he wanted to go down to the beach and think about things. ‘Not at all,’ she told him. ‘Shall I ask Starkey to serve you luncheon on the beach?’
He nodded. ‘Have him put it in a hamper. You don’t mind?’
‘I just said I didn’t,’ she assured him. ‘Charles, if we are to rub along together, you need to take me at my word.’
‘I suppose I must,’ he agreed.
She ate her luncheon on the terrace, which Starkey had swept clear, then went upstairs to count the sheets in Lord Hudley’s linen closet—prosaic work that suited her mood. Thank goodness he had an ample supply was her first thought, then she blushed to think of all the activity on all the beds in the manor, at least once a year, when he held his orgies. No wonder he had sheets, and good ones, too. It was the same with pillowslips and towels. The old rascal practically ran a hotel for geriatric roués just like him.
The admiral hadn’t returned by dinner. After a solitary meal in the breakfast room, she asked Starkey about it.
‘He likes his solitude, ma’am, when he’s troubled,’ Starkey said.
She could tell by the look he gave her that Starkey considered her at fault for the admiral’s mood. Let him think what he will, she decided, after an evening alone in the sitting room, where she made lists of projects for the house and tried to ignore the cupids overhead, with their amorous contortions.
To her bemusement, she did not sleep until she heard Bright’s footsteps on the stairs. She sat up in bed, her arms around her knees, as she heard him approach her door, stand there a moment, then cross the hall to his own room. She lay down then, wondering if he had changed his mind about their arrangement. She knew he was embarrassed about his tears and doubted he had ever cried in the presence of anyone, much less a woman. ‘Well, I cannot help that,’ she murmured prosaically, as she composed herself for sleep.
She wondered if she would sleep, considering last night’s adventure with the old gentleman from Northumberland. Hopefully, he was well on his way home. What was that he had called her—‘his fair Cyprian’? She smiled to herself, pleased that for one night at least, she was not thinking of ruin or poverty, or where her next meal was coming from.
She woke in the morning to the sound of noise downstairs, and men talking and laughing as they hammered. She sat up and rubbed her eyes at the same moment the admiral tapped on her door.
‘Come in, sir,’ she said, wishing for a small moment that her nightgown was not so thin from repeated washings.
She shouldn’t have worried. In his nightshirt and dressing gown, the admiral was as shabby as she was. It was an elaborate gown, though.
‘My stars, did you find that in the court of the Emperor of Japan?’ she asked, by way of greeting.
He carried a tea cup and saucer. She noticed he had not put on his hook yet, and his left sleeve hung over his wrist.
‘You’re close,’ he said, as he nudged the door shut behind him and came to her bed. To her surprise, he told her to shift her legs and sat down. He handed her the cup. ‘I was given this bit of silk and embroidery by the Emperor of China, whose name I cannot at the moment remember, but who had a fondness for the otter pelts I had brought him from a quick raid up the coast of New Albion. I have no idea what those Yanks call it now. But that was years ago, and it is scarcely fit for more than the dust bin.’
Amused, she sipped her tea. He watched her, a smile in his eyes. ‘You look extraordinarily fine in the early morning,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know your hair was so curly.’
‘I usually have it whipped into submission by this time,’ she replied.
‘Well, that’s a shame,’ he told her. ‘I rather like it this way.’ He touched one of her curls, wrapping it around his finger. He didn’t seem at all uncomfortable and she decided she liked it.
She wasn’t sure why he had come into her room, because he seemed content to just sit on the bed while she drank her tea. She heard a thump from downstairs, grateful that it gave her something to ask him.
‘Sir, what is going on down there?’
Her question seemed to remind him. ‘Aye, madam wife, I did have a reason to come in here. Lord Brimley is not wasting a moment to help us. He has sent over an army of workers who are, as we speak, rigging up scaffolding in the sitting room, with the sole purpose of ridding us of randy cupids.’ He leaned closer and again she breathed his bay rum. ‘Mrs Bright, think how pleasant it will be to embroider in your sitting room and not worry about what those imps are doing overhead.’
She could tell his mood had lifted. ‘You feel better,’ she said.
He leaned even closer until his forehead touched hers. ‘I do, madam. Thank you for allowing me solitude.’
‘You only have to mention it and I will understand,’ she said softly, since his face was so close to hers. ‘That is our arrangement.’
Maybe an imp had escaped from the carnage in the sitting room below. For whatever reason, the admiral raised her chin and kissed her lips. ‘I’m not very good at this, but I am grateful for your forbearance,’ he told her, when his lips were still so close to hers.
On the contrary, he was quite good. In fact, she was disappointed that he did not kiss her again. He’s learned that somewhere in the world, she thought, as she sat back, careful not to spill her tea into his lap, since he sat so close.
And there they sat, eyeing each other. Sally felt herself relax under his gaze, which was benign. The imp must have still been in the room, because she found herself saying, ‘I like it when you bring me tea in the morning.’
‘I like it, too,’ he said, his voice as soft as hers, almost as if he felt as shy. ‘It could become a habit.’ He dispelled the mood by flapping his empty sleeve at her and getting to his feet. ‘If you are equal to the task, I thought we would abandon Chez Bright today and go to Plymouth. The under-steward that Lord Brimley sent is a paragon, and he so much as informed me in such a polite way, that I am a supernumerary.’ He ruffled her hair, which made her laugh. ‘So are you, madam. If we intend to cut a dash in the neighbourhood, we had better get ourselves some clothing that doesn’t brand us as vagrants or felons.’
‘I am certain you do not pay Starkey enough,’ Sally told Bright as they settled back into a post chaise that the butler had arranged to convey them to Plymouth.
‘You are most likely correct,’ he replied. ‘To show you the total measure of his devotion to me, he even enquired to find the most slap-up-to-the-mark modiste in Plymouth. His comrades in the fleet would never believe such a thing. Starkey is normally quite a Puritan.’
He hoped his wife would pink up at this news, and she did, to his pleasure. Amazing how a woman teetering on the other side of thirty could blush at the mention of a modiste, and still manage to maintain her countenance in a roomful of cupids doing things some people didn’t even do behind bolted doors. He did not pretend to understand women. Looking at the pretty lady seated across from him, he thought it politic not to try. Better to let her surprise him with her wit, and most of all, her humanity. He was beginning to think the most impulsive gesture of his life was shaping into the best one.
The first thought on her mind, apparently miles ahead of new clothes, was to seek out a bookshop. ‘I want to find something to entertain Mrs Brustein,’ she explained, as he handed her down from the chaise. ‘I intend to visit her as often as I can, and read to her.’
Even on the short few days of their acquaintance, he already knew it would be fruitless to pull out his timepiece and point out that they were already late to her modiste’s appointment, but he tried. She gave him a kindly look, the type reserved for halfwits and small children, and darted into the bookshop. Knowing she had no money, he followed her in, standing patiently as she looked at one book, and then another.
He knew he had been attracted by her graceful ways, but his appreciation deepened as