In the Orchard

Summer 1806

Even this far inland, the breeze brought the smell of the sea -- not of the distant harbour, or the brackish creeks and channels that split the shoreline, but the overpowering scent of the sea itself. If a recalled sensation could be said to entice a man, the pungent, rolling ocean of his own experience and memory was calling William Bush now. He hoped yet again and with all his heart that he would not be beached much longer. Good God, he had better not be, or he might go mad.

It was more than six months since he had been at sea, having been cast adrift when Temeraire went into drydock following the Battle of Trafalgar. Between postings, Chichester was the only logical place for him. He could ill afford to room elsewhere and it was easy enough to take the carrier’s cart into Portsmouth every month for his half-pay. In any case, his mother and sisters were adamant that he was needed at home, though he was blowed if he could see why. Beyond digging the rows for planting potatoes, his four sisters would hardly let him lift a finger. Even worse, his uncle would not have him back at the smithy, saying it was no place for an officer in His Majesty’s Navy.

Faced with an existence of involuntary idleness, he tried his level best to stay busy however he could, for he was hopeless when it came to any leisure activity. This last week, out of desperation, he had taken it upon himself to repair the cottage roof, shrugging off his two youngest sisters’ squeals of protest and his mother’s worried frown. Any distraction was welcome, especially physical exertion. He couldn’t bear to spend money in the pub when times were so hard, nor to accept offers of ale from the townsmen, even though they were glad to stand a war hero to all he could drink. He was no great reader, no dancer, and no card player, and when all was said and done a fellow could only play so much cricket. Though he relished the exercise and enjoyed going head to head against the men of Bognor or Broadbridge, in the end that too only passed the time.

He was not meant to be at rest; he was meant to be at sea and in action. His brow furrowed at the thought and his fingers fairly itched to grasp a ship’s rail. It had been months since he had raised his voice, let alone shouted curses at a hapless midshipman or able seaman. By God, he wanted to yell at something or someone, just to clear his throat. Surely the services of a capable lieutenant ought to be in demand, especially if he had seen action in the West Indies and at Trafalgar. Why then no letter from the Admiralty -- no communication from Captain Hornblower, who surely must have need of him by now?

Bush shook his head, growling under his breath, and continued his hike up the old Roman road to Bosham, where his sister Mary was waiting.

“Come on Tuesday, Will,” she had suggested. “I can go over Saturday afternoon in Mr. Bagwell’s trap.”

Bagwell was a tailor with a shop in Crane Street who lived out Bosham way. Mary planned to stay the weekend with the vicar’s family and wanted him to come out and walk home with her.

“I don’t see why you cannot return with Bagwell on the Monday,” Will said to her a bit peevishly, but Mary only smiled vaguely and said the walk would do them both good.

No doubt she was right, for it was a pleasant enough morning to be stretching his legs, the sun rising up behind him, the hedgerows dewy and full of life. He had a notion that Mary, just two years behind him in age, might be sweet on someone in Bosham -- and high time, too. None of his sisters was getting any younger, though it was not very gallant to think so.

Will sighed. He loved his little family of women.  They cosseted him dreadfully, but he bore it with as much dignity as he could muster. He was glad to help provide for them however he could, but his responsibilities would be that much less if even one of his sisters happened to marry.

As he rounded a bend, the little Bosham church hove into view, nestled hard up against an inlet of Chichester Harbour. Mary had told him the vicarage was down a lane just behind Holy Trinity and he found it easily enough, a fair-sized house of rosy brick with a slate roof. An apple-cheeked maid answered the door when he knocked.

“You’ll find Miss Bush ’round the back, sir,” she said as soon as she saw him. “In the garden with Miss Beatrice.” He was practically shooed off the doorstep and ’round the corner of the house, where he did indeed find his sister together with another young woman. They had brought wooden chairs out onto a patch of lawn beneath a pear tree and, shaded by their broad straw bonnets, were busy shelling what appeared to be a small mountain of peas.

Will watched them for a few moments before they noticed his presence. Mary waved a fly away from her face and laughed. Her companion’s face was in shadow, but he saw that she sat gracefully in her chair, her slim back upright, her shoulders moving slightly as her fingers split each pod and spilled its contents into a pottery bowl, then dropped the empty pod into a linen towel on her lap. Their melodious voices rose and fell as they chatted. Mary was still laughing when she looked up and spied him standing on the garden path.

“Will!” she exclaimed. “You are early, and I am glad for it.” She glowed with pride as she introduced him to her friend. He wore an old blue jacket not unlike his uniform and his piercing eyes, which could be blue or green depending on the day, were a clear ocean blue. Perhaps I am biased, she thought, but he does looked exceedingly handsome.

