- Chapter 21 -

Wind attacked the sails of the Victory and her sister-ships as they pushed towards the line of ships on the horizon. Nelson's plan had been well communicated and even now the English fleet was drawing into two columns with the intention of spearing through the enemy's line; it was unconventional, but it would work. It must work. Sweat beaded on Routley's forehead, the chill and nausea of nerves coursed through him and every other soldier as the hours passed and the impending battle drew nearer. Nelson's signal flew: 'England expects that every man will do his duty.' All was quiet. Villeneuve's ships loomed closer, nearly upon them. Orders began to bark from every corner and men rushed to obey, Routley readied himself portside as they drew alongside the first of the French warships.

A volley of explosions shook the ship from bow to stern with the first order for cannon fire, and in the same moment the boom of rifle shot rang in every ear. The metallic click of hundreds of rifles loading in rhythm was followed by another great boom, and screams. Brandon Routley breathed hard as he loaded and shot, loaded and shot, adrenaline blurring together his actions and numbing the sounds of dying men, gunfire, and snapping wood. Splinters and shrapnel flew ripped through the air, tearing at his clothes and skin, saltwater spray burning his eyes and causing hundreds of tiny cuts on his face and hands to scream. The Victory collided with another vessel and men flooded aboard, screaming in French and brandishing swords. Fear and adrenaline snapped into a sort of wild madness as the instinct for survival took over as Routley unsheathed his own and defended himself screaming, hacking at throats and removing limbs on all sides.

Wood screamed and the ship that had attached itself to them shuddered and leaned away. Cannons fired and the side of the French warship lit and blew outward; flaming boards, bodies, and debris crashed into the side of the Victory and skidded across the deck. A barrel, blazing in an inferno, hurled towards Routley too fast for him to dodge. Lights burst in his brain and all went black.

Pain seared over entire left side of his body. Water splashed against him as it rushed towards starboard with the tipping of the ship, first granting relief, then stinging excruciatingly. Voices yelled for aid, Admiral Nelson had been shot! Through the buzz and fog he could see the Admiral being taken below deck. Someone grabbed his shoulders, the world shimmered and spun and faded again.

His eyes opened once more. He glanced around groggily, found himself laying on a mat below deck, groans of wounded men rising all around him. "It is over Sir." He looked for the voice, the young officer who he'd saved from the gauntlet speaking to Admiral Nelson who lay on the opposite side of the room. "We've won by a great score."

"Thank God I have done my duty. Kiss me Hardy."

Hardy kissed his friend's forehead as Reverend Scott the Chaplain sat by, clutching his bible in shaking hands. Routley's neck and arm flared in excruciating pain and with a groan he looked stiffly to see what caused it. Bloody red and pasty white, bubbling flesh peeked through the fabric of his shirt; sticking, and ripping painfully when he tried to move. The stink of burnt and melted skin overwhelmed him and he lost consciousness once more.

