My Dear
Title: My Dear
Author: Anteros
Characters: Hornblower / Maria, Hornblower / (Kennedy)
Rating: PG
Notes: Another weird book - tv series hybrid, incorporating bits of Retribution, Lieutenant Hornblower and Hornblower and the Hotspur. It's as cheerful as you might expect :/ DKU.
HMS Hotspur, at sea, off Brest.
Hornblower stared mutely at the four sheets of paper lying on the tiny desk in front of him. One, from Captain Sir Edward Pellew, Commander of the Inshore Squadron, outlined orders for maintaining station and arrangements for victualing. Another, in his own hand, reported recent observations and actions. That one he was satisfied with. He had outlined their activities plainly and concisely, commending individual officers and men to the notice of their Lords High Commissioners of the Admiralty, while omitting any mention of his own conduct. The third sheet, densely covered with Maria’s small rounded hand, overflowed with platitudes and gratitude, with endearments and endorsements. The fourth sheet, Hornblower’s reply to his wife, was blank. Around his feet were scattered several more crumpled sheets of foolscap. He knew he should abhor the wanton waste of a resource as scarce as writing paper. He would bitterly regret such ill-tempered extravagance the next time he was required to write his report to Pellew. But right there and then, he didn’t care.
He applied himself to re-reading Maria’s letter but the words slid through his mind leaving little impression. By the time he had reached the fifth “beloved” his thoughts had drifted back to Hotspur’s victualing requirements. Again. Read it again. Pay attention. This time he visualised Maria, a small drab figure, in a small drab room, in a small drab Plymouth inn. “My angel...precious hero...” How could she write in such glowing terms when the reality should have been obvious? No. Not obvious, his deceit was admirable. She did not suspect, must not suspect, the lie that writhed and wriggled like a worm in the rotten core of the apple of her eye. He was her lawfully wedded husband. He must be seen to love her and care for her. That was his duty. He had made his bed and he must lie in it. Though truth be told, the thought of lying with his wife filled Hornblower with distaste. He had dreaded his wedding night, and Maria had been everything he feared; soft, yielding, desperate and compliant. For once he had been relieved when his natural instincts had taken over and afterwards, as she lay sobbing and shuddering in his arms, he had been surprised to feel overwhelming compassion towards the unfortunate woman. That made his deceit all the more detestable.
Hornblower grimaced and forced himself back to his wife’s words. “Adored idol….dearest….darling beloved….” They meant nothing to him. No, that wasn’t true either. He appreciated the time and care Maria had taken to write. He just didn’t understand her words, any more than a lubber understood the language of the sea service. The dears and darlings, sweethearts and beloveds were as foreign to him as sheets and yards, cat heads and best bowers to a newly pressed landsman.
He remembered himself as a boy, pouring eagerly over his new copy of Norrie’s Seamanship a week before Mr Midshipman Hornblower joined His Majesty’s ship of the line Justinian. He had been immensely proud of his book, much more so than of his new midshipman’s uniform which was stiff and uncomfortable and scratched his neck. He recalled running his eye nervously and excitedly over the foreign language contained therein, wondering how long it would take him to learn the difference between a head and a halyard. Of course that problem had solved itself as soon as he had scrambled aboard Justinian. He had found the key to all that knowledge, waiting for him with a bright smile and a dripping boat cloak. A key that, despite endless protestations of ignorance, knew every inch of the cramped behemoth, from the smallest knot on the topmost yard to the lowest seam of the keel.
But then Archie had always been good with words. He had never been afraid to speak his mind. Indeed more often than not Hornblower had felt that Archie had been speaking his mind, voicing the doubts and fears that he struggled to supress. Archie had spoken so many truths that Hornblower was afraid to acknowledge, never mind voice.
