Once Upon a Christmas Past

by Regan Walker

  He headed toward the waterfront, hoping to hear of ships that might be sailing in the next few weeks. On the street called Horner’s Wynd, he entered The Lorne Tavern.

  Relieved to see a smattering of men dressed as sailors and a few fishermen in the blue knitted shirts they favored, he claimed the one free stool at the wooden bar. As he waited for the proprietor, he stared at the painting of a ship hanging on the wall facing him.

  A fully rigged black-hulled schooner. He could just make out the name Panmure on the starboard bow.

  “Ye ken somethin’ of ships, do ye?” the proprietor asked, coming to take his order. The burly man’s curly gray hair and muscular arms reminded Robbie of a ship’s carpenter he once knew.

  “Aye, a wee bit,” Robbie replied, pulling off his cap. “Sailed a few times.”

  “What ye efter?”

  Hoping the inquiry spoke to the drink Robbie wanted, he grunted. “Ale.”

  The burly man nodded. “Ye’re a stranger in toun. Visitin’?”

  “Aye, fer Hogmanay. I’ve a mate up at Stephen’s shipyard.” He spoke truth but the proprietor did not need to know his “mate” was the shipyard’s owner.

  “Some guid men work fer that yard.”

  Robbie attempted a grunt of agreement, relieved the man did not ask for a name.

  The proprietor poured the ale, then looked over his shoulder at the ship. “That’d be the Panmure, built right ’ere in Arbroath by Alex Fernie. Named fer the Earl of Panmure, who lost his title efter the Fifteen. She’s in the harbor now if’n ye want tae get a look at ’er. She sails fer France end of the month.”

  “She’s a bonnie ship.” Robbie speculated this could be the ship on which George Kinloch intended to sail were he holed up in Arbroath and looking for escape. “She tak’ passengers?”

  “’Tis a merchantman, but, aye, sometimes the master’ll tak’ a few. Lookin’ tae sail south?”

  “Mebbe.” Robbie downed the rest of his ale.

  “Cap’n Gower’s a former mate o’ mine,” he offered. “Ye might ask if’n he has room in the crew’s quarters.”

  Robbie made a mental note of the shipmaster’s name, thanked the proprietor and, with as few words as possible, indicated he might return in a day or two.

  Anxious to see the Panmure for himself, Robbie tugged his cap down on his head and launched into the cold wind blowing onshore. He set a brisk pace as he strode to the quay, setting in his mind the two taverns he’d visited, the men he’d encountered and conversations he’d had so he could report all to Nash. To act for each other, they had to possess the same information.

  Several ships were in the harbor. He had passed them before without much notice since his focus had been on the taverns. Now he carefully scrutinized them.

  The three-masted Panmure, the largest, was tied up at her moorings, her sails harbor-furled, rolled up tight and tidy as he would expect in a squared-away ship. The few sailors on deck stood out of the wind in huddled conversation, not busy with repairs or loading. The ship would not be sailing anytime soon. Most of the crew were likely in town or with their families.

  Taking the gangway in a few long strides, he looked to the officer of the watch. “Cap’n Gower around?”

  “No, he’s gone into town, but he should return tonight.”

  Robbie couldn’t wait that long. The noon meal might be in process at the Stephens and he intended to return for the afternoon. “I dinna suppose Cap’n Gower takes passengers?”

  “Aye, he does, but the passenger cabins have been booked for the next sailin’.” He lifted his gaze to the ships lined up at the quay. “You might try one of the others in the harbor.”

  Robbie tipped his cap. “Much obliged.”

  As he headed back to Stephen’s shipyard, he wondered if the cabins were reserved for George Kinloch and whoever might be traveling with him. The coincidence of the ship’s destination and Kinloch’s former association with that country were too great to ignore.

  Chapter 6

  Breakfast with Nash Powell turned out to be an amusing experience for Ailie. She had gone to her room to change her gown and, when she entered the dining room, she found him standing in front of the sideboard, staring at the dishes offered.

  “Confused?”

  He scratched his head, holding his empty plate. “A bit. I scarce know where to begin.”

