Games of bezique and whist, the sound of his daughter's voice singing to Elizabeth's accompaniment, the warmth of White's stable and the smell of fresh meat from the kitchen had served to keep him content. Elizabeth was happy, and that alone was reward enough. He had played with Richard, Montcalm to his son's Wolfe as they re-fought the capture of Quebec above a low clay cliff undercut by the River Glaven. Richard, a year senior to White's boy Johnnie, died spectacularly in his young friend's arms with victory assured as Drinkwater himself expired uncomfortably among the crackling stalks of long-dead bracken.
He had led his daughter out at the New Year ball and seen her eyed by the local bloods, flinging her head up and laughing, sometimes catching her lower lip in her teeth as he had first seen Elizabeth do in an apple orchard in Cornwall thirty years earlier. And best of all, he had lain nightly beside his wife, moved to acts of deep affection, a poor acknowledgement of her gentle constancy.
Nor had this idyll been rudely terminated by the intrusion of duty. In the end it had been crowned with an unexpected event, a circumstance of the utmost felicity for them all.
Two days into the new year, as the spectre of reaction began to show its first signs with the planning of arrangements to return the children to their home in Hampshire, White received an unexpected letter from solicitors in Ipswich. Sir Richard had inherited a small estate betwixt the Deben and the Aide, a remote corner of Suffolk lying east of the main highway north from the county town, within sight of the desolate coast of Hollesley Bay and comprising one modest house and two farms. The estate had once formed part of the lands of a dispossessed priory, the ruins of which stood romantically in its northwest corner.
'It sounds delightful,' said Elizabeth over breakfast, as Catherine White explained the lie of the land and Sir Richard scratched his head and pulled a face.
'Too damned far, m'dear,' he explained, 'no good to me. Belonged to a cousin o' mine. Eccentric fellow; built the place but never married. House can't be more than three years old.' White picked up the letter again, searching for a fact. 'They found him dead in a coppice, frozen stiff, poor devil.'
They had fallen silent, sipping their chocolate with the spectre of untimely death haunting them.
Later, as Drinkwater and White drew rein atop a low rise that looked west to the Palladian pile of Holkham Hall gilded in the sunshine of the winter morning, Sir Richard had turned in his saddle.
'It's the place for you, Nat...'
'What is?' asked Drinkwater, staring about momentarily confused, his mind having been fully occupied with his mount and the need to keep up with his host.
'Gantley Hall. I can't keep the place, damn it; have to sell it. What d'you say? Make me an offer.' And he put spurs to his big hunter and cantered off, leaving Drinkwater staring open-mouthed after him.
And so, after a visit in perfect spring weather when the red-brick façade glowed in the afternoon sun and the young apple trees were dusted with the faint, lambent green of new buds, Elizabeth pronounced herself delighted with the house. Less easily satisfied, Drinkwater had interviewed the sitting tenants in the two farms and voiced his doubts.
'If I return to sea, my dear, how will you manage?'
'Well enough, Nathaniel,' Elizabeth had said, 'as I have always done in your absence.'
'But an estate ...'
'It is a very modest estate, my dear.'
'But...'
His protests were brushed aside and they concluded the treaty of sale. By midsummer they had removed from Hampshire and brought with them Louise Quilhampton, Elizabeth's friend and companion; her son, Lieutenant James Quilhampton and his wife Catriona migrated with them, renting a house in Woodbridge, content to enjoy married life until, like Drinkwater himself, necessity drove James to petition the Admiralty for another posting.
For Drinkwater the summons had come too early, but the letter was a personal one, penned by John Barrow, their Lordships' Second Secretary, whose attitude to Captain Drinkwater had, hitherto, been cool.
It transpired that Drinkwater's success in Hamburg and Helgoland [See Under False Colours] had rehabilitated his reputation with Barrow. Behind the Second Secretary's phrasing Drinkwater perceived the shadow of Lord Dungarth, head of the Admiralty's Secret Department, and although his new posting did not derive from Dungarth but from the Foreign Office, he was not insensible to his Lordship's backstairs influence:
... To Conduct with all possible Dispatch the Bearer, Mr Henry St John Vansittart, to the shores of Chesapeake Bay, Providing Him with such Comforts and Necessities as may appear Desirable, to Land and Succour Him and Render Him all such as may, in the circumstances, be Appropriate...
Thus ran his instructions and thus far his duty had been light, for poor Vansittart proved a miserable sailor and had yet to make a single appearance at Drinkwater's table. Perhaps, mused Drinkwater, stirring himself and beginning a slow promenade between the windward hance and the taffrail, the seductive aroma of coffee would finally tempt the unfortunate man from his cot.
Reaching the after end of his walk Drinkwater nodded at the stiffening marine sentry posted at the quarter to heave the emergency lifebuoy at any sailor unfortunate enough to fall overboard. For a moment he stood watching the sea birds quartering their wake.
Frey pegged the new course on the traverse board and met Drinkwater as he turned forward again.
'West sou'west, sir,' Frey announced with an air of triumph.
'Very well,' Drinkwater nodded, recalled to the present. He wanted a quick passage, not so much to conform to their Lordships' orders as to avoid the equinoctial gales blowing up from Cape Hatteras. After discharging his diplomatic duty he was under orders to return Mr Vansittart to London and had high hopes of seeing in the new year of 1812 with his family at Gantley Hall, even, perhaps, returning some of Sir Richard White's generous hospitality.
There was also the question of James Quilhampton, who looked to Drinkwater for interest and advancement. They had discussed the possibility of his serving under Drinkwater, but the matter had been compromised by the appointment of Metcalfe to the Patrician. Besides, Quilhampton had had independent command of a gun-brig and itched again for his own quarterdeck, no matter how small. The career of His Majesty's gun-brig Tracker had terminated suddenly in capture, and though cleared by a court-martial, Quilhampton wanted nothing more than to prove himself. [See Under False Colours.] Drinkwater could only support his friend's ambition and promise to do what he could, leaving Quilhampton to enjoy the favours of his bride for a little longer.
But there were more immediate and pressing matters to consider, matters upon which all these wild and selfish speculations depended. To these Drinkwater now gave his attention.
'How are the men shaping up in your opinion, Mr Frey?'
'You know how it is, sir. At the moment the old hands delight in showing the landsmen their superiority and in frightening them with their antics aloft.'
'Aye, I've seen the conceit of the t'gallant yard monkeys.'
'In a day or two they'll tire of that and begin to complain that all the labour falls on their shoulders.'
'Once we run out of fresh food, I expect,' Drinkwater added.