Wilder Perkins: Hoare and the matter of treason

Neither servant even attempted to suppress a knowing expression, and there were audible giggles in the direction of the kitchen when Eleanor Hoare, folding her napkin and slipping it into its ring, moved to her tuffet and sat down in a somewhat gingerly manner, gathering her skirts about her.

"My, how happy I shall be when my mourning can come to a close," she said. "Mourning is most unbecoming to a person of my coloring, or lack of it."

She did not wait for Hoare to whisper his denial, but continued, "I think you are procrastinating, Bartholomew. When you were seeing him over the side yesterday, Sir George talked with you longer than mere convention would require." The sparkle in her eyes belied the severity of her tone.

"Well?"

When not preoccupied with other matters during the night, Hoare had puzzled over how to break to his bride the news that, instead of their making their wedding trip to Great Dunmow in Essex, where she planned to introduce her new husband to her people, he must leave her here like every sailor's wife. He had best be forthright, he decided at last; this woman did not take well to being cozened.

"I must leave you this morning, my dear," he said, "and return in Royal Duke to Portsmouth. From there, I must leave her to ground upon her own beef bones… and grind up secrets for the Admiralty's bread, while I go on to London and report to their Lordships."

"Oh," she said. "Ohhh!" echoed Jenny.

"Are we to we accompany you?" Eleanor asked, preparing to rise. Hoare shook his head.

"That is not possible, I fear," he said. "As you know, Sir George frowns heavily upon captains who keep their wives aboard. And not only must I travel fast; I cannot say how long I shall be required to dangle about in London…

"No, I think you have two possible courses of action. The first is to remain here in comfort, safe and sound, until I can rejoin you. The second is to proceed to Portsmouth by land, hire suitable lodgings for us all, and settle down there or in the surrounding countryside, to await me."

"There is a third possibility," Eleanor said. "We could descend upon Father and my brothers in Great Dunmow, and await you there. After all, Great Dunmow is far closer to London than we would be down here on the coast. And after all, they will already be expecting us. For poor papa, the arrival of one less guest would only be a relief; I can hardly say the same of the family's most likely reaction to the news that our stay will be indefinite."

"And me?" Jenny's voice was plaintive.

"You come with us, of course," Eleanor said firmly. "You are one of us, my dear, you must remember."

"With Order?"

Order was Jenny's cat, out of Chaos, by Jove. Or Jenny was Order's girl. It made no difference, Hoare thought; the two were inseparable.

"And Order, and his parents Chaos and Jove," he whispered reassuringly. "His parents, and his sisters and his cousins and his aunts as well. The entire family of fortunate felines… In command of that crew, you will have enough on your hands, I give you my word."

After Hoare had assembled his personal kit, the little family walked down to the dock through a light November mist. Here, with a wave of his hat, Hoare signaled Royal Duke to send his gig. As they stood awaiting its approach, a man behind him cleared his throat. Startled, Hoare spun around, to find himself facing the squat batrachian figure of Martin Frobisher, with his slabsided sister on his arm. The last time Hoare had seen either of them, they had been participating in the grotesque tragicomedy at the Nine Stones Circle. The lady had been bare naked above the waist that night; she had not displayed well.

Martin Frobisher's form was made all the more froggish in appearance by his choice of a surtout. Well cut, it was a deep, warm green in color. He bore his fashionable top hat in hand.

"Go and greet the bride, Lydia," he said. "I have something to tell Captain Hoare in private." Dutiful, the sister obeyed.

"May I wish you happy, sir?" he now asked.

Ever since their first encounter, up the esplanade at the Town Club, Hoare and Sir Thomas Frobisher, this young man's father, had held each other in deep mutual disesteem. Hoare knew that Sir Thomas thought him an arrogant, taciturn coxcomb who made a habit of showing contempt for his betters and who had interfered not once, but twice, with his plans for a second, profitable marriage. He had done so first with the sturdy woman now on Hoare's arm, and, almost simultaneously, with little Miss Anne Gladden. On his own part, Hoare's contempt for the knight-baronet was quite real, and carried with it-Hoare must admit to himself-more than a touch of fear. For Sir Thomas combined a singular degree of authority in much of Dorset with the assurance, self-generated and self-perpetuating, that he, and not its present Hanoverian incumbent, was the rightful occupant of England's throne. For centuries, all the male Frobishers had resembled frogs. Like Sir Thomas's daughter, the Frobisher females were slab-sided, lacked all sheer, and had pronounced humped backs.

Martin Frobisher had inherited his father's appearance but not his quirky mind. In fact, in the course of their brief acquaintance, Hoare had found him quite likeable. He lacked Sir Thomas's overweening pride, for one thing. For another, he seemed possessed of a degree of self-deprecating humor. He was not above acknowledging himself a coward.

Now, however, Mr. Martin Frobisher's mien was grave.

"I beg a word with you, sir," he said with a gesture inviting him to step aside. Puzzled, Hoare obliged.

"I know, of course, Captain Hoare, that you and my father are not the best of friends." His voice was embarrassed. As well it should be, Hoare thought.

"No, don't deny it, sir," the young man continued, looking up into Hoare's faded gray eyes with his own yellowish ones. "You know it as well as I. But, to be frank, I do not share his feelings on the matter. Indeed, I wish you well.

"For that reason, as well as with an eye to my family's honor, I feel obliged to warn you that my father entertains plans to do you harm."

"Oh?" Hoare responded, with a lifted brow.

"I do not know how, or where, but from words I happened to overhear, his intention is real. And, as you may have discovered, once my father gets an opinion, he keeps it, nourishes it, encourages it to grow. There are those who call him mad; indeed, I fear that in some respects and on some subjects, they may be right. All I can do now, sir, as his son, is give you this warning. And hope you will walk warily. Will you take my hand?"

Mr. Frobisher looked up at Hoare with eyes that were appealing as well as goggling.

"Of course, sir," Hoare said, and shook the offered hand. Behind him, his coxswain called, "Oars!" and the gig grated lightly on the hard.

"Fare you well, Captain," Frobisher said, and walked off on his bandy legs so that Hoare could make his own good-byes in privacy. Once in the gig, Hoare turned to wave to his wife and his fosterling, then turned, wondering, to face the brig he commanded.

A gray, unremarkable figure, the visitor dominated his host's closet.

"You have assured me, sir," he said, "that this conversation cannot be overheard. Nonetheless, how am I to be certain that behind one of these linen-fold panels a secret stenographer does not lurk? Even the walls have ears."

"You insult my hospitality, sir, and my integrity!"

"Bombast, sir, bombast and fustian. Have done, pray. We are practical men, you and I, and must not permit false pride to stand between us and our objective.

"In the window seat, here, I think," the guest continued. Come, sir, join me. A pleasant view, indeed, of your garden-and of your daughter. It must be more pleasant still in the spring."