Horatio Hornblower Fanfiction: Blue Devils by Jedishampoo

Summary: A snow-storm. A stage-coach wreck. A very silly miss. A respectable widow. Two naval officers. Wholly contrived and cheesy as hell. A bit of a swipe here and there at fanfiction-isms and romantic novel-isms. I was torn apart on a Hornblower list for the last chapter, but Hell. I've re-read it, and I still love it, and this was the way I meant to write it.

Author’s Note: Marion Chesney Regency romance novels inspired some scenes in this story (specifically The Taming of Annabelle and Frederica in Fashion; Emily goes to Exeter for the stage-coach references).

"Hell is empty

And all the devils are here." The Tempest, William Shakespeare Act I Scene II

"…we have before observed, that improper topics can with our assistance be discussed, even before the ladies, without raising a blush on the cheek of modesty. It is impossible that a female should understand the meaning of Twiddle Diddles, or rise from the table at the mention of Buckinger’s Boot." Foreword, Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 1811 Edition.

*******

Sussex County, England

February, 1799

"I would swear that coachman’s drunk," said Archie Kennedy, leaning sideways to peer through the stagecoach glass. He parted the leather curtain and smudged it clean with two fingers, wishing he could as easily part the heavy curtain of snow falling outside. "That’s the second time we’ve run two wheels over a ditch."

"It’s just the roads, Archie," answered Horatio Hornblower with his usual dampening good sense. "They’re probably getting very slick."

Archie didn’t deign to reply. He took another ineffectual swipe at the glass. It was only just after four o’clock, yet it looked to be full-on night. Heavy grey clouds had covered the sun since lunch in Brighton, and even then Archie’s sea-trained nose had smelled the snow. It had started to fall when they’d stopped at the Boar and Bull in Cuckfield two hours ago, and it only came down more thickly as the minutes passed.

A sudden lurch of a coach-wheel threw Archie’s face against the glass. The carriage soon righted itself and continued to bump its way slowly along the road to London, but Archie could take no more.

"Three. Right," he said, and unlatched the window to jerk it down. "I’m going to see what Matthews knows. Long past time they should have been in here with us, anyway."

"They won’t like it," Horatio warned.

Archie ignored him and thrust his head out the window. Whirling snow stung his eyes but he found it refreshing after the stuffiness of the coach.

"Coachman, stop!" he yelled.

A bleary voice floated back to him on the wind. "Can’t be stopping or we’ll be stuck!"

"I don’t care! Stop for a moment. Matthews! Smith! Get in here!"

"They won’t do it," Horatio pointed out again in an insufferably reasonable tone, but Archie barely heard his words as the coachee’s complaints continued.

"‘Ere now!" the man called back. "They ain’t paid inside fares!"

"I’ll pay it, damn your eyes!" Archie watched as, with that promise, the coachman obligingly pulled on the reins and slowed the coach. "Matthews!"

"It’s not right, sir, for us to be riding inside with officers," Matthews called down as they lurched to a stop.

"I told you," said Horatio from somewhere inside the coach.

Archie pulled his head back in to glare at his friend and fellow lieutenant. "The weather’s foul. They’re probably blue already. We don’t want them freezing to death before we even reach the Kestrel."

Horatio sighed, then seemed to relent. He leaned over and soon his head replaced Archie’s out the window.

"Matthews! Smith! Come inside," he yelled. "That’s an order."

"Aye aye, sir!"

The carriage rocked a little as the two seamen climbed down from the top seats. A moment later the door opened and two red faces under hats pulled low appeared through the white flurry.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you," said Smith, knuckling his forehead in embarrassment as Archie shifted to sit next to Horatio to make room for the two additions to the coach’s inside company. Matthews echoed the thanks and settled himself on the seat opposite the officers.

"Coachman’s drunk, sir," he said, and swiped snow from his eyes.

"Told you," Archie said to Horatio with what he knew was a very smug grin. The coach took off with a lurch.

"When we stopped in Cuckfield he picked up a bottle o’ brandy," Matthews continued. "Said he needed it to keep him warm, but he didn’t offer us any. S’ been slow going, sir. We’re still at least six miles from Crawley."

"Hmph," said Horatio, and stared out the window with a glum expression. "The rest of the men are probably already in London by now. If they haven’t run off. We took the stage because you said it would be faster, Mr. Kennedy."

"Well, even the Flying Machines can’t fly in this weather, Mr. Hornblower," Archie pointed out, trying to remain civil and respectful despite the great provocation. He knew that when Horatio was tense, everyone felt it.

Yet Horatio had was reason to be tense. They’d sent the new recruits for Captain Jordan and the Kestrel off to London at dawn, and normally the officers would have gone with them. This time, though, they’d sent them ahead in hired coaches with most of their trusted men. So now Horatio, and Archie as well, were worrying that their work had been for nothing.

They’d actually been very lucky in Brighton, having recruited a good dozen lubbers who’d come to the resort town looking for work. Crewing a ship for an undistinguished captain like Jordan was a boring and thankless business, yet Archie had wanted to enjoy the clean, shiny Brighton inn for just a few more hours. He’d offered to Horatio as a lure the possibility of finding just a few more men to crew the Kestrel, and the opportunity of taking the Flying Machine back to London. They’d been very lucky as well to get a noon coach to themselves on the fashionable Brighton-to-London route. Due to the paucity of the fare they’d been given a smaller coach than the usual six-horsed red-and-black monsters that usually ran this route, but this lighter coach and its four horses should still have been able to cover the distance in under seven hours.

At this rate, though, and in this storm, they’d probably traveled only three miles in the last hour. The new men were probably running loose in London. And it was probably all his fault.

"Don’t you worry, sir," Matthews offered with a respectful nod of his head, as if he’d been reading Archie’s mind. "Styles’ll see ‘em on board the Kestrel, right enough."