Hornblower laid down his quill and leaned back in his chair, his head resting against the bulkhead behind him. Beyond the tiny cabin windows, adorned with their rose painted canvas curtains, the leaden grey waters of Camaret Bay were illuminated with occasional flashes of blue, as the weak winter sun struggled to break through the heavy blanket of cloud.
Archie would have understood. Archie would have respected Maria in ways he never could. He would not have despised her adoration or scorned her desperation to please. He might have pitied her, but he would have appreciated her plight. Hornblower could not. All he could do was maintain the façade of matrimonial duty and pray she would never see through his shameful pretense.
But how could she not know? How could she not see? How could she have been oblivious to the overwhelming doubt that clouded his eyes as he had stood beside her at the altar? Archie had often said that he could not tell a convincing lie even if his life depended on it. Well Archie had been wrong there. Clearly he excelled at lying, he was the consummate fraud.
But of course there had been no need to lie to Archie. Despite everything, despite the Articles, the law, the scriptures, despite every convention of decency, morality and propriety, it had been so much simpler with Archie. Archie was Archie. Horatio had loved him completely, unconditionally and unquestioningly and that love was reciprocated tenfold, without jealousy or expectation.
Loving Archie had been as natural as breathing and as astonishing as….as flying fish. Hornblower snorted quietly, he had no idea why the flying fish had come to mind. On their outward cruise to the West Indies, Archie had teased him for his fascination with the improbable creatures. However they had happily spent a whole dog watch standing together by the weather rail, watching the glittering apparitions bursting from the waves that creamed and foamed along Renown’s quarter, leaving furrows of phosphorescence glowing in their wake. Only Bush’s indifference had curbed his eager interest.
"You'll see plenty of them before this voyage is over."
"But I've never seen one before." Hornblower had protested before slipping on a mask of stolid indifference. Archie had simply laughed.
It was a world and a lifetime away from the cold heavy seas off Brest. Hornblower cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the unwritten letter.
“My love…” he wrote, the word and the lie stuck in his craw. Love. The word had rarely come to his ear as a boy and it came awkwardly to his lips as a man. Voicing that word had never been easy, not even with Archie. Not that there was any question that he had loved Archie. What existed between them transcended any paltry words his awkward tongue could speak. Not so Archie, in private moments he had teased Horatio mercilessly with extravagant and mortifying terms of endearment culled from his beloved Shakespeare, and other less reputable sources. One night after Horatio had taken offence to a particularly extravagant epithet Archie had apologised with such rare and burning sincerity that Horatio had felt moved to respond, “Archie, my…you are…my dear friend.” He cringed as the paltry inadequacy of the words that stumbled from of his mouth. He could no more encompass his love in words that he could fish the moon from the sky. But Archie had not scorned him and for once he did not laugh. He had simply seized his hand and pressed it to his lips. “Your dear friend? I am honoured Horatio. Honoured.” Forever after, Archie had been his “dear friend”.
And so he remained. Would ever remain. An irreplaceable, irredeemable absence. Two years had passed since Retribution had sailed from Kingston, and yet Horatio could still feel Archie’s presence so strongly that he was continually astonished when he turned around and found him absent. In the dark of the middle watch, alone in his cabin, aching for Archie’s touch, he could feel the shadow of his breath ghosting over his skin, the weight of his body lying warm and heavy beside him, a glint of tawny gold scattered over his pillow. And when he knew he was at his most wilfully obtuse he could almost hear Archie’s irreverent laughter ridiculing his ill humour.
Well Archie would be laughing now. Even Hornblower had to admit that his inability to pen a simple letter to his wife was ludicrous.
“For heaven’s sake Horatio, give the poor woman some encouragement. She’s your wife, not your maiden aunt. Lord you have a wife! ‘It is an honour that I dreamed not of!’ I don’t know whether to pity the poor woman or award her the Order of the Bath for services above and beyond the call of duty!”
With Archie’s light, bright voice ringing in his ear and the pain of that lingering absence twisting in his breast, Hornblower picked up his quill and wrote.
