Welcome to Abbotsleigh Park!

I loved writing An Ocean of Secrets so much, I decided to write another story and continue the adventures of Mowett and Pullings on land. It sees much more Tom this time, accompanying William back to the Mowett country estate of Abbotsleigh Park for some well earned rest after the Acheron mission. Lucy, the love of Mowett's life, died on the mission, and he needs to get back home to remember what it is to be happy again. Meanwhile Pullings is very glad he accompanied his friend on this trip to the country when he meets Will's little sister Charlotte... Ahh, l'amour! The two boys have a few adventures along the way, including a stop in one of the Portsmouth taverns for...ahem...a bit of sweet sweet lovin'. Well, they are Navy, after all!

Anyway, please have a read and PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW! Don't worry - for all you Pullings fanatics (yes, I know there's lots of you), and to anyone with a soft spot for the very cuddly and awfully charming William Mowett (I know you're out there, my friends!), there is definitely more to come...

Oh, you don't really need to have read Ocean of Secrets to understand this story, so don't panic if you haven't read it. However, it is a nice little read, so why not check it out - I promise you will be glad you did! (Hmmm...you can tell I work in sales and marketing, can't you?)

Love ya's all! Huzzah for Pullings and Mowett!

Miss Flossy xxxxx

The Portsmouth docks were never known for their beauty. The accumulated filth of decades floated in the gentle current, and the stench of oil, gunpowder and rotting meat permeated the air. The cobblestone pathways were filthy, and were no doubt filthy when they were laid by equally filthy workers in some long past age. The weatherworn stones stared up at the grey April sky, while the stray cats and dogs of the town, ever present, scratched through the piles of filth which lined the narrow passageways for some tasty morsel to help them stay alive for one more day.

Along the docks sat squat, nondescript wooden buildings, each with a swinging sign outside the door to determine its position and purpose. Through grimy windows one could see scurrying sailors going about their daily business; some in accountancy, others in stores and supplies, others still in the market for weaponry, with eternally worried looks on their pale faces, mainly from a very real concern at the close range of their merchandise to their candles.

The docks were also not renown for their tranquility. They were loud, and they were frantic. Never was there a time when a sailor or marine could not be found walking the narrow passageways between buildings; some with purpose, some with a distinct sway in their step from consuming too much rum in the local taverns. Everywhere sailors went about their chores, moving their many and varied supplies both on and off their ships, with some finding a way to smuggle their own special items on board, perhaps for future trade with uneducated natives in the colonies willing to give up their gems for the tiniest of trinkets from the civilized world.

Nevertheless, there was an eerie quality about Portsmouth dock that one could never quite define. A sense of triumph, and also of despair. This was where the pride of the fleet made her way home, be it in victory, or defeat. This was where sailors by the thousand had made their way onto their ships for the very first time, finding a freedom on the high seas that they could never find on the lonely shore. This was a special place; for many, this was the place that saw their dreams fulfilled, or finally shattered as they limped their way back to port mortally wounded, or worse yet without their ship, and with full knowledge that a court marshal would soon be called to order. Yet, even with defeat came triumph, a feeling of victory, for those on land could never know the true sense of freedom, standing high on the quarterdeck, the ocean breeze all that lay between a man and the total inner peace one could find on the open sea.

It was into this bustling haven of activity, this air of naval superiority, that the HMS Surprise slowly made her way into berth. She was far from the size of some of her Royal Navy cousins, who were gently resting in the ocean tide with a majesty that near took the breath away, but nevertheless she cut a handsome figure, her sails unfurled in the gentle north west breeze, her sailors lining the decks in their finest, conscious of their proximity to a welcoming shore.

Gradually, inch by careful inch, she made her way through the masses of wood and canvas, berthing a little way from shore next to the 74 gun Zealous, which towered over her like an older sibling struggling to maintain authority over an ambitious youngster. Her anchor was lowered, and she sat, motionless, but for her gentle rocking in the Portsmouth tide.

On deck, First Officer William Mowett stood at the tiller, smiling as he surveyed the scene around him. It had been a long year, and finally he had come back to England, to celebration, to the shores of home.