"Of course," Archie said. Horatio said nothing, lost in his own morose thoughts.

The coach bumped and slid along, rocked here and there by violent gusts of wind. Silence reigned inside. The two ratings were abashed not only by sharing a coach with their officers, but also by the uncomfortable atmosphere.

The weather, too, was worrying. Once or twice the coach slowed and turned, and Archie came to realize that they were no longer headed north. He kept his own counsel on the matter, not wanting to earn another rebuke from Horatio. After several minutes, however, the coach picked up speed and traveled more normally, and Archie was glad he’d said nothing.

Disaster came quickly. There was a sensation of sliding sideways, then a crack as a wheel struck a rock or an icy rut. Then there was a sickening crunch as something broke. The next thing Archie knew they were piled atop one another and all was deathly silent in the snow that blew in the broken window.

***

"I’d give every bulls-eye in my buntlings that this snow should continue."

"What did you say, dear?" Lucy Daventry glanced up from her novel to look at her god-daughter sitting across from her. The girl looked a very pretty picture, with her sewing in her lap, her blonde curls upswept, and her brown eyes gazing out the window of the cozy, fire-lit blue-upholstered saloon into the snow-draped fairyland outside. But that phrase had sounded suspiciously like low cant, something that should never cross the lips of such a lovely young lady. "I do hope you weren’t saying something vulgar. And don’t mumble. It is not becoming."

"Yes, Lucy." Sophie Persalt jabbed a needle into her sewing-frame and looked up with a sweet smile. "I was only saying that I hope the snow keeps falling, and then perhaps we should not have this stoopid house party."

"Don’t say ‘stoopid,’" Lucy corrected automatically. "And I still don’t understand why you are blue-deviled about the house party. Several eligible gentlemen will be coming. I know some of them are even quite handsome."

Sophie shrugged, another unladylike gesture. "But they won’t be wearing red coats."

Soldiers again. Lucy laid her book upon her lap with a sigh. She was excessively fond of the girl, the only child of her late, dearest cousin and friend. But Sophie had a quite unfortunate predilection for military gentleman, a caste her father had absolutely no use for. Lucy had hoped that a reintroduction into country society after the debacle of her last season in London might cure Sophie of her weakness, but her inclinations still seemed as strong.

When Letitia Persalt had died five years ago, Sophie’s father, Sir Roger, had been only too happy to accept Lucy’s offer to take over the rearing of his daughter. And the widowed, childless Lucy had never regretted it. She’d not remarried and her life of solitary respectability had become somewhat flat. Sophie was a joy, a good-natured, intelligent girl. But like all eighteen-year-olds she could be a little flighty and was prone to swoon over anything in regimentals. Lucy could only pray that the snow did stop and that the respectable gentlemen she and the girl’s father had chosen would arrive soon to distract her young charge.

"No, but perhaps there will be a blue coat or two," teased Lucy, referring to the color that was currently at the height of gentlemen’s fashion. "And several other young ladies to compete with you for the beaux. So you’d better look sharp."

"They can have ‘em."

"Enunciate, please," Lucy chided again. And that sentiment was not what she’d wanted to hear. She’d hoped that by introducing several correct young women to the intimate little party, Sophie would feel keenly the incorrectness of her own behavior. But she couldn’t very well point that out. "Have I not taught you anything?"

"Sometimes I forget." Sophie was blithe as ever. "Perhaps I will at least make new friends."

"Of course." That was more like it, thought Lucy. "I don’t think you met these girls in London. The Misses Audley are from Kent, and their mother has only recently let them come out, and--"

She was interrupted as Sophie jumped from her chair to press her nose against the frosted window. "Who can that be at the door? Such a din!"

Such young ears! Lucy, all of six-and-thirty, had heard nothing. But as she set aside her book and made to stand she heard the voices raised in the hallway: Combs, the butler, and a thick City accent, disjointed.

Sophie had already run to the door of the saloon and was peering through. Lucy joined her. Roger had apparently heard the commotion as well and had joined the group in the hall.

"What’s all this racket, then?" he demanded.

Combs turned to his master. "This man says he’s postilion on the London stage, sir. He says there’s been an accident on the drive, and the passengers are uninjured but stranded in the snow--"

"Stage passengers, eh?" Roger’s voice was dubious, but the blizzard blowing into the hallway was unmistakable. "Well, demme, I don’t suppose we can leave them there, much as I might like to. Send out a few of the boys and bring them ‘round back."

"Yes, sir. He says, sir, that two of them are officers, so perhaps they should come to the front…?"

Lucy could feel Sophie perk up next to her. Oh, no…

"What kind of officers?" Roger wanted to know.

The postilion touched his snow-covered cap, sending more ice crystals to flutter to the already-wet parquet floor of the hall. "Navy lieutenants, sir."

Sophie deflated. "Oh, only naval officers," she whispered.

"Sailors, eh?" Roger inquired, more loudly. "Always a drunken sailor or two on the stage. Well, bring ‘em here and I’ll have a look at ‘em."

***

Horatio wrapped his overcoat more tightly around him and trudged the half-mile or so through the raging wind and cruel snow up to where the great house was supposed to be. It was called Balcomb Manor and was the home of one Sir Roger Persalt, Baronet, or so the postilion guard had told them when he’d returned to say he’d found shelter.

Horatio would have preferred an inn. Being beholden to the aristocracy always grated on his nerves. He didn’t have the social standing or skills necessary to make himself pleasant to his betters.

Apparently they’d crashed right on the drive to this Sir Roger’s home. This stretch of Sussex road was heavily forested, and the coachman had made some wrong turns in the confusion of the whiteout amid the trees. The guard had brought back with him several male servants, well-bundled against the blizzard, two of whom had been required to carry the coachman to the house. He was so drunk he’d been mostly uninjured in the fall from the top of the coach, but the brandy combined with a blow to his head had left him unable to walk at the moment.

