Edward Burr (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
morethanhonour) wrote2012-12-16 10:43 pm
morethanhonour) wrote2012-12-16 10:43 pm
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The Price of Peace - Chapter Ten
The Price of Peace
Book Three
Chapter Ten
“You know, dearest, in all your explanations, arguments, counter-arguments, and caveats, there are three words I have not yet heard said.” Abigail did her very best not to smile too much, but she could hardly help herself. Such an opportunity, after all, was likely to be difficult to come by or far more obscure or requiring of a more gentle touch. For this matter, she could speak as she chose, especially alone with her husband.
She felt a warming of pity when he fixed her with an exhausted gaze. It was cruel to belabour the point when she knew he’d kept himself up half the night fretting over this matter. He had nearly worn a rut in the floor with his pacing, and she had heard him muttering to the shadows of every faction, even those who would never learn about any of this. Now, he stood before her. He was asking her, not merely informing her of his decision. She had no cause to be unkind, but even she was no saint.
“What haven’t I said?” He looked so earnest that her near laughter faded into just a warm, gentle smile as she regarded him with affection.
“I did not hear— or perhaps I merely missed it— you say even once,” she explained, her lips quirking a little nearer a smile, “that I proved right, after all was done.”
For a moment, David stared at her. It was rather forward, Abigail, knew, but she had long since learned that she was allowed to speak her mind with utter freedom when only David was near. It seemed to her that he had some small difficulty truly comprehending what she had said. At last, as full realisation dawned on him, he came to smile as well. David, after only a moment or two more, began to chuckle. That quickly became warm, full, appreciative laughter.
“Very well, very well: you, my darling Abigail, were, of course, entirely correct, and I was a fool to ignore your prophetic warning. From now on, I shall not doubt you.” He gave her a wide, nearly teasing grin. “Will that answer? Or shall I go on?”
“I should quite like for you to continue,” Abigail said sweetly, “but that will do. Thank you.” She looked at him and regarded the matter in earnest. With her hands folded in her lap, she asked, “What would you like me to say, David? You have argued brilliantly for and against this measure, so I do not know where you stand. Are you only waiting for me to approve? Or shall I firmly oppose it and take the blame? I am happy to do either, David. You need only indicate which.”
“I want your true opinion.” His voice as full of sincerity as he said it. “I would like to see them housed where they may be safe, yes. Even if I must endure strife with Faith. I want to help them. Before Abigail could speak, he held up his hand to request silence and went on. “I would like to see you forever sure of your safety in your home, too. This would introduce two men whom you barely know into your haven. I want you to be happy.” He spread his hands and looked her straight in the eye. “I am yours, Abigail, to command. Bid me as you will, and it shall be done to your full satisfaction, I swear.”
Abigail felt tears string her eyes. It still seemed strange to her sometimes, that even David would think to give her true consideration. The house he called hers was his by right, yet he gave her the power to deny two male guests he wished to host. She sat beside him, tenderly kissed his cheek, and said, “Tell your friends that we should be happy to have them as our guests at Crawford Manor.”
‡ ‡ ‡
It was such a great relief to slap David. What other options, really, were afforded a woman? She could not demand satisfaction in a duel from a strayed beloved or publicly denounce a disloyal brother. She could not shout or swear. Telling others—the way one might about a woman who left her door unlocked for the married vicar—so as to be surrounded by a mass of indignation shared would, in this instance, cause her to bear the bulk of the shame. All that was afforded to her was the shallow damage her open palm could manage to inflict.
Faith let herself weep as she looked at him; David was allowed to see her cry. Even after she struck him, he opened his arms, and she fell into them. “I hate you,” she muttered against his shoulder without conviction. She sounded a little more convincing when she said, “I hate him. I hate both of them.” She sobbed again and did her best to wipe her eyes against his coat before she looked up. For a moment, she stared at him, searched his face and eyes for some deep, hidden truth. She found nothing. “Why are you helping them David? Why will you abide them? Why are they more precious to you than me?”