Home. What a strange word it was to him, for Will's sense of home was never as others had known it. He was a Navy to the core, ever more at home on the rolling waves than in the markets and streets of Portsmouth or London, although the same could not necessarily be said for his love of Abbotsleigh Park, the stately house he had known in his youth. Nevertheless, regardless of his general dislike for land, there was something strangely appealing about the stench of the dock, the bustle of the port streets, and the array of Naval ships which seemed to fill every space in the small inlet. He knew its symbolism, and that now, after all this time, this lonely time filled with torment and heartache, he could finally step back from his duties and reflect on the events of this mission, and how they had changed his life.

As the thoughts came back to him, he slowly felt the smile leave his weatherworn features. She had been taken away, his love, his Lucy, on this mission. Her life had been snatched from her, just as their life together as lovers was in its infancy. He had loved her, loved her from a distance, for so long, and finally, when he had told her of his affection, to his joy she had reciprocated. It seemed then that nothing could ever come between them, until the Acheron battle, and the single gunshot that took her from his life forever.

Will closed his eyes. He saw her, broken and beaten, lying on the gun deck of the French frigate as she struggled with the pain. He saw her there, her face peaceful and calm, as she had gazed into his eyes for the last time. And, to his utter despair, he saw her lifeless body stitched into her hammock, sent to the bottom of the Pacific to rest in eternal peace.

It had been nearly impossible to bear, and had shattered his dreams into a million pieces. He had lost his love, and had no way of finding the truth of it inside him. It seemed that everywhere he turned, he had seen her face, and her beautiful smile warming his heart as it had done so many times before. He had, in desperation, turned to pen and paper, to write about the feeling, and what it had meant to him. Yet, though his heart composed verses by the hundreds, he could not truly express what it had meant to him to lose her. He had hoped to bury himself in his duties; elevated to First Officer after the departure of Tom Pullings who was sent to Captain the Acheron, he had been determined to put his feelings behind him, but he could not wrench the pain from his heart. The endless hours on deck had given him time; time to think, time to reflect, time to imagine what could have been, and every thought had torn at him in a way he could not describe.

It was at this time, when he could do nothing but think, that he had made his decision. He had reflected on the past, the present, and the future, and knew that he needed to find peace with those who knew him best, who could give him a reason to live again. He knew that he needed to relive the joy of his youth, and find what it really meant to be happy. He had only one choice: to go home. To go home to Abbotsleigh Park.

A voice disturbed his thoughts and he opened his eyes with a start.

"Mr Mowett, supervise the disembarkment, if you please," said Captain Aubrey, ascending the quarterdeck stairs. His hair was freshly washed and combed, and his uniform buttons, recently polished, shone in the spring sunlight.

"Of course, sir," Will replied absently. He looked at the Captain's appearance and smiled to himself. He had come to understand the Captain's ways better on this voyage, and he knew what was on Aubrey's mind as his Captain made his way to the forward deck where the doctor awaited him, ready to make their way to the shore. Will knew that Sophia, Jack's long suffering wife, would not arrive for several days, and that Aubrey was hoping to make the best of her absence with the ladies in the local taverns.

His smile broadened when he thought of Tom Pullings, and that there was little doubt that he had been firmly planted in those taverns for some time. Upon their approach to Portsmouth the Surprise had seen the Acheron, berthed near the far end of the inlet, her newly painted decks gleaming in the afternoon sun. Tom had arrived at Portsmouth a week before, offering the Acheron as a prize on behalf of Captain Aubrey. Will had little doubt that he was still in town, basking in the glory of the mission, no doubt in the arms of a pretty blonde from the Portsmouth Arms.

Or maybe even two blondes.

Will had decided long ago that Tom would be more than welcome to join him at Abbotsleigh, and he hoped to find his friend in town upon his arrival. He had thought as much when he had written his father and sister, telling him of his intention to visit them, and to bring his friend Thomas Pullings with him. The letter had been safely dispatched with the mail cutter, intercepted by the Surprise weeks before, and Will was hopeful that horses would be sent to collect him in the following days. He resolved to hunt for Tom that evening, knowing full well that as the sun was setting, the sailors were making ready to work their charms in the age old art of wenching.