Author: Jedishampoo (jedishampoo@aol.com)

Rating: Mostly PG, R later on

Characters: Horatio, Archie, various OCs

Summary: A snow-storm. A stage-coach wreck. A very silly miss. A respectable widow. Two naval officers. Wholly contrived and cheesy as hell.  A bit of a swipe here and there at fanfiction-isms and romantic novel-isms.  I was torn apart on a Hornblower list for the last chapter, but Hell.  I've re-read it, and I still love it, and this was the way I meant to write it. 

Author’s Note: Marion Chesney Regency romance novels inspired some scenes in this story (specifically The Taming of Annabelle and Frederica in Fashion; Emily goes to Exeter for the stage-coach references).

"Hell is empty

And all the devils are here." The Tempest, William Shakespeare Act I Scene II

"…we have before observed, that improper topics can with our assistance be discussed, even before the ladies, without raising a blush on the cheek of modesty. It is impossible that a female should understand the meaning of Twiddle Diddles, or rise from the table at the mention of Buckinger’s Boot." Foreword, Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 1811 Edition.

*******

Sussex County, England

February, 1799

"I would swear that coachman’s drunk," said Archie Kennedy, leaning sideways to peer through the stagecoach glass. He parted the leather curtain and smudged it clean with two fingers, wishing he could as easily part the heavy curtain of snow falling outside. "That’s the second time we’ve run two wheels over a ditch."

"It’s just the roads, Archie," answered Horatio Hornblower with his usual dampening good sense. "They’re probably getting very slick."

Archie didn’t deign to reply. He took another ineffectual swipe at the glass. It was only just after four o’clock, yet it looked to be full-on night. Heavy grey clouds had covered the sun since lunch in Brighton, and even then Archie’s sea-trained nose had smelled the snow. It had started to fall when they’d stopped at the Boar and Bull in Cuckfield two hours ago, and it only came down more thickly as the minutes passed.

A sudden lurch of a coach-wheel threw Archie’s face against the glass. The carriage soon righted itself and continued to bump its way slowly along the road to London, but Archie could take no more.

"Three. Right," he said, and unlatched the window to jerk it down. "I’m going to see what Matthews knows. Long past time they should have been in here with us, anyway."

"They won’t like it," Horatio warned.

Archie ignored him and thrust his head out the window. Whirling snow stung his eyes but he found it refreshing after the stuffiness of the coach.

"Coachman, stop!" he yelled.

A bleary voice floated back to him on the wind. "Can’t be stopping or we’ll be stuck!"

"I don’t care! Stop for a moment. Matthews! Smith! Get in here!"

"They won’t do it," Horatio pointed out again in an insufferably reasonable tone, but Archie barely heard his words as the coachee’s complaints continued.

"‘Ere now!" the man called back. "They ain’t paid inside fares!"

"I’ll pay it, damn your eyes!" Archie watched as, with that promise, the coachman obligingly pulled on the reins and slowed the coach. "Matthews!"

"It’s not right, sir, for us to be riding inside with officers," Matthews called down as they lurched to a stop.

"I told you," said Horatio from somewhere inside the coach.

Archie pulled his head back in to glare at his friend and fellow lieutenant. "The weather’s foul. They’re probably blue already. We don’t want them freezing to death before we even reach the Kestrel."

Horatio sighed, then seemed to relent. He leaned over and soon his head replaced Archie’s out the window.

"Matthews! Smith! Come inside," he yelled. "That’s an order."

"Aye aye, sir!"

The carriage rocked a little as the two seamen climbed down from the top seats. A moment later the door opened and two red faces under hats pulled low appeared through the white flurry.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you," said Smith, knuckling his forehead in embarrassment as Archie shifted to sit next to Horatio to make room for the two additions to the coach’s inside company. Matthews echoed the thanks and settled himself on the seat opposite the officers.

"Coachman’s drunk, sir," he said, and swiped snow from his eyes.