“You know there is nothing dearer to me than you, Faith,” he whispered. Her glare, full of hurt, made him sigh, half into her hair. “They are friends of mine in great need. Mister Burr, especially, is a brother officer and former shipmate of mine, who—”
“Is breaking not only a law with a capital punishment but also defying the Articles of War, the law you all swear to, with the same punishment. Not only are you ignoring its commission, but you are sanctioning its demise in your home, David. People will talk. Not only about them but about you for allowing it.”
“—Who has proven himself in action a dozen times over.” He watched her, and Faith yearned to slap him again. He regarded her as being simple-minded. If Edward had as well, he at least concealed it better. She had a great many weapons to wield against him. She could shock him by asking if he planned to keep both their beds warm, flaunt his pleasures in front of Abigail in their home as he had done here. Did he think them both so stupid as to not realise? “You will always be my sister, Faith. Nothing can alter my affection for you. Without me, they are alone and friendless. They will suffer. Which seems just to you, I know, but I must intervene.”
He would not indulge this madness if he still kept the company of Captain Hawke, Faith knew. Since their parting, David’s appetite had become ever more voracious, and he barely tried to hide it now. Captain Hawke had been a steadying influence. Perhaps it was the lack of sea, too. Her mother had warned her that many fine officers made awful civilians. She simply assumed David would be immune. Edward, too, if she were honest. Unlike her brother, he had showed no sign of these tendencies before peace had left him without a ship and battle. She felt ready to cry again at the thought of him. No matter what David thought or Abigail pretended to ignore or other women overlooked, she would never forgive Edward. Not even if he came to her on his knees, full of apologies and pleas.
“Go,” she said sharply. “Keep their company.” She turned away from him at once. “Until they are gone, though. I’ll not see you. I will not write, either.” She didn’t care if she might be unreasonable; in these circumstances, she was allowed. “As long as they share your home, David, mark me well— I have no brother.”
‡ ‡ ‡
He didn’t know why David Long had agreed to allow them into his home. If he were completely honest with himself, Edward was not entirely sure he wanted to know. Throughout the whole of the long trip from London to Crawford Manor, he had kept himself from asking anything of Remy. He had full rights to satisfy himself on certain points, and he knew it. He had sacrificed a great deal to be here. Was it wrong to want assurances he was not the only one? Half an hour away from their destination and without anywhere else to go was a poor time and place to demand the answers he was terrified of receiving, but he could not swallow his words and suffer this doubt in silence any longer.
“What sort of an arrangement do you have with Mister Long?” The words came more sharply than he meant, and Remy looked over at him. He seemed confused, at least. Or was he surprised? It might be he thought Edward would never know, so he did not have a plan ready for how he would reply to the accusation. If that was the case, Edward knew he had to press his advantage. “I know,” or, rather, had cause to suspect, “but that made denial simple, “you and Mister Long have,” he paused to seek the right word, “kept one another company,” far too tame, but it would do, “on two occasions.”
“Three.” Edward started. Remy looked at him, torn between mild amusement and slight surprise. “Why should I deny it? The first was several years ago, when a ship I was on captured the small brig he was put in charge of. The second, after Colette’s party. He had need of company; I had nothing better to do. The third was the day before Lady Darvil’s party. Shall I detail every dalliance? No? Very well.” He shrugged easily. “Now, I have asked his help, and he has supplied it. There is no further arrangement.”
Edward hesitated. He knew he had no choice but to place his faith in Remy. Even so, he looked out the carriage window as he asked, “Ware there others now? Will there be?”
What could he do if Remy said yes? They both knew he had nothing left in London. Faith could and very well might smear his name socially, politically, and professionally. What choice did he have? If he had made a bad bargain by choosing Remy, he alone was to blame, and he must bide. Remy could be as sure of that as he must be. No matter what the man did now, Edward was tethered to him. Yet, he needed hear it. He needed to know.
