Home Is the Sailor

Prologue

May 5, 1801

It was a late breakfast and a quiet one, as was inevitable after a night that had seen the consumption of more bottles of port and brandy than courtesy would note. The two footmen in attendance moved with silent caution, taking care to pour the coffee without a glug and to set down the cups without a clink.

Viscount Claremont, the tenth to bear that title, was a gentleman whose sixty-eight years had settled comfortably around his middle. He peered nearsightedly at the missive that had been laid beside his place. “Here. Read this,” he said, tossing it to his oldest son, the Honorable George Dormer.

George, who had been trying to decide whether it was safer to lift his cup to his mouth or lower his head to the cup, gave up the conundrum and picked up the letter. He broke the seal and, with some effort, brought the contents into focus. “Condolences? Why is…” He turned to the signature. “Why is Harry Sunderland sending you condolences?”

His cousin Frederick, wearing his usual slight sneer, said, “Perhaps if you actually read the letter?”

“Oh, right.” George frowned with the effort. “Offer my condolences on the death of your son…” His head snapped up. “What’s he talking about? I’m not dead and neither is Augustus.”

Augustus began to nod in agreement but winced and decided not to move his head unnecessarily. “Right. Not dead,” he said.

Frederick sighed, plucked the letter from his cousin’s hands, and scanned it quickly. “It’s Will who’s dead.”

The others looked confused for a moment before remembering the youngest brother. 

“Ah yes,” said the viscount. “Will.”

“Sunderland saw his name in the casualty lists in the Gazette. It was after that naval engagement up by Denmark,” Frederick said, summarizing the letter. “Captain William Dormer. Will is a captain? That can’t be right.”

After a moment’s thought, Augustus said, “I think that is right. He made it up to captain after some other battle. Mentioned in dispatches and all. Somebody told me that.”

George was frowning again. “Does that mean we’re expected to go into mourning?”

His father shrugged. “I’ll tell the vicar to say something in the sermon on Sunday and we can wear black gloves. That should be enough. Not as if we have to actually bury him if he died at sea.”

“Yes, but Isabella will probably want to order new mourning gowns,” said George. “And her mother too.”

“Your wife always wants to order new gowns. She’s never been anything but an expense. Useless creature.” The viscount’s complaints dwindled to a mutter.

Augustus had been thinking, and the process caused a pained expression on his face. “Do you suppose there is anything for us to inherit? He must have had prize money.”

Frederick gave a short laugh. “If he did, he won’t have left it to any of us.”

That was so obvious as to need no comment. Instead, the viscount said, “At least he’s no longer a problem.”