Captain Bainbridge's Improprieties

Captain Horace Bainbridge was a hard man with a steely-eyed greed for power. That much was clear to Miss Mary Cartwright from the moment she laid eyes on him. His manner bore all the telltale traces of a man who had gained his fortune through personal fortitude rather than family inheritance, and who, because of the ill-fortune of his birth, must maintain himself constantly on edge to secure his status in the world. He carried his body as if his dominance must be asserted in every quotidian encounter; he dropped references to his wealth all too casually to be accidental. She saw in his eyes how he desired prestige, how it ate away at him when he addressed her father with the compulsory "Lord Cartwright." No matter how much wealth Captain Bainbridge schemed into existence, no matter how many navy battles he won or properties in the West Indies he acquisitioned, nothing could alter the commonness of his birth or insert that short but crucial syllable into his name. He would never be Lord Bainbridge.

All this Mary understood over the course of five minutes the first time she met Captain Bainbridge on the front steps of her father's estate. He was staying at the Cartwright estate for the hunting season at the invitation of Mary's elder cousin George. The two men had been friends at Cambridge, and they greeted each other with genial familiarity. To Mary and her two sisters, he offered only a stiff bow and a polite "how do you do." But as he spoke casually with George about the weather and the land, Mary thought that she could see his eyes stray deliberately to survey each of the bodies of the young women. They flicked up, then down, as if appraising, first to Mary's older sister Emily, then to Mary herself, then to her younger sister Kate. There was a possessive glint in his eyes as they consumed the ladies' bodies. Mary knew from that moment on that the purpose of Captain Bainbridge's trip had not only been his comradeship with her cousin.

That night, Emily and Kate expressed that they shared Mary's suspicions. "He must be in want of a wife," Emily mused. "How could he not be, a man of his stature, at this time in his life?"

"Yes," Mary concurred. From a purely pragmatic perspective, a romantic alliance with a Cartwright daughter would be most advantageous for the Captain. What he lacked in title might easily be ameliorated by proximity through marriage to a landed family like the Cartwrights. "A man like him," she observed, "must be eager to make the good repute of his acquaintances equal to that of his bank account." Having made this observation, she turned back to the novel she was reading: Persuasion, the newest book by Jane Austen. There were navy captains aplenty in this book, and she thought she preferred the charming, fictional Captain Wentworth to the real Captain Bainbridge.

"Is it true, do you think?" Kate piped in. "His fortune?"

"Oh yes, indubitably," said Emily authoritatively. "There is a good deal of money to be made in the business of war."

"Well, his looks certainly leave nothing to be desired either," Kate giggled. "I would let him have me if he would have me."

"Don't be rash, Kate," Emily admonished. "Good looks are no indication of good breeding."

Emily and Kate exchanged their guesses about which sister had likely caught Captain Bainbridge's attention. Emily thought that he would be most pleased with Kate's good looks, Kate being universally acknowledged to be the prettiest sister. Kate surmised Emily's superior accomplishments would attract the captain's favor-her skill at the piano, her knowledge of eminent poets and moralists of the day. Kate was quite unabashed in acknowledging her own beauty, but she professed earnestly that for a man in Captain Bainbridge's position, Emily was by far the more suitable match.

It did not occur to Emily or Kate that Mary might be the captain's first choice. It did not occur to Mary either. Mary was used to being the most unassuming of her sisters. Neither as beautiful as her younger sister nor as accomplished as her elder sister (although certainly not impoverished in either department), she faded easily into the background. Mary did not possess the full-figured freshness of her sister Kate; her skin did not glow as her sister's did; her lips did not pout in welcoming excess. Nevertheless, she was beautiful in her own way. Hers was a fragile beauty, thin and pale, and easy to miss unless one looked for it closely. Mary knew this. She had no bashful reserve in her self-appraisal, no false modesty to make her reproach herself for the comparative plainness of her figure. Yet one must be pragmatic, and she guessed that Captain Bainbridge, with his quick, effient appraisal of the ladies, would not deign to look closely enough at her to see her beauty.

"Mr. Cartwright says that Captain Bainbridge has rented a manor house in Dorset," Emily was saying, "quite near the coast, I believe."

"Oh, that would be a beautiful part of the country to live in, would it not?" Kate responded. "And it is but a short trip from here." A thought occurred to Kate. "Would he be gone at sea often?"

