Chapter Text
They had been close in the arctic— no, more than close. They had shared more than James Fitzjames had ever imagined possible, expressed more and felt more and been closer than he had ever dreamed to hope for. Never had two souls ever been so open, so utterly in sync.
It had all changed back in London.
After the court martial— which was a formality to be over and done with, no consequences, no fuss— Fitzjames had been swept away by society, embraced and applauded and feted, treated as the glittering thing he once had been, before the arctic.
And James allowed it, enjoyed it. Felt the wonder of it, the warmth of affection and company and candlelight. The season was in full swing, and once his health was more or less restored, he was bandied about to party after party, symposiums and lectures and concerts. Shown off and introduced as a hero, and all on the arm of an admiralty sister or wife who fawned over him. It felt normal, nearly, to laugh over a cup of punch. It was a simple thing to slip back into being who he was before— charming, likeable, frivolous, unserious. It was so easy to fall back into his old ways, so appallingly easy. He thought his worst vanity was behind him, yes, but even so, a lifetime of habit was not easy to shake. A little vanity can't hurt. So he laughs and jibes and tells tales, and glitters.
And he loses track of Francis, who had always hated the parties, the shallow talk, the pomp and circumstance.
James had hoped they would find each other at these events, and would fall into a new version of their old intimacy. But Francis made himself scarce, and did not engage in festivities.
So James’ regained glitter went unseen by the one person he most would have wanted to see it— though Francis would perhaps be disappointed in him, he thought one evening as he combed his hair, shiny again and cut fashionably short to curl over his ears and forehead. He was a gilded lily again, and not the rough and meager thing Francis had cared for on the ice. Perhaps Francis wanted his distance, and wanted distance from their arctic closeness. It was too close, perhaps, for Francis to feel comfortable about now that they were back in the world. Perhaps he wanted to pretend it never happened.
Save one thing— there came one letter from Francis. One request to travel north to Edinburgh to pay respects to the Goodsirs (Harry had left camp one night with Lady Silence and never returned, and Francis had said over and over on the journey home how strongly he felt that this should be communicated to his family personally, and as a good thing. James had, at the time, agreed fervently) and also to visit John Irving and his mother. James held that letter closely, stewing over it. It took him nearly a week to respond.
When his response finally went out in the post, it was in the negative, for now. He meant for now, he really did. He would have liked to go but he was so terribly busy, and in the time between receiving the letter and responding to it, he had allowed himself to be persuaded, by the younger John Barrow and others, that now was not the time, that it could wait, that another invitation, another letter, another opportunity, would come.
But no further letters came, and James, in his shame, did nothing to seek Francis out, nor did he travel to Edinburgh alone to do what should have been rightfully done. When he expresses to Barrow that he misses Francis, would like to see Francis, and feels terrible guilt for his behavior, he is again persuaded that Francis Crozier will seek him out first, when he is ready.
“He’s angry with me,” James bemoaned. “He’ll feel I’ve shunned him.”
“You haven’t,” Barrow dismissed it with an easy wave of his hand. “Relax, old boy. All’s well.”
Bitter words.
Even so, ignoring the tight and sour weight in his heart, James Fitzjames had been persuaded to enjoy his pleasures and not worry about old Francis Crozier.
Six months passed where he didn’t reach out to Francis and Francis didn’t reach out to him.
And then, in a blink of an eye, six months becomes six years.
During that time he accepts commands and returns to sea, to the Mediterranean and middle east, India and Asia, his old warm haunts. He keeps himself busy, and keeps up with Francis through the newspapers and admiralty gossipers. Francis Crozier does well for himself. Another venture to the skirts of the Antarctic, a knighthood. A journey to Italy. A house in the country. No engagement to Miss Cracroft is reported in the papers, but, James reminds himself miserably, that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. He doesn’t ask about it. He avoids the society of Lady Franklin and her kin.
He carries the horrible regret that he never sought out Francis himself. He should have, and should have explained his reasonings, his mistake. Begged forgiveness. Better still, he should simply have accepted Francis’s invitation right off and gone to Edinburgh with him. But he hadn’t and hadn’t said anything, and after a month, it had seemed too late. After six it had seemed impossible. And if Francis wanted him, Francis would have come for him, wouldn’t he, during those first long months in London or even after? Wouldn’t he have raised suit again? If Sophia Cracroft earned two proposals, did not James Fitzjames deserve a second attempt?
Well, he hadn’t gotten one, so perhaps not.
So James Fitzjames convinces himself it is firmly over between them, that Francis wants nothing more to do with him. Could he blame him? No. It was James who had bungled it, thrown him over accidentally through the following of bad and foolish advice. And then he’d let six long years pass by.
Francis had disliked him for a long time. Now he dislikes him again.
James will have to live with that. He brought it upon himself.
Upon returning to London from the warm, blue waters of the Indian Ocean, he declines another command and decides to embrace the land beneath his feet. It’s time to be properly English. He is quite well off now, from his naval adventures, and tired of travel. It’s been half a decade, yet the exhaustion of the polar overland march still lives in his bones. It’s time for rest. The nomadic life of the navy has run its course for him, and no longer holds the appeal it once did.
He turned forty over a year ago. He feels much older. His face is etched with the shadow of the ice, even now. The scurvy left his left arm weak and his vision on that side blurred around the edges. It might not be noticeable looking at him (to a stranger, anyway, given how hard he has worked to regain his weight, his energy, his glow, his smile) but he knows he was changed and even diminished by his experiences in the arctic. No matter how much time has passed since returning to warmth, to life, to safety, he still feels the shiver of terror in his heart whenever the wind turns too cold.
Sometimes, supping with Le Vesconte, he’s sure his old friend can see it. He’s rather sure Dundy, who now walks with a slight hobble due to his missing toes, feels it too. His hair, which had already gone gray earlier than it should have, upon their rescue very quickly went a snowy white. Even now, still, his cheeks show the pink remnants of ice burn and he has a scar of it across the crest of his nose. It is not un-dashing, James thinks, but it is proof that none of them who returned did so whole and undamaged.
“Come to the country,” Henry says one evening, all languor after a long dinner and a few too many brandies. “Fresh air, long walks. Change of pace.”
“I’ve been at sea, Dundy. I’ve had plenty of fresh air.”
“Call it space, then. A bed is much better than a bunk, I assure you. And a big bed is much better than whatever small rooms you have here.”
“Henry—“
“James.” He chides, leaning over the table to jab James in the shoulder. “It’d be good for you. Come have a holiday.”
“I don’t need a holiday.”
“Forgive my say so, but you need something. You’re not… right, James.” He shakes James’ arm and then slumps back into his seat. “You’re not happy. You’re not yourself. I know you. I’ve known you too long and too well.”
“I know…”
“Let me help you. I’m heading back to the country in a few days. Come along. Stay with me in Devonshire. You’ll like my cousin. She’s grown to be quite pretty.” He lifts an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smile.
James laughs, not as genuinely as he would like but enough to be sporting. “Oh yes, you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”
“To have the great arctic hero James Fitzjames in the family? Yes, of course.” He grins. One foot taps against James’. “But I know better than to count my chickens.” He laughs, boisterously. Maybe even honestly. But it succeeds in lightening the mood of the table. “Think on it, if you will. It would be a pleasure to have you in that house. There is room for you.” He pauses, turning serious. Biting nervously at an old scar along his lip and staring down at the his hand resting on the tablecloth, he says, “There is want for you too, James. From me. My father took my sisters with him to Canada long ago, you know. I would be very grateful for your company.” Something turns in his eyes, and James remembers suddenly that Dundy had been set to be married before they went to ice, to a very nice little thing in Southampton. But he’d been away too long, and upon his return the whole thing had disappeared like melting snow. James had been sorry to hear of it. Dundy had been more than half in love with the girl, and there has been no mention of any romances since. He must be lonely, James thinks. A house that used to hold a whole family, now barely a habitat for two.
“I’ll consider it, Dundy, I promise.”
Le Vesconte leaves the topic lie at that.
James does think on it, for the better part of two weeks. There is appeal to the offer— a change of scenery is appealing. London is grim and lonely and getting too warm for comfort. James hasn’t seen the English countryside in years… he has very fond memories of reading under the shade of trees with the Coninghams, of putting his bare feet into streams, of walking along gently sloping fields. It would be pleasant to return to those idyllic pastures.
It might even shake him out of his funk.