  She looked around. “They’ve left you all alone?”

  “The countess and Emily were leaving just as I was coming in. They told me Kit, Tara and Mary ate early with their husbands before they left for the geese hunt.”

  Ailie watched Nash pile eggs, biscuits and butter onto his plate, turning up his nose at the more Scottish fare.

  He pointed to a pale substance in a round dish. “Do you actually eat that?”

  She resisted a laugh. “’Tis gruitheam, or to the uninitiated Englishman like yerself, curds and butter. And, aye, we do.” She spread some on a girdle scone and placed it next to the strong-smelling cheese she had just added to her plate.

  Drawing his attention to the triangular scones, she said, “Don’t you want to try a scone?”

  “Those are scones? They seem a bit… flat.”

  “Do not be insulting Martha’s girdle scones or she will be denying you supper. Try one.”

  “Very well, because you asked,” he said with a brilliant smile, looking very much like his twin. She didn’t have to ask if he was Nash since he wore the same coat he’d had on when she’d encountered him in the orangery.

  Ignoring the curds mixture, he added a scone to his plate and carried it to the table. With a few adds to her own plate, she took the seat across from him.

  He picked up a scone and lathered it with marmalade and butter. “I will content myself with this, a biscuit and the eggs.” He looked at her with a hopeful expression. “I don’t suppose there is bacon?”

  She chuckled. “We Scots do not favor pork as do the English. Did ye nae ken the Scots call the English ‘pork-eaters’?

  “What?”

  Ailie gave him a sidelong glance. “You need take no offense. ’Tis just one of those curious things, like the French calling the English ‘rosbifs’. Some Scots do raise pigs, but most often they send the carcasses to Aberdeen where they are salted for export.” She went to the sideboard to bring a dish to the table and placed it before him. “Don’t you want to try the smoked haddies?”

  “The what?” He pursed his lips as he stared at the plate of haddock, their skins bronzed from the smoking process. Ailie was highly entertained. “Perhaps later,” he said, clenching his teeth.

  It was all Ailie could do not to laugh. “’Tis a shame,” she said, forcing her expression to remain serious. “They’re a specialty of this part of Scotland, you know.” She shook her head and reverted to a Scot’s way of speaking. “If ye’ll nae try the haddies or the gruitheam, we ha’ verra guid chocolate and tae.”

  He stared at her openmouthed for a moment. “Tea, please.”

  She fought a fit of laughter, but there was something about his honesty, much like that of a small boy, that charmed her. Having dismissed the footman when she first entered the room, Ailie poured Nash his tea.

  With a nod of thanks, he happily settled into his breakfast.

  From beneath her lashes, she watched him eating his eggs and marmalade-lathered scone and had to admit he and his brother were attractive men, broad-shouldered and well featured. And those hazel eyes. Right.

  She speared a bit of haddie on her fork. “What kind of ships do you design?”

  “Schooners and sloops mostly but, unlike you, I only dabble in the design of the merchant ships we sail. I give my drawings to Tara who sends the ones she likes to her family in Baltimore. Stag Shipping, her family’s business, has used a few. From what I saw, you are an expert. I’m still amazed at the Ossian.”

  “Is that because the designer is a woman?”

  He sighed heavily. “You needn’t be prickly. I was amazed because I have ne
ver seen such a schooner. Once I considered the effect of the changes you made, I could see they would increase the ship’s speed. You must show me your drawings and tell me what led to your design.”

  “All right,” she said, wondering how much she would tell him. “I keep the drawings in the office. After I show you around the yard, we’ll go there.”

  When they were finished eating, he helped her put on her cloak and donned his greatcoat before she led him out into the frigid morning air.

  She stared up at the sky. In the distance, gray clouds hovered. “I do hope the snow holds off till tomorrow.”

  “Me as well. Today is the day we’re going to select the Yule log,” he said cheerily. The look in his hazel eyes reminded her of a small boy out for an adventure.