"I imagine so. Such is the trouble with marrying a navy man."

Mary looked up from her book. She felt the need to interject in her sisters' speculations. "Will he be kind?" She asked. The question was rhetorical, and when neither sister answered, she continued. "Will he be affectionate? These questions ought to be capital considerations."

"That goes without saying," Emily responded brusquely.

"I do not believe so. This man's breeding aside, his character bears thorough examination. Look closely at his manner the next time you see him, for all manner of ill will may hide behind a pretty face and a large fortune."

***

Mary had several chances over the coming weeks to observe Captain Bainbridge's manner. The captain spent his first evening with the family playing cards with cousin George, Lord Cartwright, and the ladies. It was a casual gathering, but for the occasional formalities. Emily was entreated to play the piano, and Kate was invited to sing. Captain Bainbridge was the epitome of politeness. He praised the ladies' music with eloquent grace; he asked the correct questions of Lord and Lady Cartwright; he referenced the correct moralists and made observations informed enough to be clever but benign enough to avoid controversy. He was, indeed, nothing but politeness. There were no slippages in his manner. Even the breaths he took seemed to coexist within the script of propriety that he acted with uncanny virtuosity. This very perfection was a defect in itself, Mary thought to herself. She smelled a hint of desperation that lingered at the edge of Captain Bainbridge's punctilious manners-a desperate drive to be recognized as equal in the Cartwright family's eyes, and a fear that he never would be.

"Will Miss Mary play?" Captain Bainbridge asked as the evening wore on. "I would consider myself very lucky to enjoy the pleasure of each lady's talents."

Mary ducked her head. "I will play, sir, but only if you will forgive the imperfections of an untrained hand."

Mary said the preceding statement thoughtlessly, with only an eye to the obligatory self-deprecation that was called for by the unspoken rules of politeness, but the effect it had on the captain was unexpected. For the first time, he acted in such a way that seemed to exceed the script of propriety. He leaned closer to her and said in a serious tone, "I should like nothing more. Please, Miss Mary. Play for me."

Mary was taken aback. "Yes, sir. If you insist."

Mary stood up and walked to the piano. The captain followed her. Mary rifled through the sheet music on the piano, chose a simple waltz, and began to play. She tried to concentrate on her fingers as they plucked the notes out of the page, but she could feel Captain Bainbridge's hand on her shoulder and his eyes on her hands. The attention made her second guess herself, and her fingers tripped over themselves. Almost imperceptibly, she felt the captain's hand tighten on her shoulder. It was a soft discipline, subtle but persistent. Mary hesitated, then began again at the beginning of the piece. Again, her fingers failed her. She could not communicate with them quickly enough to produce music, not under Captain Bainbridge's scrutiny. As she fumbled over the notes, she felt the persistent presence of the captain's hand on her shoulder, its pressure increasing noticeably each time she played a wrong note.

Finally, Mary gave up. "I apologize," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "My nerves..." She trailed off.

But Captain Bainbridge would not have her give up so easily. His grasp on her shoulder was unrelenting. "Try again," he said with utter conviction and authority. It had not been a request; it had been an order. Mary felt her pulse race as the captain looked at her expectantly. She experienced it fully now-Captain Bainbridge's inviolable will in its most raw, unmediated form. That same strength of spirit that had brought him fortune on the seas was now directed absolutely at Mary as she sat at the piano, baffled by the piece of music before her. There was nothing for it. Under his grip, beneath his gaze, Mary yielded for him. She tamed the shaking in her hands and made one last attempt at the piece, more slowly this time. She focused all her energy on the sheet music before her, and this time, through sheer force of will (whether her own will or Captain Bainbridge's she did not know), she was able to make her fingers obey her thoughts. There was perhaps very little musical about Mary's playing, but she played each note in time without error. The task was, mercifully, complete.

Captain Bainbridge's hand released its grip. "Thank you," he said. Once again, Mary had the distinct impression that this thanks was not only a formality but a genuine expression of gratitude. Mary was left baffled as the captain helped her to stand and walked back with her to the table. He did not address her directly for the rest of the evening. But from then on, Mary felt the captain's eyes stray toward her figure more often than they had before. She felt herself being watched with more purpose, as if the captain had an objective to his spectatorship, a piece of evidence to ascertain by looking.

