Northern Exposure - 80. Chapter 80

July 12, 1801

Brentwood, UK

Granger peeked into the drawing room and saw his father sitting on a chair while his mother relaxed on a chaise, both of them looking quite relaxed as they chatted away. He had invited his parents to come spend a week with him here at Brentwood, and it had turned out to be a good decision. His father had been working with William, Matheus, and Michael, training the three of them on the manners, etiquette, and physical gestures like bowing they would need to master if they were to be presented at Court. William and Matheus were not quite the age to be presented to the King and Queen, but Granger wanted the two of them to begin preparing for such an event, and he wanted them to participate in the lessons to encourage Michael. For Michael, it was much more important, for he was to go to Windsor with Granger within the next week or so. It was amusing to watch Alexander muscle into their lessons with the Duke, only to get bored and vanish back to the playroom. Granger had also imposed upon Anson to help the Duke, but that was just a face-saving way of helping that young man get a bit more polish.

Michael Albany had turned out to be an easy child to deal with. At first, he had been extremely shy and withdrawn, even with the other children, but Granger had expected that. He was especially proud of the way William and Charlotte had gone out of their way to make Michael feel welcome. Caroline had engaged an art instructor for Elizabeth and Charlotte, and Granger had asked him to work with Michael as well. It was amazing to see how quickly he learned. The boy was truly talented, and seemed to only be really happy when he was drawing.

Meanwhile, the Duchess of Suffolk had spent time with Charlotte, and Elizabeth had also intruded on their etiquette lessons much as Alexander had, only Elizabeth was so interested she was doing quite well, and could curtsy extraordinarily gracefully for someone so young.

But the biggest benefit to having them here had been the improvement in Granger’s relationship with his father. Granger had recognized that his father’s pride had trumped the guilt he felt over how badly he had treated George; rather than force a confrontation and a meeting of the minds, Granger had acted as if nothing had happened. That had given the Duke a way out of the corner he’d painted himself into, and he’d appreciated the opening George had given him and responded in kind. The end result was that the negative feelings Granger had harbored toward his father were buried seemingly as deeply as the Duke’s guilt, and the two of them had opted to leave things like that. It saddened Granger that the deep trust and bond he’d once shared with his father were damaged as a result, but opted to settle for what was achievable, at least for right now.

Granger stopped spying on his parents and strode confidently into the room. “Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly. “Dinner should be served shortly.”

“Excellent,” the Duke of Suffolk said. “Thank you again for hosting us here, George.”

“It has been a pleasure having you both here, and I must thank you for all the work you’ve done coaching my various charges,” Granger said with a smile.

“That has been a labor of love,” the Duke replied.

“Has Caroline communicated with you today?” the Duchess asked. As the three of them were alone, she had no qualms about letting them see how irritated she was.

“I have not received my daily letter from her yet,” Granger replied with a smile. Caroline had clearly been irritated that he had refused to engage her in an epistolary battle, so while she had continued to send him increasingly nasty letters, Granger had simply ignored her.

“I do not think I could restrain myself from responding to her,” his mother said angrily. Granger could tell by the tone in Caroline’s letters that his unwillingness to engage with her was vexing her considerably, so he merely took pleasure in that knowledge.

“Sending her a letter like the ones she has written to me would only encourage her to write more of them, and she would likely show any communiqués I sent her to people surrounding Her Royal Highness The Princess of Wales,” Granger explained. “I have no doubt they are all convinced I am evil, and while they are most likely right about that, there is no reason to provide them with proof.” He smiled as he made that last comment, getting a grin in return from his father.

“I think that is a wise course of action,” the Duke pronounced. “I do have to agree with your mother and applaud your calm and patience. After her attempt to ship William off to Eton prematurely, I am hard-pressed to bury my own anger.”

“She has not made it easy, this much is true,” Granger said. He really did not want to think about Caroline, much less talk about her, but it seemed that was impossible, so he opted to go ahead and share what his lawyers had told him. “I would expect that I will receive a lawsuit from her shortly.”

“And what exactly will she be suing you for?” the Duchess asked.

“My solicitor thinks that she will try to obtain the return of her dowry,” Granger explained. “He thinks that, based on the way it was settled on Caroline and me, she will not be successful. You both did an excellent job of negotiating on my behalf when we got married.”

“I am glad to hear that,” the Duke said proudly.

“Her last letter to me demanded that I either release her dowry back to her or provide her with an income of £10,000 per year,” Granger said. “As that represents about two-thirds of our income, he noted that was unreasonable.” Granger did not point out that that fraction was based on his income before his inheritance from his aunt, because he did not want to reopen that entire issue.

