Man Of War

Elizabeth was silent, stunned by both the nobility of the concession and by the gentlemanlike manner of its delivery. There were no tears, though she felt the profoundest sadness. Her countenance was transformed instead by the evident goodness of the man with whom she had once thought she would be contentedly married. And then, after what seemed an age of contemplation, she lowered her eyes, gathering some sort of strength or resolve, and, taking his hand, began her reply.

‘My dear Captain Peto, I scarce know how to form any response, for you are in such . . . discomfort, and I in perfect health. I thank you for so noble a thing, and it is for that nobility as much as anything that I believe I must tell you in absolute truth that your release is welcome to me. Not because of your injuries, for they would have been nothing to me were it not for the discovery of my own true heart, which I confess is engaged with another, by a means I could scarcely have thought possible and in a manner I had never imagined could be. Forgive me, my dear Captain Peto, if this is painful to you, but I could never be dishonest with a man such as you, and wish fervently to remain your friend . . . come what may.’

Peto sighed deeply. His own regard for Elizabeth Hervey was now complete. He did not suppose that any man, let alone woman, might be so truthful – not merely in the candour of her confession, when there was no need, and when it was at some discomfort to herself, but in first acknowledging, and then following, her own heart. He knew nothing of women, but this much he did know: there could be no contentment in dutiful attachment alone, not when there was someone else who truly engaged the heart of one party or the other. He sat regarding her, with loving admiration, for a full, silent minute. And then he smiled. ‘I think, then, my dear Elizabeth, that we may summon your brother to hear the happy news – the truly happy news.’

Hervey received the news with utter incomprehension; neither could he account for the sudden lightness of his old friend’s mien, nor his sister’s composure. All he could do was reply to Peto’s several diversions as if they had been entirely sincere. They took tea, for all the world as if they were at a country drawing room, except (as Hervey perceived, in all its terrible consequence) that Peto could barely lift the cup to his mouth – was incapable of being the man he once was. Would there be any restoration? What was he, Hervey, to do?

In a half-hour more, he and Elizabeth began taking their leave. ‘Well, my dear old friend,’ he attempted, breezily, gathering up his hat and cane, ‘I will bid you goodbye for the time being. And be assured that I will return just as soon as my duties permit.’ He took Peto’s hand and shook it firmly.

‘And I, too, Captain Peto,’ said Elizabeth, to her brother’s further incomprehension. ‘Whatever there is I might do, I trust you will ask it.’ She bent and kissed him on the cheek.

‘I only ask for time,’ said Peto, stoutly. ‘And a good carpenter to knock me up some contraption whereby I can propel myself to useful purpose!’

Hervey smiled, for his friend’s fortitude. He knew full well what must be the dismay of a post-captain deprived of his command thus – and of the woman who was to have been his companion in wedded life. ‘I am sure there are many good carpenters in the fleet. Until our next encounter, then.’ He bowed, and they left Peto’s handsome but land-bound cabin to its doughty tenant.

When the door had closed, and the footsteps receded, Peto reached painfully into the pocket of his coat, and took out the little oilskin package. It was no longer rightfully his; yet he had not been able to give it up, return it to Elizabeth, as honour truly required. Could he summon the strength to do so – if not the next time, then sometime in the future, before the . . . marriage with this other man made it something improper? His head sank to his chest, he let go the moorings that had held fast his countenance while she had been there, and salty tears trickled down his cheeks like the first drizzles of rain on sail.

The chaise returned with but two occupants. Hervey had asked Fairbrother to take Elizabeth back to Berkeley Square, while he stayed behind to satisfy himself with the arrangements for his old friend. Elizabeth had objected very firmly, claiming both a right and a proficiency to be of help, and the unseemliest of quarrels looked like breaking out in the very corridors of the naval hospital, until Fairbrother stepped decisively between them and took his friend into the disciplined sanctity of the magnificent Stuart chapel. Then he had spoken with Elizabeth, and a peace had prevailed in which she agreed to return to Berkeley Square on condition that her brother did not attempt to visit with Peto again that evening.