Lying in bed that night, Mary analyzed the events of the evening. It had not been the quality of her playing that attracted Captain Bainbridge's attention. That much was clear. He had, indeed, been much more invested in Mary's plodding waltz than in the impressive Mozart sonata that Emily had conjured effortlessly out of the pianoforte. It seemed to Mary that it was precisely her lack of virtuosity that had aroused his interest. His hand had tightened in anticipation in the very moments when she had made mistakes, when the flaws in her performance had been the most exposed. Perhaps Captain Bainbridge was attracted to the idea of an untrained woman. A woman he could tame as he tamed the colonies he conquered overseas, raw and malleable. Mary was pleased with this interpretation. It fit with the image she had constructed of Captain Bainbridge; it corresponded to the hardness she had attributed to his manner from the moment she met him. His hard character was in want of a soft counterpoint; his unyielding will required a persuadable temperament to compliment it. Such an attraction was only natural.

Mary, however, was not sure that she was, or that she wanted to be, that yielding creature of Captain Bainbridge's desires. She had let him influence her earlier that night; she had been obedient and obliging in every manner the dictates of comportment required. But she was, despite her outward modesties, an individual. The substance of her spirit was solid, even if her temperament projected malleability. She would not-she could not-submit to the captain's totalizing designs.

And yet she could not say that she was entirely unmoved by Captain Bainbridge's display of authority, however suspicious she was of his character. She thought about the feeling of the young captain's hand on her shoulder. She felt it rest there, steadying her, guiding her. For a fleeting moment, she let herself revel in the thrill of willlessness. To dissolve her own desires into Captain Bainbridge's fortified will, to yield for him, to let him penetrate not only her physical body but her wordly agency, had a momentary appeal. It was no more than an idle fantasy in the safe confines of her dark bedroom, but it sent a warmth through her body, an itch of possibility.

***

The next day, Kate, ever the restless of the sisters, insisted that Captain Bainbridge and Cousin George accompany the sisters on a long walk. The countryside around the Cartwright estate was beautiful in late summer, she opined, and the fresh air would do all of them a world of good. Mr. Cartwright said that he was inclined to agree, Emily assented as well, and Mary resigned herself to a day's walking. "It would be a pleasure," Captain Bainbridge responded last of all. The party set off after a hearty breakfast and made their way down the path that led up to the village.

"You must see the Cathedral at Wells, Captain Bainbridge," Emily intoned. "It is truly one of the gothic wonders of England."

"I'd be delighted, Miss Cartwright"

The party made their way over the hills and copses of the countryside at an uneven pace. Kate, always in her best element under the summer sun, walked ahead of everyone else, the exertion coloring her cheeks and giving her that indelible freshness that was so universally admired. Emily and George walked at a more appropriate pace several yards behind. Mary lagged behind her sisters, out of breath from the exercise. It was on these walks that the weakness of her body always betrayed her. The exercise that made Kate glow so healthily made Mary look all the more feeble by comparison. Captain Bainbridge, however, did not seem to mind. He walked alongside Mary, matching her pace.

"Do you walk these hills often, Miss Cartwright?" He asked, conversationally.

"Not quite as often as my sisters, I am afraid," Mary admitted.

"You are of a more delicate constitution," Captain Bainbrige observed. Seeming momentarily overtaken by a burst of poetic inspiration, he continued, "Like a spring flower with a slender stem." Then he ducked his head, evidently embarrassed by the attempt at figurative language.

"Are you much of a poet, sir?" Mary asked.

"No, I don't have much time for poetry. Not in my trade." They had come to a fence along the path. The captain lifted Mary over the style, setting her gently back on her feet on the other side. It was an easy, effortless movement, like picking a flower. His hands were steady, and her body yielded under them, softening at his touch. A slender-stemmed flower indeed, Mary thought. How easily he can pluck me from the ground and set me down again! He had not needed to do it. She could have easily climbed over the style herself. Captain Bainbridge, it was clear, had wanted an excuse to show his strength.

When at last Mary admitted that she could go no further, the pleasure in Captain Bainbridge's eyes was unmistakable. "Rest a while with me here," he suggested. "I will walk you home, and your cousin may walk with your sisters to the cathedral."

