There were women within hailing distance, surrounding the sloop, bobbing in the harbour on little boats, a small army of gap toothed, grimy, blousy and vulgar dolly mops who would instantly claim to be his wife, should he wish. Fortunately, he was too tired to consider coming to grips with any of them.
He was asleep again when Lieutenant Price returned, waving the discharge papers which would permit him to remove William Gibson from onboard ship. His mother had been unenthused, but was unable to refuse her beloved son’s request— “And just when we were returning to our ordinary ways, after having your aunt Norris among us. I have had enough of company for three lifetimes, may I tell you. And I have plenty to do, without nursing an invalid on top of the bargain!”
William promised he would help take care of his friend, if only a corner could be found for him upstairs, and finally his mother sighed, “all right, you may place him on a pallet in the attic. But he is your responsibility, mind,” as though her son was asking to bring home a guinea pig, or a puppy.
“And,” added his mother, “he will pay for his lodging, and his food, or he will be back on the street right sharply, I can promise you that.”
Lieutenant Price represented his mother as being of course in every way delighted to welcome her son’s good friend, so Gibson thankfully bid farewell to the Derwent, and with the help of some friendly Marines he was carried to a bosun’s chair and lowered away to a launch. The sun was bright but the breeze was deliciously cool, wonderfully English and, by Heaven—whether or not you believed there was such a place, of course—it was good to be alive.
* * * * * *
The funeral for the late Henry Crawford was held at St. James, Piccadilly, with Admiral Crawford serving as chief mourner. Edmund Bertram slipped quietly into the rear pews, wanting to pay his respects, feeling it proper, but unsure of how he would be received. His brother Tom’s friend, Charles Anderson, was the only sympathetic face he saw in the church—the other men, all friends of the Admiral or of the dead man, upon seeing him, nudged each other with their elbows, whispered in each other’s ears, and gave him icy stares of contempt.
After Crawford survived the amputation—he had thankfully fainted dead away during the operation—Edmund had informed the Admiral, over Crawford’s objections, and the Admiral, over the objections of everyone, insisted on transporting his nephew from Stoke Newington to Hill Street. Once there, no one by the name of Bertram, not even Mary, was admitted to see the patient. A week later, came the word that the wounds had turned putrid and Henry Crawford, after enduring the most intense suffering, was no more.
The service concluded, Edmund and Anderson waited respectfully for the others to leave before they departed.
“A chilly reception, bigad, Bertram,” whispered Mr. Anderson after they shook the vicar’s hand and regained the street. “I am accustomed to my relatives watching me in church as though they expect me to burst into flames, but for you, sir, this must be a novel experience.”
Edmund said only, “a great many people loved Henry Crawford. There must have been more to the man than I ever saw in him.”
“Yes, and for every man here there must be at least two or three young ladies at home, weeping their eyes out.”
They were but a few steps from the church when a shrill and angry voice assailed them. They turned to see the Admiral bearing down on them, with half-a-dozen or more angry supporters behind him.
“Hey! Ahoy! You blackguard Bertram! I ought to beat your brains out here in the street!” The Admiral waved his walking stick emphatically.
“Sir,” Edmund bowed. “Pray allow me to convey my most sincere condolences and sympathies, on behalf of myself and all—”
“Be silent, you quivering poltroon.” The old man fixed Edmund with a venomous stare, his cane clutched at the ready in his fist, the veins in his neck throbbing. “You Bertrams are bent on the utter destruction of my family! You challenged my nephew to a duel with the false and scurrilous lie that he deflowered some little whey-faced cousin of yours. When in fact, he never laid a finger on the little
b-tch, and she was living in luxury at his expense, calling herself “Mrs. Crawford,” ordering his servants about and helping herself to everything that wasn’t nailed down—along with a parcel of her poxy Portsmouth relations! Then, when my nephew was lying in his death agonies, your lying whore of a sister showed up and claimed that the bastard in her belly was his child, so she could inherit Everingham away from Mary, the rightful heir. You wouldn’t allow the surgeon near him, nor let him have any brandy or laudanum, until he was forced into marriage with the slut!”
By now a small crowd had gathered, and were listening intently. The Admiral took a deep breath, fumbled with his false teeth, and resumed: “As for Mary, she told me she believed you actually loved her—more fool she—and that you cared nothing for her fortune, when in fact, before the ink was dry on your marriage license, you began draining her pockets to turn your wretched hovel in a g-d-forsaken village into a palace, while at the same time installing your thieving aunt in Mary’s house in London, living at her expense. She told me you abandoned her last month, over some trumped-up quarrel you invented and you have left her to