"Told you," Archie said to Horatio with what he knew was a very smug grin. The coach took off with a lurch.

"When we stopped in Cuckfield he picked up a bottle o’ brandy," Matthews continued. "Said he needed it to keep him warm, but he didn’t offer us any. S’ been slow going, sir. We’re still at least six miles from Crawley."

"Hmph," said Horatio, and stared out the window with a glum expression. "The rest of the men are probably already in London by now. If they haven’t run off. We took the stage because you said it would be faster, Mr. Kennedy."

"Well, even the Flying Machines can’t fly in this weather, Mr. Hornblower," Archie pointed out, trying to remain civil and respectful despite the great provocation. He knew that when Horatio was tense, everyone felt it.

Yet Horatio had was reason to be tense. They’d sent the new recruits for Captain Jordan and the Kestrel off to London at dawn, and normally the officers would have gone with them. This time, though, they’d sent them ahead in hired coaches with most of their trusted men. So now Horatio, and Archie as well, were worrying that their work had been for nothing.

They’d actually been very lucky in Brighton, having recruited a good dozen lubbers who’d come to the resort town looking for work. Crewing a ship for an undistinguished captain like Jordan was a boring and thankless business, yet Archie had wanted to enjoy the clean, shiny Brighton inn for just a few more hours. He’d offered to Horatio as a lure the possibility of finding just a few more men to crew the Kestrel, and the opportunity of taking the Flying Machine back to London. They’d been very lucky as well to get a noon coach to themselves on the fashionable Brighton-to-London route. Due to the paucity of the fare they’d been given a smaller coach than the usual six-horsed red-and-black monsters that usually ran this route, but this lighter coach and its four horses should still have been able to cover the distance in under seven hours.

At this rate, though, and in this storm, they’d probably traveled only three miles in the last hour. The new men were probably running loose in London. And it was probably all his fault.

"Don’t you worry, sir," Matthews offered with a respectful nod of his head, as if he’d been reading Archie’s mind. "Styles’ll see ‘em on board the Kestrel, right enough."

"Of course," Archie said. Horatio said nothing, lost in his own morose thoughts.

The coach bumped and slid along, rocked here and there by violent gusts of wind. Silence reigned inside. The two ratings were abashed not only by sharing a coach with their officers, but also by the uncomfortable atmosphere.

The weather, too, was worrying. Once or twice the coach slowed and turned, and Archie came to realize that they were no longer headed north. He kept his own counsel on the matter, not wanting to earn another rebuke from Horatio. After several minutes, however, the coach picked up speed and traveled more normally, and Archie was glad he’d said nothing.

Disaster came quickly. There was a sensation of sliding sideways, then a crack as a wheel struck a rock or an icy rut. Then there was a sickening crunch as something broke. The next thing Archie knew they were piled atop one another and all was deathly silent in the snow that blew in the broken window.

***

"I’d give every bulls-eye in my buntlings that this snow should continue."

"What did you say, dear?" Lucy Daventry glanced up from her novel to look at her god-daughter sitting across from her. The girl looked a very pretty picture, with her sewing in her lap, her blonde curls upswept, and her brown eyes gazing out the window of the cozy, fire-lit blue-upholstered saloon into the snow-draped fairyland outside. But that phrase had sounded suspiciously like low cant, something that should never cross the lips of such a lovely young lady. "I do hope you weren’t saying something vulgar. And don’t mumble. It is not becoming."

"Yes, Lucy." Sophie Persalt jabbed a needle into her sewing-frame and looked up with a sweet smile. "I was only saying that I hope the snow keeps falling, and then perhaps we should not have this stoopid house party."

"Don’t say ‘stoopid,’" Lucy corrected automatically. "And I still don’t understand why you are blue-deviled about the house party. Several eligible gentlemen will be coming. I know some of them are even quite handsome."

Sophie shrugged, another unladylike gesture. "But they won’t be wearing red coats."

