Distant Waters

The Call of the Sea - Book Eight - Distant Waters Andrew Wareham Copyright © 2023 Andrew Wareham KINDLE Edition All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them. Contents Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter One “Captain Sir Nicholas and Lady Turnhouse and son. I believe you have three rooms booked for us?” The hotel manager had, the finest in Dorchester he assured them. “For three nights, your letter said, Sir Nicholas?” “That is correct. My coxswain and servant and my lady’s maid will also be properly accommodated?” The maid had a cubbyhole next to her mistress’ room; Robbins and McKay were to have been relegated to the shared servants’ bunk room next to the kitchens but the manager thought it wiser to find them a single room each. They would still eat in the common servants’ hall off the kitchens but Cook would be warned to ensure they received platefuls of the best. “Nurse will, of course, sleep with the baby, Sir Nicholas?” “Of course.” They had used the family carriage to drive across from Wickham, changing their own horses at the Red Lion in Southampton and then using the posting houses through the New Forest and into Dorset. Their own driver and groom stayed with them and an ostler from the posting house was to lead the horses back to Wickham, a perfectly ordinary arrangement, or so he believed, being used to working eighteen hour days for his five shillings a week and keep. The coach was larger than an ordinary post chaise, necessarily slower, but far more comfortable, particularly when travelling with an infant, and there was room on the roof for their attendants. “Dinner, Sir Nicholas?” “We shall dine here each night. We shall require horses for the carriage to travel across to Bere each day.” “Certainly, Sir Nicholas. To Bere itself?” The manager was fishing, was almost certain who his patron was, wanted a last confirmation. “To Whitefield parish, to the Turnhouse farm.” “Very good, sir.” The manager turned away, whispered to an underling who was far less discreet. Nick distinctly heard the cry in the back offices, a boy shouting down to the kitchens. ‘It do be ‘er, right enow, Margery! It do be Bloody Nick ‘erself, so it be.’ It was inevitable. He was a local son and there would be many to point at him and possibly even a few to cheer. It was wartime and sailors were heroes, for the while. They would be forgotten soon enough when Boney was put to bed with a shovel. Dinner was edible, not a great deal more, but it was still well before harvest and the kitchen gardens were only just coming in. With the best will in the world, the cook had only very few vegetables to offer, new potatoes and green peas prominent on the plates. They were close to the sea and fish could be risked – it had had to travel no more than three hours from the moment of being caught. Luckily, the cook was a dab hand with a pastry and was able to provide a memorable sweet course, to the pleasure of the manager and owner as well, seeing a good chance of recommendations from such notable guests and more of the gentry coming to him. Lady Turnhouse drew the manager to one side as she left the table and her husband to enjoy his mandatory glass of port. “I would wish you to bring a doctor to us after breakfast, sir. The captain was sorely wounded at sea, which is why he is home now, and the dressing to his chest should be inspected and properly remade.” “I will send a boy now, my lady, to my favoured practitioner. He will be present for ten of the clock, unfailing. The Chronicle, my lady, did inform us all in Dorset that Bloody Nick was sent home to the Sick and Hurt List for being grievously wounded in service of his King. Saving Sardinia, was it not, my lady?” “It was indeed. The island – with its valuable silver mines – is now secured to the British cause.” Another piece of gossip, all to the good; that would progress from street to servants to the ears of their masters. It was well for her husband’s home county to know of him and for the gentry there to recognise him as one of their own. If the war did not start up again, then Sir Nicholas must find a place in the Public Service, and the more who knew his name and face, the better. She was now certain in her own mind that her man must become a baronet at minimum, and that demanded a deal of influence behind him, or twenty thousand guineas dropped in a prime minister’s pocket, which was really too expensive to be borne. Marianne’s parents had discussed her future with her during the long months of her husband’s absence at sea. They had pointed out that Bloody Nick was a fine hero in wartime, but just a little too much of a good thing when