, which was fast bearing down on us. Fortunately, they observed the conventions and held their fire, although not for long. When the whole of our fleet came into range, engagement ensued, during which we took fire. In the exchange, two of my men were killed and three others wounded.”
“Capital, capital!” Sir Steven displayed the height of excitement. “And what do you think will happen next in France?”
“Engagement with the coalition forces appears unavoidable,” Theo told him. “Though where that confrontation shall take place, remains to be seen.”
The Admiralty had thought the war with France over after Napoleon Bonaparte’s defeat, abdication, and banishment last year. Such, as it turned out, was not the case. Somehow, the exiled emperor had escaped and returned to France. Now, having reclaimed the reins of power, he was in the process of raising an army. To battle this new threat, a coalition of allied troops was presently being mobilized under the command of Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington.
Before Theo could say more, a clock chimed somewhere nearby, announcing the hour as five o’clock. Sir Steven rose from his chair and bowed as low as he could with his paunch. “My sincerest thanks…and apologies, Captain. As much as I long to hear your further thoughts on the matter, I must leave it for another time. For I fear I have overstayed my welcome already.”
“Not at all.” Theo struggled to his feet with the aid of his cane. “I thoroughly enjoyed our discussion.”
“Thank you for indulging me.” Sir Steven offered his host an agreeable smile. “Perhaps we can pick up where we left off at tomorrow’s gathering.”