“I would say so,” the Duke agreed.

“I told him that I thought £5,000 was more than fair, so that will be our position when Caroline is done ranting at me,” Granger explained.

“I would point out that as you have possession of the battlefield, to speak analogously, you have time to wait her out,” the Duke observed.

“And that is my strategy,” Granger agreed.

Hudson entered the room, fortunately ending their discussion about Caroline. “My lord, we are prepared to serve dinner when it is convenient.”

“Then let us dine,” Granger said, and led his parents into the dining room. No sooner had they taken their seats and the footmen had begun to serve them, when another footman came in and spoke to Hudson.

“My lord, it appears there is a guest arriving,” Hudson said.

Granger looked at his mother and raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I have not invited anyone to join us, but that does not mean we cannot be hospitable. Please welcome whoever is arriving and see that another place is set for them.”

“Of course, my lord,” Hudson said.

“It can’t be Caroline, can it?” the Duchess of Suffolk asked.

“We will find out soon enough,” Granger said. He rose, as did his father, and their eyes all turned to the door to await the arrival of this mystery visitor.

Hudson appeared in the doorway, then announced their guest in his deep, booming, voice. “The Right Honorable Earl St. Vincent.” Granger mentally thanked his parents for teaching him to keep his cool and maintain his stoicism, as otherwise his mouth would have fallen open in shock. The old admiral walked in, his pace deliberate as age had slowed him. Granger thought it actually made him look rather majestic.

“St. Vincent,” the Duke of Suffolk said affably, taking the lead. “It is good to see you.”

“It is good to see your grace as well, but as I came to call on your son, your presence is a pleasant surprise,” St. Vincent said. He then turned his attention to Granger. “I have spent some time thinking about how I treated you regarding your departure from Valiant.”

“Indeed?” Granger asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Indeed,” St. Vincent confirmed. “I am here to offer my apologies for insulting your honor and questioning your courage. If one were to accuse you of having a character flaw, suggesting you were anything but brave would be the most egregiously wrong thing to do.”

Granger stepped forward and held out his hand, and St. Vincent took it and grasped it meaningfully. “I am willing to put this entire affair behind us and pretend as if nothing happened with one proviso.”

“And what is this condition?” St. Vincent asked warily.

“You must join us for dinner,” Granger said, and gestured toward the table.

“Dining at your table is always a pleasure,” St. Vincent said, and made to amble toward his seat. He stopped and looked Granger in the eyes, his orbs piercing into Granger’s. “I am very proud of you, the man you are and the officer you have become. I am pleased that the government recognized that with your promotion to an earldom.”

Granger swallowed hard to bury the emotions he felt and smiled. “I have had good examples, with your lordship being one of the most important.”

St. Vincent paused to greet Granger’s mother, then took his seat. “I have often been accused of being stubborn,” he said. Granger wanted to roll his eyes at that understatement. “In some cases, that has served me well. In other cases, like this one, it makes me look like an ass.”

Granger chose to laugh at that, as did his parents, and ultimately St. Vincent as well. “I would ask your lordship to please put aside your self-recrimination,” Granger said. “We have resolved our issues.”

“We have,” St. Vincent said. Dinner ended up being a lot of fun, primarily because his mother moved them from that topic onto more acceptable dinner conversation. After dinner, the Duke and Duchess excused themselves, so Granger guided the old admiral out into the garden, where they sat at a table, enjoying cigars and port. “Your gardens are almost as beautiful as your home.”

“Thank you,” Granger said. “I have little in the way of a botanical bent, so their appearance is the result of the work of others.”

“I have learned to enjoy such things now that I am older,” he said. “Perhaps that will be the case with you as well.”

“Let us hope I live long enough for that to happen,” Granger said.

Rather than laugh, St. Vincent’s expression became dour. “I have another purpose for my call today.”

“I am glad to help you out however I can,” Granger said.

“I bear news, news that I wanted to convey to you personally, especially since I know that Captain Calvert is one of your closest friends,” St. Vincent said. Granger had been feeling lighthearted and relaxed, but St. Vincent’s tone and expression caused his emotions to pivot to a completely opposite tack.

“He is,” Granger confirmed nervously.

“I just received news of a battle fought in the Caribbean, off Martinique,” St. Vincent said. “Cleopatre was engaged with a large French frigate, the Rhône. She acquitted herself quite well against a much larger adversary, and it is all but certain that Cleopatre would have captured the Rhône but for a sloop of war that put out from Fort Royal, and as she was undamaged, she was able to force Cleopatre to break off the action.”

