Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

After her disturbing encounter with Commander Hancock, Bea was left unsettled and restless, spending a sleepless night.

Despite her efforts to dismiss his story as implausible, doubts gnawed at her. The man, poised and articulate, carried the credibility of his naval rank and uniform, yet his story upended everything she thought she knew about Adam and their shared past.

Bea found herself torn between outrage and a pull of sympathy for Hancock, who had memorized her words, lived through their emotions. Was it possible that in his deception, he had come to care?

Driven by a need to understand, Bea spread out the letters like a map of her past. Adam's replies, once cherished, now read differently.

Dear Beatrice,

It seems a lifetime since we parted. I wonder if you will welcome my reply as you say. I feel like a different man than the one who left you but three months ago. How we shall go on at such a remove, I know not. My heart aches with the prospect of it.

Bea's mind whirled—had Adam been disingenuous from the start, or had Hancock's influence reshaped the narrative?

My eyes gaze upon your image in the locket, your parting gift. Your visage lifts my already weary and lonesome heart. I know that adventure and challenge await me over the coming months and years. I rally my spirit knowing only that when the war is over, and I can return home to England and the places I loved, this will have been a noble and worthwhile endeavour. Meanwhile I am plagued by the belief that you are far too young to cling to feelings, and promises made, when the future cannot be known.

The following morning, as she pondered her next steps, Maggie appeared with a comforting tray of tea and toast, her eyes full of silent questions. Bea's gratitude for Maggie's concern was tinged with regret that she could not yet share the burden of her troubling discoveries.

She would confront the Commander. With no one else to consult, she could only press him for more details. She needed to understand his motivations and gauge the truth of his claims.

With this resolve, venturing into the village under the pretence of visiting an elderly resident, Bea ventured toward the White Stag Inn. As she approached, her courage wavered. She hesitated outside the nearby booksellers.

"Dare I hope you wait for me?" came a deep voice from behind her.

Bea startled, turning to face the man she had come to find. She stared a moment too long, unable to answer, caught again by his height, his breadth, and his handsome features.

"Certainly not."

His gaze rested on her face with a tender expression that sent shivers racing down her spine, his chiseled mouth curving slightly, a dimple popping in his cheek. "Have you managed to acquire a copy of the new novel from John Murray, yet, Miss Witherspoon?"

For a moment speechless, her thoughts flitted to her last letter to Adam at Christmastime in which she had conveyed her interest in the latest publication from the author of Pride and Prejudice, entitled Emma. She clicked her tongue, sighing. "Not yet."

"With what have you come to quiz me this morning?"

"What makes you think that is my purpose?"

Hancock's gaze roved her face, seeming to study her minutely, and she lowered hers, warming under his attention, to the cut limestone of the high street paving under their boots.

"Had you no questions, no curiosity, I doubted you would speak to me again."

She glanced his way. "I must apologize for my rudeness yesterday. It was inexcusable."

"On the contrary. I'm sure the shock of my news was great indeed. I was perhaps too abrupt in delivery."

He proposed a stroll, offering a private setting for their conversation. Bea, though apprehensive, recognized the necessity of this meeting. As they walked, Hancock shared more about his naval experiences with Adam, detailing the younger man's disillusionment with military life and his reckless behaviour at port—a stark contrast to the disciplined life of a naval officer.

Hancock's revelations about Adam, unsettling as they were, began to piece together a version of the man she might never have truly known. His indifference, his readiness to abandon their correspondence, and Hancock's reluctant assumption of his persona were all facets of a story Bea had not imagined but now must consider.

They came near the edge of the village, giving way to the bank of the river. Willow trees and elms reached their arcing branches across the stream, the reflection of their bright Spring buds dancing on the water's rippling surface, creating an enchanting tunnel of green light. When they reached the crest of the stone bridge, he glanced both ways, and set his hands upon the railing.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, the space between them shivered with unspoken feelings. Bea, moved and confused, found herself grappling with the shock of Hancock's sincerity and the depth of his involvement in her life.

"You believe me now, Miss Witherspoon?"

"I don't know, Commander. You seem sensible enough."

"Ah, just yesterday you decided I was an imposter, and a scapegrace. Hardly a pattern card for sensibility."

At the sudden approach of a carriage, he led her off the bridge to let it pass. Instead, it paused when it reached them.

"Hello, Beatrice!" called Harriet. It was her friends and hosts, the Parkes, returning from their sojourn at Monkford.

Beatrice greeted them and introduced Commander Hancock.

Excited, Thomas said. "Hancock did you say? We've just come from visiting my old school chum, the Reverend George Hancock, in Monkford. Might he be a relation of yours?"

Commander Hancock gave a small bow and said. "Indeed, he is, Reverend Parke. George is my elder brother."