Author: Anteros
Characters: Hornblower / Maria, Hornblower / (Kennedy)
Rating: PG
Notes: Another weird book - tv series hybrid, incorporating bits of Retribution, Lieutenant Hornblower and Hornblower and the Hotspur. It's as cheerful as you might expect :/ DKU.
HMS Hotspur, at sea, off Brest.
Hornblower stared mutely at the four sheets of paper lying on the tiny desk in front of him. One, from Captain Sir Edward Pellew, Commander of the Inshore Squadron, outlined orders for maintaining station and arrangements for victualing. Another, in his own hand, reported recent observations and actions. That one he was satisfied with. He had outlined their activities plainly and concisely, commending individual officers and men to the notice of their Lords High Commissioners of the Admiralty, while omitting any mention of his own conduct. The third sheet, densely covered with Maria’s small rounded hand, overflowed with platitudes and gratitude, with endearments and endorsements. The fourth sheet, Hornblower’s reply to his wife, was blank. Around his feet were scattered several more crumpled sheets of foolscap. He knew he should abhor the wanton waste of a resource as scarce as writing paper. He would bitterly regret such ill-tempered extravagance the next time he was required to write his report to Pellew. But right there and then, he didn’t care.
He applied himself to re-reading Maria’s letter but the words slid through his mind leaving little impression. By the time he had reached the fifth “beloved” his thoughts had drifted back to Hotspur’s victualing requirements. Again. Read it again. Pay attention. This time he visualised Maria, a small drab figure, in a small drab room, in a small drab Plymouth inn. “My angel...precious hero...” How could she write in such glowing terms when the reality should have been obvious? No. Not obvious, his deceit was admirable. She did not suspect, must not suspect, the lie that writhed and wriggled like a worm in the rotten core of the apple of her eye. He was her lawfully wedded husband. He must be seen to love her and care for her. That was his duty. He had made his bed and he must lie in it. Though truth be told, the thought of lying with his wife filled Hornblower with distaste. He had dreaded his wedding night, and Maria had been everything he feared; soft, yielding, desperate and compliant. For once he had been relieved when his natural instincts had taken over and afterwards, as she lay sobbing and shuddering in his arms, he had been surprised to feel overwhelming compassion towards the unfortunate woman. That made his deceit all the more detestable.
Hornblower grimaced and forced himself back to his wife’s words. “Adored idol….dearest….darling beloved….” They meant nothing to him. No, that wasn’t true either. He appreciated the time and care Maria had taken to write. He just didn’t understand her words, any more than a lubber understood the language of the sea service. The dears and darlings, sweethearts and beloveds were as foreign to him as sheets and yards, cat heads and best bowers to a newly pressed landsman.
He remembered himself as a boy, pouring eagerly over his new copy of Norrie’s Seamanship a week before Mr Midshipman Hornblower joined His Majesty’s ship of the line Justinian. He had been immensely proud of his book, much more so than of his new midshipman’s uniform which was stiff and uncomfortable and scratched his neck. He recalled running his eye nervously and excitedly over the foreign language contained therein, wondering how long it would take him to learn the difference between a head and a halyard. Of course that problem had solved itself as soon as he had scrambled aboard Justinian. He had found the key to all that knowledge, waiting for him with a bright smile and a dripping boat cloak. A key that, despite endless protestations of ignorance, knew every inch of the cramped behemoth, from the smallest knot on the topmost yard to the lowest seam of the keel.
But then Archie had always been good with words. He had never been afraid to speak his mind. Indeed more often than not Hornblower had felt that Archie had been speaking his mind, voicing the doubts and fears that he struggled to supress. Archie had spoken so many truths that Hornblower was afraid to acknowledge, never mind voice.