Perhaps if he can return to the easy pleasures of his youth, then the pall that has fallen over him will lessen. Perhaps warm weather and warm company would thaw him. He has his many regrets and it would do him good to be reminded of a time before them.
And it would be a help to his friend. So he ought to go.
So he does.
He packs up his few belongings— it all fits into a single sea trunk these days; he has nothing in storage at all— and finds himself on a train trundling west.
Le Vesconte meets him at the train station with a grin, an embrace, and a buggy. He’s looking healthy, dashing and warm in the sun, his hair gleaming white. He drives them through the beautiful green countryside cheerily, chattering, telling stories of the houses, the people, the neighbors he intends to introduce. James rolls his eyes at some of that, and Henry knocks him with his shoulder and grins.
It’s a lovely day, warm and clear, with a mild breeze. Summer has come. James takes long, slow breaths and closes his eyes against the heat of the sun on his face. The low rumble of Henry’s voice together with the crunch of gravel beneath the cart’s wheels and horses hooves is comfortable and comforting.
He will do well out here, he thinks. It will be good for him.
Le Vesconte’s house is a small but cozy country cottage, all worn down soft edges and overgrown ivy. As they approach, the front door opens and a pretty woman comes out, young but not too young, wiping her hands on an apron. She grins, crinkling her face, and waves to them.
Henry elbows James in the ribs. “My cousin.”
She does look a bit like his dear old friend. The same dark eyes and a similar, if somewhat softer, chin. Her hair is an ashy blonde.
She approaches to welcome them with a wide, warm smile. Kisses are deposited on both Henry’s cheeks, though surely he was hardly gone two hours. For James, she offers a polite bow and her hand to be shaken.
Dundy introduces them. “James Fitzjames, allow me to present Miss Nymphe Prudente Le Vesconte.”
It occurs to James that Le Vesconte’s family may in fact be more French than he had previously imagined. He decides not to comment on it.
“Miss Le Vesconte.” James takes her hand.
“You must call me Nymphe,” she says, turning from her cousin pointedly. “You are as near as family, to hear Henry talk of you.”
James feels himself blush, and thinks he spots Dundy do the same as he tucks his chin against his chest and turns to pull down James’ trunk off the cart.
“Nelly, behave yourself,” he growls at her, half playful, half serious. James smirks. Nelly. Now there’s a sweet name.
“Henry,” she says, comfortably moving the conversation from apparently embarrassing topics. “Someone has taken the big house, I just heard.”
“From who?”
“Louisa Musgrove.”
He scoffs. To James he explains, “The big house in the parish has been unoccupied for nearly a year now. Been some trouble finding a tenant, apparently.”
“But no more,” Nymphe chirps. “Perhaps there’ll be a ball, wouldn’t that be fun?”
Both James and Henry demur. James has lost his taste for the humbugging of society; Henry has lost his for dancing.
Put out, Nymphe sighs. Her cousin’s friend must be turning out to be something of a disappointment, James figures. Not one for dancing, or gossip, and likely not as handsome or dashing as she had been promised.
“Louisa says it’s some navy man. Perhaps you’ll know him.”
“Perhaps.” He isn’t terribly interested in some navy man— it will mean dinners and stories and chatter of the worst kind. He isn’t in the mood to regale anyone with his so-called adventures, let alone a man who might ask the details of the rigging.
Clearly ready to discuss anything else himself, Dundy takes James’ arm and rescues him. “Let me show you the house.”
James lets thoughts of the navy man down the road slip from his mind as Henry leads him inside, gives him a little tour, including what will be his room, and leaves him to get settled. It’s a marvelous room, James thinks. Cozy and comfortable, and not too large. Spending too much time aboard ship in close quarters has made him uncomfortable in large bedrooms. He doesn’t know what to do with the space. So this little room, with a nicely sized bed taking up most of the air in it, is just right. A desk sits under the window, which even at this time of day is getting a nice streak of sunlight through it.
Henry was right; this is a restive spot. It is a warm and cheery room. He’ll be quite comfortable and quite happy here, he thinks.
And he is— for two and a half weeks they do nothing more than relax and take long walks and chat and laugh. They sit in the garden and read novels in the sun. Henry sits with one foot on a chair and a sketchbook on his knee, and scratches out clear pictures of the house and garden and even one of James. That portrait is less successful than the landscapes, but it’s still a perfectly charming picture and they all have a good chuckle over it. Nymphe is delighted by it, and sticks it up on a nail in the kitchen. After dinner, they play chess and, as James and Dundy are both relatively dismal players, find themselves evenly matched. When she plays, Nymphe puts them both to shame, even when they play as a pair together against her.
Despite her silly name, she turns out to be as practical and reasonable as any woman James has known, with a sweet temperament to match. Better yet, Nymphe makes no attempts to flirt with him. She was married once, Henry whispers to him late one evening. He died after barely a year. Now she is warmly devoted to her cousin, in no hurry to marry again, and plainly disinterested in James as anything more than an increasingly intimate family friend. For this, James is endlessly grateful.
It’s as comfortable and pleasant a domestic life as James has ever lived. He’s found himself in the familiar position of the third wheel and doesn’t mind a whit. He’s not lonely. His heart is muted, encased in a soft cloud of thick snow. He can’t be lonely, or hurt, or anything but vaguely numb about something he may or may not be lacking. When he imagines romance, it belongs to someone else. That phase of his life, if it ever existed for him, is long past, a distant memory, no longer even a dream. As he is, he’s perfectly happy; or rather, he’s perfectly content. Happy is not something he’s been for a very long time. Content is all he can hope for and more than good enough. It’s already more than he deserves.
There is nothing but placid ease in him. His circumstances and company are as good as can be. He cannot imagine better. The house is lovely. His friend and his friend’s cousin are lovelier. He could not ask for more.
Henry, for his part, seems pleased by James’s lightness around the house. His plan to lift James’s spirits is working, as far as he’s concerned, and James is glad to see his friend so glad. Dundy’s tight smiles are enough to bring a matching expression to James’ lips, and the sight of his smiles in turn make Dundy’s smiles grow, and so on and so on until they’re grinning and laughing like the frivolous young men they once were. In these moods, James shares stories with Nymphe, of he and Le Vesconte’s time together on the Clio. She’s tickled by the stories of the big cat, exaggerated as they are, and bemoans that they can’t have such a pet now. Henry wisely adds that she shouldn’t much care for the claws.
After a month of simple pleasures, Nymphe’s friend Louisa Musgrove, who comes around quite often in the afternoon to ogle at the naval heroes and talk over tea, comes bearing gossip that the navy man who has let the big house is named Ross.
Eagerly, Louisa catches Henry’s sleeve and says, “They say he’s very dashing, and with a pretty young wife. Do you know him?”
Henry glances James’s way before hesitantly answering, “We may.”
There are plenty of Rosses populating the royal navy. There’s no need to assume— no matter the worrying feeling sinking its way into James’s stomach— that it’s Sir James Clark of that name, and his brood, which might include the one man James is particularly eager not to encounter.
He was sure he’d put that pain behind him, but now… Even the mere thought causes a sting, as if the wounds were made yesterday.
If it were he— James can hardly think it, but if it were— if it were he who James so fears and dreads facing again? How might he feel at the chance of meeting? Surely Francis would be indifferent toward him, after all this time. Indifferent, at best, James thinks. As if indifference were possible after what they had been and how they had ended. So unwilling was more expected. Perhaps over at the great house, that group was hearing talk also of naval men in the neighborhood, and a man was thinking to himself, Pray I do not have to encounter that damned creature.
It is likely enough. James had made himself distant and therefore unlovable, and more than that, had made himself cold and therefore hateable. He can begrudge no unwillingness of feeling.
But there was no reason at all for the navy man at the big house to cross their paths. No one would come seeking him, and Henry and his cousin weren’t of any particular note in the county, nor was their little country house the sort of place a person makes a point to go calling at. Then there is Henry’s natural shyness and country reserve that will keep them from going calling themselves, James thinks. So he is quite safe. There is no reason whatsoever to think that he would encounter this supposed Ross, or whoever he may have in his company.
Nymphe must see the dark cloud that falls over his features, because she artfully changes the subject and directs Louisa’s attentions towards other gossip.
In turn, James puts all thought of it behind him and shuts the door of his mind on it.
Time passes. Henry returns from the village one day with his head bowed and stiffly reports that he had encountered the Rosses who have rented the big house, and indeed it is James Clark Ross and his wife and children.