Soldiers again. Lucy laid her book upon her lap with a sigh. She was excessively fond of the girl, the only child of her late, dearest cousin and friend. But Sophie had a quite unfortunate predilection for military gentleman, a caste her father had absolutely no use for. Lucy had hoped that a reintroduction into country society after the debacle of her last season in London might cure Sophie of her weakness, but her inclinations still seemed as strong.

When Letitia Persalt had died five years ago, Sophie’s father, Sir Roger, had been only too happy to accept Lucy’s offer to take over the rearing of his daughter. And the widowed, childless Lucy had never regretted it. She’d not remarried and her life of solitary respectability had become somewhat flat. Sophie was a joy, a good-natured, intelligent girl. But like all eighteen-year-olds she could be a little flighty and was prone to swoon over anything in regimentals. Lucy could only pray that the snow did stop and that the respectable gentlemen she and the girl’s father had chosen would arrive soon to distract her young charge.

"No, but perhaps there will be a blue coat or two," teased Lucy, referring to the color that was currently at the height of gentlemen’s fashion. "And several other young ladies to compete with you for the beaux. So you’d better look sharp."

"They can have ‘em."

"Enunciate, please," Lucy chided again. And that sentiment was not what she’d wanted to hear. She’d hoped that by introducing several correct young women to the intimate little party, Sophie would feel keenly the incorrectness of her own behavior. But she couldn’t very well point that out. "Have I not taught you anything?"

"Sometimes I forget." Sophie was blithe as ever. "Perhaps I will at least make new friends."

"Of course." That was more like it, thought Lucy. "I don’t think you met these girls in London. The Misses Audley are from Kent, and their mother has only recently let them come out, and--"

She was interrupted as Sophie jumped from her chair to press her nose against the frosted window. "Who can that be at the door? Such a din!"

Such young ears! Lucy, all of six-and-thirty, had heard nothing. But as she set aside her book and made to stand she heard the voices raised in the hallway: Combs, the butler, and a thick City accent, disjointed.

Sophie had already run to the door of the saloon and was peering through. Lucy joined her. Roger had apparently heard the commotion as well and had joined the group in the hall.

"What’s all this racket, then?" he demanded.

Combs turned to his master. "This man says he’s postilion on the London stage, sir. He says there’s been an accident on the drive, and the passengers are uninjured but stranded in the snow--"

"Stage passengers, eh?" Roger’s voice was dubious, but the blizzard blowing into the hallway was unmistakable. "Well, demme, I don’t suppose we can leave them there, much as I might like to. Send out a few of the boys and bring them ‘round back."

"Yes, sir. He says, sir, that two of them are officers, so perhaps they should come to the front…?"

Lucy could feel Sophie perk up next to her. Oh, no…

"What kind of officers?" Roger wanted to know.

The postilion touched his snow-covered cap, sending more ice crystals to flutter to the already-wet parquet floor of the hall. "Navy lieutenants, sir."

Sophie deflated. "Oh, only naval officers," she whispered.

"Sailors, eh?" Roger inquired, more loudly. "Always a drunken sailor or two on the stage. Well, bring ‘em here and I’ll have a look at ‘em."

***

Horatio wrapped his overcoat more tightly around him and trudged the half-mile or so through the raging wind and cruel snow up to where the great house was supposed to be. It was called Balcomb Manor and was the home of one Sir Roger Persalt, Baronet, or so the postilion guard had told them when he’d returned to say he’d found shelter.

Horatio would have preferred an inn. Being beholden to the aristocracy always grated on his nerves. He didn’t have the social standing or skills necessary to make himself pleasant to his betters.

Apparently they’d crashed right on the drive to this Sir Roger’s home. This stretch of Sussex road was heavily forested, and the coachman had made some wrong turns in the confusion of the whiteout amid the trees. The guard had brought back with him several male servants, well-bundled against the blizzard, two of whom had been required to carry the coachman to the house. He was so drunk he’d been mostly uninjured in the fall from the top of the coach, but the brandy combined with a blow to his head had left him unable to walk at the moment.

