by Carla Kelly
If she hadn’t been so mystified, Mary would have chuckled to see that Aunt Martha had a tight handful of Dina’s already thinning hair. She gave her daughter a shake.
When Mary just stared, open-mouthed, Aunt Martha said something that didn’t usually pass her lips and thrust a letter into her niece’s hand.
Holding it out to Mrs Morison as well, Mary read the letter, a stilted bit of prose from Dina’s fiancé, not designed to tickle any woman’s fancy or much else. Her eyes widened and she felt her own face grow pale. As imaginary buzzards seemed to flap about and roost in the kitchen, Mary read it again.
‘“My choice and chosen one, that little bauble I sent you was given to my great-great-great-who-knows-how-many-greats grandfather by Queen Elizabeth herself. It is the dearest wish of my heart—and a Page family tradition—to see it on your finger when we announce our engagement on December the thirty-first.”’
‘Oh, my,’ Mary whispered. She stared at her aunt.
Aunt Martha gave her daughter another shake. ‘Dina just told me quite a tale. I am here for you to dispute and deny it.’
‘I fear we cannot,’ Mary said finally, when no one else seemed prepared to speak.
‘Then we are ruined,’ Aunt Martha said as she sank on to a chair that Mary quickly thrust behind her.
Dina began to wail, until she was shut up sharply by a resounding slap from her mother. ‘You are a foolish, foolish lassie,’ Aunt Martha hissed. ‘What are we to do?’
More silence, until Mrs Morison cleared her throat.
‘Simple. We send Mary to find those four cakes and retrieve the ring. She will start tomorrow.’
Aghast, Mary stared at the cook. Mrs Morison just smiled and patted her hand.
‘My dear, you are overdue for an adventure. Wouldn’t you agree?’
Chapter Three
Trust a little boy to find travel by the Royal Mail adventurous. Captain Rennie knew he would have preferred post chaise, but Mrs Pritchert informed him that Nathan longed to ride the mail coach.
‘When we’re in the Barbican, he always has his ears on the swivel to listen for the coachman’s blast and eyes in the back of his head to watch the horses,’ Mrs Pritchert explained. ‘And the uniforms! He pined for one when he was five.’
As if Ross needed an explanation. He used to do that in Dumfries a century ago, when the world was peaceful and he was a little boy. He could barely remember such a time; thank God he had a son to remind him.
‘Aye, Nathan, we’ll take the Royal Mail,’ he said, which practically made his boy wriggle with delight.
Still, it was hard travel for a man wanting nothing but comfort for the first time in more than a decade. Captain Rennie was starting to feel every single one of his thirty-eight hard-lived years when the mail coach pulled into Carlisle on December the sixth. By contrast, Nathan was as bright-eyed as on the morning they set out from Plymouth, with Mrs Pritchert’s tears and blessings.
‘That’s how women are,’ Ross had assured his son, as the child watched Plymouth recede in the distance. ‘They cry and fuss and let you go finally.’
‘But she’s not really my mother,’ Nathan said, looking around for his handkerchief. ‘I have a cold.’
Ross was wise enough to overlook his little sniffles. With a pang, he knew his son was close to the kind Mrs Pritchert; he knew no other mother. He put his hand on Nathan’s neck and gave him a little shake. ‘Laddie boy, we’ll be back in Plymouth in a month and she’ll be waiting for you, mark my words.’
As the miles passed, he had also realised with another pang that he didn’t like to see the ocean disappear from view. He said as much to Nathan, who gave him a look like the one he had given his son when Mrs Pritchert disappeared from view.
‘We’ll have a good time,’ Nathan assured him in turn and they were content with each other.
The first day with Nathan was always tentative. When his son was still a baby, there had been several days of reacquaintance, with lots of shy glances from both of them and maybe sentences started and stopped or half-finished. Now that he was ten, Nathan required only a few hours to remember his father. By the end of the first day’s travel north, he was laughing and telling Ross a year’s worth of school stories, memorising scriptures under duress and watching the harbour with his telescope. When he grew tired, Nathan leaned against Ross’s arm with a sigh of contentment. Or maybe that was his own sigh.