Horatio wished he’d listened to Archie and Matthews regarding the man’s state of insobriety. Then, perhaps, they could have still been on their way to London with a different man in the driver’s seat.

He was nearing the house, Archie right behind him. The place was big and reassuringly modern, bricked and white-windowed in the Georgian style. A warm amber glow shone through an open door a few yards ahead of them, and a man’s voice blew to them on the wind.

"This way, sirs!"

A tall, slender and bald man in butler’s livery was waving them over the threshold. Horatio pulled off his hat and stepped gratefully through into an elegant, black-and-white parquetry-paved hall lit by a blazing chandelier overhead. He could see a pair of ladies, one blonde and one dark, peering around a corner. At his glance the ladies disappeared. Self-conscious, Horatio turned to look at the elegant gentleman in a stylish blue coat who’d pushed his way through a group of curious servants.

"Come in! Come in," he said. The man, who must have been Sir Roger, was big, white-haired and somewhat past middle age. His bluff manner contrasted with his exceeding elegance, but his icy blue eyes raked them up and down. "Well, come on! Get in here where it’s warm."

"Thank you for your kindness," Archie’s voice came from close behind. "Our men are following us--"

"Yes, yes, my servants will take care of them. And your horses. Get that door shut, Combs!" This last was directed at the butler, who’d been watching from the door to see that everyone was safe. "Where are those maids? Ah, here they are. Take these gentlemen’s coats and get them dried. You two can follow me into the drawing room. I’ve got a roaring fire going in there."

Horatio allowed his overcoat to be removed, then flicked a glance at Archie and followed. It was clear, to him at least, that Sir Roger was not in alt over their presence. His kindness in accepting them into his home, however, could not be denied.

They were led a few paces down the hall to a pair of open doors to their left. A step over the threshold revealed a blazing fireplace and several comfortable-looking red-plush chairs.

"I am Sir Roger Persalt. Welcome to Balcomb Manor," the man said, with a small, polite bow. Now that they were somewhat settled, his gruff manner shifted into brief formality. "Of course you may stay as long as you need to."

Horatio, as the senior officer, spoke first. "I am Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, of his Britannic Majesty’s Ship Kestrel, and this is Lieutenant Archibald Kennedy." He bowed stiffly. Archie did the same beside him with a bit more grace.

Sir Roger offered a condescending nod. "Sit, then! Sit, and make yourselves comfortable. I’ve got someone preparing rooms for you to change in. Shouldn’t take long, we have guests coming anyway. Bring any clothing? Not much? Still on the stage, I’ll bet." He peered more closely at Archie. "Kennedy, ‘eh? Shropshire Kennedys?"

"No, sir." Archie sketched another small bow. "Ayrshire. My father is Earl of Cassilis."

"A Scot? You’re a younger son, I’ll bet." Sir Roger’s tone made it clear that he ranked the Scots somewhere just above fishmongers in the scale of the peerage. At Archie’s nod he sighed, then continued, barely mollified by this mention of the nobility. "Would you care to join us for dinner? We dine at six. Country hours, you know. There will be ladies. Your men can eat with the servants."

"We--," Horatio began, then stopped, hating this situation more and more despite the warmth and promise of dryness. He’d decided Sir Roger was one of those aristocrats who adopted a congenial manner to hide his disdain for all those poor souls arrayed beneath him.

Archie finished for him. "We are not interrupting a party, I hope?"

"No, no. The party starts tomorrow, and I’m sure by then you’ll be back on your way to London." Sir Roger nodded, as if satisfied in his mind that they would not be foisted upon him for too long. "My boys’ll see to your coach, and if it can’t be fixed, we’ll send a messenger to Crawley. Will that do you?"

Horatio remained silent, unable to think of a polite refusal, so Archie spoke for him again. "Yes. Thank you, sir. We accept your invitation."

The niceties done, Sir Roger left the room. Horatio sank gratefully into a chair before the fire and rubbed his cold hands. He wished they didn’t have to dine with Sir Roger and these other strangers, and had a feeling they’d only been invited because of Archie’s connections.

Fate was surely conspiring against him with a litany of grudges for some past, forgotten transgressions. First came this transfer from Captain Pellew’s command to Jordan’s. The Indy had been forced by sea action to refit, and Pellew had been ordered to take control of the Impetueux, a fully-staffed ’74 with a notorious reputation. The Admiralty seemed to hope that Pellew would take charge and whip the Impetueux and her men into shape.

Horatio was to be sent to a newly-built ship in London, the third-rate Kestrel. He’d not heard much that was good about Jordan, and so could only be glad that most of the familiar crew from the old Indy, Archie included, were to transfer along with him. The two men had both hoped to be transferred to Captain James Sawyer and Renown, but the application had been denied when it became clear just how desperate Jordan was for crew. They’d barely met their new captain in Portsmouth, in fact, before they were sent off to Brighton to recruit. Other lieutenants were spread about the southern counties; Horatio wondered if they’d had any luck and whether they were already returned to London.

Then they’d been caught in the snow. And now they were in the home of an all-too-aristocratic gentleman, they were to have dinner, and to top it off, there were to be ladies present. Ladies who would expect him to make polite conversation, and to spout stories of his seafaring adventures for their amusement.

His mood was dark, but the fire was hot and the waves of dry heat soaked into his sore fingers. At least it was better inside than out in the snowstorm, he forced himself to remember. They were lucky to have escaped the bony fingers of black-cloaked death. He unbent so far as to admit to Archie, "This is my best coat, and it’s wet."

"Then you ask a servant to dry it for you," Archie said, with a smile to mitigate his dry tone. "You’re too tall to borrow mine."

Horatio thought with envy on Archie’s three good jackets, one of which he was wearing, and another of which he had brought with him. The one Horatio was wearing had suffered in the wreck, and he’d had to dig for his protective overcoat. "I will not tell seafaring stories," he blurted, an irked non-sequitur.