Horatio wished he’d listened to Archie and Matthews regarding the man’s state of insobriety. Then, perhaps, they could have still been on their way to London with a different man in the driver’s seat.

He was nearing the house, Archie right behind him. The place was big and reassuringly modern, bricked and white-windowed in the Georgian style. A warm amber glow shone through an open door a few yards ahead of them, and a man’s voice blew to them on the wind.

"This way, sirs!"

A tall, slender and bald man in butler’s livery was waving them over the threshold. Horatio pulled off his hat and stepped gratefully through into an elegant, black-and-white parquetry-paved hall lit by a blazing chandelier overhead. He could see a pair of ladies, one blonde and one dark, peering around a corner. At his glance the ladies disappeared. Self-conscious, Horatio turned to look at the elegant gentleman in a stylish blue coat who’d pushed his way through a group of curious servants.

"Come in! Come in," he said. The man, who must have been Sir Roger, was big, white-haired and somewhat past middle age. His bluff manner contrasted with his exceeding elegance, but his icy blue eyes raked them up and down. "Well, come on! Get in here where it’s warm."

"Thank you for your kindness," Archie’s voice came from close behind. "Our men are following us--"

"Yes, yes, my servants will take care of them. And your horses. Get that door shut, Combs!" This last was directed at the butler, who’d been watching from the door to see that everyone was safe. "Where are those maids? Ah, here they are. Take these gentlemen’s coats and get them dried. You two can follow me into the drawing room. I’ve got a roaring fire going in there."

Horatio allowed his overcoat to be removed, then flicked a glance at Archie and followed. It was clear, to him at least, that Sir Roger was not in alt over their presence. His kindness in accepting them into his home, however, could not be denied.

They were led a few paces down the hall to a pair of open doors to their left. A step over the threshold revealed a blazing fireplace and several comfortable-looking red-plush chairs.

"I am Sir Roger Persalt. Welcome to Balcomb Manor," the man said, with a small, polite bow. Now that they were somewhat settled, his gruff manner shifted into brief formality. "Of course you may stay as long as you need to."

Horatio, as the senior officer, spoke first. "I am Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, of his Britannic Majesty’s Ship Kestrel, and this is Lieutenant Archibald Kennedy." He bowed stiffly. Archie did the same beside him with a bit more grace.

Sir Roger offered a condescending nod. "Sit, then! Sit, and make yourselves comfortable. I’ve got someone preparing rooms for you to change in. Shouldn’t take long, we have guests coming anyway. Bring any clothing? Not much? Still on the stage, I’ll bet." He peered more closely at Archie. "Kennedy, ‘eh? Shropshire Kennedys?"

"No, sir." Archie sketched another small bow. "Ayrshire. My father is Earl of Cassilis."

"A Scot? You’re a younger son, I’ll bet." Sir Roger’s tone made it clear that he ranked the Scots somewhere just above fishmongers in the scale of the peerage. At Archie’s nod he sighed, then continued, barely mollified by this mention of the nobility. "Would you care to join us for dinner? We dine at six. Country hours, you know. There will be ladies. Your men can eat with the servants."

"We--," Horatio began, then stopped, hating this situation more and more despite the warmth and promise of dryness. He’d decided Sir Roger was one of those aristocrats who adopted a congenial manner to hide his disdain for all those poor souls arrayed beneath him.

Archie finished for him. "We are not interrupting a party, I hope?"

"No, no. The party starts tomorrow, and I’m sure by then you’ll be back on your way to London." Sir Roger nodded, as if satisfied in his mind that they would not be foisted upon him for too long. "My boys’ll see to your coach, and if it can’t be fixed, we’ll send a messenger to Crawley. Will that do you?"

Horatio remained silent, unable to think of a polite refusal, so Archie spoke for him again. "Yes. Thank you, sir. We accept your invitation."