“And Captain Crozier is with them,” he concludes, quite casually, as if it is no news to anyone, though he catches James’ eyes as he says it.
“Captain Crozier?” Nymphe perks up from her stitching even so. “He who was in the arctic with you?”
“Just the same, Nell.” Dundy keeps his eyes towards James, sitting by the window with a book in his lap. Does Henry know, James wonders, how much agony he has felt over Francis Crozier these past six years? They haven’t spoken of it. James has kept that part of his heart to himself, even from his closest friends. Yet even so, can Dundy tell by his eyes the dismay and dread he feels knowing that Francis is in the neighborhood? And now that they are known, now that hello’s have been said and greetings exchanged, that they are sure to meet? “He asked after you,” Henry adds towards James.
“Oh?”
Yes, he had been asked after— with all the polite disinterest one might direct towards a distant and briefly known past acquaintance. It causes a pain in his heart to hear. It would have been better, James thinks, to not be asked after at all than to be asked after with such small interest.
Henry is contritely sympathetic, sorry to have brought the bad news, while Nymphe is all excitement— they must invite the Rosses to a dinner, she says, though she bemoans that their little house would not befit the glamorous and famous family. She wants to hear all the good arctic stories Henry has kept from her. Whatever her companions discomfort, this her chance, and she is enticed to the extreme.
James keeps his mouth shut.
Begrudgingly and under much duress, Henry eventually gives in and takes his cousin over to the big house to make introductions. James demurs and declines to accompany them. He hopes he can perhaps stay out of sight, and forever avoid the uncomfortable meeting.
But it happens, as it was always going to.
One afternoon, James goes into the village, leaving Henry and Nymphe to their private sphere. Not that there’s much to do in the village, save wander the streets and have a coffee while reading a novel he’d borrowed from Le Vesconte’s little library. Having avoided Nymphe’s collection of romances, James had landed on a gothic horror to read on a warm and sunny day in the country where the looming dread of the story can’t touch him. It seems absurd, and therefore is delightful. It is a pleasant distraction, at least, from the worries that have been hovering around him for days.
Late in the afternoon, when he returns down the lane to the little ivy covered house, he hears the chatter of voices— more voices than could be just Henry and Nymphe, louder and more boisterous than the two of them ever are together.
Anxious at facing guests, likely strangers, or worse, James lets himself in.
He’s ready to slip past with the barest exchange of words, if he can, and leave his hosts to their local friends—
Except that standing at the mantle is a familiar shape that stops James in his tracks and sends a sharp, shooting pain through his chest.
If he had thought that six years apart would soften the edge, or that his memory might have faded, he was wrong. In nothing more than an instant, he recognizes the line of the shoulder, the color of the hair, the curve of the shell of ear. Like lightning, he finds himself pinned, seared to the floor in the doorway to the sitting room. He can’t move. He can barely breathe.
Francis. It’s Francis Crozier, come to call.
“James—“ Dundy spots him and hurries over, apologetic and tense. Can his old friend see the shock and horror in his eyes as he looks at the very object of his greatest grief and regret? Is it so plain on his face? It must be, as Henry touches James’ elbow to comfort him.
Francis turns. His eyes catch James’ and his vision blurs, the room melts. James manages to keep his feet, at least, though it’s a near thing. His throat closes up. He is sure he will be ill.
All the feelings he’d been sure were dead within his breast come swelling up. The want, the warmth, the lonely, aching passion. All as strong and potent as they ever had been, at their greatest heights.
“Francis,” he croaks after a too long silent moment.
“Captain Fitzjames.” Francis nods his head in greeting. A chilly acknowledgement only. This cold politeness, this ceremonious grace, is worse than anything. James briefly thinks he would prefer Francis to spit at his feet, or hit him. Back to Nymphe, Francis bows to kiss her hand. “Charming to see you, miss,” he says, “but I must be off.”
Henry grunts his agreement, ready to see Francis gone.
Le Vesconte never had much of a relationship with Crozier. Polite deference and respectful adherence to naval hierarchy while on ship, and then, over the course of their long march, a bitter, curdling, not small resentment. The sour bitterness that Henry had found in himself on King William Land had made James nervous at the time. When the first stirrings of mutiny had circled their camps, James had worried— and while James never truly thought that Henry would himself mutiny, there had been a nasty feeling at the back of his mind that he had never been able to fully squash. Was his warm, dear, old friend capable of such a thing? At the time, when he had been so ill, if he had had to choose between Francis and Dundy, if something had happened which would have brought them to dissent… well, he had never had to choose, which was all that mattered, and Dundy’s simmering resentment had cleared away upon their rescue. Le Vesconte had testified at the court martial to Crozier’s leadership and responsibility, how he had saved them all by his decisive planning, and Fitzjames had been relieved to his very core. Henry's testimony, which had been decency and gratitude more than admiration, had seemed to James a gesture of respect from one man who meant so much to him to another. It had not been an overture towards some great friendship.
So now, as it is, lacking any closeness with Henry or any affection for James, he can see no reason whatsoever for Crozier to become a regular visitor at the little cottage. No reason at all. With any luck James may never see him again and the hot, horrible hurt in his heart would ease again, and he would return to the cool dispassion that had filled his life for the past six years.
Her hand still in Francis’s, Nymphe says, “We shall see you again, I hope.” She is barely containing a wide smile. “And soon.”
“Yes,” Crozier agrees, glancing briefly at a glowering Le Vesconte before even more briefly passing his eyes over Fitzjames. “I should certainly hope so.”
James’ stomach sinks. If Francis starts coming around to see Nymphe, if James will have to dread turning the corner into any room—
Crozier bows his goodbyes and Henry accompanies him to the door.
Then he is gone.
Exhausted by the exchange of two words, James collapses into a chair. It is over. The worst of it is over now. He had seen him. They had met. They had once more been in the same room.
Six years had passed. Six long years, and still Francis has this effect upon him. Over all that time, shouldn’t the hurt be less sharp? Shouldn’t it all have been given up and left far away?
Well, James thinks as he runs a hand over his hair, apparently not quite.
Francis had looked so well. Hearty and strong, barely aged a day.
Nymphe slips into a chair at James’ side and begins to chatter excitedly at him. She thinks Francis is terribly dashing, terribly handsome and rugged. His pock-marked, weather-worn face reads as heroic to her. His resolute attitude speaks to a strength of character she’s entranced by. She who had been so disinterested in the concept of marriage now seems awakened to it. She wants to know more about him, to hear stories of the ice and Crozier’s leadership and courage.
“James,” she pleads. “Surely you know him well. Do tell me more of him.”
He can barely manage to beg her patience.
When Henry returns, he throws himself against the mantelpiece in an annoyed huff. The reserve that often comes to the fore when company is present, and had done while Crozier had been in the house, now disappears with the closing of the door. Dundy, once again only among his intimates, allows himself to be annoyed and put off by Francis’ appearance on his doorstep. James is grateful for it.
Brusquely, he turns to James. “He said you were so altered, he might barely have known you! Can you believe such a thing?”
“So altered?”
“Absurd. What a thing to say. You have never looked more yourself.”
Le Vesconte dismisses it with a cutting gesture of his hand and a clap onto James’ shoulder, but James knows it’s true. He is very altered from when last he and Francis were near. He has grown old and drawn, and all the vanity that still remains in him has not managed to maintain his youthful glow. Besides, he was no longer the man Francis had grown to like on the ice. No, he was worse and worser. Surely Francis saw him now— in his crisp country suit and sleek, styled hair— and thought him wretched, vain, and shallow.
Right he was. Wretched is what James had been six years ago, when he had used Francis so ill. Had deserted and disappointed him, and worse, shown a weakness of character, an ability to be plied by the glitter of society, that they both thought he had shed in the arctic. It was vain of him, and shallow, and foolish. Francis’s own decided temper could not endure James’ weakness, so had been glad to see the back of him. James would see the back of himself, if he could.
Once Francis had been warmly attached to him, to say the least. Now he had no desire to be in the same room with him for longer than absolutely necessary.
Their intimacy is gone forever.
And he looked so well. Surely he would be looking to marry. Surely he would be seeking companionship, partnership. Perhaps with Nymphe Le Vesconte, who is clearly as taken with Francis as any woman ever has been. And she would not throw him aside on charges of rank, or social capital. She would be bettered by an association with him, and clearly she is taken with him for himself, as well. It makes James’ stomach churn to consider.