  He might be adorable, but he was no boy. Like his twin, Nash was tall, lithe and muscular, with a strong manly jaw. His dark hair, tinged with gold from the sun, curled around his nape. She wondered what it would feel like to run her hands through those curls. She let out a sigh. His coming to Arbroath made her want things she had not thought of in a long time.

  “Knowing my brother,” she said, “he will hunt for the log to please Emily even if it snows.”

  Nash stepped into the cavernous main shop of the shipyard, the air warmed by stoves placed about the room. Light spilled into the large space from windows high in the timbered walls. The noise in the shop echoed off the high walls.

  He counted twenty men working. Some, with long-handled mallets, pounded the inside of the hull that stood open to the room, the weather deck not yet in place. The youth of a few suggested they might be apprentices. Two sawyers were bent to the task of cutting wood. Other men concentrated on joining timbers.

  “We can leave our outer garments here,” Ailie shouted.

  He helped her to shed her cloak, sliding the back of his fingers over the tops of her arms. The gesture had been innocent but the contact with her, even with her wool gown between them, set his pulse racing. Her faint sweet scent drifted to his nostrils causing him to inhale deeply.

  She had changed clothing since the orangery and now wore a sensible woolen gown, but its simple lines did not detract from her loveliness. As before, she wore her fiery hair long and tied back with a ribbon.

  He placed her cloak on a peg where the workers’ coats hung in a long line. Doffing his greatcoat, he added it to the collection.

  “Come,” said Ailie, “I’ll introduce you to the foreman.”

  She walked briskly toward a man who stood to one side, arms crossed, observing the progress of the work. Nash fell into step beside her.

  The foreman must have sensed their approach. As they neared, he turned and smiled at Ailie. He was somewhere in his forties, Nash judged, with thick red-blond hair and striking blue eyes. His manner was congenial, particularly toward Ailie. Obviously, he liked his job and the boss’ sister.

  “Good morning, Miss Stephen. Yer brother told me ye’d be comin’ by with a visitor.”

  “Mr. Ferguson,” she said, her voice rising over the din of the shop, “this is Mr. Powell, one of our guests from London. He and his brothers are here on holiday. They’re interested in the yard as they are in the shipping business in London.”

  Ferguson extended his hand and Nash took it. “I’ve heard of Powell and Sons. We make fine ships here, Mr. Powell, should ye be wantin’ one.”

  Nash grinned. “I would agree. My brothers and I had the pleasure of sailing on the Albatross from London.”

  Ferguson smiled. “Aye, that would be the one we modified to carry more passengers.”

  “If it’s agreeable with you,” Ailie said to the foreman, raising her voice, “Mr. Powell would like to look around.”

  The foreman glanced at Nash and nodded. “Of course. Ye know our yard as well as anyone, Miss Stephen. But I’m happy to answer any questions ye might have, Mr. Powell.”

  Nash was eager to hear what Ailie had to say but, as a matter of courtesy, he would allow the foreman to speak first. “Could you tell me about the schooner you are working on now? Then we’ll just look around.”

  “Be glad to.” He turned to face the ship under construction. “This one’s a merchantman for Glasgow, larger than most we build. The men are just finishin’ the hull before they start on the captain’s cabin, galley and crew quarters.” He went on to explain in some detail the configuration that would be constructed below decks. It was not unusual but the foreman did have an eye for detail.

  When the foreman finished, Nash thanked him and then strolled with Ailie around the ship’s hull. Ailie pointed out things Nash might have missed.

  “The keel is of tropical purpleheart wood from Tobago. The hanging knees in the bow are made from American live oak.”

  Nash eyed the hull fasteners of pure gleaming copper. He gave a low whistle. “Such fine materials come at a dear cost.”

  “Aye, but then the best usually does.” Running her fingers over the hull, she added, “We sometimes use English oak, shipping it up from the Thames. I just like the American oak better.”

  As they passed the workers, the men looked up from their tasks and waved to her. She knew each one of them, calling them by name. Despite the appearance of a beautiful redhead in their midst, not one of the men leered at her. In their eyes, Nash saw only respect.

