The Surgeon’s Mate. Patrick O’Brian

not much given to righteous indignation his angry mind thought of her dancing away, never setting pen to paper, when, for all she knew, he was languishing, a prisoner of war in America, wounded, sick, and penniless. She had always been a wretched correspondent, but never until now a heartless one.

      Colonel Aldington reached Diana. He gave Stephen a surprised, disapproving glance, and then, changing his expression entirely as he turned to her he said, ‘You will not remember me, Mrs Villiers – Aldington, a friend of Edward Pitt’s. I had the honour of taking you in to dinner at Hertford House, and we danced together at Almack’s. May I beseech you to favour me tonight?’ As he spoke he gazed now at her face, now at her diamonds: and then with even more respect than before, at her face again.

      ‘Désolée, Colonel,’ she said, ‘I am already engaged to Dr Maturin, and then I believe, to the Admiral and the officers of the Shannon.’ He was not a well-bred man: at first he did not seem to understand what she said, and then he did not know how to come off handsomely, so she added, ‘But if you would fetch me an ice, for old times’ sake, I should be most eternally obliged.’

      Before the soldier could come back the music had begun. The long line formed, and the Admiral opened the ball with the prettiest bride in Halifax, a sweet little fair-haired creature of seventeen with huge blue eyes so full of delight and health and happiness that people smiled as she came down the middle, skipping high.

      ‘I would not have danced with that man for the world,’ said Diana while she and Stephen were waiting for their turn. ‘He is a middle-aged puppy, what people used to call a coxcomb, and the worst gossip I know. There: he has found a partner. Miss Smith. I hope she likes ill-natured tattle.’ Stephen glanced round and saw the Colonel taking his place with a tall young woman in red. She was rather thin, but she had a splendid bosom and a fashionable air, and her face, though neither strictly beautiful nor even pretty, was extremely animated – dark hair, fine dark eyes, and a rosy glow of excitement. ‘Her dress is rather outré and she uses altogether too much paint, but she seems to be enjoying herself. Stephen, this is going to be a lovely ball. Do you like my lutestring?’

      ‘It becomes you very well indeed; and the black band about your thorax is a stroke of genius.’

      ‘I was sure you would notice that. It came to me at the very last moment; that is why I was so late.’

      Their turn came and they went through the formal evolutions required by the dance, Diana with her customary heart-moving grace, Stephen adequately at least; and when they came together again she said, above the ground-swell of countless voices and the singing of the band, ‘Stephen, you dance quite beautifully. How happy I am.’ She was flushed with the exercise and the warmth of the room, perhaps with the glory of her jewels and the excellence of her dress, certainly with the general heady atmosphere, the intoxication of victory: yet he knew her very well and it seemed to him that at no great depth beneath the happiness there was the possibility of an entirely different kind of feeling.

      They were moving up the dance again when Stephen noticed Major Beck’s assistant, talking to the Admiral’s aide-de-camp, and to his astonishment he saw that the ugly little man was drunk already. His face was irregularly blotched with red, a red that clashed sadly with his uniform, and he was swaying: his bulging watery eyes rested on Stephen for a moment, and then moved on to dwell on Diana: he licked his lips.

      ‘Everybody seems wonderfully happy,’ said Diana. ‘Everybody except poor Jack. There he is, standing by that pillar, looking like the Last Judgment.’

      But more evolutions were called for at this point, and by the time they and the dance were over, Jack had abandoned his post. They walked off companionably together and sat on a love-seat near the door, where the pleasantly warm, sea-smelling air wafted in upon them.

      Jack had moved to a long table spread with bottles and glasses, not much frequented yet. Having drunk a certain amount of champagne he said, ‘That’s very well. But I tell you what, Bullock, just you mix me a glass of bosun’s grog, will you?’

      ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said Bullock, ‘a glass of grog it is. What you want, sir, is something with a bite in it: a man can blow himself out like a cow in grass with that poor thin fizzy stuff.’

      There was certainly a bite in Bullock’s mixture, and Jack wandered off with fire spreading through his middle parts. He spoke to a few officers through the din, putting on a proper smiling party face as he did so, and came to a halt near the band. It was quieter here, and he clearly distinguished the slightly too sharp A that a fat musician was giving his companions to tune their instruments: it was long since he had had a fiddle under his chin, he reflected, and he was wondering how nimble the fingers of his wounded arm would prove to be when he heard a clear voice behind him say – ‘Who is that very handsome man over there by the window?’ He looked towards the window, but there were only two gangling spotted midshipmen, too big for their uniforms, giggling together; and then, when the voice said ‘No, nearer to the band,’ he realized with a shock that it might be referring to him.

      This was instantly confirmed by Lady Harriet’s more discreet but still audible ‘That is Captain Aubrey, my dear, one of our best frigate captains. Should you like me to introduce him?’

      ‘Oh yes, if you please. He was on board the Shannon, was he not?’

      At this point a stream of people passed between them in a persevering struggle to reach the sorbets that had just appeared, and Jack studied the band attentively. He was a handsome man, but no one had ever told him so and he was unaware of the fact; now he was delighted, frankly delighted to hear the news – charmed to learn that anyone could find him good-looking. He was handsome, that is to say, in the eyes of those who did not look for the bloom or the slenderness of youth, who admired a big broad-shouldered man with a high complexion, bright blue eyes and yellow hair, and who did not object to a face that had the mark of a cutlass-slash from one ear right across the cheek-bone and another scar, this one from a splinter, along the line of the jaw to the other ear. It was clear that Miss Smith did not, for when he turned and the introduction was made, she looked at him with an eager admiration that would have satisfied the vainest soul. He was strongly prejudiced in her favour; he returned her look with a particularly attentive, complaisant deference; and in fact he saw a fine lively young woman, brimming with spirits, quite to his taste – he particularly noticed her bosom.

      He at once asked her for this dance and the next, and when, half way through the second, she said, ‘Is not this a splendid ball?’ he replied, ‘The best I have ever known,’ with real conviction.

      The atmosphere was no longer oppressive; the noise was not the mindless cackle of fools but the reasonable gaiety of a very agreeable set of people celebrating a victory – and such a victory! The full glory of it came to him again with an ever greater force. A remarkably good band, too: their phrasing of the minuet was uncommon pretty. And his partner danced well; he loved a spirited partner who could dance and enjoy it. A splendid ball.

      There was only one cloud in their evening, and that was when Miss Smith, pointing out Diana and Stephen, asked, ‘Who is she, in the blue dress and magnificent diamonds?’

      ‘She is Diana Villiers, my wife’s cousin.’

      ‘And who is the little man dancing with her? He seems very particular – they have danced together several times already. And what is his uniform? I do not recognize it.’

      ‘That is a naval surgeon’s coat, but he must have forgotten the regulation breeches. He is Dr Maturin, and they are engaged to be married.’

      ‘But surely,’ she cried, ‘surely such a fine woman cannot throw herself away on a mere surgeon?’

      In a decided voice, but not unkindly, he said, ‘No woman that I have ever met could throw herself away on Stephen Maturin. We have sailed together for years – we are very close friends – and I value him extremely.’

      As he finished they had to dance up to the head of the line, holding hands. She gave his a firm pressure, and when they were in their places she said, ‘I am sure you are right. I am sure there is much more in him than meets the eye. Naval surgeons