“I am surprised that was enough to deter Captain Calvert,” Granger said proudly.

“It probably would not have been, but in typical French fashion, the Rhône had aimed at Cleopatre’s rigging, only her gunnery was more accurate than normal, and she had so damaged Cleopatre that it rendered her unable to pursue the French ships,” St. Vincent said.

Granger swallowed hard, unable to hide the gesture as he broached the subject he feared the most. “Were there many casualties aboard Cleopatre?”

“One of her lieutenants, a Mr. Gatling, a man whom I believe has also served with you, was killed in the action,” St. Vincent said. “He was the only officer who was listed as dead.”

“That is most unfortunate,” Granger said solemnly, although Gatling’s loss was less painful than it might otherwise have been if he were not Calvert’s lover. “And Captain Calvert?” He knew real fear then, even though he would never let anyone, least of all St. Vincent, see that.

“I am not sure, Granger,” St. Vincent said, then smiled slightly. “My apologies. I should have called you Brentwood.”

Granger smiled back. “I fear I’m still getting used to my new name as well.”

St. Vincent’s smile faded, as did his mood, as he was clearly annoyed. “The report of the action was signed by Calvert, but he was listed as one of the wounded. I do not know how badly he was injured, but I do know that he is no longer in command of the Cleopatre.”

“I suppose I should be happy that he is not dead, and that he was healthy enough to draft his report, but it is maddening to not know the current state of his health,” Granger said. There was so much to digest in this, and no good would come from attempting to do that while St. Vincent was there.

“I am probably as annoyed by the lack of details as you are,” St. Vincent grumbled.

“I cannot thank you enough for conveying this news to me personally,” Granger said. “That was truly a kind thing to do.”

“I am only sorry that I cannot tell you more about Captain Calvert’s fate,” St. Vincent said. “He is a superb officer and has done very well with Cleopatre.” That was meaningful praise coming from St. Vincent, and all but assured Granger that Calvert would be given another command, assuming he survived his wound.

“I could not agree with your lordship more,” Granger said.

“I would suspect that I will hear more news in short order, and I promise I will send that to you immediately,” St. Vincent promised.

“Thank you,” Granger said sincerely.

“And now that we have put aside our conflict, perhaps you can now answer my question and tell me about the Russian navy,” St. Vincent said, reverting to the more imperious tone of the First Lord of the Admiralty.

“Of course,” Granger said. “If you will allow me a quick moment, I would like to dispatch a note to Mr. Gatling’s family. They are innkeepers in Brentwood.”

“I will force myself to be patient for that long,” St. Vincent said with a grin. Rather than write them a note, Granger opted to dispatch his carriage to retrieve the Gatling family, then focused on his conversation with St. Vincent.

“Much like Sweden, Russia has two separate fleets,” Granger explained. “The Archipelago fleets appear to primarily consist of floating artillery, in various shapes and forms, and their job is to support the army. The ocean-going fleets are those which are meant to contest control of the Baltic, and perhaps beyond.”

“I have been told that the Archipelago fleets are the more efficient and effective of the two,” St. Vincent posited.

“I was told that as well,” Granger said, then embarked on a lengthy description of Russian shipbuilding, and then the manning and fitting out of the fleet.

“You make it sound as if the Russians view their fleet as disposable, as ships which are used until they wear out with little maintenance to preserve them,” St. Vincent said. Granger had been quite clear about that, but he understood St. Vincent’s question, because he still found that concept somewhat disconcerting.

“That is correct,” Granger answered. “They only need enough ships to ward off the Swedes, or now the Turks, until they can build more, and since raw materials are plentiful, it is no great task.”

“The Russians have sent their fleet into the Mediterranean,” St. Vincent noted. “I wonder if they will modify their strategy now that their ships will be required to be more robust.”

“I was at a dinner with His Imperial Majesty and that very concept was proposed, but I do not think that a major change will happen immediately,” Granger opined. He explained himself before St. Vincent could ask him to expand. “The Tsar will have other worries, and the Russian bureaucracy is not likely to change things on its own.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” St. Vincent said, his tone switching to one of extreme irritation. “It is difficult to get the dockyards to work effectively in this country. I can see why the Tsar would avoid such a challenge.” Granger should have known that it was thinking of the dockyards that had poisoned St. Vincent’s mood.

“It is better to pick one’s battles,” Granger said with a smile. “I want to thank you for finding positions for the officers on Valiant.”

“Their performance justified it,” St. Vincent said gruffly. He acted as if he thought Granger’s comment was a lead-in to asking St. Vincent for preferment for another officer. The poor man was undoubtedly plagued by such requests.