The next time he woke he was staring up at the ceiling of a medical institution and being swaddled in bandages by a harried nurse.

~~~

News of the glorious battle of Trafalgar spread across England like wildfire. Admiral Nelson was considered the greatest of heroes and the entire country mourned and honored his passing. For those who knew Mr Brandon Routley, there was great cause for worry, for nearly a month passed and he was proclaimed missing in action.

The fearful anticipation was too much for Mrs Bianca Routley, who's delicate constitution suffered little stress before causing her fits of nerves. Anxiety lent a good fifteen years to the woman's fifty. Upon being told her son was not accounted for among the living (nor the dead), she promptly assumed the worst and begat an attack of the heart.

As she lay alone in the dim confines of her bedchamber, her sister having commenced and concluded her visit to her invalid sibling, Mrs Routley's instincts informed her she was on her deathbed and she must relieve herself of her past before her time came. She ordered a letter be sent to Mrs Katherine Gray, requesting her immediate presence.

Upon receipt of the letter, Mrs Katherine Gray's brows rose to the sky, but her compassionate heart would not allow her to decline going, no matter how uncomfortable the thought of the encounter was; besides, she could use the opportunity to visit her family at Rosforte. So it was Katherine Gray found herself sitting in awkward silence by the bed of an ailing Mrs Routley at Norcastle.

Katherine glanced at her gaunt and pale host, who's rattling breath could barely be heard over the crackling fire. She hoped the visit wouldn't take long; though it was a cool November, the room was well sealed and curtained, and it felt as though the fire had been burning without ceasing for days. She shrugged the thick shawl off her shoulders, lifted the hem of her dress to mid-calf and slipped off her shoes, allowing her sweating feet and legs to cool. The Lady herself finally opened her eyes, causing Katherine to sit up to attention. Her fierce gaze scrutinized her young guest as Katherine hesitantly spoke. "Mrs Routley, I hope I am not disturbing you. The servant just directed me in and closed the door, so I.."

"I know you do not like me." Bianca interrupted, her words nearly a wheeze. Katherine stayed silent, her discomfort increasing, unsure how to respond. Mrs Routley's gaze moved to the ceiling above. "You need not feign politeness and concern, you have no one here to impress."

"I assure you Mrs Routley," Katherine frowned in surprise at the woman's judgment of her "I have never had any intention of feigning any such thing! What reason have I to falsify concern for others when it is truly felt?"

"Truly felt indee.." The scoff was broken as her voice gave way to gasps for breath. She recovered. "I know you feel I am getting my just deserts. I know because I feel it more strongly than you. Not that I have regrets, quite the contrary." her chuckle became a short coughing fit, and Katherine quickly reached to hand Mrs Routley a glass of water that was nearby, helping her to sit up to drink. Mrs Routley settled back against the pillows once more with a sigh. "You know not what it is to be truly desolate Miss Wheaton. Do not correct me, I am speaking to the farmer's daughter who tried to snare my son's fortune, not the fine lady who sits here as the relation of a Baroness. Fate certainly was kind to you." she spat. Katherine merely listened, refraining from defending herself every time Mrs Routley misjudged her. There was a silent moment as the speaker caught her breath, then continued.

"Me and my sister were born in poverty, in Spain, our father abandoned our mother when my sister was not yet born. I don't know what our surname was, I don't recall what our mother's name was, only mama. I won't go into detail about life by the docks, scrounging for food in the gutters, there is no point and I don't wish to recall it. Our mother died when I was eleven and my sister one. I took my sister from her arms, washed us, and sat at the steps of the nearest church. From there, someone brought us to an orphanage and we were there for not quite a year. Awful, horrendous place with a lewd, scrawny little man as headmaster. I would rather have been back on the streets..." Mrs Routley seemed to forget she had a guest, staring at the ceiling, unburying her past for probably the first time in her life. "He abused the young boys and girls in unfathomable ways; I believe I may have been a favorite of his, he liked to dress me up in frills and bows. I saw him watching Adalia sleep one night, I was truly afraid then. A fire destroyed half the orphanage soon after, no one discovered the cause of it, he was roasted in his bed. All the children were sent to new orphanages, and we were at the Orfanato de Rosas para Señoritas three years. They allowed me to stay with Adalia as she cried unceasingly when I was not with her, so I wasn't sent to the factories when I was thirteen like the others.

We were taken in with an English family when I was fourteen, all thanks to Adalia; I as a scullary maid, she as a companion to the Beaumont family's little girl who was of similar age. Adalia was a beautiful child; long, thick, shining black hair; big dark eyes that could capture the heart of anyone; she was the sweetest little thing, never complained or cried. It was no wonder they were willing to take her in. Adalia was taught everything the governess taught little Miss Beaumont, and in turn Adalia taught me. It was because of this I was able to become a governess when I was twenty. The Beaumonts moved back to England after five years and it was there I first secured a position in the home of a one Mr June in Launceston, in Cornwall, in charge of his two demon daughters. They would find enjoyment in things such as leaving their terrier's scat in my shoes and drawing on the pages of my teaching books and journals. Their father forever defended them, and followed scoldings with gifts and ice cream lest they be upset with him.

While serving at the June residence there was a gentleman by the name of Robert Routley, he was in his late fifties, very lonely, and showed great interest in me; I was not unattractive in my youth. You may judge me Miss Wheaton, but I care not; Robert Routley was my most certain way of escape and he was not a poor man by any account; he was easily flattered and we were wed in less than four months. The ten years I was married to him I collected most the money he gave me for gowns and jewels into investments under my name; many of those investments were well placed and serve me well even now. Brandon was eight when he passed, we tried for more children but he was well past the age of being able, though he quite violently blamed our inability to reproduce on me. I am lucky I had a son and heir, or I'm certain he would have bestowed on me the dishonor of taking a mistress and having me raise her son...should she by some miracle produce one." Mrs Routley ceased and reached for the water, Katherine helped her drink.

"If I have learned anything Miss Wheaton," She continued "It is that people don't care about how hard you've fought, or how far you've come; poverty is not to be respected. In the minds of those who are more privileged than you, you are nothing, you chose to be nothing, and you should remain nothing...If you think I have been unkind to you in the past, think of it no longer as unkindness but as a waking to reality. I am sorry that I cannot apologize for my distaste and disrespect for those who are content in their squalor. I am sorry I cannot apologize for wanting my son to have nothing to do with you Miss Wheaton; though I may have a little regret now, now you are far ten times wealthier than I. I refused to be connected with someone who would bring my son lower than the place I strove to put him, someone who was a constant reminder of my past...that is all I can say on that matter."

Mrs Routley sighed, closing her eyes. It seemed her story was done. Katherine sat with her hands clutched together in her lap; a little overwhelmed, a little sad, her heart going out to the woman before her. Bianca Routley wheezed and coughed.

"Would you like more water?"

She waved off Katherine's concern sharply. "My abigail can help me. I am tired. You can go."

Katherine hesitated, then decided not to fight it and removed herself to the door. She stopped there and looked back where the Lady of the house lay staring at the ceiling. "I never had any intention to snare any fortune, I loved your son Mrs Routley, I would have married him even if he'd had not a penny to his name."

"Then you are a fool." Bianca Routley turned her face away, the conversation over.

Katherine slipped out the door and closed it softly behind her, speaking quietly to the maid who waited outside "She will need another glass of water, or more appropriately a pitcher. That room is a furnace." once outside she took a great gasping breath of fresh air and, lifting her skirts, took to the fields to run.