Hornblower laid down his quill and leaned back in his chair, his head resting against the bulkhead behind him. Beyond the tiny cabin windows, adorned with their rose painted canvas curtains, the leaden grey waters of Camaret Bay were illuminated with occasional flashes of blue, as the weak winter sun struggled to break through the heavy blanket of cloud.
Archie would have understood. Archie would have respected Maria in ways he never could. He would not have despised her adoration or scorned her desperation to please. He might have pitied her, but he would have appreciated her plight. Hornblower could not. All he could do was maintain the façade of matrimonial duty and pray she would never see through his shameful pretense.
But how could she not know? How could she not see? How could she have been oblivious to the overwhelming doubt that clouded his eyes as he had stood beside her at the altar? Archie had often said that he could not tell a convincing lie even if his life depended on it. Well Archie had been wrong there. Clearly he excelled at lying, he was the consummate fraud.
But of course there had been no need to lie to Archie. Despite everything, despite the Articles, the law, the scriptures, despite every convention of decency, morality and propriety, it had been so much simpler with Archie. Archie was Archie. Horatio had loved him completely, unconditionally and unquestioningly and that love was reciprocated tenfold, without jealousy or expectation.
Loving Archie had been as natural as breathing and as astonishing as….as flying fish. Hornblower snorted quietly, he had no idea why the flying fish had come to mind. On their outward cruise to the West Indies, Archie had teased him for his fascination with the improbable creatures. However they had happily spent a whole dog watch standing together by the weather rail, watching the glittering apparitions bursting from the waves that creamed and foamed along Renown’s quarter, leaving furrows of phosphorescence glowing in their wake. Only Bush’s indifference had curbed his eager interest.
"You'll see plenty of them before this voyage is over."
"But I've never seen one before." Hornblower had protested before slipping on a mask of stolid indifference. Archie had simply laughed.
It was a world and a lifetime away from the cold heavy seas off Brest. Hornblower cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the unwritten letter.
“My love…” he wrote, the word and the lie stuck in his craw. Love. The word had rarely come to his ear as a boy and it came awkwardly to his lips as a man. Voicing that word had never been easy, not even with Archie. Not that there was any question that he had loved Archie. What existed between them transcended any paltry words his awkward tongue could speak. Not so Archie, in private moments he had teased Horatio mercilessly with extravagant and mortifying terms of endearment culled from his beloved Shakespeare, and other less reputable sources. One night after Horatio had taken offence to a particularly extravagant epithet Archie had apologised with such rare and burning sincerity that Horatio had felt moved to respond, “Archie, my…you are…my dear friend.” He cringed as the paltry inadequacy of the words that stumbled from of his mouth. He could no more encompass his love in words that he could fish the moon from the sky. But Archie had not scorned him and for once he did not laugh. He had simply seized his hand and pressed it to his lips. “Your dear friend? I am honoured Horatio. Honoured.” Forever after, Archie had been his “dear friend”.
And so he remained. Would ever remain. An irreplaceable, irredeemable absence. Two years had passed since Retribution had sailed from Kingston, and yet Horatio could still feel Archie’s presence so strongly that he was continually astonished when he turned around and found him absent. In the dark of the middle watch, alone in his cabin, aching for Archie’s touch, he could feel the shadow of his breath ghosting over his skin, the weight of his body lying warm and heavy beside him, a glint of tawny gold scattered over his pillow. And when he knew he was at his most wilfully obtuse he could almost hear Archie’s irreverent laughter ridiculing his ill humour.
Well Archie would be laughing now. Even Hornblower had to admit that his inability to pen a simple letter to his wife was ludicrous.
“For heaven’s sake Horatio, give the poor woman some encouragement. She’s your wife, not your maiden aunt. Lord you have a wife! ‘It is an honour that I dreamed not of!’ I don’t know whether to pity the poor woman or award her the Order of the Bath for services above and beyond the call of duty!”
With Archie’s light, bright voice ringing in his ear and the pain of that lingering absence twisting in his breast, Hornblower picked up his quill and wrote.