“It does, and I wanted you to know I was grateful that you had recognized that,” Granger said.

They were interrupted by Hudson. “My lords, Mr. and Mrs. Gatling are here, along with their son Richard.

“Please show them to the drawing room, offer them a drink, and let them know we’ll be with them shortly,” Granger instructed.

St. Vincent grimaced slightly. “It is never easy to tell someone that they have lost a loved one.”

“It is not,” Granger agreed ruefully. “If you do not want to deal with them, I can certainly handle things.”

“You are suggesting that I would shirk my duty to avoid such a task?” St. Vincent growled, sounding irascible.

“I have never known you to do that, but your exalted position does give you the option to avoid unpleasant jobs,” Granger teased.

“You’re still an impertinent sod,” St. Vincent said, making Granger chuckle. “Let us go meet with these people, then I will return to Rochetts.” Rochetts was St. Vincent’s country estate and abutted his own domain here at Brentwood.

Granger led St. Vincent back into the house and to the drawing room, where they found the Gatlings assembled. They rose when they saw him, and looked considerably awed when they spotted St. Vincent. “Thank you for interrupting your day to call on me,” Granger said affably, a posture that was forced. Gatling’s parents and his older brother were not Granger’s favorite people. Gatling had won a considerable amount of prize money, and these people had managed to compel the young man to transfer a sizeable portion to them. They’d used that money to open an inn in the town, and going from being tenant farmers to proprietors of that establishment had been a big enough social step for them to give themselves airs. Of course, they would never presume to display their arrogance to Granger, but Broadhead was ever the source of such interesting gossip.

“We were glad to follow your lordship’s instructions,” Mr. Gatling said, with a slight hint of pompousness.

“Unfortunately, our visit today is not pleasant,” Granger said. “Lord St. Vincent just brought me word that Cleopatre engaged and vanquished a French frigate, but your son was killed in that battle.”

“He is dead?” Gatling’s mother asked.

“I am sorry, ma’am, but that is the report that I received,” St. Vincent said.

“No!” she exclaimed, and then began to wail, in what was a quite undignified way.

“I am sorry to convey such sad news to you, but I can assure you that your son died bravely,” St. Vincent said.

“Can you tell us of this battle, my lord?” Richard asked. St. Vincent described the battle, the first time Granger had heard the details. Cleopatre had intercepted the Rhône as she was attempting to slip out of Fort Royal. The winds were light, but Calvert had managed to rake the Rhône before engaging in an artillery slugfest with her. He had kept Cleopatre well out of boarding range of the Rhône, as he had noted that he had spotted soldiers on board and suspected that she had a much bigger complement than his ship. It was not unknown for French frigates to carry extra soldiers on board, especially if they were contemplating some form of raid on British territories. Rhône’s hull had been devastated by Cleopatre’s fire, which if she did indeed have extra souls on board, would have made for some horrific casualties for the French. As St. Vincent had noted, Rhône’s gunnery had been accurate, and Cleopatre had lost her mizzen mast and all of her topmasts. When the wind picked up, a French corvette had made her way out to join the battle. Calvert made clear in his report that he was prepared to engage that vessel as well, but when the two French ships had opted to retreat back to Fort Royal, his rigging was too damaged to follow.

“They did not capture the French frigate, my lord?” Gatling’s father asked. Granger worked hard to hide his irritation, because he’d guessed they were now worried more about prize money than their dead son.

“They did not,” St. Vincent said.

“With Cleopatre’s rigging as disabled as Captain Calvert described, it would have been impossible to force further action, especially with a fresh vessel joining the battle,” Granger augmented.

“I appreciate that your lordships have taken the time to tell us this sad news personally,” Richard Gating said.

“Such a brave officer deserved that, at least,” St. Vincent said. That served to end their meeting. Granger escorted the Gatlings back to his carriage, and then helped St. Vincent into his own vehicle. He watched as the old earl’s horses clattered off, then instead of going back inside, he opted to walk in the gardens by himself. He certainly was in no frame of mind to engage with his parents or his children.

As he strolled through the orderly parterres, he thought of Gatling and found himself sad that he was gone. He had helped the young man develop into a good officer, remembering how well he’d worked with the Spanish officers when they’d ‘captured’ the galleon in the Pacific. At the same time, his pride and sadness were largely offset by Gatling’s relationship with Calvert. Granger remembered the jealous agony he’d experienced when he’d thought he’d lost Calvert’s heart to Gatling, and while it was unfair to blame that entirely on Gatling, Granger was unable to be that equanimous. In his mind, Gatling had preyed on Calvert’s weaknesses until he had finally lured Calvert into his bed, then he had used his charms to drive a wedge between Granger and Calvert. Granger discounted that version, all but sure that was not what had actually happened, but his mind would not accept his logical conclusion, so he embraced his imagined version of events. In the end, that made Gatling’s loss easier to stomach.