They had struck a bargain before leaving Plymouth. Nathan might want to travel by the Royal Mail, but, by God, they were going to stop every night in a respectable inn. As much as he loved his sister, Ross wasn’t in so much hurry to get to Dumfries that they needed to travel all night, too. He had taken this route before and knew where the good meals and soft beds were found. But more than that, he had a list this time. Not just a list: the list.
December the sixth found them in Carlisle, the last stop of any consequence before Scotland. He had given Nathan a map of England and Scotland, because ten years was the right age to begin charting a course. He was not surprised at the look his son gave him when he informed him they were stopping at the Guardian.
‘But Da, if we continue tonight, we’ll be in...’
‘Dumfries before midnight,’ he finished. ‘This is true.’ He leaned closer to his boy. ‘This also is true: for years, I have been dreaming about Cumberland sausage—an entire four-foot length—and whig bread served with Cumberland rum butter.’
‘Four feet of sausage?’ Natham repeated, his eyes wide.
‘I will share,’ Ross told him, the soul of generosity. He ruffled his son’s hair. ‘Would you deny a captain such a meal, after weevily ship’s biscuit and thick water?’
‘Never, Da.’
‘And if we can find sticky toffee pudding...’
The Royal Mail stopped at the Borderers, and after making sure when the morning coach to Dumfries was due, he directed Nathan down the High Street to the Guardian, home of the best Cumberland sausage he had even eaten.
If he were to try to explain to Nathan just how badly he wanted this moment, he knew a ten-year-old would never understand. There were times on the tedious blockade, or in the middle of the heaving Pacific, when he had stared into the distance, willing Cumberland sausage to appear. It embarrassed him to think of that weird obsession now, but such it was. He knew he was not alone in longings far removed from war. That was the nature of the beast: to wish yourself away from it.
They walked down the High Street, before turning on to a side street. For a tiny moment, Ross feared that the Guardian had closed its doors, or no longer served sausage. He smiled to see the venerable building, probably looking the same as when Caesar’s legions had bellied up to the bar, getting courage to attack the Picts.
He remembered to remove his tall fore-and-aft hat, because the entrance was low. He probably would have removed it anyway, out of reverence for the Cumberland sausage, which he could already smell.
‘We would like a room and a parlour for the night,’ he asked the landlord, who looked vaguely familiar. ‘And dinner, of course.’
Apparently the innkeeper was also impressed to see such splendour, if one could call a boat cloak splendid, in his little lobby. He stared at Ross’s hat on his counter.
Ross tried to keep his question casual. ‘There is Cumberland sausage cooking, eh?’
‘Indeed there is, Admiral.’
‘Just captain.’
Just. Just. No one this far north and inland would ever imagine how hard he had worked to get the title of post captain and the right to wear two epaulettes, instead of just one. Ross’s cynical side took over. One of his fellow captains, dead since the blockade, had remarked once over blackstrap in the wardroom, ‘With two epaulettes, the lads’ll at least slide another cannonball into your coffin so you’ll sink faster.’
&nb
sp; The transaction completed, the innkeeper turned around the register and held out the quill. Ross dipped it, then signed his name.
He stared closer at the register, noticing the name above his.
‘Mary Rennie?’
A question in his eyes, the landlord looked at the register, too. ‘Oh! Beg pardon, sir. She did mention that a fellow was stopping by later. You’re earlier than I reckoned. You’ll want to share that parlour, I am certain.’ He beamed at Nathan. ‘And this is your little boy?’
‘Aye.’
Perhaps the same last name gave the innkeeper leave to attempt familiarity. ‘I wouldn’t say he favours either of you.’
‘Sir, I...’ Ross began, then closed his mouth, because the innkeeper was already intent on getting his guests together.