  Perhaps it was her skill at designing ships but, reconsidering, he rather believed she and William knew their craft and treated their workers well.

  His conclusion was confirmed when she said, “They will have time off for Hogmanay to spend with their families, so they work hard to finish what they can before they leave.”

  “That’s generous of you and William.”

  “There’s more. When they leave for the holiday, Will gives each a drink of brandy. His way of thanking them.”

  “No wonder they like working here.”

  “In the summer,” she added, “Will has casks of ale delivered to the shops on hot days.”

  “Again, I am impressed.”

  “Will and I learned the importance of treating our workers well from Father.”

  She took him to the blacksmith’s and then to the joiners’ shops. Like the main shop, each was clean and neatly kept. He couldn’t help thinking that was at least in part due to her influence.

  “Shall we go to the office so you can see the drawings of the Ossian?”

  “I was hoping you might suggest that,” he said, returning her smile.

  With Nash at her side, Ailie drew her cloak tightly around her and took the path to the office. As they entered, she was surprised to find the iron stove well stoked and the room warm.

  “Will must have asked the servants to keep the stove going.”

  “So this is where you created the Ossian,” he said, taking off his greatcoat to reveal his dark blue tailcoat and buff breeches. Any woman would think him handsome. “And where you work?”

  “Much of the time.” She slipped her cloak from her shoulders, laid it over her chair and reached down to open the drawer that held her most favored drawings. “I am sometimes in the shop with Mr. Ferguson. But it was here I first began the Ossian’s design.” She lifted the drawings to the top of her desk. “It’s been some time since I looked at my design. Our orders are for more ordinary ships.”

  Would she ever see the Ossian in the water?

  Nash took a pair of spectacles from his pocket and came to stand beside her, his shoulders mere inches from hers. She could feel the heat of him as he leaned over the drawings and detected the faint scent of sandalwood.

  He took off his spectacles and turned to speak to her.

  She was already facing him when their gazes met. Neither looked away.

  In the moments that passed, Ailie felt the room grow overwarm and she began to feel awkward so close to a man she did not really know.

  She stepped away from his intense gaze, her heart thudding in her chest.

  “Tell me about the Ossian,” he said a husky voice.


  Without looking at him, she traced the lines of the schooner on the drawing and began to explain something she had never told anyone. “I saw the ship in a dream, its sleek black hull and its billowing white sails against a blue sky, as its bow cut through a wind-tossed sea. ’Tis stamped on my mind like a part of me.”

  Emotion gathering in her voice, she raised her gaze from her desk to the ships outside the window and the North Sea beyond, seeing again what she had first experienced in the dream. “I could feel the schooner rolling through the waves and the salty spray whipping my hair across my face as my heart raced in my chest.” Then turning to face him with tear-filled eyes, she said, “I was there, Nash. On the ship. And somehow, I knew one day it would be real.”

  For a few seconds, he said nothing, just stared into her eyes. Had she revealed too much to a man she barely knew?

  He nodded slowly. “I believe it, too, Ailie. One day, you will sail on her and I would dearly love to be with you when you do.”

  She cleared her throat, blinking back tears as she glanced down at the drawings. “You are kind to humor me.”

  “I’m not humoring you.” In his voice she detected only sincerity and maybe, just maybe, admiration. “I believe you will see your ship built one day.”

  “’Tis a pleasant thought.” Forcing her eyes away from his penetrating gaze, she glanced out the window. “If we want to be in on the Yule log hunt, we’d best be going.”

  On the way back to the house, she realized she had identified a difference between Nash and Robbie. Nash wore spectacles but she’d not seen them on his twin.

  Robbie managed to reach his chamber without being seen. There, he changed back into the breeches and dark green tailcoat he had worn before setting off to the town. He pulled on his polished tall boots and tied a simple cravat before joining the ladies in the parlor, where he hoped to find a warm brandy and a warmer fire.

  Both were soon forthcoming.

  He relaxed into one of the gold wing chairs set before the fireplace, nursing the glass of brandy cradled in his hand. Time passed as he pondered what he had learned.