But Archie pulled his meaning out of the blue from whence it originated. "You’ll have to. I don’t have many, at least that I can relate to polite company. You won’t escape from this, you know."

Horatio was saved from having to think up a retort by the arrival of Combs, who announced that rooms had been prepared for them. Without a word, they picked up their hats and followed the butler up the stairs.

***

Back in the Blue Saloon, Lucy picked up her book and watched Sophie with a careful eye. It had transpired that though their guests were mere naval officers and thus not wearing scarlet coats, they had both been young and quite handsome from what Lucy could see. That was unfortunate.

"Could you see what they looked like? I couldn’t, not really," Sophie finally said, eyes fixed on her sewing, her tone almost too casual. "They appeared young, and that’s fortunate. I was half-afraid we’d have to entertain some old, fat sailor-men. That’s all I usually meet."

"You are thinking of admirals. They are the ones who go about in society. And no, they were not fat."

"All that climbing, I suppose." Sophie sighed, a dangerous noise.

"Yes," Lucy answered noncommittally. "They’ll soon be gone, anyway. And some lovely young men will be coming--"

"Poor fellows," Sophie said, sighing again. "They weren’t even wearing stick-flams."

Lucy stared at her in horror. "I swear, darling, I don’t understand half of what you say. Were you using slang again?"

"Of course not, dear Lucy! I was only commenting that the gentlemen were not wearing gloves."

"Hmph." Lucy wasn’t quite mollified. It was no wonder that army captain had thought Sophie easy prey, if she made a habit of speaking as though she’d grown up in the East End of London… But Lucy wasn’t going to think about that incident. The future was what was important. "They are probably too poor to afford them. But if your father invites them to dinner, we shall be civil to them all the same."

"Of course," agreed Sophie.

***

"Lieutenant the Honorable Archibald Kennedy. Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower."

As Combs announced them, Archie followed Horatio into the familiar dark-paneled and red-cushioned drawing-room. He nodded to Sir Roger, then out of sailor’s habit his eyes sought out the ladies sitting near the fire. They stood up as he approached, and Archie drank in the sight of them.

The younger was especially arresting. She wasn’t the most gorgeous creature Archie had ever laid eyes upon. She was, however, the cleanest, prettiest young lady he’d seen in a very long time. Most of the last five years of his life had been spent in prison or aboard ship, two locales that didn’t offer much in the way of female decoration.

The vision’s name was Miss Sophie Persalt, and as they drew near she curtsied to him very prettily. He couldn’t tell what color her eyes were, because she had them focused on the floor. Her blonde curls, however, were very shiny and fetchingly arrayed, and he caught a glimpse of slim arms through her silk patterned shawl and pink gown.

He turned to the older lady beside her. This lady watched Miss Persalt with an approving glance. When she was introduced as Mrs. John Daventry, he decided that she must be the duenna. She was not quite as old as he’d first thought, and also quite attractive. Her dark hair and eyes were set off by a deep blue dress with a waist where it should be, instead of under the armpits like those the younger girls now wore. She was curvy and stylish.

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance," he said with a very fine bow. Beside him he heard Horatio make a quiet echo to the pleasantry.

Archie turned his cares from the ladies to spare a brief, sympathetic thought for Horatio. His friend was uncomfortable in this sort of society. It was a startling change from his shipboard manner, which was usually reserved but always held the appearance of confidence.

But Archie couldn’t feel too sorry for Horatio. His natural reticence left the attention of the ladies for Archie. And in the hour since they’d arrived, both of their uniforms had been brushed, dried and pressed by a veritable squadron of quiet, competent servants. So neither of them needed to worry that they would appear to sartorial disadvantage.

Introductions completed, the company sat. Across the room, Sir Roger settled himself in a large chair and opened a paper.

Mrs. Daventry offered a few remarks on the inclemency of the weather. Archie said that yes, indeed, the February blizzard must be quite unseasonable for Sussex. Horatio mumbled agreement beside him.

"You were introduced as ‘the Honorable,’ sir. Might I inquire as to the situation of your family?" Mrs. Daventry asked, then offered an apologetic smile. "You see, I am acquainted with some Kennedys in Shropshire."

"I am sorry. We hail from the north—from Ayrshire," Archie explained for the second time that evening.

At that Miss Persalt raised her chin with alacrity. Her eyes were brown, he realized. "Really? Scotland, Mr. Kennedy? I simply adore Robert Burns!"

"Do you indeed?" Archie hid a laugh at her shining face. Robbie Burns and his songs were the only thing popular about Scotland these days.

"O, were my love yon lilac fair, with purple blossoms to the Spring--" she began, closing her eyes in rapture, but was interrupted by her father.

"Here now! That’s enough poetry," he nearly yelled. Then he stood and his face settled once more into its mask of good humor. "Dinner’s being served. Let’s go."

"I’m sorry, Papa. I did not hear the bell," said the little minx, knowing quite well that the dinner-bell had not been rung. She tossed her curls and tripped off to take her father’s arm.

As next in line, Mrs. Daventry took Archie’s arm and Horatio was left to follow behind. Archie found it odd but refreshing to take precedence over his senior officer.

The dining room was small and intimate, as was the fashion in modern houses. It faced the back of the house but the three windows didn’t provide much of a view at the moment—all Archie could see was blowing snow. Servants hurried to lay out the wine and the first course for the company. The food was very good, but Archie paid little attention to it. He, like Horatio, had simple tastes and anything that was not weevil-riddled biscuit and algae-filled water was ambrosia to him. He enjoyed watching Miss Persalt more. She’d completely lost her earlier reticence and chattered away, apparently happy to have the attention of not one but two gentlemen at their little family dinner.

