“Yes, we do not know how far the collusion extended.”
“Or why, if Mr. Elliot was the one behind the gold’s presence in the sugar cask,” Darcy said, “he did not simply transport the artifacts with his own belongings aboard the
“He thought they would be safer on a ship of war?” Elizabeth sighed. “I have not worked out all the details, and my theory probably has more holes than a leaky rowboat. What did Captain Wentworth have to say about all of this?”
“He thought there were enough irregularities in what I described to warrant investigation. Obviously, he does not know about the conversation we just overheard, which I shall inform him of without delay. Mr. Elliot’s character he already knows better than we do; in fact, he described him as a ‘talented schemer.’”
“See? Mr. Elliot must have a hand in this somehow.”
“Wentworth is not personally acquainted with Lieutenant St. Clair or Captain Tourner, though he might know the midshipman who conducted the inventory—Mr. Musgrove.”
“I had forgotten about the midshipman. What did the captain say of him?”
“If he is indeed the Mr. Musgrove who served under Captain Wentworth, he was a troublemaker. As for St. Clair and Tourner, Wentworth said he would learn what he could about them and their service histories, including applying to Admiral Croft for information. Croft is Wentworth’s brother-in-law, so he anticipates the admiral will readily assist us. He plans to speak with him this week.”
“I look forward to the results of that discussion,” Elizabeth said. “In the meantime, we must call upon the Wentworths once more, so that you can tell the captain our latest news before he meets with the admiral, and I can consult Mrs. Wentworth on a point of fashion.”
“Fashion?” Darcy took her arm as they reached the end of the Walk and began the arduous climb up Broad Street. “After all this discussion of villainy, that is where your thoughts have carried you?”
“I want to know what one wears to a launch. We need to see Mr. Elliot’s new ship.”
Twenty-Six
He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for him, by calling him “poor Richard,” been nothing better than a thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done any thing to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead.
True to his word, Captain Wentworth performed discreet enquiries into the naval careers of Lieutenant St. Clair, Captain Tourner, and Mr. Musgrove.
The last was simplest. Dick Musgrove was a younger brother of Charles Musgrove, husband of Anne’s sister Mary. Captain Wentworth was on genial terms with the entire Musgrove family, including Charles and Dick’s parents, and already knew part of Dick’s history.
A troublesome youth, Dick Musgrove had been sent off to sea in hopes that naval discipline would make a better man of him. It had not. By the time Captain Wentworth had the misfortune to inherit him, he was as lazy, brutish, and self-serving a midshipman as Wentworth had ever dealt with, and the captain’s efforts to instill sense and better self-regulation in the recalcitrant young man had proved as futile as raising sail in a dead calm. Wentworth had literally breathed a sigh of relief when, in consequence of another ship’s heavy casualties, Musgrove had transferred to another frigate in desperate need of midshipmen. Any pangs of conscience Wentworth might have felt at passing off a problem officer to Dick’s new captain were alleviated by that captain’s having passed off a different problem midshipman to Wentworth the year before. It was simply the way of things.
But death and time have a softening effect on memory, resulting in Dick’s mother recalling him more fondly in death than he had ever deserved in life. Whenever the senior Mrs. Musgrove indulged in sighing over her “poor Richard,” she fancied Wentworth a sympathetic listener. No other captain, she said, had taken such good care of her son during his years in service. (That much was probably true.) And so, when Wentworth wrote to Mrs. Musgrove seeking names of the ships on which Dick had served after leaving the
Dick had indeed served under Captain Tourner aboard the
Wentworth anticipated similar ease of obtaining intelligence regarding Lieutenant St. Clair. A letter to one of his own former instructors at the Naval College in Portsmouth had yielded a comprehensive summary of St. Clair’s history, and he now looked forward to obtaining a more personal account from Admiral Croft. Wentworth’s sister and her husband were come for a brief visit to satisfy Mrs. Croft’s desire to meet Alfred, and the admiral’s desire to tease Wentworth about his sudden and unexpected new commission as a foster father.
“Well, well, Frederick!” The admiral issued a hearty laugh. “Master and commander of the Elliot heir! This was a sea change you did not see coming, I warrant. How are you liking your new course?”
“I find it quite satisfactory,” Wentworth replied.
“I suppose a young fellow like you needs something to do now that the peace has set us all ashore, but I expected your new wife to have provided sufficient occupation. Women are quite good at finding little tasks and errands for their husbands to attend to, are you not, Sophy?”
Mrs. Croft cast the admiral a look of affectionate exasperation. “Pay him no mind,” she said to Wentworth and Anne. “He has been as eager as I to meet your new charge.”
“Charge, ha! I wager the little commodore is already the one issuing orders. Deny it if you can, Frederick. There! I see in your face I have got the truth of it. Well, where is he? Let us determine whether he passes muster.”
Alfred indeed passed inspection. When the proper number of compliments had been paid and signs of promise observed, they all gathered in the sitting room, where they were joined by Mrs. Smith. Later, Wentworth and the admiral retreated to the study.
Though he had seen the room before, Croft looked round and nodded appreciatively. “I have been thinking of making over the study at Kellynch Hall in this manner. Do you think Sir Walter would approve?”
Wentworth thought Sir Walter would die of an apoplectic seizure at the very suggestion, and told the admiral so.
Croft laughed. “He probably would. Though I suppose the question would then fall to his heir, and you could persuade Alfred to decide in my favor.”
“No persuasion will be required. Alfred will grow up adoring his aunt and uncle Croft.”
“Well, even if he does not, I have no doubt he will turn out a fine young man. You always did well by your boys and midshipmen.”
“Those among them who were disposed to take direction,” Wentworth replied, thinking of Dick Musgrove.
“As I told you when you received your first command, there are always a few maggots in the flour. You just do your best to keep them from contaminating the remainder.”
Wentworth recalled the conversation. Admiral Croft, for all his present status and power, was a salty old sailor at heart. In a profession where promotion was often driven by influential connexions, he had advanced largely by his own merit, and for this Croft won Frederick Wentworth’s respect even before he won the affections of Frederick’s sister, Sophia. He was a forthright, sensible man of sound judgment, and when he gave advice, Wentworth listened.
“One of your own former midshipmen is presently in Lyme,” Wentworth said. “Andrew St. Clair.”
“Is he? I shall have to look him up. Do you know where he is lodging?”
“At the George, I believe. He lent assistance the day of Mrs. Clay’s accident. Alfred is fortunate that he happened along.”
“I am not surprised. I remember him as a quick-witted fellow.”
“Might I enquire what else you recall about him?”