“Is that what you are afraid of, Edward?” Remy chuckled softly. His fingers traced Edward’s cheek and jaw, compelling him to look over. Remy kissed him when he did. After giving Edward time to return and enjoy the gesture, Remy pulled back just far enough to speak. “Listen to me. I promise you— swear by God, the Virgin, Christ, and every saint— that there are no others. For as long as you will have only me, I shall have only you.” He kissed him again, briefly. “Will that oath satisfy you?”
Edward said nothing. Words were simple enough, and he knew Remy was eloquent when he chose to be. Nothing he said could be trust. Yet, those eyes never lost their power. Staring into them, he could treat every word uttered as pure Gospel. It was a war of opinions within him, but logic and sense could not, now or ever, win over the motions Remy inspired in him. He leaned forward and brought his lips to the other man’s mouth. In case that was not assurance enough that he would believe what he was told, en entwined the fingers of one hand with Remy’s while his other hand moved slowly up his thigh.
‡ ‡ ‡
Joseph read the letters three times. He had left London too early, not foreseen the disastrous circumstances that could arise. Now, it was too late to intervene. Men in the Navy wasted no time. He looked at Edward’s letter. He could see the nerves and reckless elation in the pen-strokes. He had known Martineau would surely seek an affair; that was no real surprise. However, he had not expected the sudden, striking, sure fondness with which Edward spoke of Martineau. Joseph picked up Long’s letter. A broken engagement and a plea for help, he could not have predicted either of those. He was particularly aware, too, that the request had come from Martineau. What should he make of this whole mess? Joseph didn’t know.
He heard a knock at the door and folded the letters and put them under others. When it opened and Nathaniel entered, he was able to breathe. Not, he feared, that he could explain his troubles. While they had reached something of a peace, it was tenuous at best. Talk of Edward now might shatter everything. He longed to confide at least these troubles to someone, and, for so long, it had been Nathaniel whom he told much. Joseph knew what it said about him that he knew an abundance of ways to make a man reveal secrets or confess or name co-conspirators, yet he did not know how to convince the one person who mattered to him above all else in this world that he loved only him and would never imagine intimacy with someone else for any reason. He was poorly suited to this sort of domestic life.
“It’s almost time for supper,” Nathaniel said. He seemed acutely aware that he had intruded upon some personal or professional secret, but, like Joseph, was keen not to disrupt their shaky truce. Joseph made up his mind and offered the letters to the other man.
“I am fond of him,” Joseph said as Nathaniel read. Quickly, he added, “Let me speak my piece before you say a word, I beg.” Nathaniel shut his open mouth, and Joseph continued in an even tone. “We met five years ago, when I joined Virtue, under Captain Caldwell. Mister Burr was a midshipman, then. He was polite, loyal, and hard-working. The first thing I committed to memory about him was that he sang in times of great stress. Captain Caldwell was killed— this you know, I am aware— when Jenner helped French captives try and take the ship. I made sure Jenner did not get away with treason. I fled, eventually securing a place on a French ship, Nymphe. Edward was put in charge of her when she became a prize. Martineau was her acting-captain. Edward spoke to me, and he spared me. For all he knew, I was a traitor, but he did not denounce me, which meant I could continue my work.” He sighed. “He has ever been, in my mind, the sort of officer England needs: loyal to his country, brace, unafraid to kill, and unafraid to show mercy. I have pressed his interests, yes, and sought to protect him— you can see how that failed to do any good— but because I want to serve an England that values men such as him, not because I possess any sort of love or desire for him.”
Nathaniel took after his father, Joseph found himself thinking. Somehow, he had learned little lessons, rarely though they might be applied, in concealing his thoughts and feeling. Joseph felt he was seeing them in practice now, as he could not figure Nathaniel’s mind or heart looking at him as he folded the letters and handed them over. Perhaps, he considered, Nathaniel did not know himself. That would make a great deal of sense.