From that time forth, despite how dreadful it is, despite his many attempts to avoid it, James Fitzjames finds himself often within the circle of Francis Crozier.
The Rosses, having heard of the navy man in the neighborhood and then having met him and found him both a known associate and of a pleasant character, make point after point to bring together their two households. As such, there are dinners and shooting parties and walking excursions that can not be avoided. The Rosses are undaunted by Henry’s natural reserve and unbothered by James’ uncharacteristic quiet. Lady Ann seems to have it in her mind to find a wife for Henry, and manages to place pretty girl after pretty girl before him, all while placing Nymphe and Francis together at every opportunity. As for James, he sits alone and listens quietly as Francis expresses his interest in a wife, his desire for a partner in life, someone honest and earnest.
“A few smiles, a little beauty, and the odd compliment to the Navy,” he jokes to Nymphe as they walk arm in arm down a lane, six paces ahead of James and Lady Ann Ross. “That will do it for an old dog like me. I couldn’t expect anything more.”
“Frank!” Lady Ann chides. James says nothing. There is nothing to say. He has no claim upon Francis. How could he? He cannot begrudge Francis whatever happiness he would now have for himself.
Their time in the arctic comes up often, especially in larger groups; when Francis cannot redirect the conversation towards his and Ross's adventures south, he answers each question and request for a story with charm and grace— a kind of charm he never had when James was near to him. Francis is funny now, light-hearted and pleasant. He never addresses James directly, or includes him too much in his recollections. His stories rarely extend into their time on the shale— no, it is all shipboard tales as much as he can manage it. He calls upon Le Vesconte for collaboration and correlation with more frequency than he does James, and only ever prompts James for remembrances of Sir John. But there must be, James thinks, some twinge of feeling for their former intimacy. Perhaps that is what keeps Francis’ narratives away from the long march to rescue. Or perhaps those days were too dreadful, lonely, and death-drenched to make for good dinner conversation.
And Francis makes very good dinner conversation, now.
There had been a time when James was the only person Francis would have spoken to at dinners like these. Back on King William Land, so long ago and so far away, James had felt that there had never been two hearts so open, no feelings so in unison, no countenances, even in their ragged and depleted state, so beloved.
Now they are worse than strangers, for they can never be acquainted. Not as they once had been, nor in any way. It is a perpetual estrangement, as sure as if a brick wall had been put up between them.
It was the same Francis— the same voice, the same lilting accent, the same wry smiles and glitter in his eye. But James didn’t know him anymore. And Francis has no desire to know James.
That is clear.
Then for a few days, Crozier is gone from the neighborhood and James feels a weight lifted off him. He no longer need fear an invitation to the big house, or for a walk with Lady Ann and one of the many young women who attend to her. It is a respite.
When Francis returns, James learns that he had gone because he had learned Edward Little was sequestered up in Lyme, and had put it upon himself to visit.
“How is old Ned?” Henry asks warmly.
“Captain Little is very well,” Crozier replies, only slightly sharp in his admonishment to refer to Little by his proper title. Le Vesconte had been promoted too, over the past six years, and though he has since retired and is no longer on the navy list, he scoffs at being chided to pay deference to a fellow captain.
“I’m glad of it,” he says lightly, proceeding like no chide had been handed to him at all. “He’s a good chap.”
“Was the weather in Lyme terribly dreadful?” Lady Ann inquires, cutting in to save them from any further tension. “It would be lovely to go to Lyme, I think, and see the sea.”
“Oh yes,” Nymphe agrees with eager excitement. “I should love to see Lyme. We should all go. It’s not so far.”
“We could do it in a day,” Ann adds thoughtfully. “Though there wouldn’t be much time to see the town and do our visiting in a day… We must plan to stay over then.”
Le Vesconte grunts and sinks low in his chair. James manages not to do the same, but it’s a near thing. Francis, standing by the door, straightens his back. Whatever his plans had been, in sharing this news about Little in Lyme, he certainly had not intended to inspire a group excursion there.
But the party is planned and agreed upon in an instant. James Clark Ross sits with his little boy in his lap and chuckles, allowing his wife to make all the plans she likes.
“Look what you’ve done, Frank,” he says to Crozier. “They’ll make tourists of us.”
Francis rolls his eyes at that.
As for James and Henry, they have been included without being consulted. It would be rude, James thinks, to not visit Little when a chance presented itself. It’s not that he doesn’t want to— he likes Edward Little, he always has— it’s simply that he feels somewhat overwhelmed by the prospect.
Three days later, he finds himself in a carriage with Nymphe, Francis, and Lady Ann, while Sir James and Henry follow in a second curricle. He had tried, he really had, to be the one to ride with Sir James. Anything to avoid hours upon hours sitting across from Francis as he smiles in the face of Nymphe’s delicately attempted flirtations. But despite his endeavors to arrange things just so, including a rather forward request which might have been seen as ambition (if Francis’ sideways glance at him as he made it was any indicator), it’s not meant to be. Unlike Henry, James has not yet formally retired from the navy. Private time with Sir James Clark Ross could benefit any naval officer who desired advancement. And now Francis thinks that James is such a man. Another knock against his current character.
Before James could clarify his intentions, Lady Ann had captured his arm and pulled him away while Sir James took Henry, looking miserable at the circumstance himself, away with him. Wouldn’t it have been better for everyone, James thinks, for Francis to ride with Sir James and for Dundy to come along in the carriage? Except that Lady Ann aims to keep Francis and Nymphe in close quarters as much as she can, and apparently Sir James has some interest in Henry.
So James suffers through the journey and tries not to stare at the way Francis smiles at Nymphe, or the gap in his teeth as he grins at her, and tries not to hear his low whispering voice and purring rumbling laughter. Francis likes her. He finds it easy to be with her, that’s clear. They’ve grown comfortable together over the past weeks. Francis will marry her before the new year, at this rate.
James feels his heart turn to ash.
“James?” Ann pats him on the arm. “Are you alright?”
“Oh? Yes, yes… A little queasy,” he lies.
“Not carriage sick, I hope,” she tuts. “I’ve never heard of a sailor who suffered carriage sickness.”
“I fear you’ve met one now,” James croaks with a pathetic attempt at a smile. “It’s not so uncommon. Don’t forget that Nelson himself got seasick.”
Francis must overhear because he turns from Nymphe to say, “Everything is different on land, Ann. Don’t forget.”
Yes, James thinks unhappily. Everything is different on land indeed.
Arrival in Lyme is a welcome relief. Francis leaps out of the carriage quickly, all spritely energy, and reaches back to help Lady Ann down, then Nymphe. James eases himself onto the street unassisted. Nymphe takes his arm eagerly, and leans towards him.
He bends to offer his ear.
“He’s so grand, isn’t he, James? You ought to have told me.”
He swallows. “Yes, Captain Crozier is quite the man.”
Thankfully Dundy makes his stiff way over to them. The journey was jostling and rough on all of them, it seems, save Francis. Dundy shakes his shoulders and stretches his arms.
“Smell that sea air,” he groans, making a show of working a kink out of his lower back. “Does it make you miss it, James?”
James takes a deep breath, taking the salty air into his lungs. It’s familiar and warm, but… no, it does not make him miss being at sea. He shakes his head and turns away from the breeze.
Henry claps him warmly on the shoulder, pulling him close.
For a second, James glances towards the Rosses and Francis, and thinks he sees Francis looking back at him. But then Francis looks away, and the moment is gone. Whatever it was, whatever feeling Francis felt in that moment, passes and leaves no trace.
Rooms at an inn are secured and dinner is ordered, and then Lady Ann suggests they walk down to the sea and perhaps along the Cobb. Captain Little, Francis reports, has a small house down near the breakwaters, and so they can drop in on him as they pass. It’s decided, and off their group goes.
Little is pleased to see them— though surprised by the size of the group and the presence of Fitzjames and Le Vesconte. Standing in the door, he looks between the two of them and Crozier, before sputtering back to life and inviting everyone inside.
It is a lovely, small, house, well kept. His sisters are with him, a pair of dark haired, dark eyed girls with serious demeanors. It must run in the family, James thinks.
For half an hour, they exchange reports of former crewmates and friends. Hodgson is somewhere off the coast of Australia these days; Irving is still in Scotland with his family, and apparently has fallen in with Goodsir’s family and become quite the man of science and maths himself. Francis reports that Jopson, having maintained his lieutenancy, is doing very well for himself in Portsmouth, getting ships into tight running order.