‘You’d probably rather share that bedchamber, too.’
‘No, I...’
The innkeeper was already starting down the hall. Ross looked at his son and shrugged. He knew he had the force of personality and years of command to stop the man short with a single barked expletive—God knows he had terrified lieutenants for years—but suddenly, he didn’t want to.
‘Let’s find out who this Mary Rennie is,’ he whispered to Nathan, who grinned back, a partner in crime. ‘Maybe we’ll like her.’
The innkeep stopped before a closed door and gestured grandly. ‘I’ll serve your dinner in here, Captain,’ he said, then snapped his heels together and executed a sharp about face, marred only by the way his rotundity kept swinging, even after he stopped. Ross knew better than to make eye contact with Nathan.
When he just stood there, indecisive, Nathan tapped on the door.
‘Mr Barraclough? You’re early,’ he heard from the other side of the door, followed by quick footsteps.
At least he thought that was what she said, since her accent was so thick and rich. A glance at his son told him that Nathan hadn’t understood any of it.
Mary Rennie opened the door. Ross found himself gazing at considerable loveliness, which made him say, ‘Ahh’, involuntarily.
He only took a quick look; to ogle would have been the worst of manners. Life at sea had trained him to make rapid assessments. In a tiny space of time, that moment between ‘Fire!’ and ‘Reload!’, he took in magnificent auburn hair and green eyes that reminded him of a particular bay near Naples. Mary Rennie’s gaze was clear eyed, straight on and not suspicious. What most captivated him were the freckles on her nose.
He knew better than to look down at her bosom. That little glance at her face suggested that other parts would be just as pleasant.
Nathan was elbowing him as discreetly as a young boy did anything, which made her smile deepen, as she gazed from one to the other.
‘Mr Barraclough, I had no idea you had a bairn.’
God bless the wee bairn. Nathan sketched a bow and declared, ‘I am Nathan and I don’t know what’s the matter with my da.’
That’s all it took; Ross remembered himself. He tucked his hat more firmly under his arm, which made Mary Rennie smile, for some reason. She leaned forwards, her eyes lively.
‘There’s no strong wind in the corridor,’ she said, then indicated they were to enter the sitting room. ‘Let’s sort this out inside.’
He did as she said, putting his hat where she directed and taking off his cloak. In another minute he was seated at the table and she was pouring tea for him and tea with a lot of cream for Nathan. He didn’t see any other teacups, so he knew this was for Mr Barraclough, whoever he was.
‘I am Captain Ross Rennie and my son has already introduced himself,’ he began. ‘Quite possibly you have confused me with someone else.’
‘Rennie?’ Her expression went from puzzled to understanding. ‘Oh! I suppose the innkeep thinks we are related.’
‘I rather think he believes we are man and wife,’ Ross said, then could have bitten his tongue, because she blushed furiously. He kept going doggedly, because all he knew to do was press forwards, full and bye, no matter the venture. ‘He said Nathan didn’t really resemble either of us.’
Mary Rennie laughed, a full-hearted sound that smacked the tension right across its snout and chased it out of the room. ‘Captain, if you are from Scotland...’
‘Dumfries...’
‘Then he is probably correct. I am from Edinburgh in recent years, but Montrose before that. My father was rector there.’ She stood up and went to the door. ‘I’ll ask the keep for more cups.’ She turned a friendly eye on Nathan. ‘And toffee pudding for you?’
Ross couldn’t help the moan that escaped his lips. Nathan giggled.
‘For my da, rather,’ his son said. ‘He’s been long at sea and gets silly about food, I think.’
‘For your da, too,’ she amended, ‘and enough for all of us, because I like toffee pudding.’
She left the parlour. Ross looked at his son. ‘Am I embarrassing you, laddie?’ he asked.
‘Not yet,’ Nathan replied, obviously a man to hedge his bets. ‘She’s pretty, isn’t she?’