“Supper will be served in fifteen minutes,” he said softly before taking his leave.
Book Three
Chapter Ten
“You know, dearest, in all your explanations, arguments, counter-arguments, and caveats, there are three words I have not yet heard said.” Abigail did her very best not to smile too much, but she could hardly help herself. Such an opportunity, after all, was likely to be difficult to come by or far more obscure or requiring of a more gentle touch. For this matter, she could speak as she chose, especially alone with her husband.
She felt a warming of pity when he fixed her with an exhausted gaze. It was cruel to belabour the point when she knew he’d kept himself up half the night fretting over this matter. He had nearly worn a rut in the floor with his pacing, and she had heard him muttering to the shadows of every faction, even those who would never learn about any of this. Now, he stood before her. He was asking her, not merely informing her of his decision. She had no cause to be unkind, but even she was no saint.
“What haven’t I said?” He looked so earnest that her near laughter faded into just a warm, gentle smile as she regarded him with affection.
“I did not hear— or perhaps I merely missed it— you say even once,” she explained, her lips quirking a little nearer a smile, “that I proved right, after all was done.”
For a moment, David stared at her. It was rather forward, Abigail, knew, but she had long since learned that she was allowed to speak her mind with utter freedom when only David was near. It seemed to her that he had some small difficulty truly comprehending what she had said. At last, as full realisation dawned on him, he came to smile as well. David, after only a moment or two more, began to chuckle. That quickly became warm, full, appreciative laughter.
“Very well, very well: you, my darling Abigail, were, of course, entirely correct, and I was a fool to ignore your prophetic warning. From now on, I shall not doubt you.” He gave her a wide, nearly teasing grin. “Will that answer? Or shall I go on?”
“I should quite like for you to continue,” Abigail said sweetly, “but that will do. Thank you.” She looked at him and regarded the matter in earnest. With her hands folded in her lap, she asked, “What would you like me to say, David? You have argued brilliantly for and against this measure, so I do not know where you stand. Are you only waiting for me to approve? Or shall I firmly oppose it and take the blame? I am happy to do either, David. You need only indicate which.”
“I want your true opinion.” His voice as full of sincerity as he said it. “I would like to see them housed where they may be safe, yes. Even if I must endure strife with Faith. I want to help them. Before Abigail could speak, he held up his hand to request silence and went on. “I would like to see you forever sure of your safety in your home, too. This would introduce two men whom you barely know into your haven. I want you to be happy.” He spread his hands and looked her straight in the eye. “I am yours, Abigail, to command. Bid me as you will, and it shall be done to your full satisfaction, I swear.”
Abigail felt tears string her eyes. It still seemed strange to her sometimes, that even David would think to give her true consideration. The house he called hers was his by right, yet he gave her the power to deny two male guests he wished to host. She sat beside him, tenderly kissed his cheek, and said, “Tell your friends that we should be happy to have them as our guests at Crawford Manor.”
‡ ‡ ‡
It was such a great relief to slap David. What other options, really, were afforded a woman? She could not demand satisfaction in a duel from a strayed beloved or publicly denounce a disloyal brother. She could not shout or swear. Telling others—the way one might about a woman who left her door unlocked for the married vicar—so as to be surrounded by a mass of indignation shared would, in this instance, cause her to bear the bulk of the shame. All that was afforded to her was the shallow damage her open palm could manage to inflict.
Faith let herself weep as she looked at him; David was allowed to see her cry. Even after she struck him, he opened his arms, and she fell into them. “I hate you,” she muttered against his shoulder without conviction. She sounded a little more convincing when she said, “I hate him. I hate both of them.” She sobbed again and did her best to wipe her eyes against his coat before she looked up. For a moment, she stared at him, searched his face and eyes for some deep, hidden truth. She found nothing. “Why are you helping them David? Why will you abide them? Why are they more precious to you than me?”