James listens happily, gratified to hear all this good news, and allows himself a brief feeling of grief that he has no one to report on. What he wouldn’t give to be able to say that Graham Gore was leading an expedition through the Antarctic sea, or that Fairholme had married and settled in Sussex.
Dundy seems to read his mood, and steps close against his arm. James offers a smile of thanks.
Across the room, Francis gruffly cuts in to suggest it’s time to stroll the Cobb, before evening sets in.
The air is brisk and cool as they walk, and quite refreshing after a long journey in a tight carriage. James feels the salty spray hit his face and momentarily is entirely free and entirely at home. Perhaps he does miss being at sea after all.
“Alright there, James?” Henry appears at his elbow to ask.
“Oh, yes.” He glances down the Cobb. The Rosses are walking arm in arm together, followed a few steps behind by Francis, Nymphe, and Little in a clump. Dundy takes his arm and gets him walking again. The breeze cuts through his coat and he shudders. It’s not that it’s cold, exactly, more that any air against his skin causes that kind of effect these days. Sensing this, Henry pulls him tightly against his side, steadying and warming him.
“Little looks well,” he idly says. James nods in agreement. With his hair cut short and combed and with a tidily trimmed beard, Little looks very much the society man again. There is always— and always has been and likely always will be— something dark and heavy surrounding him like a black cloud. Edward Little is not, perhaps, someone to whom happiness comes easily. Now in conversation with Francis and Nymphe, he seems quite light, however. He is smiling and nodding at something Nymphe is saying, all attention.
“I’m glad to see it.” James pauses to take a deep breath. What he’s about to say might ruin the mood of the day. “Sometimes…Sometimes I wake surprised to find I’m out of the arctic. It feels a miracle that any of us survived. Sometimes I feel, even now… Perhaps we didn’t, and all this is a dream.”
Henry hums. They don’t talk much about their near miss on the ice— never in front of others and very rarely between themselves. It was a dark time, and James knows that Dundy does not feel he was at his best, especially once they left the ships. Mentioning it now, James feels the scars on his chest and arm twinge, and thinks he feels Dundy’s step hitch.
It had been such a near thing. They had lost so many already. Pure luck alone had saved them— their paths crossing with generous Esquimaux on King William Land, who fed and comforted and guided them to whalers and secured their rescue. It had been such a near thing… James remembers the horrible scrape of scurvy in his joints, the way his gums bled, the ache and sting from his old wounds reopening. Returning from the cairn to John Irving's brilliant smile, to the news of hope, to an Esquimaux family with meat and a community not far off, and willing to help… it had been a dream then, and still feels half unreal. They had been at a tipping point, and somehow managed to survive it..
Sometimes… Sometimes he feels so sure they did not survive it. That they continued on to dusty, dismal, desolate death and whatever he’s living now is a dream, a fantasy concocted in the last miserable moments of life. A last remembrance of warm England to see him off, to see them all off, on their final journey. And even this is an imperfect dream— no Francis in his life, and Sir John still dead, along with many of the others. Gore and Fairholme and—
Henry shakes him firmly, drawing him back to reality, and pats his hand.
“I know what you mean. But James, we did survive it. It is past. Long past.”
“Yes.”
He slows to a stop and drags James with him, halting their walk and holding him to the ground. James lifts his eyes and looks hard at Henry— alive, healthy, scarred but well. Aged. Aged six years. Not a dream or a ghost or a phantom, but his living friend. His dark eyes glimmer and his hand presses hard against James’, reminding him of their solid, living bodies.
Dundy asks, “You’re alright?”
“Yes. Thank you, I— It’s a bit foolish, isn’t it?”
“No, I don’t think so. Some part of us will always be there.” His face cracks into a crooked, handsome smile. “I know at least three of my toes are buried in that frost, God rest them.” He exhales a laugh, only a little forced, and James laughs too, grateful for something to laugh at. “There, there, Fitz. Look—” He gestures out to the sea and surf, to their friends ahead of them. “Look at all there is. And feel this.” One foot stomps on the hard stones of the Cobb. His chest expands with a deep breath. “It’s warm. We’re home. Look at Ned Little.” Ahead, Little is offering his hand to Nymphe to help her down the steps of the seawall. He’s pink in the cheeks. “There is lightness even on that dark shore.”
“Your cousin is quite the girl to lighten such a horizon.”
Henry hums thoughtfully, watching Little’s hand linger on Nymphe's. “She must be.”
“She’s two captains after her,” James admits, trying not to feel jealous or sour.
“So she does, it seems.” He jostles James’ arm again. “Would we could all be so lucky, eh?”
Despite himself, James laughs. “Dundy, don’t.”
“Which would you prefer?” Henry presses on with his teasing. “The black cloud or the old man?”
James, unfortunately, knows exactly who he’d prefer. He hems and haws to buy himself some time. Before the arctic, he and Dundy used to play these games together. Admiralty dinners and parties were filled with giggled whispers of What If and Would You Rather. It was fun and playful and harmless— and meaningless. It would still be fun, if only Crozier weren’t included in the hypothetical. Unfortunately, James has spent too long thinking about how much he prefers Francis Crozier over everyone else in the world, and how far from him he has found himself.
Ahead of them, a wave crashes over the seawall and collides with Francis, Nymphe, and Little. James can hear their startled, annoyed howls of laughter from here. More, he then feels Francis’s stare upon him, burning a hole in him and his arm, linked with Dundy’s.
“Enough of this,” Francis calls to their disassembled party, wiping ocean spray off his face. Nymphe is soaked nearly through, and Francis strips off his jacket to drape over her shoulders. Grateful, she pulls it tightly around her body. “Back to town.”
Guiding Nymphe by the arm, he leads the way past James and Henry. Little falls in line with Le Vesconte and the pair of them begin to walk together, leaving James quite alone to follow along. Crozier glances over his shoulder and sees how it has fallen out, and his expression takes on a small satisfaction that cuts through James’ heart. So he is glad to see James alone. That’s how it is.
The remainder of the day is short and uneventful. Little and his sisters join them for supper at the inn, where Edward Little seems to find himself so overwhelmed by the presence and proximity of the famous Sir James and his beautiful wife that he can barely speak. With quiet horror, he sits at his place and listens attentively, barely finding more than a word for himself the entire evening.
“Poor sod,” Henry leans to whisper closely into James’ ear. “Someone must teach him how to curry favor.”
“He does well enough on his merits,” James demurs, though he knows that a little charming conversation with Sir James would help Little immensely in his career.
“He hasn’t had a proper command in years,” comes the whisper. “I checked.”
“Not everyone is as ambitious as you—” to which Henry rolls his eyes. “Or I.”
“Well, with neither of us in the running anymore, he’ll have his chances. If he makes them.”
James looks across the table to where Ann has asked Edward about his interests— does he wish to attempt the arctic again? Or perhaps the China seas? Does he have a talent for navigation, or magnetics? At his silence, on his other side, Nymphe leans in and places her fingers lightly against his wrist, just for a moment, as she says some small thing to Lady Ann. Little starts and glances at her, then turns back to Lady Ann himself and begins to answer.
Next to James, Little’s younger sister, Jane, places her fork against her plate and leans back in her seat.
“My poor brother,” she sighs for James’ benefit. He turns towards her— she is pretty enough, all dark eyes and dark ringlets, though she has the haunted look of a girl who has worried about too much for too long. “He never knows how to act.”
So everyone agrees, James finds. Henry, who has heard, leans half across James’s lap to answer her.
“Not exactly a social butterfly, is he?”
Jane brightens slightly, apparently pleased to be conversed with. “Was he better on ship? Among his fellows?”
James leans back to give them room to speak over him. Neither James nor Henry have many stories of Little, as he was mainly a half mile away on Terror while they were ice-locked. But they both do their best to assuage his sister's worries— that Edward was well liked and well respected by all under him, that he stepped up when leadership was needed, that he was quiet but resolute, his behavior beyond reproach. James finds himself thinking of that horrible night when Francis announced his intention to dry out— how Edward had looked sick at the thought of standing as acting captain while Crozier was ill. Yet he had come through that well and proven himself steady and reliable, and since their return to England he had been promoted and had led commands. Not many, and none for very long, but he had done it. Perhaps he didn’t like it. Perhaps captaincy didn’t suit him— or perhaps, like James, the sea itself didn’t suit him very well anymore.
“Mightn’t he retire?” James asks.
