The Deception At Lyme

view them myself. However, I doubt very much that such an opportunity will ever come along.”

“If it does,” he said lightly, “and we ever have the fortune to meet again, you must tell me how you liked them.”

Their visitor rose. “It has been an honor to conduct Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s chest to you, and to formally make your acquaintance. But I shall depart now, so that you can open the chest in private.” He glanced at the chest once more, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped a smudge off the escutcheon. “You will be able to open it, will you not? That is a very clever lock. Lieutenant Fitzwilliam never revealed its code to me.”

A letter lock secured the hasp; it had been the suggestion of Gerard’s father to avoid the risk of losing a key in the course of many long voyages—and so that, should the unthinkable occur, his family could open the chest under these very circumstances. The late earl had predeceased his youngest son, and so never knew how prescient his advice had been.

“I know the lock combination,” Darcy said. Colonel Fitzwilliam had shared it with him. It was the late earl’s name: HUGH.

Lieutenant St. Clair nodded. “I assume the chest contains the typical items of a sea officer. Should you discover anything unfamiliar that sparks your curiosity—navigational equipment, perhaps, or some souvenir of the West Indies—I would consider it an honor to call upon you again to explain it.”

They thanked him, and the officer took his leave. When he had gone, Elizabeth turned to Darcy. “I found him perfectly agreeable,” she declared. “A gentleman in all respects.”

“It was kind of him to stay and talk with us about Gerard for so long,” Georgiana added.

Darcy conceded that it had been a pleasant evening, even if Lieutenant St. Clair had paid a bit more attention to Georgiana than Darcy liked. However, he was now anxious to conclude it by having a look inside the sea chest. Elizabeth and Georgiana were equally curious, and the three of them gathered round it.

This weathered box of wood and iron had accompanied Gerard from the time he was first made a midshipman; it had traveled across oceans with him, and in the earliest days of his naval career had contained every personal possession he had aboard. The silver escutcheon on its leather-covered lid declared its owner’s name— G. Fitzwilliam—in engraved script. The plate shone so brightly against the darkened leather that Lieutenant St. Clair must have polished it before bringing the trunk to them.

Darcy took the lock in his hand, rotated the rings to the proper letters, and tugged the shackle. After years of disuse and exposure to salt air, the lock resisted release, but at Darcy’s persistence it opened.

The chest indeed contained the usual items of a sea officer: Gerard’s dress uniform—he had died in his working rig for the battle—spare shirts, neckcloths, stockings, smallclothes; shaving apparatus and other grooming items; foul weather clothes; nautical instruments; a writing box and several books; silverware and a knife for the mess. Toward the trunk’s bottom lay more personal objects: a backgammon set and a deck of cards, a packet of received letters tied with string, a miniature of a young lady.

“Is that Miss Wright?” Georgiana asked.

Darcy nodded. At Elizabeth’s enquiring expression, he clarified. “The eldest daughter of one of Riveton Hall’s neighbors.” He passed the tiny portrait to her. “She and Gerard formed an attachment while quite young—before he first went to sea—and when he was made lieutenant they became formally betrothed.”

“How sad, that they never had a chance to marry.”

“She did not go out in society for a considerable time after Gerard’s death,” Georgiana said. “I heard, however, that she wed this past season. They say it was a marriage of affection, so I hope she has found happiness.”

On the floor of the chest lay a money purse. It was small and worn, the fabric thin, and it contained only a modest sum—not at all what Darcy expected a commissioned sea officer, let alone the son of an earl, to have. Darcy supposed paydays might be few and far between on voyages to the West Indies.

One more item remained: a leather-bound journal.

“His lieutenant’s log?” Elizabeth asked.

“No,” Darcy said. “Gerard’s official log was naval property, and would have been turned over to the Admiralty with those of the other officers at the end of the voyage.” He opened the volume and scanned the first pages. “This is his private diary.”

Eleven

“I felt my luck … I was as well satisfied with my appointment as you can desire. It was a great object with me, at that time, to be at sea.”

—Captain Wentworth, Persuasion

I passed the exam—I am made! “Lieutenant Fitzwilliam”—does it not sound well?

I have been appointed to the Magna Carta, a sixty-gun fourth-rate commanded by Captain Tourner. I cannot wait to tell my father—to be assigned as a brand-new lieutenant to a rated warship is a choice commission. She is berthed in Portsmouth, where I am to join her after a brief leave to visit my family.

My first stop in Buckinghamshire, however, shall be at Hollycross, to surprise Miss Wright with the news. I shall not tell her directly of the promotion, but simply appear with the epaulette on my shoulder and at last voice the unspoken question between us. I have not wanted to offer myself to her—more to the point, to her father—as anything less than a commissioned officer, though thankfully the inheritance my own sire left me frees us from dependence upon my lieutenant’s pay for our maintenance. I could never ask her to live on £8. 8. 0 a month! Though she, of course, will bring a settlement to our marriage, a gentleman hopes to at least equal his wife’s fortune; the Magna Carta would have to capture a great many enemy ships for me to make up the difference with prize money, and Captain Tourner is not known as the boldest captain in the fleet.

When I have secured Miss Wright’s hand, I must then meet my ship in Portsmouth and assist in preparing her to set sail. We are under orders to Jamaica, a frequent deployment for the Magna Carta. (There—I write the name again!) Magna Carta. Magna Carta. Gerard Fitzwilliam, Fourth Lieutenant of the Magna Carta.

*   *   *

I met Captain Tourner today—a stern man, though no more so than other captains under whom I have served. Many of his crew are staying on, but we are in need of more men—particularly able seamen. I hope we find volunteers—even landmen—and need not resort to the press to fill out our complement.

I also met my fellow lieutenants. I am the most junior of four. Our first lieutenant is one Andrew St. Clair—businesslike, very disciplined, and expects the same of the men. He does not lord his position over us, nor does he resent my birth. Since joining the navy, I have learned that being the son of an earl has its advantages in influence with the Admiralty, but can be a liability in daily life aboard ship—as a midshipman I had to prove my worth to my colleagues on more than one occasion, and I hope I will not face similar prejudice among commissioned officers.

The other two lieutenants, Wilton and Fletcher, are amiable enough, though this is Wilton’s second crossing aboard the Magna Carta, and he has an air of the know-all about him. St. Clair has also sailed to the West Indies before. This is his first voyage with the Magna Carta, however, and I sense some umbrage on Wilton’s part at the newcomer’s outranking him. I overheard the master’s mate tell the boatswain that the decision was an Admiralty dictate, not Captain Tourner’s preference.…

*   *   *

We are now three weeks at sea, and settled into daily routines. Watch duty has been uneventful, to the disappointment of many, but gun drills keep us occupied and disciplined. The men hope for action, and the