“You know there is nothing dearer to me than you, Faith,” he whispered. Her glare, full of hurt, made him sigh, half into her hair. “They are friends of mine in great need. Mister Burr, especially, is a brother officer and former shipmate of mine, who—”
“Is breaking not only a law with a capital punishment but also defying the Articles of War, the law you all swear to, with the same punishment. Not only are you ignoring its commission, but you are sanctioning its demise in your home, David. People will talk. Not only about them but about you for allowing it.”
“—Who has proven himself in action a dozen times over.” He watched her, and Faith yearned to slap him again. He regarded her as being simple-minded. If Edward had as well, he at least concealed it better. She had a great many weapons to wield against him. She could shock him by asking if he planned to keep both their beds warm, flaunt his pleasures in front of Abigail in their home as he had done here. Did he think them both so stupid as to not realise? “You will always be my sister, Faith. Nothing can alter my affection for you. Without me, they are alone and friendless. They will suffer. Which seems just to you, I know, but I must intervene.”
He would not indulge this madness if he still kept the company of Captain Hawke, Faith knew. Since their parting, David’s appetite had become ever more voracious, and he barely tried to hide it now. Captain Hawke had been a steadying influence. Perhaps it was the lack of sea, too. Her mother had warned her that many fine officers made awful civilians. She simply assumed David would be immune. Edward, too, if she were honest. Unlike her brother, he had showed no sign of these tendencies before peace had left him without a ship and battle. She felt ready to cry again at the thought of him. No matter what David thought or Abigail pretended to ignore or other women overlooked, she would never forgive Edward. Not even if he came to her on his knees, full of apologies and pleas.
“Go,” she said sharply. “Keep their company.” She turned away from him at once. “Until they are gone, though. I’ll not see you. I will not write, either.” She didn’t care if she might be unreasonable; in these circumstances, she was allowed. “As long as they share your home, David, mark me well— I have no brother.”
‡ ‡ ‡
He didn’t know why David Long had agreed to allow them into his home. If he were completely honest with himself, Edward was not entirely sure he wanted to know. Throughout the whole of the long trip from London to Crawford Manor, he had kept himself from asking anything of Remy. He had full rights to satisfy himself on certain points, and he knew it. He had sacrificed a great deal to be here. Was it wrong to want assurances he was not the only one? Half an hour away from their destination and without anywhere else to go was a poor time and place to demand the answers he was terrified of receiving, but he could not swallow his words and suffer this doubt in silence any longer.
“What sort of an arrangement do you have with Mister Long?” The words came more sharply than he meant, and Remy looked over at him. He seemed confused, at least. Or was he surprised? It might be he thought Edward would never know, so he did not have a plan ready for how he would reply to the accusation. If that was the case, Edward knew he had to press his advantage. “I know,” or, rather, had cause to suspect, “but that made denial simple, “you and Mister Long have,” he paused to seek the right word, “kept one another company,” far too tame, but it would do, “on two occasions.”
“Three.” Edward started. Remy looked at him, torn between mild amusement and slight surprise. “Why should I deny it? The first was several years ago, when a ship I was on captured the small brig he was put in charge of. The second, after Colette’s party. He had need of company; I had nothing better to do. The third was the day before Lady Darvil’s party. Shall I detail every dalliance? No? Very well.” He shrugged easily. “Now, I have asked his help, and he has supplied it. There is no further arrangement.”
Edward hesitated. He knew he had no choice but to place his faith in Remy. Even so, he looked out the carriage window as he asked, “Ware there others now? Will there be?”
What could he do if Remy said yes? They both knew he had nothing left in London. Faith could and very well might smear his name socially, politically, and professionally. What choice did he have? If he had made a bad bargain by choosing Remy, he alone was to blame, and he must bide. Remy could be as sure of that as he must be. No matter what the man did now, Edward was tethered to him. Yet, he needed hear it. He needed to know.