“I think he might,” Jane cedes. “Perhaps if he no longer had to care for paying all our way. Lizzy and I are such burdens on him. If we were married and well settled, he would be retired already, I think.”
Henry gives a grunt of agreement.
She continues: “I fear he has never been quite the same since your expedition. I believe… if you’ll forgive my saying so, that he rather fears to leave again, and is very anxious when he is gone.”
“Yes,” James says, with a raw edge to his voice. “I think we can all understand that.”
“It’s certainly why some of us have called it quits already,” Henry adds, making a vague and broad gesture to himself, to Francis, even to James. Sir James, too, has quit going to sea in deference to his wife’s worries, and they all know it. “It’s good to be aground.”
Jane nods sadly. “Yet he has made up his mind that he must support us, no matter his own happiness or comfort, and his career being what it is…”
“It’s hard to start over.”
“Indeed.”
“Well,” Henry hums with an idle interest. He gestures to the innkeeper for a cup of coffee. “Such constancy must be admired, I suppose.”
“Oh yes, he is terribly devoted.” Her sadness settles over her like a cloak. Sadness for her brother, who may never retire from a profession he can no longer stand, and, James senses, sadness for herself, that she considers herself partially at fault and always will. “As few men are.”
“The same could be said of women,” Dundy comments vaguely, certainly thinking back upon his long ago affianced, who did not wait for him while he suffered in the ice. James can hear the sourness in his voice, lingering beneath the disaffected disinterest of dinner table banter. It’s been a long time… but then, James’s heart has never quite given up on long ago affections, either.
“Yet more often said of men.” Jane leans her elbow on the table, turning her body to place her sharp gaze firmly upon Henry’s face. “In fact, I feel my brother is nearly unique in his type.”
Henry jolts, quite electrified by her challenge. His cool attitude is put aside as his eyebrow lifts and he leans in. “Oh?”
James puts himself as far back into his chair as he can, trying to stay out of the way. Something has sparked here, between Miss Little and his friend Le Vesconte. Jane Little has not only caught Henry’s interest, but excited him, enticed him. James has rarely seen Henry light up in this way over a woman. He could count the occurrences on one hand.
Mildly, Jane replies. “A man may be constant, and his feeling strong, but I have known many to throw a girl over at the slightest inconvenience. Then, he will more easily recover from such heart-hurt than a woman. A man will rally, and love another.”
“I didn’t realize we were speaking of love.” A sly smirk creeps across Henry’s features.
Innocently, “Does one not love one’s sisters?”
“I feel, if I may,” James noses in to say, feeling more meekish than he would like and almost embarrassed to cut into Miss Little and Les Vesconte’s half-flirtatious debate. “That anyone, man or woman alike, who loves truly and strongly, will carry that love forever. Even if it’s slighted, or… neglected, or thrown aside. With time, the hurt of such treatment may lessen, and one may, as you say Miss Little, rally, but the pain remains. A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart, not entirely. He ought not. He does not. The love remains.”
Now he really is embarrassed. The table around them has fallen very quiet, and everyone has turned to look at him. Sir James and Ann are holding hands at the head of the table. Francis meanwhile is as good as glaring at him, his eyes dark and unreadable. Edward Little stares down the table with big eyes, perhaps for the first time noticing that his sister has been talking to James and Le Vesconte all this time. At his elbow, Nymphe matches his look. James swallows hard, his throat scraping roughly.
Under the table, Henry pats his knee kindly. Somehow, as if he could have seen this, Francis’s look darkens yet more.
“Very well said, Captain Fitzjames,” Jane Little says gently. He wonders if she can tell how deeply he feels it.
“Yes.” Francis’ voice floats down the table, low and sonorous. “Well said.”
James keeps his mouth firmly shut for the remainder of the evening. The conversation around him thankfully moves in other directions.
The following morning, preparations are suddenly being made to return home.
Hands on her hips, Nymphe insists upon one last walk along the Cobb.
“We must at least go down and say our goodbyes to Captain Little. And his sisters, of course.” With big eyes, she pulls at Henry’s sleeve. “Come, Henry. It’s only polite.”
“Of course.” He agrees readily enough. James senses Dundy’s personal interest in wanting to say their farewells to the Littles. “You’re quite right, Nelly.”
Francis joins them at the door of the inn. “Let me escort you down, Miss Le Vesconte.”
“Oh!” Giddily, Nymphe takes his arm. “Thank you, Captain Crozier.”
Lady Ann appears at the top of the stairs and waves down to them.
“Mr. Le Vesconte, dear, would you come help with my bag?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies eagerly and earnestly. He turns back to James, who is standing numbly in the doorway, watching Francis walk away with a pretty young woman on his arm. Henry nudges him. “Go on, then, James, off you go. Get a last breath of air. Chaperone my cousin.”
“You will come too?” He’s begging, and he can hear it. He’s not sure he could bear to watch Francis flirt without some company to bolster him.
“Shortly. Once Lady Ross is settled. See you in a tick, James.” He winks and trots to the stairs, pausing only briefly to wave James on his way.
Left alone in the foyer, James considers his options. He can stubbornly wait for Dundy to rejoin him so they can walk together. Or he can be a grown man and go along on his own, hardly a minute behind Francis and Nymphe. He’ll catch up to them in no time. He’ll carry on casual, easy conversation. He’ll comport himself with dignity, instead of as the pathetic, limp beast he’s been around Francis of late.
The day is much cooler than it was yesterday; the sky is gray and heavy with clouds. The cobblestones are wet like it rained overnight, leaving them slippery and slick. Ahead, Crozier and Miss Le Vesconte walk arm in arm. Keeping careful distance, James follows. However, with his long legs, he can’t help but continually ease closer and closer and soon enough he’s part of their group, walking only a few short steps behind. Francis looks over his shoulder to acknowledge James’s presence, but doesn’t speak to him, does nothing to include him.
Nymphe is speaking of the little house she and Henry share in Netherton, how she inherited it from her father, who was Henry’s father’s cousin, and so it belongs to her, really, not to Henry at all.
“I would have been glad for him to go to sea again, though I would never insist. He gave it a go— Captain Fitzjames knows he did try, and did well enough with two commands— but in truth he was quite through with all that after your rescue. I can’t blame him… and I love him dearly, of course.” She ducks her head. “I am glad for his company… but I had also grown rather fond of my independence during those years of his absence. It’s not so easy to return to old habits, once you’ve developed new ones.”
Francis grunts. “I suppose that’s so.”
Glancingly, his gaze flickers back towards James. James feels his face burn and he busies himself looking at the ground under his boots, pretending he didn’t hear. Of course he knows that his own old habits returned with force— or at least that’s surely how Francis sees it. It’s as true as not. James will own that. He has no excuses or defense for how he behaved six years ago.
Down on the Cobb, waves crash violently against the stone walls. James hesitates, letting Francis and Nymphe go ahead. Their conversation continues without him, not that he was ever part of it. The pair walk confidently on the wet stones, unbothered by the damp.
All is well, and then, as is always the case, quite without warning, disaster strikes.
James is looking at his feet— the ground is slick and he’s not as steady as he used to be. Ahead, Francis and Nymphe begin to ease down the steps towards the lower wall. Briefly, James sees Francis down already, looking out at the water, and Nymphe taking the first step, holding her skirts up above the puddles. A wave crashes hard against the sea wall. James hears a startled shout. When he looks up, Nymphe is already falling. Between the slippery step, a gust of wind, and the push of water against her, she has lost her footing.
Francis whips around, too late. His hands reach for her as she tumbles, but she slips through his fingers. Though already running forward as best he can given the circumstances of wet stone and boots, James watches helplessly how one of her ankles twists very badly as she fumbles for her footing.
The fall is hard and fast. Then she is on the stones, a crumpled, moaning creature.
By the time James makes it down the steps and to her side, Francis is crouched beside her, lifting her head off the wet ground. There is a little blood in her hair.
“Is she hurt?” James asks breathlessly as he arrives. “Is she terribly hurt?”
“She’s struck her head—“ Francis says. “Nymphe? Can you hear me?”
Her eyelids flutter, then open. She groans in pain.
“Captain?”
Heaving a sigh of relief and a muttered “Thank God” which James thinks he will never forget the sound of, Francis grins and brushes damp hair off her cheek. “Yes, my girl.”
Like a child, she holds his collar with one small hand and says, “I’ve fallen.”
“Yes. How do you feel?”
