Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars by Jay Worrall Page A

down the roadway again.
    As the cart drew near, the young woman suddenly gave a loud shriek and leapt to the ground, her petticoats flying. “Charlie! It’s you,” she squealed in delight as she ran. Charles stood dumbfounded at the onrushing apparition and braced himself for the unavoidable collision as she flung herself on him, kissing his face and cheeks. “Charlie, you don’t recognize me, do you?” she said with shining eyes after disengaging herself to the extent of grasping one of his arms in both hers and hugging it against her rather ample bosom.
    “Ellie?” he said tentatively; then, “Hi, sis,” and grinned. She’d been ten when he saw her last: skinny, flat-chested, and unremarkable. It hadn’t really occurred to him that she would have aged at all, much less into the animated, auburn-haired beauty before him. To reinforce his assertion that he had recognized her, he added, “You’ve grown.”
    “So have you,” she answered, looking up at him; then, seeing his bandage, “Oh, you’re hurt.”
    “It’s nothing,” Charles said, touching the side of his head. “It’s nearly healed.” They stood together for a moment, neither knowing what to say first, until Attwater discreetly cleared his throat.
    “Come,” Charles said, “I’ll introduce you to my steward and we can go home.” Attwater was already loading their sea chests into the wagon. Introductions were made, and the older man gave the young woman his best imitation of a courtly bow. In the fading daylight the rickety wagon set off behind an aged, sway-backed mare for the two-mile ride to Tattenall. Charles took the reins and sat on the bench in front with his sister, Attwater and their luggage in the bed behind.
    “How is everyone at home? Where’s Father?” Charles asked as he fruitlessly encouraged the mare into a little more motion.
    “Oh, you don’t know,” Ellie answered, putting her hand on his arm. “We wrote to you. Father died months ago.”
    Charles’s heart seemed to stop. “Died?” he repeated as if he didn’t understand. “Father?”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” Ellie answered. “He’d been ill for some time, but didn’t want anyone to worry you about it. We wrote to you immediately after.”
    A great emptiness enveloped him. He’d always seen his father as an anchor, a figure larger than life, strict, reliable, constant, but with a twinkle in his eye and a ready laugh. Someone who would always be there if Charles needed him. He couldn’t imagine him being gone. “Oh, God,” he said. “No, I didn’t know.” His father would have been pleased that Charles had participated in a major sea battle and been raised in rank because of it. He’d looked forward to telling him about his adventures and luck. He had wanted his father to see him as a success, and now he couldn’t.
    “We wrote to you immediately after he passed,” Ellie repeated defensively.
    Charles tried to compose himself. He didn’t want to distress his sister. “Mail at sea can take a long time, if it gets there at all,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “How are things at home?”
    “It’s just John and me now,” Ellie responded. “John’s a little overwhelmed, I think.” John Edgemont, the oldest at thirty-one and unmarried, would be the head of the household now. Charles had two other older brothers, both with the army in India, and an older sister who’d married a solicitor and moved to Liverpool, where she was steadily producing children.
    A question stuck in Charles’s mind, but he didn’t know exactly how to put it. “How come you didn’t meet me with the carriage? Why this old cart?”
    Ellie sat silent for a moment. “We haven’t a carriage anymore. It was sold along with almost all the horses and other things. Most of the servants were also let go.”
    “Why?” Charles asked. The family income derived from land. Edgemont Hall was an estate of some two thousand acres, the arable parts of which were let out in lots