Prologue

O ctober, 1809, Plymouth

All Luke Wainwright wanted was a quiet evening by the fire. He had the satisfaction of knowing that the banking firm of Biddle and Bancroft was inching closer to funding the remainder of what Magleby & Wainwright Shipbuilders needed to add another drydocks at Devonport’s South Yard. It was amazing how Devonport and nearby Plymouth had grown large enough now to compete favorably with the drydocks at Chatham.

Luke had more numbers to add and subtract to complete his father-in-law’s upcoming presentation, but it was nearly midnight. As his late wife would say, “Love, this bed is getting cold.”

To say that even after six years he still missed Clarissa was no exaggeration. So many were willing to tell him that life goes on. At some level, he knew they were right. He had his doubts, even though he tried not to argue with well-wishers. Luke knew they meant the best.

The house was quiet, his daughter Sally long abed. His small staff of a cook, a maid of all work, and a nanny appeared sufficient unto the task. Luke had to admit one thing: He still didn’t think of his house as a home. That would probably come in time, too, and truly, they had been comfortable, living in Devonport with the Maglebys, Clarissa’s parents.

He knew his life was too busy, but war with France meant money to a shipbuilder in good odor with the Navy Board and Lords of the Admiralty who paid for the frigates and larger warships that went down the ways, then out to sea and battle. Only now and then did he ask himself, Luke, my boy, are you busy for busy’s sake?

Maybe solitude and nightfall, with his ears free from hammering, sawing and the constant need to hurry also made him more personally honest. Why aren’t you happy? he asked himself. You come from a plain and ordinary family and you are on the way to wealth and success. You have everything to make this a Happy Christmas, indeed. What’s the matter with you?