Having mentally disposed of Gatling, Granger allowed himself to consider Calvert’s fate, something that he’d been doing subconsciously since St. Vincent had told him the news. The report said that Calvert was wounded, but how bad that wound was remained a mystery. Calvert had been well enough after the action to dictate his report, as Granger assumed he had not actually written the thing himself. That indicated that Calvert had been lucid enough to compose such a document, but that was the extent of the reassurance he could get on that account. He had no idea how much help Calvert’s secretary, and indeed his other officers, had given Calvert. A more fearsome fact was that Calvert had relinquished command of Cleopatre. Calvert was a dedicated naval officer, one who would feel the pains of separation at being without his command as deeply as Granger did. Granger knew that he would not give up his ship unless he had to, and that meant that Calvert’s wounds were not inconsequential.

Granger paced through the formal gardens and off into the ‘English’ gardens that were crafted to look more natural, complete with a beautiful waterfall and stream to add to the vignette. None of that mattered to him. He had lost so many of the men who were important to him, yet Calvert had been a beacon that had shone above them all. Granger had forced himself to admit that if he had a true love, the most likely candidate for that role was Calvert. He smiled when he retraced the steps of their relationship, from the moment Calvert had first come aboard Intrepid, to their long voyage to the Pacific, and their last meeting before Calvert had left to assume command of Cleopatre. He recalled Calvert’s handsome face, the one that made him probably the most attractive officer in the navy, supported by his long neck, and framed by his brown hair with its red tint. He thought of Calvert’s engaging smile, the one that showed off the slight gap between his front teeth, and his lips that all but drew a person in, begging to be kissed.

He had been through hell when he’d left Russia, or more aptly, when he’d left Alexander. His emotions had been so frayed that he had been unable to hide them from Nelson and Daventry, a fact which still bothered him greatly. Yet the only comparison Granger could make, the only relationship that had caused him similar pain, had been his bond with Calvert. As bad as things had been when he’d parted from Alexander, that would be but a drop in the bucket compared to the tidal wave that would engulf him if he lost Calvert.

Granger wiped a tear from his eye, then another, then allowed himself to weep softly for Calvert as he walked deeper into the gardens. He had lost Travers, and that had been painful, but their relationship had already decayed considerably, so the anguish had been slightly lessened. Chartley had turned out to be a stranger who was gallivanting around with his Mongolian boyfriend, and Cavendish had morphed into a good friend, with their romantic feelings considerably tempered. Yet with Calvert, the love and passion had never left him, and remained part of him, lying dormant until the next time they met. Only that was really the risk here, the ultimate fear: he might never see Calvert again. Never.

Then George Granger did something he never allowed himself to do. Alone in his gardens, with no one else around, he gave himself permission to cry, a venting of emotions that quickly advanced into sobs. He found a pretty spot of ground near the waterfall and sat down, oblivious to the mud he was getting on his pants, and allowed his emotions free rein, until he found himself almost dehydrated from crying so much. He sighed, then sighed again, and resolved to pull himself together. He stood up and took out his handkerchief to dry his eyes more fully, then stared at the water. “Wherever you are, Francis, know that I love you,” Granger said to the water.

He heard footsteps and was glad that he had at least started to put his appearance to rights. He turned to look at the path just as Winkler came into view. “My lord,” Winkler said, and the look of alarm on his face told Granger that his appearance must clearly be advertising how upset he was. “What is wrong?”

“Lord St. Vincent brought word that Cleopatre was in a battle with a large French frigate. Mr. Gatling was killed,” Granger said.

“That is too bad, my lord,” Winkler said, but he had an even lower opinion of Gatling than Granger did, and his tone revealed that he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“It is, but there is worse news,” Granger said. “Captain Calvert was wounded in the battle.”

“How badly my lord?” Winkler asked, horrified. Winkler had been wondering what had caused Granger to become so upset, and now he had his answer. Only Calvert had been able to stir the strongest of Granger’s emotions.

“I do not know,” Granger said sadly. “I do not know.”

Then Winkler did something he never did: he threw propriety to the winds and embraced Granger. They clung to each other, these two men who shared a bond that was incredibly deep, and in that way, Winkler showed Granger that, no matter what happened, he was not alone.