“Beatrice, may I present my brother, Lieutenant William Bush?”

He gave the lady a little bow, not as awkward as it might have been.

“Will, this is Miss Beatrice Browning.” Miss Browning inclined her head, then looked up at him with a smile.

“How do you do, Miss Browning?” said Bush. Beatrice had soft brown eyes lit up by the dappled sun under the trees.  Flyaway wisps of her light brown hair escaped unnoticed from beneath her bonnet. He could see at once why Mary liked her, for her manner was as unaffected and warm as could be wished. In only a moment she had invited him to sit with them and take some cider. He could not be sure, but thought her about the same age as his sister Frances, which was twenty-eight.

Bush very nearly offered to shell some of the remaining peas. He would have done at home, though he would not have been taken seriously, but decided perhaps it would be just as well to show a little more decorum in the presence of a vicar’s daughter.  Mary set to explaining how it was that her brother and her friend had never met. The Brownings had moved to Bosham only a year since and she had met Beatrice because they both supported the charitable dispensary in Broyle Road.

The day was warming and the cider relaxed him, so he loosened his neckcloth a bit. The two ladies finished their work and went on talking. Their chatter was of no consequence to him, but he found the sound as soothing as the gentle breeze. He let his mind wander so that the feminine voices seemed to meld with the twittering of the birds in the branches above them. Sitting still in this lovely spot beat hell out of weeding the garden -- another of his grudging domestic pastimes. He was grateful that Miss Browning did not feel compelled to draw him into the conversation, while Mary of course knew to leave him be.

*~*~*~*~*

Mary could be subtle when she wished, but found that subtlety was generally wasted on her brother. As they walked backed toward Chichester, she lost no time in revealing that her motive for asking him to escort her home was not entirely pure. As it turned out, she herself had no particular interest in anyone in the parish of Bosham.; instead, she rather thought that he might be tempted to form an attachment of his own.

“Oh, no!” he declared, scandalized to his soul. “Not a chance.”  His heart began to thump and his palms prickled. Holy Peter, he thought, a man’s not safe in his own home these days. He was aware at once that Mary did not merely intend him to squire Beatrice Browning to a few summer picnics and the harvest fair. She was talking about marriage. And in Bush’s opinion there was never a good time to get married. As a matter of fact he had had the bad grace to say exactly that to his friend Captain Hornblower only moments before the captain’s own wedding.

“You like her, though, don’t you, Will?  I can tell. And the point is, it would be an advantageous alliance for both of you . . . .” Of all his sisters, Mary was the one who knew best how to appeal to his practical nature.

“I don’t see how,” said her brother acerbically.

Like himself, Mary was not one to mince words. “She’s very well off as it happens.”

Bush kept walking, but the set of his shoulders indicated that he was listening. All the same, he said, “Do you honestly think I would seek to marry a woman I’ve just met in order to get my hands on her fortune?”  By the time he reached the end of his sentence, his cheeks were ruddy with suppressed annoyance.

“Hardly a fortune,” Mary put in, laughingly. “But it’s as easy to fall in love with a woman who stands to inherit money . . . .”

He said her name in a chiding tone and they marched on silently for a time, Mary with her head turned from him to gaze out across the fields.

“May I ask why it is that Miss Browning is not already married, if she is such a fine example of womanhood and well-heeled with it?”  He winced as soon as he said it, for the lack of marriage offers was a sore subject in the Bush household. Trying to lighten Mary’s mood, he asked, “She doesn’t have a mad aunt in the attic or something, I suppose?”

Mary punched him in the shoulder. Hard.

“Ow, I was only joking!”

“She’s been loathe to leave her father, I believe.”  It seemed that Mary had everything worked out in her own mind. “That wouldn’t be a problem if she was married to a naval officer,” she said brightly. “You chaps are at sea more than you are home. She could go on looking after her father with no trouble at all.”

“Good Lord,” Will scoffed. “First you want to marry me off and then you want me to desert my wife. And what could I hope to offer such a bride in any event?”  He could feel this inane discussion slipping out of control and nearly smacked his own forehead in frustration. He should know better than to try logic on Mary; she always twisted things to her own advantage.

“You’ll be posted captain before very long, Will,” Mary said reasonably. “What more could a woman desire than to be married to a man who will one day be an admiral in His Majesty’s Navy?”