Mary assented, although not without reserve. Captain Bainbidge's eagerness made her wary. The two sat down on a low stone wall, several feet apart from each other. The captain made small talk about the weather and the beauty of the countryside, and Mary answered with the obligatory agreements. Yes, the weather was very fine today; yes, how peaceful the rolling hills looked in the summer. Presently, the two fell into silence.

Mary decided that she would like to probe further into Captain Bainbridge's character. "You have been a paragon of politeness these past few days," she began. "It does make me wonder, however, who Captain Bainbridge is when he is not being polite."

"Would you prefer me to be cruder in my manner?" The captain laughed.

"I admit, I might find you easier to read if that were the case."

Captain Bainbridge grinned. "As it is, I am something of a mystery to you, is that right?"

Mary stared him down. "Not entirely," she said coolly. His face registered a hint of surprise. Mary continued, "I have noticed more about you, sir, than you may realize."

"Such as?"

"How much you want to be a gentleman. How much you need it to be recognized, to be realized."

Captain Bainbridge was silent. He pursed his lips and looked down at the grass. Mary could tell that her statement had struck a sensitive chord with him. "And what if I do?" He said in a low voice. "I am not a gentleman by birth, that much I admit freely. Is it such a terrible breach to aspire to gentlemanly conduct?"

"No," Mary said. "Not exactly. But I do wonder what other Captain Bainbridges there might be, hidden underneath the niceties. What improprieties might lurk behind your careful designs."

Captain Bainbridge paused, considering. "You'd like to know my improprieties?"

"I want to see the moment when your guise slips," Mary said simply.

He smiled to himself. "Maybe someday I'll show you."

***

Captain Bainbridge was true to his word. A week after his arrival, he broke entirely with the script of politeness-abruptly and indecently.

Mary was preparing for bed. She was half undressed, her hair was let loose over her shoulders, and the servant had just left the room. She was reading Persuasion. It was the peak of the drama of the novel, in which Anne Elliot learns of Mr. Elliot's true character, and she was thoroughly engrossed. So engrossed, in fact, that the rapping on the window gave her a start. She jerked her head up and looked around wildly. There, through the window pane, his face almost obscured in the night, she saw Captain Bainbridge. He had evidently climbed along the slim balcony from his bedroom to hers, and he pressed his face against the window, smiling.

Mary's first thought was to ring the bell for the servant, to run away from the room before Captain Bainbridge could let himself in. But something inside her suppressed the action. Was it curiosity? Excitement? Lust? Whatever the explanation, Mary stayed rooted to the spot as Captain Bainridge let himself in through the window. The captain tiptoed toward her, stood a polite distance away, then addressed her.

"If I am intruding, say the word, and I will leave now," he began hastily.

Mary was not sure how to respond, not sure what he wanted from her, nor what she wanted from him. So she simply exclaimed in a frightened whisper, "You are in my bedroom!" Her hands went up to her hair, as if to tuck it away, to pin up so that it would not dangle so sensuously around her shoulders.

"Yes, but please, I do not mean to..." Captain Bainbridge trailed off, taking another step back from her and lowering his eyes. He took a deep breath, looked up at Mary, and began again. "You said to me you wanted to see me in all my improprieties," he began. "Well, here I am. Without politeness, reserve, or facade. I lay my vices at your feet, and I entreat you to know me better." He said the words as if he had been rehearsing them, but Mary had the impression that they were sincere. His evident anxiety as he said them showed her that this was not another one of his disguises.

"Know you better, sir?" She probed.

"Come with me down the drainpipe," he implored. "I can show you my improprieties, and you can show me yours."

Mary knew full well the danger that Captain Bainbridge's proposition posed to her. Her reputation, her morality, her future marriage prospects-her acquiescence to his request placed it all in jeopardy. She did not know the script for this interaction. A midnight sojourn with a man was so unthinkable as to be unmentionable in the books she read. Anne Elliot would never have done it in Persuasion, nor would Lizzie Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. But Mary was not Anne Elliot with her pantheon of incorruptible feminine virtues; she was not Lizzie Bennet with her unshakeable good sense. She was flesh and blood. She was weak to her own desires. And so she said yes, despite all her better judgment to the contrary. In doing so, she stepped out of the script of propriety into unknown and uncharted territory.