The niceties done, Sir Roger left the room. Horatio sank gratefully into a chair before the fire and rubbed his cold hands. He wished they didn’t have to dine with Sir Roger and these other strangers, and had a feeling they’d only been invited because of Archie’s connections.

Fate was surely conspiring against him with a litany of grudges for some past, forgotten transgressions. First came this transfer from Captain Pellew’s command to Jordan’s. The Indy had been forced by sea action to refit, and Pellew had been ordered to take control of the Impetueux, a fully-staffed ’74 with a notorious reputation. The Admiralty seemed to hope that Pellew would take charge and whip the Impetueux and her men into shape.

Horatio was to be sent to a newly-built ship in London, the third-rate Kestrel. He’d not heard much that was good about Jordan, and so could only be glad that most of the familiar crew from the old Indy, Archie included, were to transfer along with him. The two men had both hoped to be transferred to Captain James Sawyer and Renown, but the application had been denied when it became clear just how desperate Jordan was for crew. They’d barely met their new captain in Portsmouth, in fact, before they were sent off to Brighton to recruit. Other lieutenants were spread about the southern counties; Horatio wondered if they’d had any luck and whether they were already returned to London.

Then they’d been caught in the snow. And now they were in the home of an all-too-aristocratic gentleman, they were to have dinner, and to top it off, there were to be ladies present. Ladies who would expect him to make polite conversation, and to spout stories of his seafaring adventures for their amusement.

His mood was dark, but the fire was hot and the waves of dry heat soaked into his sore fingers. At least it was better inside than out in the snowstorm, he forced himself to remember. They were lucky to have escaped the bony fingers of black-cloaked death. He unbent so far as to admit to Archie, "This is my best coat, and it’s wet."

"Then you ask a servant to dry it for you," Archie said, with a smile to mitigate his dry tone. "You’re too tall to borrow mine."

Horatio thought with envy on Archie’s three good jackets, one of which he was wearing, and another of which he had brought with him. The one Horatio was wearing had suffered in the wreck, and he’d had to dig for his protective overcoat. "I will not tell seafaring stories," he blurted, an irked non-sequitur.

But Archie pulled his meaning out of the blue from whence it originated. "You’ll have to. I don’t have many, at least that I can relate to polite company. You won’t escape from this, you know."

Horatio was saved from having to think up a retort by the arrival of Combs, who announced that rooms had been prepared for them. Without a word, they picked up their hats and followed the butler up the stairs.

***

Back in the Blue Saloon, Lucy picked up her book and watched Sophie with a careful eye. It had transpired that though their guests were mere naval officers and thus not wearing scarlet coats, they had both been young and quite handsome from what Lucy could see. That was unfortunate.

"Could you see what they looked like? I couldn’t, not really," Sophie finally said, eyes fixed on her sewing, her tone almost too casual. "They appeared young, and that’s fortunate. I was half-afraid we’d have to entertain some old, fat sailor-men. That’s all I usually meet."

"You are thinking of admirals. They are the ones who go about in society. And no, they were not fat."

"All that climbing, I suppose." Sophie sighed, a dangerous noise.

"Yes," Lucy answered noncommittally. "They’ll soon be gone, anyway. And some lovely young men will be coming--"

"Poor fellows," Sophie said, sighing again. "They weren’t even wearing stick-flams."

Lucy stared at her in horror. "I swear, darling, I don’t understand half of what you say. Were you using slang again?"

"Of course not, dear Lucy! I was only commenting that the gentlemen were not wearing gloves."

"Hmph." Lucy wasn’t quite mollified. It was no wonder that army captain had thought Sophie easy prey, if she made a habit of speaking as though she’d grown up in the East End of London… But Lucy wasn’t going to think about that incident. The future was what was important. "They are probably too poor to afford them. But if your father invites them to dinner, we shall be civil to them all the same."

"Of course," agreed Sophie.

On to Part Two!