Carla Kelly - The Admiral's Penniless Bride

‘And if I am not?’

‘You are charming, Mr Bright.’ She felt her cheeks grow warm when he looked at her. ‘Do you even know who your neighbours are, sir?’

‘The one directly next to us is an old marquis who seldom ventures off his property. A bit of a misanthrope, according to the real estate agent.’

‘Any other neighbours?’

He gestured vaguely in the other direction. ‘Across the lane is Jacob Brustein and his wife, Rivka. He’s the banker in Plymouth who partners with William Carter. Or did. I think Carter has been dead for years, but the name always gave Brustein some clout. My sisters were appalled.’

She considered this information. ‘Tomorrow morning, we will visit your neighbours.’

He looked at his list. ‘Don’t you need a maid to help you with your clothes?’

Sally shook her head. ‘The dress you saw me in, in the dining room, one cloak, a shawl, a nightgown and this blue dress constitute my wardrobe.’

He dipped the pen in the inkwell. ‘One wardrobe for the lady of the house and suits for me. Then you will need a lady’s maid. A laundress, too?’

She nodded, feeling the pinch of poverty again, even though she sat in a comfortable room. ‘I’m sorry to be a burden.’

He waved the list to dry the ink. ‘Burden? Look at all this sound advice you have given me.’ He reached across the table for her hand. ‘Sophia, pay attention. I am only going to say this once, since the subject of money seems to embarrass you. As much as I disliked Napoleon, I grew rich off of him. This paltry list won’t make much of a dent. It won’t, even when I add a carriage and horses, and a coachman, and someone to clean—whatever you call it—from the stables.’

‘Try muck.’

The admiral tipped back his chair and laughed. ‘Very well! Muck. I can see that your principal task will be to smooth my rough edges.’

‘Very well, sir.’

Starkey knocked on the door, then opened it. ‘Dupuis wanted me to tell you that dinner is served in the breakfast room. I have covered the scabrous paintings.’ He closed the door, then opened it again. ‘Penelope and Odysseus are gone,’ he intoned. ‘Or maybe she was Venus and he a typical sailor.’

Sally stared after him. ‘This place is a lunatic asylum,’ she said, when Starkey closed the door.

‘Not quite, dear wife. You have a worse task ahead, one I won’t even bother to immortalise on paper. You must find me something useful to do.’

That will be a chore, she thought, as she removed her clothes that night in the privacy of her own bedroom. Starkey had made the bed at some point in the evening and lit a fire in the grate, which took away the chill of the rain that continued to fall.

Dinner had been sheer delight. On short notice, Etienne had prepared a wonderful onion soup and served it with homely pilot bread, a menu item she remembered well from the days when Andrew would bring home his work and pore over the Royal Navy victual list, as she sat knitting in their tidy bookroom.

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