Wilhelmina never played games with herself where men were concerned. There was no sense in denying it: She wanted Sam. One night together might heal a world of hurt between them. She could be honest with herself about it, but she was not ready to be that forthright with him. If there was any seducing to be done, Sam would have to take the lead. She did not want him to see her as a seasoned courtesan, skilled at seduction. That would only serve to reopen old wounds. No, it would have to be a simple coming together of a man and a woman who’d once loved each other.
They had made a good start today in coming to terms with all that had torn them apart, and kept them apart, for so many years. There was still much to be said, and, God and Smeaton willing, time to say it. Afterward, if they gave in to a mutual attraction-and there was no doubt it was mutual; no one knew how to read a man’s interest better than Wilhelmina-it would be a final act of healing. A closing of the circle of their lives.
Then he could go off to his Miss Fullbrook and make his offer.
In the meantime, she would enjoy being at his side, having her arm in his, as they explored what little there was to see in the tiny hamlet of Upper Hampden.
It was a pretty, picturesque village enveloped on all sides by dense woodlands, now brilliant with the colors of autumn. Houses were scattered in clusters off the central green, mostly black and white half timbered, some with thatched roofs, some with red tile. An ancient weather-beaten cross stood in the center of the green, flanked by two enormous beech trees, their bright red and darker orange leaves spreading in wide masses of graceful branches over the green.
They spoke of inconsequential matters as they walked past a bakery, a cobbler, a blacksmith, a grocer. They spoke of favorite books and plays as they wandered out to a nearby mill, sidestepping puddles and mud, and of Sam’s travels as they entered the lych-gate of St. Mary’s, the broach-spired old church at the north end of the village.
Wilhelmina found tales of Sam’s life at sea fascinating, and realized that having been impressed, which must have been frightening and frustrating, had ultimately been the making of him. “You speak with such pleasure about your days aboard ship,” she said as they meandered through the churchyard. “But it cannot have always been enjoyable. There must have been rough times as well, dangerous times.”
“Yes, there were days when I’d have rather been almost anywhere else. During illness, which is never easy on ship, or when stores ran low and we dined on ship delicacies you’d rather not know about. Or during heavy storms when it seemed you’d be pitched clear off the deck, never to be seen again. Or during battle, when the shuddering report of guns made your ears ring for hours afterward, and the powder and smoke threatened to choke you. But for the most part, I felt at home on board ship. It was hard work and rough living, but I thrived on it.”
“I suppose, then, that press gang was a blessing after all. It gave you a life you’d never have known otherwise.”
“That’s true. Years later, I would thank them for taking me, though at the time, I could not have been more wretched. I thought I’d landed in a nightmare.”
“Poor Sam.” She squeezed his arm, and he brought his hand to rest over hers. “But you managed to survive. You were stubborn enough in those days that I imagine you forced yourself to make the best of it.”
He nodded. “In those early days, when the misery of the lower decks was something I could never have imagined, it was pure dogged determination that kept me going. There were more than a few villainous characters among the crew, each of them ready to make a new boy’s life a living horror. But I ignored them, and occasionally stood up to them, and they finally left me alone. Many boys younger than me, much younger, would shinny up masts with the ease of monkeys during the days and at night were slung shoulder to shoulder in narrow hammocks, like bats hanging from the rafters. None of them complained, and neither did I. It’s astonishing, really, how quickly one can adapt to conditions so alien. Within a month, I was perfectly at home on board. Soon enough, I found I actually liked it.”
He stopped walking and turned to face her. “And while some other pressed men deserted at the first opportunity, I never once thought of bolting. As much as I missed you, I had my honor. I couldn’t abide the idea of presenting myself to you as a deserter.”
“How disappointed you must have been to learn how easily I had discarded honor while you held on to yours so tightly.”
“Willie. Stop berating yourself.”
“But it is true, is it not? I will never forget the look on your face when I first saw you after thinking you dead. Shocked disappointment, and anger, was writ clear in your eyes.” And in his words.
“It was not only that, Willie. I reacted in anger, to be sure, but inside my heart was breaking. I had been at sea many years by then and seen my share of…of women who sell themselves to men. I hated to think of you as one of them.”
“I wasn’t, Sam.” No, she had never been a common whore. She’d been much more exclusive.
“I know you weren’t. But at the time, it was an image I could not get out of my mind. Whenever we were in port, whores showed up in droves. The dock whores love a sailor on shore leave. They know as well as anyone that a sailor with a bit of prize money in his pocket will spend the lot of it on drink and women before the night is through. So whenever we dropped anchor in port, they massed on the docks, ready to take their share.”
He frowned and looked over her shoulder into the distance as he spoke, as if he could still see those wretched women. “Sometimes they didn’t even wait on shore, but took boats out to the ships-large boats filled to bursting with a cargo of doxies. Mind you, some of the men had been at sea as long as eighteen months and seen almost no females. The sight of those boats caused a general furor as seamen scampered down the ropes and brought the women up to ply their wares on shipboard. It was never a pretty sight. Poor, ignorant, desperate women who’d long ago discarded shame or modesty.”
He returned his gaze to her, those golden-brown eyes filled with sorrow. “When I heard you’d taken up the trade, all I could think of was those horrid, coarse, pathetic women who’d tup the oldest tar to the youngest third-class boy and everyone in between within the span of a few hours.”
“It was never like that for me, Sam.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I promise you, it was never like that.”
“I know. But it was the first thing that entered my foolish head, so you can imagine how upset I was, to imagine you in a similar situation. I hated to think that you had become that desperate.”
“I never was.”
“I know. Forgive me, my girl. It was a long time ago and I was a foolish, heartsick youth.” Sam looked down at her troubled face and wondered if she would ever tell him the truth of how she started her career as a demirep. It was none of his business, but he’d always wanted to know.
He retook possession of her hand and tucked it back in the crook of his arm. “Come. There were a couple of old stone benches on the village green. Let’s go park ourselves on one and enjoy the rest of the day’s sunshine.”
Walking together in companionable silence through the churchyard and down the high street toward the green brought back sharp memories of long-ago walks along the Porthruan shore and the cliffs above the cove, when a smile or the squeeze of a hand was all that was needed to feel utterly content. All at once a vision came to mind of him and Willie-not the sixteen-year-old girl, but this Willie, the mature, beautiful, sensual woman at his side-walking over the grounds of his estate in Sussex. The idea taunted him like the hint of a sail in the distance blinking in and out of the mist, beyond his reach, and with it came a pang of longing that he quickly checked. Even if there could be a future for them-as unlikely a notion as ever entered his head-Willie was a creature of Town, one who’d known dukes and princes and prime ministers. She would never be content in an isolated country house with a mere post captain. He must remember that and stop spinning fantasies.