Mrs. Daventry mentioned the house-party that was to begin on the morrow. Archie glanced out the window and shrugged. "I do not think your guests will be able to make this party, Sir Roger, if the snow does not stop." He indicated the storm outside. It was blowing worse than ever; ice-covered bush-branches clicked and rattled against the window with every gust. "I only hope we are able to continue on to London."

"I’m sure you will," Sir Roger said with dampening finality.

"I certainly hope it does not stop," Miss Persalt said into the breach. When Mrs. Daventry and Horatio stared at her in horror, her cheeks pinked. "I mean, I am fond of the snow."

"Harumph," muttered Sir Roger, then hurried to change the subject. "What is your business in London, if I may ask, eh?"

Horatio uttered a slight cough and spoke before Archie could reply. "We have been recruiting in Brighton. We have just joined a new ship, the Kestrel, and she sails from the Pool at London Bridge in a week."

"Recruiting?" Sir Roger sounded incredulous.

"Yes, sir. Recruiting. Our last ship, the Indefatigable, is being refitted. Repaired. And our new ship is larger." Archie could see the strain on Horatio’s face as he tried to explain their nautical duties in language that lubbers could understand. "We signed some volunteers in--"

"Volunteers, eh? Now that I can hardly believe."

"Volunteers, sir," Horatio continued, undaunted. "And--"

But he was interrupted again by Sir Roger. "Recruiting. For the Navy." He barked a hearty laugh. "As long as you don’t try to press m’servants, eh? We’ll have to keep an eye on your men below."

Now Archie truly felt sorry for Horatio. His friend didn’t care for the press, as necessary as it was, and had been proud of their success in Brighton.

"Of course not, sir," Archie interjected. "We’ve already found our men to fight Johnny Crapaud."

"Hmph. Never been one to care much for the military at all, me. Army, Navy, it’s all the same. Don’t mix much with military men."

Archie watched as Horatio’s eyes unfocused. But when his friend next spoke it was with a quiet and careful dignity.

"Well surely you care, sir, that they’re not speaking French in Parliament?"

Sir Roger didn’t reply, and Mrs. Daventry jumped in with a quick change of subject.

"Have you been in many sea-battles, gentlemen?" She had a bright smile pasted on her handsome face. "Were you perhaps at the victory of Cape St. Vincent that we heard so much about several years ago?"

"Two years ago, and no," Archie replied before Horatio could barge in. "We were in a Spanish prison."

"Ooooh!" the ladies exclaimed in unison.

"Was it simply awful?" Miss Persalt wanted to know. Her eyes were alight with the thought of their suffering.

Horatio only continued to sneak covert glares at Sir Roger, so Archie answered. "Yes. I was captured during a night attack on a French ship at harbor, in ’94." He gave them a highly-edited version of his capture and transfer across French and Spanish prisons. He took enough time that Horatio had cooled off and could join in the story when it came his turn.

Horatio started by admitting he’d sailed a prize into the middle of the Spanish fleet. His version was highly-edited as well and short, considering that they were in the presence of non-naval individuals, and omitting all mention of the erstwhile Duchess. But the ladies seemed to find it very exciting nonetheless.

In this manner the rest of the meal passed somewhat more pleasantly. At its conclusion the ladies seemed reluctant to leave. But instead of drinking port with Sir Roger, Horatio claimed exhaustion and begged to retire. The butler, Combs, arrived to speak quietly in his master’s ear. After a brief conference Sir Roger turned to them.

"Gentlemen, it seems we can’t fix your coach, nor can we send a messenger, in this weather." His good breeding mostly covered up his regret at this circumstance. "I beg that you will stay the night."

"Oh, yes," chimed in Miss Persalt with hands clasped in barely-hidden glee. "It’s much too horrible outside to leave."

Horatio and Archie nodded. "I thank you for your kindness, and we accept, sir." Horatio said, all politeness.

Horatio went to his room and Archie went to check on Matthews and Smith before retiring to his. He, Archie, would have liked to stay in company with the ladies a little longer, but didn’t want to subject Horatio, or himself, to further insult from Sir Roger.

It was obvious that the ladies would have liked them to stay longer as well. They had watched the two friends leave with longing gazes, and Archie suspected that both ladies were already in love with Horatio.

***

"Blue-eyed children," sighed Sophie once the ladies were alone. Her father had gone back to the dining room to enjoy his nightly port and cigar.

Sophie was in love. Such a golden man, was her Lieutenant Kennedy (she already thought of him as her Lieutenant). So handsome, so kind, and smiling all the time! She had never realized that naval gentlemen could be as divine as soldiers. Without red coats or gold braid, even!

"With red hair, most likely," Lucy replied. "Come, dear, you cannot have formed a tendre for another young man already. You hardly know him!"

"Of course not, dear Lucy!" Sophie forced a bright titter into her voice. "I was just being silly. Girlish fancies." Sophie realized she’d been careless, there. It would not do to have dear Lucy worrying over her as she always did. She would need to guard her tongue. "I do think he’s handsome. But quite unsuitable."

"I am glad you agree," said Lucy with a sniff. "At least Ca—I mean, never mind."

Sophie stiffened. Lucy had been about to mention Captain Lord Rundell, the man she’d adored above all others, and who she’d hoped would rescue her from life under her domineering, stuffy, ignorant father. It had all come to naught, but he’d been divine, thought Sophie with a melting sigh. Dark hair, blue eyes—Sophie had always adored men with blue eyes. She’d spent a life in near-idleness, and had found plenty of time to consider her future. And her future consisted of interesting people, and more importantly, of blue-eyed, pink-cheeked children.

Sophie did not consider herself stupid. Women had brains. She had one. She was a great reader, even if what she mostly read was novels or books of poetry. But she’d never considered freedom the way some of her friends had. Heaven forbid she should become a Blue Stocking—ape-leaders, most of them. No, Sophie focused her intelligence on finding a man. And what could be better or more interesting than a man who worked for a living, and wore a uniform?