Bea's shock could not have been greater.

With surprise and delight at the coincidence, Harriet issued an invitation to dinner on Friday, which Hancock graciously accepted. Then Bea, her emotions overwhelmed, accepted a ride home. As Commander Hancock offered his hand, warm and strong, to assist Beatrice into the coach, she set her own in his before realizing what she'd done, and looked up. Their silent eye contact released a frisson of awareness that touched her to toes. Now she could not be rid of him if she wanted to. But did she want to?

As the dinner with Commander Hancock approached, Beatrice grappled with her unsettling emotions. Despite Hancock's impressive manners and connections, she couldn't shake her doubts until she verified his claims independently.

In an effort to ease her restless mind, Bea penned a discrete letter to Adam's sister, Lady Felicity Thorne. She prayed Felicity, still nearby in Mellstrow, and not yet swept up in her first London season, might respond quickly. She hoped Felicity, familiar from their shared childhood, could offer insights or confirm details that would validate or refute Hancock's story.

Determined to uncover the truth about Adam, Bea sought another avenue for answers by writing to her Uncle Albert, who was Chief of Naval Personnel. This letter was more direct, albeit still shrouded in cautious language, probing for any information on Adam Thorne's naval career and the legitimacy of Commander Hancock's credentials.

With the letters dispatched, the weight of secrecy became too much for Bea to bear alone. She confided in Maggie, revealing the entire bewildering saga during a quiet walk in the orchard. Maggie listened with a mix of shock and empathy.

Beatrice felt grateful now for her friend's understanding and perspective. The peaceful orchard setting contrasted sharply with the turmoil in Beatrice's thoughts.

As they sat by the brook, Maggie's suggestion that Hancock might harbour deeper feelings for Bea added another layer of complexity to the situation. Bea admitted to the strange duality of her feelings: despite the initial deceit, she couldn't ignore the profound connection she felt with Hancock, fostered by years of intimate correspondence—even if under false pretences.

Returning to the Rectory, Bea's restless mind turned again to the letters, each word now laden with new meaning.

My darling Beatrice,

Your sweet words have flown to me via packet ship, and I find myself of another quiet evening at sea reading your letters for the hundredth, thousandth time. I imagine your lovely voice speaking the words in my ear, your soft breath sending shivers across the surface of my skin. These thoughts are those only a truly lonely and homesick man can voice, and yet my heart instinctively turns to you, knowing you are touched by tender feelings and will not ridicule me in my lovesick melancholy.

How happy should I be if these tender thoughts of mine, and your sweetly caressing words, should meet and intermingle in the wind, under the same starry skies that we share, despite the many miles that separate us.

Yours,

Adam

Hancock's supposed loneliness resonated with her, blurring the lines between deception and genuine emotion.

A sharp rapping on her door jolted Bea from her reverie. Opening it revealed Maggie standing, breathless, eyes wide, a letter in her outstretched hand.

The sudden dispatch was a reply from Lady Felicity Thorne. Felicity's brief note was polite and welcoming; she and her mother would love if Bea would come to visit on Monday next, and stay for nuncheon.

"Will you go?"

"Of course I will," Bea replied. "And you'll accompany me. It's only proper."

The prospect of visiting the Thorne family filled her with a mix of anticipation and dread, not only for what she might learn but also for the potential ramifications of her inquiries.

As the day of the dinner drew near, Beatrice prepared herself mentally and emotionally to face Commander Hancock again, fortified by Maggie's counsel and her own resolve to seek the truth, no matter how complicated it might prove to be.

Friday evening arrived, stirring excitement at the Rectory as everyone prepared to host a new guest for dinner.

She couldn't accept Hancock's account of Adam without more proof, yet she found herself compelled by his presence. When Commander Hancock arrived, Beatrice greeted him in the hallway. Alone briefly, she caught his intense gaze. "Why do you study me so, Commander?" she inquired softly.

He leaned closer, his presence like a gust of sea air. "I apologize for staring," he murmured, his voice warm. "Despite our familiarity, you are as much a stranger to me as I am to you. I confess to feeling nervous. Your beauty far surpasses the miniature I held dear."

Bea's breath caught in surprise at his bold compliment. At a loss for a suitable reply, Beatrice stammered, "M-my sister Isabella painted it."

"You've grown more lovely since," he continued. "I find myself smitten and senseless with admiration. I can only pray that you do not feel disappointment or distaste at my person, since I am nothing like the man you thought you loved in return."

Flushed with his compliments, Beatrice responded sharply, "Flattery will not sway me, Commander."

He chuckled. "I expect no less from you."

Once seated at dinner, Commander Hancock insisted they call him Montague, "Or if you please, Monty, which is what my friends and family call me. The title feels heavy; I've been a Lieutenant much longer and currently command nothing."

