A Marriage of Attachment: a sequel to A Contrary Wind (Mansfield Trilogy Book 2)

changed, to impel her to break her silence? Mary always has a motive for her actions.”
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At sea, off the African coast
March, 1811
Lt. William Price to William Gibson
Dear Friend:
We shall put in at Freetown in a few days, and I rely upon finding a letter or two from you waiting for me there. I hope to read news of your book—perhaps it is published by now. Captain Columbine desires to be remembered to you and he, too, is looking forward to reading your narrative.
I am not with the Captain at present, for I am currently in command of a captured slaver, the Volcano, which we boarded about a fortnight ago, with 300 Negroes packed aboard, in the usual miserable conditions, and a Spanish captain and crew.
Captain Columbine put me in charge of the prize crew—you will remember how envious I was of the other lieutenants who were given this distinction—and we set out for Sierra Leone and the Admiralty Court.
As the brig was very heavy laden with its human cargo, we set about jettisoning surplus supplies (for, of course, the ship was no longer going to make the Atlantic crossing), spare sails, and everything we thought we could do without, to speed the journey. All of the cursed manacles and branding irons were tossed overboard, with the greatest satisfaction and cheers from the crew!
I wanted to keep a few of the manacles to lock up the slave-ship captain and his crew, so they could feel all the torments they subject the Africans to, but it is not permitted. We stowed the captives in the wardroom under the guard of a few Marines—but this proved to be an error.
A few days out from Freetown, I was in my cabin, updating the log book, when the door slammed open and there stood Midshipman Castle, very agitated, telling me that when the cabin boy had brought victuals to the prisoners, they overpowered their guards and seized their weapons—the lad had barely time to form a single intelligible sentence when, to my horror, I saw a bayonet emerge through his chest—blood spurted from his mouth— he slid to the ground, and there stood one of the escaped Spaniards pulling out the blade and preparing to come at me.
I jumped to my feet—I picked up my little round table and used it as a shield, as he came at me with the bayonet, and in the small quarters of the cabin, he was unable to get at me, as the table effectually blocked his way, but I was equally unable to draw my sword. We struggled, on top of poor Castle’s body; until I managed to pin the Spaniard against the wall, pressing with all my strength, wrest the bayonet from him, and turn that same weapon on him.
I then ran out to the deck with my sword in hand. I saw two of our sailors hanging dead in the rigging, killed, as I later learned, by musket balls, while the rest of my prize crew, recovering from the initial surprise, were mounting a spirited counter-attack. I joined in the fight, but we were outnumbered three to one and the outcome might have been in some doubt, had not our cook, an African of the Kru tribe, flung open the grate and allowed the captive Africans to come swarming up on the deck. More than one of the Spaniards jumped overboard rather than face the vengeance of the persons whom they had recently abducted from their native country.
Thankfully, this decisively turned the tide in our favour, without further loss of life to my remaining crew. As it is, I lost half of what I had—the two marines, the midshipman (only fourteen years of age), and two sailors. Their loss grieves me. When I close my eyes, I can see poor Castle’s face and the surprise in his eyes when the killing thrust pierced his body. So, Gibson, I don’t close my eyes! We are all working double shifts at any rate. Writing to you has provided some relief to my feelings.
I thought this incident would be of interest to you, but have refrained from sending the same particulars in my letter to Fanny, as I don’t want to alarm her, or anyone else who is anxious about me. If you see my sister when you return to London, please don’t mention this note from,
Your friend,
William Price
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Mrs. Butters’ carriage, driven by her laconic coachman, Donald McIntosh, conveyed Fanny and Madame Orly to the academy every morning by nine o’clock. Madame Orly enlivened the store on the ground floor—the voluble Frenchwoman darted swiftly around the more stolid Blodgett clan, expressing her delight or her abhorrence for the various fabrics and ribbons and laces under consideration by the customers. Spending half of her time as a lady’s maid to Mrs. Butters and half in the shop was very agreeable to her, for Mrs. Butters wanted very little in the way of fashionable primping, and, while at the shop, Madame Orly could enjoy sugar in her tea—for sugar, made as it was by slaves, was forbidden at Mrs. Butters’ house.
Fanny’s realm was upstairs in the classroom, where her students practised their skills; acquiring the discipline to make perfectly regular and minute straight stitches, or learning how to decorate fabric with ribbon and beads, while a few senior girls worked at the embroidery frames, making simple designs with silver thread upon white muslin bands, which would be sewn on to hems and bodices. In time, the girls would be allowed to try their hands at birds, and leaves and vines and more elaborate needlework.
Fanny found her new charges to be both exasperating and endearing. Her pupils were cynical and sentimental and superstitious by turns, easily moved to the wildest effusions of happiness and sorrow. She did not