Her thoughts returned to Captain Rundell. She’d been all ready to run off with him, to escape her father’s plans and to live a glorious life in London or perhaps even on the Continent. But he’d disappeared on the very day of their planned elopement, and her father had looked insufferably smug and knowing when he’d announced that they were return to the country.

And the season hadn’t been nearly over! Sophie had not even been allowed a chance to try again, before she’d been bundled off to Sussex in near-disgrace. Oh, how her father hated the military! He despised even the officers with titles. Always, he’d said that a true gentleman did not work, and that younger sons were better off to join the clergy or something equally genteel.

In her heart of hearts Sophie suspected him of jealousy. But that was too uncharitable a thought, she knew. Her father did love her. He just didn’t know what was best for her. Sophie did. Five years of living with her beloved and clever Lucy had rendered Sophie incapable of ever being able to live happily under her father’s autocratic thumb again.

But before she took any action she needed a battle plan—a strategy. She needed to figure out how to secure Lieutenant Kennedy—son of a Scots earl, even—before the men left for London. How to make sure he took her with him when they did. They could live together aboard ship! Sophie indulged in a brief fantasy involving herself as the darling of the Navy, brave even during battle, and adored by all the men.

A cough from Lucy brought her back to reality. She couldn’t very well conceive such a plan with Lucy watching her so assiduously.

"Oh! All the excitement," Sophie said, and fabricated a delicate yawn. "I, too, think I shall retire. I will see you at breakfast."

Lucy glanced out the window at the still-raging snow and sighed. "Dress warmly, dear. I fear it will be cold in the breakfast-room."

"Of course, Lucy. Good night."

***

Horatio awoke disoriented. He knew his fingers and legs ached. But as he creaked open his eyes and spied the cheery chintz curtains adorning the window at his bedside, memory of the night before returned to him. He jumped out of bed, subduing a groan at his sore limbs, and tore apart the curtains. The scene framed in the window was so white he had to shield his eyes for a moment.

It was later than he was used to awakening. Snow was falling still, only lightly, but it looked very deep. Along the front drive their footprints from the night before had been covered up as if they’d never been there. The world was a white fairyland of glistening branches and frosted bushes, snow drifting down upon the whole like confetti shaken from a hat.

It made him want to vomit.

A look around the room in the daylight revealed it to be somewhat feminine and flowery, but it was probably the most luxurious room he’d ever spent the night in. As adding to that impression, a quiet manservant entered and offered him chocolate. Horatio waved it off irritably. He preferred coffee. He waved off as well the man’s offer to help him dress. Horatio had always been accustomed to dressing himself. He spared a brief thought to wonder if Archie had overslept as well, and whether he’d accepted help in dressing.

A few minutes later he knocked on that lieutenant’s door, having been directed there by a passing chambermaid. Archie pulled open the door himself and waved him in with a bright smile.

"Good morning, Horatio! Sleep well?"

"Yes," he forced out, knowing it sounded sulky but unable to help it in the face of Archie’s hideous good cheer. His earlier question was answered as he watched Archie finish buttoning his own waistcoat and begin to pull his jacket over the whole. "I want to go and check on the men before breakfast."

"We’ll see them after breakfast. Don’t worry! They are happy as clams, surrounded by good food and pretty housemaids. Ow!" This last came as Archie stretched his arms back into his jacket sleeves. "Good God, but I’m sore. I didn’t feel it last night."

Horatio was cheered by this evidence that he wasn’t the only one in pain. "The cold and the wreck, I fathom."

"No doubt."

They were directed by another servant to the breakfast-room but almost needn’t have asked where it was. Wondrous smells drifted down the halls like a trail of bliss. When Horatio’s stomach rumbled he was glad they’d decided to eat first. The marvelous, marvelous aroma of coffee tantalized him and he had to check his steps so as not to appear too eager.

Only Sir Roger was present in the breakfast-room. When Horatio and Archie entered he lowered his paper and gave them a nod and a civil ‘good morning.’

Horatio’s heart leapt as he saw the paper. He wondered if perhaps the roads were clear enough for the London post. But a surreptitious inspection revealed it to be an edition that was several days old.

They served themselves from the loaded sideboard. Whatever Horatio thought about Sir Roger, he couldn’t deny that the man kept a good table. A servant supplied him a place with coffee, and Horatio allowed himself some each of eggs, steak, toast and kippers. He was odd among seamen in that he would eat fish; he noticed that Archie avoided them with a grimace.

They had just seated themselves when they were forced to rise again at the entrance of the attractive Mrs. Daventry. Sir Roger remained standing.

"I’m going to my study," he said stiffly. "Enjoy your breakfast. Don’t think our guests will make it through this snow. Servants tell me there’s no travel on the road ‘cos it’s so deep." With that pronouncement of doom he left.

Mrs. Daventry gave Horatio a look of kind pity, and he felt himself well-disposed toward her. He smiled despite a sudden loss of appetite, then sat again, hoping to eat anyway to keep up his energy. Already his mind was formulating plans to escape from Balcomb Manor to London even in these road conditions. How he hated land! Snow wouldn’t stop the wind, or a ship from sailing.

But no sooner had his bottom touched the chair than they were forced to stand again as a cheerful ‘good morning!’ behind him heralded the arrival of Miss Persalt.

Across from Horatio Mrs. Daventry emitted something between a shriek and a gasp of horror. He turned to see what had so frightened her but it was only Miss Persalt curtseying in the door.

"My dear Sophie! You will freeze to death!" Mrs. Daventry cried.

"Not I," the girl said airily, and grinned at the maid who prepared her a spot at the table.