"Let's dispense with formalities," Thomas suggested. "You may call me Thomas."

"And I'm Harriet," his wife added.

"Please, call me Maggie," said Maggie, joining in the easy conversation.

"I'd seem churlish to object now," Beatrice remarked, somewhat overwhelmed by the evening's rapid progress.

Dinner conversation shifted to Monty's future plans and uncertainties about his naval career now that peace was upon them. "I feel it's time to settle down. Perhaps I will retire, unless a wife wished to join me abroad."

Harriet inquired about his other opportunities. "I'm contemplating a quieter life, perhaps taking up residence on my estate in Devon," he shared.

The mention of Devon sparked further interest about Monty's heritage. "Montague is a family name?" Harriet asked.

"Yes, my paternal grandmother was a Montague, from whom I inherited the estate. Her father was Baronet Lindley Montague."

Thomas prompted Monty to share his family's romantic histories, highlighting marriages made for love within his family.

"Are you a romantic as well, Monty?" teased Harriet.

"Indeed, my forebears have set a high bar."

Post-dinner, as the men enjoyed port, the ladies eavesdropped from the next room to Monty's tales of naval adventures. Each story echoed familiar narratives from his letters, yet Bea's feelings were complex, entwined with admiration and betrayal.

Recollecting, all of these letters now took on another light, and despite the change of cast, she felt closer and more tender towards the man in front of her than she could ever have anticipated.

As the evening drew to a close, Beatrice found herself reflecting on the sincerity and earnestness Monty expressed. It was clear he was not the fabricator she feared, but a man of substance, possibly worthy of the trust and affection she once reserved for Adam.

With the door closed behind him, Beatrice felt an unexpected pang of loneliness. Monty's presence had become strangely comforting, his identity intertwined with years of heartfelt exchanges.

Much later, by the light of a candle, Beatrice reviewed letters from three years prior that had once brought her joy. Now, they only stirred doubts :

My darling Beatrice,

I regret that circumstances have prevented my speaking to you for so long. Do not think that you have not been in my thoughts every day. I cannot bear to tell you of the horrors I have seen, and yet there is no one to whom I would rather turn for solace. My dearest wish is to find this time of violence at an end, that I might return to England's shores, and soon after, seek comfort and passion in your arms.

How I have longed to be with you, and feel more deeply that we are blessed in each other's devotion. Through the years, as we have grown more trusting and intimate, I feel the purity, faith and tenderness of our love for each other more deeply, and with boundless gratitude.

You are always in my heart.

Your most devoted,

Adam

Emotional turmoil lingered in Beatrice's thoughts until Sunday when Montague unexpectedly appeared at church among the dispersing congregation, catching her off guard, his smile a silent beacon amidst the chatter.

"Good morning, ladies," Monty greeted them.

Maggie quickly excused herself, leaving Bea alone with Montague. He offered his arm, and they set off toward the Rectory, and through the orchard under a canopy of spring blossoms, the air sweet with the scent of fruit trees.

"I have something for you," Montague said, producing a small, neatly wrapped package. Inside were the duodecimo volumes of Emma Bea had admired just days before.

"Oh, my," Bea exclaimed, touched by his thoughtfulness.

"I am eager to hear your impression of it," he replied. "I always valued your perspective."

As they discussed literature, the conversation subtly shifted towards their personal correspondence. Bea, recalling his past letters, decided to test Monty's memory.

"What is your opinion of this author's prior work, Pride and Prejudice?" she asked, a playful challenge in her tone.

Montague effortlessly recalled their shared appreciation of the earlier book they had discussed, impressing Beatrice with his memory and insight. His familiarity with her views, once exchanged through letters, now brought a comforting sense of intimacy to their conversation.

Walking deeper into the orchard, Montague became more direct. "I feel torn, Beatrice. On one hand, we are strangers, yet on the other, we have shared so much. I am pulled toward you, aching to make you mine in every possible way."

Bea's heart raced as she considered her response. Monty's presence, so commanding yet tender, her body responding with a heat she had never felt so intensely, left Bea breathless.

He reached out, his fingers grazing her arm, the simple touch sending shivers through her. He lifted her hand to his lips, his breath warm against her skin. "Beatrice. Darling Beatrice," he murmured. "Tell me, love. Does the man before you meet with your approval?" he asked, his gaze intense.

"You do not frighten me, sir," Bea whispered, her voice a mix of admiration and affection, acknowledging the profound impact of their unfolding relationship.

Montague sighed with relief, his hands cupping her shoulders and drawing her close. His lips found her brow, her cheek, her jaw, each touch light yet laden with promise.

With a soft rumble deep in his throat, he stepped back and released her. She leaned toward him, her body silently screaming at the loss of his touch. She wanted more. She wanted all of him.