Bush smiled indulgently at his sister. She was incorrigible, but she meant well. “I haven’t been made master and commander yet,” he pointed out. “And at the moment I don’t even have a ship, so --”

“Pfft!” said Mary. “Just a matter of time. You wait and see. And in the meantime, you can escort Beatrice to the Mainwarings’ lawn party on Saturday week.” She was so pleased with herself that she skipped a step in the road.

“Oh, no,” Will declared once more. He could feel a vein pulsing in his left temple. “None of that, Miss Matchmaker. Not on your life.”

*~*~*~*~*

In the end, of course, Mary had her way. How could it be otherwise, once they returned home and she had enlisted Constance, Frances, and Amy as well as their mother in her cause?  Mary had only to broach the subject at supper and at once they were all thick as thieves. Just think of Will wed, posted captain and a fine nest egg put by on account of his marriage. And Miss Beatrice was such an amiable young lady. A trifle old at twenty-seven, but very pretty, bright as a button, and with a bit of sauce in her, too. Not at all what you’d expect from a vicar’s daughter and just what Will liked, as Fanny pointed out. Bush was tempted to mention Fanny’s own age and sauce in a less than flattering light, but held his tongue.

What was more, added Constance, the Reverend Mr. Browning was a decent sort, Christian as you please but not at all pious. Very fond of literature, why else would he have named his only child Beatrice? Do you hear that, Will? She’s an only child!  Just think what she must stand to inherit . . . . And, after all, a lawn or garden party was merely a glorified picnic, an innocuous social gathering on a Saturday afternoon. What harm would there be in just paying a bit of attention to a very worthy young lady?  Did he have something better to do that particular day?  No, they rather thought not . . . .

They went on like that, separately and together, for the better part of a week until he finally blurted out “Oh for God’s sake, I’ll go to the blasted lawn party -- sorry, Mother -- if that’s what you want!”

“Excellent!” Mary exclaimed. “I shall send a note to Bosham at once. Now where did I leave my writing case?”

Bush groaned inwardly and took himself off to weed the onions, which suddenly seemed like the most desirable occupation on the face of the earth.

*~*~*~*~*

The hell of it was, he did like her. He tried not to, but Miss Browning, who was agreeable enough on brief acquaintance, turned out to be everything his sisters had said she was, and more. She could be completely irreverent, yet had the sweetest way of talking to him, looking at him straight on without an ounce of self-consciousness. And when she listened, it was with her whole being. He found that he could make her laugh, which thrilled and alarmed him at the same time. He wanted to curse Frances and Constance for being so right and Mary for putting him in this impossible position. For it didn’t signify whether he liked her or not  -- it was out of the question for him to marry.

And don’t you forget it, he said to himself just before twilight some weeks later as he and Miss Browning left the vicarage garden and wandered down into the adjacent fruit orchard.  Beatrice walked a step or two ahead of him and the shape of her lower limbs was visible whenever the evening light caught her pale muslin dress.

“Oh, they aren’t ripe yet,” she sighed, having just squeezed a peach on the nearest tree. “Perhaps next week.”

Bush walked around the tree in a southerly direction. “Here’s one for you,” he said, reaching up for a blushing specimen that had gotten more sunshine than the others. It fell easily into his palm and he held it out to her, laughing as she took it from his outstretched hand. She bit into it, her eyes alight with pleasure.

“Mmmm,” she said, laughing at herself, catching the juice in her hand, her mouth moist. The fruit was delicious, perfect. She could have moaned with pleasure. William’s eyes were on her mouth and he did not look away. She held the bitten peach up to him and he leaned over to take a bite, careful of his jacket.

“Mmmm,” he said as well, savoring the taste as Beatrice took another bite, then raised the fruit once more to his lips. They had only just eaten, the Bushes and Brownings all sitting down together at the vicarage dining table, but it was the best dessert imaginable.

He tossed the pit into the unmowed grass beside the orchard, while Beatrice walked to the next tree, craning her neck in search of more fruit ready to be eaten.

“Pardon me, Miss Bee,” said Bush as he stood close behind her to reach for another. “Just this one more, eh?  If you eat them all now there won’t be any to put up.”

“If I eat them all now?” she retorted, not in the least offended, but happy he was teasing her. Have you had sufficient, then?”  She took the peach and walked on through the trees. He smiled behind her back and followed.

A few moments later it struck him exactly why it was that he liked her so well. They spent their time as children would. He supposed he was courting her, or that she thought he was, even though he did not mean to mislead her. But far from worrying in her company, he felt carefree instead.

Just at the moment, Bee was looking for a suitable blade of grass to turn into a whistle. He held his hands over his ears in mock dismay as she blew on the grass reed trapped between her palms. She was good at it -- the sound was shockingly, satisfyingly loud and they both laughed in delight and walked briskly farther away from the house.