“Is that what you are afraid of, Edward?” Remy chuckled softly. His fingers traced Edward’s cheek and jaw, compelling him to look over. Remy kissed him when he did. After giving Edward time to return and enjoy the gesture, Remy pulled back just far enough to speak. “Listen to me. I promise you— swear by God, the Virgin, Christ, and every saint— that there are no others. For as long as you will have only me, I shall have only you.” He kissed him again, briefly. “Will that oath satisfy you?”
Edward said nothing. Words were simple enough, and he knew Remy was eloquent when he chose to be. Nothing he said could be trust. Yet, those eyes never lost their power. Staring into them, he could treat every word uttered as pure Gospel. It was a war of opinions within him, but logic and sense could not, now or ever, win over the motions Remy inspired in him. He leaned forward and brought his lips to the other man’s mouth. In case that was not assurance enough that he would believe what he was told, en entwined the fingers of one hand with Remy’s while his other hand moved slowly up his thigh.
‡ ‡ ‡
Joseph read the letters three times. He had left London too early, not foreseen the disastrous circumstances that could arise. Now, it was too late to intervene. Men in the Navy wasted no time. He looked at Edward’s letter. He could see the nerves and reckless elation in the pen-strokes. He had known Martineau would surely seek an affair; that was no real surprise. However, he had not expected the sudden, striking, sure fondness with which Edward spoke of Martineau. Joseph picked up Long’s letter. A broken engagement and a plea for help, he could not have predicted either of those. He was particularly aware, too, that the request had come from Martineau. What should he make of this whole mess? Joseph didn’t know.
He heard a knock at the door and folded the letters and put them under others. When it opened and Nathaniel entered, he was able to breathe. Not, he feared, that he could explain his troubles. While they had reached something of a peace, it was tenuous at best. Talk of Edward now might shatter everything. He longed to confide at least these troubles to someone, and, for so long, it had been Nathaniel whom he told much. Joseph knew what it said about him that he knew an abundance of ways to make a man reveal secrets or confess or name co-conspirators, yet he did not know how to convince the one person who mattered to him above all else in this world that he loved only him and would never imagine intimacy with someone else for any reason. He was poorly suited to this sort of domestic life.
“It’s almost time for supper,” Nathaniel said. He seemed acutely aware that he had intruded upon some personal or professional secret, but, like Joseph, was keen not to disrupt their shaky truce. Joseph made up his mind and offered the letters to the other man.
“I am fond of him,” Joseph said as Nathaniel read. Quickly, he added, “Let me speak my piece before you say a word, I beg.” Nathaniel shut his open mouth, and Joseph continued in an even tone. “We met five years ago, when I joined Virtue, under Captain Caldwell. Mister Burr was a midshipman, then. He was polite, loyal, and hard-working. The first thing I committed to memory about him was that he sang in times of great stress. Captain Caldwell was killed— this you know, I am aware— when Jenner helped French captives try and take the ship. I made sure Jenner did not get away with treason. I fled, eventually securing a place on a French ship, Nymphe. Edward was put in charge of her when she became a prize. Martineau was her acting-captain. Edward spoke to me, and he spared me. For all he knew, I was a traitor, but he did not denounce me, which meant I could continue my work.” He sighed. “He has ever been, in my mind, the sort of officer England needs: loyal to his country, brace, unafraid to kill, and unafraid to show mercy. I have pressed his interests, yes, and sought to protect him— you can see how that failed to do any good— but because I want to serve an England that values men such as him, not because I possess any sort of love or desire for him.”
Nathaniel took after his father, Joseph found himself thinking. Somehow, he had learned little lessons, rarely though they might be applied, in concealing his thoughts and feeling. Joseph felt he was seeing them in practice now, as he could not figure Nathaniel’s mind or heart looking at him as he folded the letters and handed them over. Perhaps, he considered, Nathaniel did not know himself. That would make a great deal of sense.
“Supper will be served in fifteen minutes,” he said softly before taking his leave.