But Horatio had to agree with Mrs. Daventry. The girl was dressed in some pale pink thing which floated about her as she walked, but her arms and most of her bosom were bare to the chilly air of the breakfast-room. And yes, those were quite definitely her nipples poking through the scanty bodice of the thin gown—

Horatio sat and averted his gaze in embarrassment. He glanced at Archie, who was beaming an all-too-appreciative smile at the silly girl and making some pleasantry.

He forced himself to stare at his breakfast. Mrs. Daventry coughed and made some comment about shawls but Miss Persalt just laughed and asked the servant to fetch her some toast and eggs.

"Shall you not have some ham or kippers, Sophie dearest?" Mrs. Daventry asked next. "You need to keep up your strength in this weather."

"Oh, no, Lucy," the girl said with a sweet smile at Archie. "I cannot bear kippers. I should flash my hash if I ate any of those."

Archie choked on his coffee, thrusting a napkin over his nose so that he should not spray upon the tablecloth. Horatio only stared at the girl in horror. Not only had the girl spoken of vomiting at the breakfast table, but she’d used the language of Seven Dials to do it.

"What did you say?" Mrs. Daventry asked with a decidedly agonized look.

"Nothing untoward, Lucy. You know how I detest kippers."

"Oh, I so agree," Archie said to the pert little miss, sounding as if he were barely stifling a snort. "I cannot bear them, either."

Horatio was sure Mrs. Daventry had no idea what the girl had said, just as he was sure her father would have known had he been present. Poor Mrs. Daventry. Obviously long-suffering, she shot the girl a dagger-glare then turned to Horatio with a tight smile. "From where do you hail, Mr. Hornblower? I don’t think we discussed that last evening."

"We did not," he said stiffly, still shocked at the girl’s behavior. "I am from Kent. My father is a physician."

"Ah," Mrs. Daventry said, eyebrows raised. Horatio felt his hackles rise with them, just a little. But the lady was gracious enough not to suggest he dine with the servants.

"And you, ma’am," Archie broke in, with a conspiratorial smile at Miss Persalt. "Do you and Mr. Daventry live near here?"

"Oh! My husband has been dead these ten years," she replied, giving him a smile to show that the subject was not taboo. "We have been staying here or in London since Sophie came out almost a year ago, but my home is in Devonshire."

"Beautiful place, ma’am."

Horatio only ate as fast as he decently could, while everyone else made idle chitchat and Miss Persalt flirted with Archie. The thought nagged at him that they needed to escape as soon as possible, so that he and Archie could discuss plans to get to London without the distraction of the ladies.

"It is too bad that you cannot get to London at this time, sir," Mrs. Daventry was saying to him. "But I am sure it will begin to melt before your ship sails."

"Indeed," he said with another small smile at her perspicacity. She would not know that the ship could hardly sail without her fourth and fifth lieutenants, he thought. Unless the Admiralty was able to find two other lieutenants to replace them. If this damned unseasonable snow did not melt soon enough, he and Archie would be in disgrace, and would be placed on half-pay, and—

"Perhaps. But it is too terrible now. I have never seen snow like this here in Sussex," Miss Persalt said, only exacerbating his feelings of taut worry and doom. He disliked her immensely in that moment. "What shall we do to amuse ourselves in the meantime?"

Archie opened his mouth to reply but Horatio beat him to it. "Mr. Kennedy and I will go down to inspect the coach. One of our men, Smith, is a carpenter and perhaps he will have some ideas."

"Excellent idea, Mr. Hornblower," Archie said. Horatio could not tell if he was being ironic or not.

"Oh, but it is so cold!" Miss Persalt persisted. "It might be dangerous."

"Do not worry, Miss Persalt. We’ve been through worse," Archie replied. "It will take more than a little bit of snow to stop us."

That miss clasped her hands to her bosom in an attitude of worship, only accentuating its indecency. "You are so brave, Mr. Kennedy!"

"Come, Archie," Horatio broke in before he flashed his own hash at the Drury Lane scene. He stood and nodded at the females. "We shall see you ladies later, I hope."

Archie stood slowly. "Good day, ladies," he said, with a grin at the sickening little creature, and followed Horatio from the room.

****

Miss Sophie Persalt was a delectable little creature, thought Archie as he and Horatio donned their overcoats and prepared to find Smith and Matthews. And she was so comical. He, too, hoped to return to London as soon as possible. But in the meantime, he was going to enjoy flirting with her, especially under the nose of her horrible father.

Horatio was scowling. Archie understood his impotent anxiety, but was in too good a mood to bear it. "Isn’t that Miss Sophie a delightful lady?"

But Horatio only scowled more deeply. "Miss Persalt. And no, Archie. She’s a twit."

"You’re too hard on her. We’re lucky to be alive. And to have such kind and entertaining company."

"Ha. H’m." Horatio glared, appearing unable to think up a suitable retort. "We need to get out of here."

Archie chuckled. Worry, worry, worry—that was his friend Horatio. The man had a mind that achieved results, to be sure. And Archie was lucky it was so, otherwise he might still be languishing in one prison or another. But Archie sent brief thanks to the Almighty that he himself had the ability to see the bright side of most situations.

They were doing all they could at the moment, and that was enough for Archie. Horatio would fret himself into a frenzy if someone did not tease him now and then. Horatio was lucky he had Archie around to do it.

"Well, there’s always the other lady," Archie said with a sly grin. "Perhaps you prefer the dashing widow?"

Horatio didn’t deign to reply to that. "Do you know the way to the servant’s quarters?"

Archie sighed. "Yes."

They roused Matthews and Smith from their spots in the servant’s dining hall, where they were the center of all attention. Archie wasn’t sure what stories the men had told their wide-eyed audience, but the scullery-maids and chambermaids watched the two leave with obvious regret.

Smith, the carpenter, was a tall, good-looking, solid sort of man. He was quieter than the extroverted Matthews but just as capable. He found the groundskeeper and the tool-room and requested several carpenting instruments, including a request for a shovel so that he might make the way through the snow easier for his officers.