“You are a wonder,” he told her, then nearly bit his tongue. He was not given to spontaneous utterances of any kind.

“Me?” she replied, thinking to make fun of herself. “I’m just plain Beatrice Browning from Bosham.”

“No,” said William sincerely. He reached for her hand and kissed it quickly, without thinking, almost against his nature. Bee wished for the twentieth time that he did not make her heart leap. His sisters meant well, but she understood without being told that he longed for the sea. Perhaps only for the sea.

As soon as they neared the edge of the pond, they began looking about for flat stones. “Ha!” she cried after a minute and picked her way down the green bank to the water’s edge with her prize. A minute or two later, Bush scrambled down after her with a handful of stones. She was good at ducks and drakes as well, but he was better. On his first try, three ducks and two drakes plinked across the still water. He held out his hand and let her take her pick of his little horde.

Determined to outdo him on her next throw, she aimed low but overbalanced and teetered for a moment on one foot until he caught her ’round the waist and drew her back against him. For some odd reason, time stopped just as their laughter stopped. She turned in his arms.

“Yes,” he thought he heard her whisper but could not be sure, for his brain was blaring Oh, God over and over again into his ears. Then she said it again, quite clearly, and she clung to him until they sank down together on the grassy bank.

Her arms were around him, her fingers brushing the back of his neck beneath his tightly-bound queue. Her hair smelled like sunlight and she tasted of summer, her lips pliant and welcoming. Will lost track of time, was only dimly aware of the breeze across the pond, the soft whirr of birds’ wings as swallows swooped through the orchard in the fading light. He felt as though he were drowning and he dearly wanted to drown.

She was passionate as well as blithe, his little Bee, and she responded eagerly to his searching kisses. He could feel her bosom rising and falling beneath him as his hand slid from her waist to her shoulder to her neckline. He was aware that she would do anything he asked of her but then he paused, just on the brink. Lifting his lips from hers, he took a steadying breath and willed the hard beat of his heart to subside.

Bush did not imagine for an instant that she had deliberately set out to ensnare him, but at the same time he could not succumb willingly. He was poised on a knife edge. He was sure that she knew she held the balance of his life in her hands. He could never turn away from her once he had taken what she wanted so badly to give him right at this moment. Yet, if she wanted him to go on he would not be able to stop.

Bee opened her eyes and stroked his cheek slowly with the back of a finger. When she spoke at last, her voice was low and even.

“Help me up, Will,” she murmured. “It’s time we were getting back.”  He pressed his lips against her palm as she shook out her skirts. Then, time moved again with a lurch and they fell to laughing as she made him turn ’round to check for grass stains on his breeches. Her cheeks still pink, she smiled at him softly, clear-eyed.

Bush cursed himself under his breath for being who he was. With his next step, he thanked his lucky stars that he had not lost his way.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Spring 1807

“Do you care for peaches sir?”  

Bush and Hornblower stood together at the starboard rail of the frigate Lydia, two days out of Alexandria and bound for Cape Horn.  The ship had taken on all necessary water and victuals and rounded out her crew; the post had even arrived timely from England before they weighed anchor.

“Peaches?” said Hornblower quizzically. “I suppose so, I never thought about it. Mrs. Hornblower is fond of them, I believe. What is your sudden interest in peaches, Mr. Bush?”

“Just thinking on them, sir. You can find some fine fruit in Hampshire at the right time of year. I find I do crave peaches now and again. Perhaps not at every meal.”

Hornblower looked sideways at his first lieutenant, one eyebrow on the rise. “Are we to have a discourse on turnips as well?” he asked dryly.

Bush chuckled and glanced toward the vessel’s waist. Although he had previously refused to admit to himself that he was in any way uneasy, Mary’s letter had put his mind at rest. All was well at home.  Oh, and in March Beatrice Browning had become engaged to marry a captain in the Gordon Highlanders.

He looked askance at a burly seaman on the deck below. “What the devil is Styles up to now?” he muttered. “Pardon me sir, I’ll just see to it.”  Bush touched his hat to Hornblower and rapidly descended the ladder from the quarterdeck, his shoulders squared and his jaw clenched.

“You there, Styles!” he bellowed, watching as the rogue haphazardly coiled a line.  He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the fresh sea air.

“Pay attention to what you’re doing, or I’ll have your guts for garters, d’you hear me?”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Styles, gesturing in the direction of his forelock and endeavoring not to roll his eyes.

Pivoting on his heel to hide the broad grin spreading across his face, Lieutenant Bush turned once again toward the sea.

The End

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