Cold, James listens, waiting to be helpful. The water pooling on the Cobb seeps through the knees of his trousers. He’s worried for Nymphe— a bash on the head is worrisome, even if she’s now conscious and talking— but he’s also sick in his heart at Francis’ worry for her and for the tender way he’s holding her. It’s not fair, but that’s how he feels. Francis once held him that way. Long ago.
“I’m fine,” Nymphe insists, trying to sit up. “You needn’t baby me.”
“Be easy, now.”
Gently, James and Francis put their arms around her and help lift her to her feet. She hisses in pain as she attempts to put weight on her twisted ankle, and then her knees weaken and she droops. This time when she falls, Francis catches her, easily scooping her up and lifting her into his arms. She gives a mild protest at being lifted before her eyelids flutter in her faint and her head rolls against Francis’ shoulder.
“James—“ Crozier turns to him with the spark of command in his eyes. He’s about to give orders.
But James Fitzjames has been leading men and taking command of urgent situations for years without deferring to Francis, and now speaks with clear, decisive surety: “We’ll take her to Little’s. Can you manage her? I’ll run ahead and let them know to prepare.”
Crozier blinks at him, perhaps impressed. Perhaps annoyed to be interrupted or even overruled. But then he agrees, “Yes. Then—”
“A surgeon, of course—”
“And her cousin. Le Vesconte must—“
“Yes.” For a moment, a hot, breathless moment, James looks into Francis’s eyes. Looks into eyes as familiar as his own soul and feels close, again, miraculously, wonderfully, to the communion he had thrown away so carelessly six years ago. Their mutual understanding is not altogether gone, then. Some glimmer of it remains, and James sees it, feels it, in Francis’s eyes and in the easy way they came together to determine a plan of action. More even, in their quick agreement. Like they had been on the ice. Like no time had passed at all.
Miserably, James thinks, Old habits really do die hard.
Francis blinks and James nods.
Turning away is the hardest thing he’s done in years.
Clambering up slippery steps and over slick stones, James rushes up the Cobb. His heart is pounding a horrible, frantic drumbeat against his ribs.
Little’s small house isn’t very far off but he finds there’s sweat beading at his hairline as he beats on the door. A single drop slides down his temple and it shoots a lightning strike of fear into his heart. It feels too much like scurvy blood. Even though he knows it’s nothing of the sort, it still… he still feels…
Jane Little opens the door tugging the sleeves of her blouse down over her forearms. Her hair is only half pinned up.
“Captain Fitzjames? We weren’t expecting you.” She takes in the rattled, ruffled look of him and asks, “Whatever’s the matter?”
Edward arrives behind her, similarly disheveled. Seeing Fitzjames, he runs a hand through his hair to press it into some kind of order but doesn’t bother to adjust his open collar.
“Captain?”
The sound of that one word wrenches James back to himself, back to the present and to the reality of himself. He’s disturbed them in the early hours of the morning, when they were clearly at work around the house. He’d better get to it.
“Miss Le Vesconte took a fall, down on the Cobb,” he says, feeling the words punched out of him. His voice is a raw, low, rasp. “Francis is bringing her here.”
Jane’s hand flies to her throat. “My god.”
Edward doesn’t move, doesn’t react more than to blink. He’s shocked. Stunned. Worse, perhaps.
Barely more than a gasping whisper, he grunts, “Is— Is she—”
“Ned, move—” Jane pushes him to the side. “Captain Fitzjames, come in, please.”
“No, I have to go— I have to find a doctor. And Henry needs to be told.”
“Oh, yes, certainly. Edward—” Little blinks owlishly at his sister. “Get Lizzy. We should heat some water.”
“Huh? Oh. Yes.” Off he goes, disappearing back into the house with a tip of his head towards James and a hand raised halfway to a salute. “Sir.” Habit. How odd a thing it is. Even after all this time.
Jane’s hand touches James’. Her touch is gentle. Her look is determined.
“We’ll take care of her, Captain Fitzjames. You go on now.”
“Thank you.”
From Little’s house near the sea up to the inn at the center of town is a brisk ten minute walk, and James makes it in a fast six.
There, the owner of the inn sees his frantic, sweaty countenance and, after a little explanation, volunteers to go find the local doctor. Just as he leaves the premises, James Ross comes bounding down the stairs.
“Fitzjames, where have you been?”
James wheels. “There’s been an accident, down on the Cobb,” he explains. “Where’s Henry?”
“Helping Ann with her cases. We were about to come down. Tell me how I can be of help.” Fitzjames finds himself struck dumb in the face of the great Ross. His broad strength, his easy confidence. How sure he is of how to behave, what to do.
He takes charge and James lets him, and together they summon Henry downstairs and guide him to a chair by the fireplace. Perhaps they’re being a bit over-dramatic, but Nymphe is Henry’s only family in England. This is bound to be upsetting.
Henry, to his credit, takes it very well. Ross gets him to sit with a heavy hand on his shoulder. Henry, quite befuddled, looks to James. As James crouches before him to deliver the bad news, his jaw clenches and his brow furrows; when James explains what happened, his expression darkens slowly, but he remains quiet and still all through it. Ross, standing over James’ shoulder, crosses his arms over his chest. Is he impressed, James wonders, by Henry’s restraint? Or disturbed by how calm he is?
Dundy softly asks, “She was conscious, you say?”
“Yes, and so likely perfectly fine, nothing more than bruised, but we’ve called for a doctor even so. Crozier is with her.”
“At Little’s?”
James nods.
Henry looks at him. His eyes are wet, James notices. But he knows Henry won’t cry, not now, not in front of Ross, not in the public sitting room of an inn. His lips pull tightly over his teeth.
“She’ll be fine, Dundy,” James whispers, just between the two of them. He wants, badly, to hold his friend’s hands and comfort him, embrace him and help him. But he knows it wouldn’t be welcome, not now. Henry’s dignity wouldn’t stand it, even if his heart would benefit from it. “I’m sure of it.”
“Yes,” Henry grunts, blinking away the tears and sitting himself up straight. “Take me to her. Please.”
“Of course.”
Ross says he will stay behind to fill Ann in, and will follow shortly after. By the time James and Henry step outside, the foggy grayness of the morning has cleared and all is blue and bright.
Some of the grief in James’ heart lifts. Nothing too terrible could happen on a day this lovely. Nymphe will rally, certainly.
Once they’re out of sight of the inn, James takes Henry’s arm.
“Chin up.” He nudges Henry playfully, hoping to cheer him. “A little slip, that’s all.” Henry hums his acknowledgement. “A smile will help her.”
Dundy hums again and pulls James closer against him. A small smile does appear on his face, crinkling his cheeks. Gratified, James smiles back. For a while they walk in silence. The town around them is still quiet, still half asleep. The roar of the waves are just audible.
Little’s house is in view when Henry says, low but clear, “I’m very grateful for your friendship, James. I am.”
A little stunned, it takes James a moment to reply. It’s not that Dundy isn’t affectionate, or clear about how he feels, but he rarely outright says things like this. Usually he’s more coy, less forward. They understand each other and rarely have to be so explicit. After all, Henry is shy, James knows. Or, he can be. “And I of yours.”
“I mean it.” The earnestness of his tone cuts straight through to James’ heart. He does feel Dundy’s thanks, and his warmth, and his care. They’ve been friends for a long time. They’ve been through the worst things possible together and it has made them close in a way few share. “I hope you know how dearly I mean it. How—” his voice hitches, catching in his throat. “How glad I am for you.”
His hand squeezes James’s arm. They’ve paused, momentarily, just outside Little’s door. Henry glances at the threshold, behind which his dear cousin is laid up, possibly badly concussed, possibly worse. His gray eyes shimmer, his mouth tightens into a thin line.
“James—” he chokes.
The street around them is empty, so James takes his chance. He pulls Henry forward, dragging him into an embrace. Le Vesconte goes easily into his arms and allows himself to be held and hugged. His body remains stiff and still, but after a heartbeat, he presses his face against James’ throat.
It doesn’t last long, but for that brief moment James keeps his friend clutched against him, runs his hand over Henry’s ashy white hair, and tries, tries with all his might, to exude through his touch and his very skin how deeply grateful he is for Henry too.
He has tried, for years, not to think how it might have been if one of them hadn’t made it back. If he had been forced to return to England without Le Vesconte by his side. His last lieutenant, his dear old friend. As close as he and Francis had become, it could never diminish what he has with Henry, what he feels for Henry, which is strong and true and dear. Through the long months of lonely dinners, after Sir John and Graham and Jim Fairholme were gone, James had leaned so heavily on him, and for months and months Dundy had borne it. Henry had bolstered him and kept him sane, had saved him and loved him long before Francis had ever liked anything about him at all.