"We shall manage, Smith," Horatio told him, happy and expansive now that they were on their way to do something constructive.

"A toolbox will do us, Smith," Archie agreed. "We’ve got our boots. We’ll be fine."

Smith knuckled his forehead with an "aye aye, sir." The groundskeeper provided them with a box and some old gloves and they found their way outside.

Past the shoveled front walk the snow was deep, above their knees, and the gentle flurries they’d seen from the breakfast-room window had concealed a biting wind that only seemed to worsen as they trudged farther from the house.

In daylight the red-and-black leather coach was a sad wreck. It lay on its side, one wheel thrown clear from a broken axle. No one had bothered to shut the door after they’d climbed out, and snow had drifted down inside it to cover the seats.

Archie moved to fetch the wheel that rested half-buried against a tree, but Matthews roused himself to get there first. While he and Smith examined the axle, Archie and Horatio busied themselves by digging about inside, looking for anything that might have been left behind in the dark.

Archie bumped his head one time too many for his own comfort and so decided to search the boot-box under the coachman’s seat for any spare parts. But it, too, had already been emptied by the house-servants the night before when they’d pulled out their bandboxes.

He finally gave up and stood about in the snow, watching as Matthews and Smith discussed supports and struts and reinforcing things with rods. Unable to stand still, Horatio stamped out to the road. He returned a few minutes later shaking his head and brushing snow from his coat.

"Drifts," he said to Archie and wrapped his arms about himself in an brief, uncharacteristic indulgence in self-warmth. "Goddamn it to Hell. Not a goddamn track in sight."

Archie hid a smile at the oaths. Horatio was truly in a state to swear with such emotion. He was so twitchy he paced about until he’d dug a deep snow-circle, and Archie was half-afraid Horatio would try to walk to the next town himself.

Archie was tempted himself. Forced inactivity was bringing the chills and aches back to haunt his bones. The thought of walking, of doing anything in fact, was growing ever more alluring. But Archie had no wish to freeze to death on the roadside with only the nervous and excited Horatio for company.

Gratefully he watched a tall, bundled manservant approaching them from the house, making a valiant effort to support a tray as he fought the snow about his knees. It was Combs, bald head covered with a scarf.

Horatio caught sight of him as well and bounded off to meet him. Archie followed.

"Coffee!" Horatio exclaimed with the first real smile Archie had seen from him that day.

"Compliments of Mrs. Daventry," said Combs.

"Thank her for us, please," Archie said. He and Horatio each took extra mugs for the men, but Horatio turned back to the butler.

"Is that bloody coachman sensible yet?"

"I believe he is recovered, sir," Combs said with a barely-perceptible smile.

"Then send him out here, if you would, and that guard as well. I’ll be God-damned if I’ll stand out here all bloody day while he lies snug abed. And a couple more men, if you please, and if you can spare them."

"Yes, sir," Combs said, this time with an even bigger grin.

Matthews took his coffee with a grateful gloved knuckle to the forehead. "The axle’s set, sir, we think. But we’ll have to right it to be sure. Could snap, sir. A few more men and we could try."

"We’ll have to," Archie agreed. "There’s nothing for it."

Not much later two stableboys, the postilion guard and coachman appeared. The latter would meet no one’s eyes, and Archie guessed it was out of shame. The man accepted Horatio’s gleeful curses and trudged up to the coach like an obliging sheep.

With four men pulling and four levering the backside with fallen branches, they rocked the coach upright. But no sooner was it standing than a loud crack signified that the axle had once more given way.

"Hell," Archie said, this time the one to swear. He was freezing.

But Matthews was hopeful as they leaned it back over. "Our mend held, sir! It was weak here," he said, and pointed.

Archie felt that Horatio was unreasonably cheerful as he bent over to look down. It probably had something to do with the complexities presented by the axle. Horatio loved nothing more than a puzzle.

The wind had picked up and new snow, not blown snow, was starting to cover the coach once more. Archie had resigned himself to standing about in the worsening cold for another hour or so, when he heard a distinctly feminine hail above the sound of the wind.

"Hallo!" It was Miss Sophie. She had made the insane decision to join them. For a moment Archie could almost agree with Horatio’s estimation of her as she swayed and giggled. But he had to admit she was a pretty sight, with her pink cheeks and golden curls showing between her hat and woolen scarf. And she was quite the trooper, pushing through the snow alone.

Nevertheless he couldn’t help but chide her for her foolhardiness. "Your duenna is correct. You will freeze to death, Miss Persalt."

"Pooh!" she laughed. "I have decided that ladies are just as brave as gentlemen. Look! Our house is like an ice castle. How very pretty it all is."

Archie couldn’t agree with her. He only shrugged.

She caught his look and her pink lips formed an ‘O’ of concern. "But only look at you, Mr. Kennedy. Poor man. I’d lay a bob that your sticks and rammers are frozen solid, you’ve been out here so long!"

Archie laughed and felt warmer than he had since he’d finished his coffee. Her language was colorful, to say the least. He intercepted an eye-roll from Horatio that was directed at Miss Sophie’s back, and laughed harder. Horatio was too much of a gentleman to dare curse her, no matter how much he might enjoy it.

"Do not refine upon it," he said. "We will have to go in soon. I only hope we can repair the coach before the weather worsens."

"But you will not be able to drive it anywhere," she said with smug complacency and leaned down to draw a face on the surface of the snow. One gloved hand cupped some. "I believe I shall make a snowball. Or a snowman, perhaps."

Archie could almost sense Horatio stiffening out of his good mood with every word she spoke. "That would not be a good idea. You should go back in--"

"Sophie! Are you mad?" came another feminine shriek, almost drowned out by a sudden gust of wind. It was Mrs. Daventry, braving the rising storm.

On to Part Two!

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