On a Lee Shore
Authors: Elin Gregory
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Alike as Two Bees
On A Lee Shore
Elin Gregory
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EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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Etopia Press
1643 Warwick Ave., #124
Warwick, RI 02889
On A Lee Shore
Copyright © 2012 by Elin Gregory
ISBN: 978-1-939194-44-2
Edited by Jennifer Fitzpatrick
Cover by Mina Carter
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: December 2012
Chapter One
It was later than he would have liked when Kit Penrose stepped from the doors of the coffee house. His good friend Tristan had paused to bow to a gentleman in a full-bottomed wig, and Kit could have gone on alone, but Tristan had insisted he needed to take Kit’s arm. He had said it was due to the love he bore him, but Kit believed it was because he was having problems with those absurd shoes. Kit stepped aside from the door to wait for his friend and adjusted the set of his hat, his reflection rippling in the uneven glass of the windowpanes. A gentleman inside rapped on the window and gestured to the pamphlet that, his angry flapping indicated, he had been attempting to read until Kit had wantonly stolen his light. Kit made an apologetic leg and took a stance on the other side of the door. The sky was clear, which was a boon, but the March wind cut to the bone.
“Ah, there you are!” Tristan set his three-cornered hat on his glossy curls and tucked his hand into Kit’s elbow. “Good man, good man. Dear Lord, as you love me, Kit, smaller strides.”
“If the shoes hurt why are you wearing them?” Kit asked, moderating his pace. “They make you walk like an old duchess with corns.”
Tristan snorted. “Fashion, dear boy. If one wants to do well at work it’s best to look as though one has no financial worries. As long as they all think I’m being very good at what I do on a whim, they’ll keep promoting me to try to pique my interest.”
“Bloody silly reason for promotion,” Kit growled, and Tristan gave his arm an affectionate squeeze.
“Maybe you should try it?” he suggested. “You look like a Quaker. That’s not going to give them any faith in your fighting spirit, now is it?”
Kit glanced at Tristan’s tightly curled wig, his exquisitely fitted coat, the riot of embroidery on his waistcoat, those ridiculous shoes whose heels brought Tristan up to equal Kit’s height. Kit own attire, mostly shades of sensible hard-wearing brown, including his own naturally curly hair, did look penny-pinched in comparison.
“Perhaps not,” he said, “but I don’t look like someone who might wage war over a hole in my stocking. Since when have curls down to the waist and cuffs up to the elbows been a fighting man’s costume?”
“Lieutenant Penrose!” Tristan feigned offence and slapped the hilt of his small sword. They had been good friends since childhood and today, Kit saw with a grin, Tristan decided to let Kit live.
“What time is your appointment?” Tristan asked.
“Eleven o’clock,” Kit said, his grin fading.
Tristan nodded. “Then we must hurry. So—what plans have you made if they won’t give you a berth? East India Company? Muscovy Company? You could marry my sister.”
The last had been added because, Kit supposed, too much of what he was feeling showed on his face. At present, with England at peace, even naval officers with no whiff of scandal attached to their names were having a time of it to find a ship to take them. Kit, with a big question mark over his fitness to command, his health, and an unpleasantly sensational court martial in his recent past, knew he would be pressed to find a place in a rowboat. It was an unhappy thought, so he put it from his mind and gave a bark of laughter.
“Your sister is married, you fool, and you’d best get used to the idea, even if he is a bit of a stick.”
“My brother?” Tristan suggested. When Kit didn’t reply, he gave his arm another squeeze and added, “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”
“Under the circumstances, yes it was.” Kit scowled as he stepped over a particularly large pile of horse turds. Maybe it was symbolic. There was something very turd-like about his situation.
The silence lengthened until it seemed more embarrassing to break it than to let it continue. They didn’t speak again until they reached the entrance of the Navy Office and had to take their leave.
“Tonight, Dog Tavern, by Billingsgate,” Tristan said. “We’ll celebrate or drown our sorrows.”
Kit nodded. “Wish me luck?”
“With all my heart,” Tristan said then turned to go to his office, which Kit supposed would be as well turned out and carefree as he was. Kit, on the other hand, went to wait on a hard bench in a draughty corridor.
It was a busy place. Kit normally enjoyed the spectacle of the thronged corridors. The whole of the Navy would be represented if he stayed there for long enough. Tiny Letter boys in overlarge uniform coats, so new that the folds had not yet dropped out of the cloth, would draw aside and stare in awe as the admirals, glittering with orders, strode past. And the officers—tall, short, willowy, or broad, some handsome, some merely healthy and hearty—would nod a greeting. Some would smile, ask for news of friends or ships, or suggest a meeting at this alehouse or that to continue conversation.
That had been before Malvern and disgrace. Now Kit sat with his hat on his knees, his feet drawn in, and reviewed as dispassionately as possible all the jobs for which he might be qualified and how likely he would be to get one.
“Penrose, isn’t it?”
Kit looked up, wondering if it was his turn. The young man was smartly dressed, but without Tristan’s extravagance, and his smile was broad and cheerful. There was something familiar about him, so Kit returned the smile as he stood. “Yes. Lieutenant Christopher Penrose at your service.”
The other man raised an eyebrow. “Penrose—of the Malvern? I thought as much.”
Aware that he was being baited, Kit gritted his teeth. “I do not believe I have your name, sir,” he said.
“Captain Thomas Wells.”
“Wells?” Kit’s heart sank. He remembered Wells from the Windsor—a Letter boy a year or two older always ready with a scathing remark or his fists if words didn’t seem to have hurt enough. They had served together for a month and that had been long enough. However, bad memories of the past did not excuse bad manners in the present. “Congratulations on your promotion,” Kit added with a little bow.
“Virtue rewarded,” Wells said. “The Navy recognizes true talent when it sees it. Was it as bad on the Malvern as rumor has it?”
He paused to allow a clerk to scurry past before taking half a step closer to look down at Kit. He was tall, obviously well versed in intimidating underlings, and his smirk was an insult in itself.
“If you would be so good as to answer my question, Penrose. I have never served under such a captain and would be pleased to benefit from your experience and learn how to avoid it.”
There had been an emphasis there that Kit couldn’t ignore, and he drew breath to reply—probably in a regrettable way—but another voice cut through the hubbub in the corridor.
“Penrose! What are you about, sir? Eleven of the clock I said and eleven of the clock I meant. It is now two minutes past, sir.”
The door to an office stood open and there was the clerk, partially eclipsed by the familiar bulk of Sir William Tregarne. “Get yourself inside, Penrose,” Sir William said, cutting off Kit’s apology. “Wells—I have no time to see you today. Same time tomorrow.”
Kit and Captain Wells exchanged looks that promised a further, less friendly meeting. Kit nodded a curt farewell and marched along to the admiral’s office. As the door closed behind him, the clock struck eleven. Admiral Tregarne snorted and pointed to a chair then lurched toward his own, cane and peg leg clicking on the polished wooden floor.