“Come, now,” James whispers against Henry’s hair. “Let’s go see Nelly.”
Dundy nods. When he straightens, he is as stoic and sure as he ever has been. He clears his throat and lifts his chin with a sniff, a familiar gesture.
It’s Lizzy Little who opens the door for them after only one knock. Everyone else is in Jane’s bedroom, with Nymphe and the doctor, she says. Without further ado, she leads the way through the house, with Henry following close on her heels and James only a step behind that.
“Just here,” Lizzy says, pausing before an utterly nondescript door. She opens it and goes inside.
James takes in the scene before him—
There is Nymphe on the bed, awake thank heavens, but clearly groggy, looking lovely if not pale and slightly wasted in the dim light of the room, drained of her usual energy and liveliness— though perhaps more lovely for that, as she is nearly glowing in her paleness, her white shift bright against the darkness of the room. She is surrounded by the doctor, Little (looking ill), Jane (looking worried), and Francis (looking very grim indeed). Lizzy crosses to Francis’s side and whispers something in his ear. Whatever she says makes him jump, which James can see even from his place across the room, and his gaze leaps from Nymphe up to the doorway, where Henry and James remain framed. That’s all it takes for Henry to come to life and slide into the picture, kneeling at the bedside to take up Nymphe’s small hand.
The tableau complete, James is struck by how much it reminds him of the Death of Nelson. He’s seen etchings of the image a thousand times, and had once seen the original painting in the naval gallery. Back then— before the ice and the beast and the six years since— he had stood before that large, romantic painting and thought, This is how I want to die. Heroically. Surrounded by friends. Grieved by a nation.
Now, looking at Francis as he hovers over Nymphe’s bed and lightly touches her hand resting upon the bedclothes, James understands what Nelson knew as he died— the grief of one is plenty. The love of one means more than the love of a nation.
He would do anything to have Francis delicately stroking his hand like that. Like he had on the shale, briefly and secretly, their bodies aching and their minds exhausted, but their souls in perfect, harmonious alignment.
In the end the doctor puts a bandage on Nymphe’s scraped scalp and declares that while she is in no immediate danger, it would be treacherous should she travel any time too soon. Her ankle is badly sprained, and her head oughtn't be jostled.
“Then you’ll stay right here, won’t you? With us,” Jane Little volunteers, smiling warmly. Perched on the edge of the bed next to where Henry is still kneeling, she sweetly reaches to put a strand of hair behind Nymphe’s ear. Henry glances at her, his eyes strikingly clear in the low light.
“I couldn’t impose—“ Nymphe protests weakly, looking desperately to Henry. Frowning, thinking it over, Henry doesn’t reply right away. Nymphe continues, “Your house is already too full.”
“Don’t be silly,” Jane dismisses it as she might swat a fly. “Isn’t that right, Edward? Miss Le Vesconte will stay with us while she recovers.”
Edward nods quickly, all decisive surety. “Yes, yes, of course. Certainly.” Then it seems to occur to him— “And Henry, as well, if you wish.“
Cornered, Henry looks at Nymphe, then to Edward, to Jane, to James still standing by the door. No one can make his mind up for him. James sympathizes; he’s not entirely sure what he would do, if placed in Dundy’s position. It is quite an imposition to put upon a family already somewhat strapped. Finally, Henry opens his mouth and begins to protest. “No, we couldn’t—”
Jane huffs, “Oh, come now—”
Francis’s voice cuts through the competing insistences in a bark. “Accept already and be done with it. This is foolish.”
Henry snaps towards Francis, ready to bark back. Then he sees Jane, sitting at his cousin’s side on the sickbed, looking at him with earnest pleading in her eyes. His mouth shuts. He turns back to Edward and nods his assent.
“We’d be very grateful. Thank you.” And so it’s decided. Just like that. They will stay with the Littles until Nymphe is well enough to travel.
Very quickly, arrangements are made to bring Nymphe and Henry’s small cases down from the inn, to rearrange Edward’s room to account for the sudden appearance of another person in it (for Henry will share his room, Jane declares, while she will tuck in with Lizzy), and for James to return to the house in Netherton and pack up and send along further clothes to accommodate Nymphe and Henry’s longer-than-anticipated stay in Lyme.
Later, standing in the front room with James, Henry crosses his arms over his chest and presses the two of them against the window for a modicum of privacy.
“I’m sorry to ask this of you, James,” he whispers in a low hiss. He sounds more frustrated than apologetic. Annoyed that any of this is happening at all. “It’s bad enough to impose on Little. We won’t be here very long, I’m sure. By which I mean that we won’t need much—“
James hushes him with a hand on his arm. “It’s nothing. I’m happy to do it.”
“And you needn’t stay with the house, if you’d prefer to move on.”
“Dundy, Dundy, please. Stop. Be calm.”
Jane appears from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with a big pot of tea, mismatched cups and saucers, and plates of biscuits.
“It isn’t much,” she says vaguely to the room at large as she struggles to place the tray onto a table without spilling anything. “But I find nibbling a little something always lifts my spirits.”
James, who has heard Dundy express the same sentiment a hundred times over, takes his friend by the arm and directs him towards the woman who has intrinsically sensed exactly what he needs.
While Henry settles into a chair with a sweet and creamy cup of tea, a small stack of biscuits teetering on his knee, and Jane Little pressing more on him, James retreats to the window.
He’s staring at the last evaporating puddle of overnight rain when Francis appears at his elbow, startling him.
“You did very well today, Captain Fitzjames.”
The sound of Francis complimenting him surprises him. It’s been a long time, a terribly long time, since Francis had said a kind word to him. Let alone in so warm a tone.
“Did I?”
“Oh, yes. Very commanding.” Francis looks at him out of the side of his face. Francis is teasing him. James’s ego can handle slight pressure these days, especially when he’s earned it and there’s no insult waiting just below the words. There may even be something else under them. There’s a twinkle in his eye that is nearly affection. It’s not, James thinks, it can’t be. But almost. “You were very quick at it, too. There and back in a flash.”
In spite of himself, James feels a smile crack his features. He wants so badly to be back in Francis’s good graces, he’ll take whatever small victories he can. “You forget, Francis, that I am, after all, one of the best walkers in the service.”
Francis smiles back at him. “That you are, James. That you are.”
Heat blossoms in James’ chest, a fire lit by the glitter in Francis’ eyes and the soft, genuine warmth in his voice. Six years was too long to live in the darkness of Francis’s absence. He was half alive, he thinks. What was the value of his life if he never saw the slight gap in Francis’ teeth when he smiled? How empty and cold his days had been without it.
He basks in that smile now, as if it were sunshine. Perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps there is a way to start again. A glimmer of hope, that dangerous, fragile thing, sparks to life.
Then the smile, and the twinkling light in Francis’s eyes and every desperate gasp of possibility held within it, all of it, passes abruptly. Suddenly cold and gloomy again, Francis asks, “I suppose you’ll be sorry to leave them?”
He’s talking about Le Vesconte and Nymphe. It feels like a step sideways, nearly a non-sequitur. What an odd thing to say just now. James can’t quite understand it.
“Well, yes,” James admits, trying to push through his bewilderment. He does worry how Henry will manage over the next few weeks; he can sink very deeply into himself, sometimes. “But I wouldn’t be of much help to them here, crowding up the place any further.”
“He is very dear to you.” It’s not a question. It wouldn’t make sense as a question. Doesn’t Francis know? Or was he never really listening when James would recount stories of the Clio at the wardroom table? Has he forgotten Henry at their command meetings in the tents on the shale, always at James’ elbow?
Matter of fact, “Yes. Of course he is.”
“Yes,” Francis growls in response, turning away from him. “Of course.”
An awkward silence falls between them. The wonderful, life-affirming warmth that has lit in his heart has been extinguished as surely as if one of the crashing waves off the Cobb had dragged him out to sea.
Confused by this plunge into an icy sea, James turns back to the window. Anything to avoid looking into Francis’ face.
Side by side, they look out at the street, at nothing. Life continues behind them— Jane and Henry are talking in low tones over their tea; Little excuses himself to go check in on the doctor.
Between the two of them, though, there is nothing. All communion has quite ceased.