Oh, Lord God Almighty, he’s already a son of the guns, Ross thought, impressed. He wondered for a brief moment what Mrs Pritchert would think.
The toffee pudding appeared with Mary, who carried it on a tray, along with plates, forks and tea cups.
‘You went right to the kitchen?’ he asked. Maybe Mary Rennie knew something of full and bye.
‘Certainly. And what is Mr MacDonald doing but preparing a monster dinner of sausage, neeps and taties, whig bread and Cumberland butter. Captain, I told him to serve it in here, because you’re starting to interest me.’
Chapter Four
Mary Rennie, he’ll think you’re the most outrageous flirt in the history of Scotland, she scolded herself, amazed, as she set the pudding on the table. ‘I mean...’ she started, then stopped, honest to her heart’s core, because that was how she was raised. ‘No, I mean just that. I’ve met a rascally army officer or two, but never a sea captain. And could we be cousins?’
The sea captain laughed out loud, which surprised her, considering stories she had heard of the solemn and stoic men of that profession.
‘A rascally army officer or two? That is all?’ he teased in turn. ‘There are many more, Miss Rennie. Just ask any inmate of the Royal Navy. As for cousins, dessert first. Genealogy can wait.’
He accepted the bowl of pudding after she poured a little clotted cream on top. He must have known they were both watching him, but he dug into the dessert with a single-minded zeal that told her worlds about him. The first bite must have been a little bit of heaven, because he rolled his eyes. She couldn’t help observing his face, with its sharp features and weather wrinkles. He looked forty-five at least, but it was entirely possible that he was younger.
‘Twelve years, madam,’ he said, gesturing with the spoon, but so careful not to drop a scrap. ‘I have wanted this for twelve years.’
Mary looked at his son, already seeing a co-conspirator there. ‘What do you think? Should we let him eat the whole lot?’
Nathan shook his head. ‘I want some, too, and besides, Mrs Pritchert would scold him for eating dessert first.’
She glanced at the captain, already knowing he would supply the details, even though the pudding beckoned.
‘Mrs Pritchert is an estimable female and the widow of my best sailing master. She is rearing Nathan, because his mother died in an earthquake in Oporto. We think he was a week old.’
He spoke with a matter-of-fact tone that she found beguiling, considering that she was weary of her aunt’s circumlocutions and the tragedy that was Cousin Dina’s life. She liked the look of him, too. Most of the men she knew were men of business and finance like her uncle, with white, indoor skin and soft hands. None of them had an interesting scar like the one that ran from Captain Rennie’
s left eye to his hairline. And absolutely no one had a peg-leg.
‘How on earth did you get Nathan home?’ she asked, intrigued by two lives that were far more interesting than hers.
‘By the grace of God, a goat and a frigate with willing nursemaids,’ he said, and there was no overlooking the fun in his eyes. She could only imagine at the desperate sadness, but that had probably been about ten years ago, if Nathan was as young as he looked. She knew how time could smooth away jagged edges; oh, my, she did.
It was good toffee pudding. She ate a smallish portion and left the rest to the captain. Nathan did the same thing, which touched her heart. Captain Rennie worked his way steadily through the dessert and appeared none the worse for wear when he finished. She could have laughed out loud as he eyed the residue around the rim of the bowl. Probably aboard his ship and dining alone, he would have run his finger around that rim; maybe even licked the bowl.
Mary hoped he would feel inclined to tell her more, before he and his son found their own private parlour. Her own day of travel had been boring in the extreme, without a single person of interest on the mail coach to talk to—not that she would have addressed a man she did not know, at least not one younger than sixty.
‘There now,’ he said, putting his empty bowl back on the tray. ‘After that restorative, let me think about my Rennie family tree. Feel free to jump in, Miss Rennie, if someone sounds familiar. My great-grandfather, Thomas Rennie, from Castle Douglas, had five sons. There was Angus, Max, Andrew, Douglas and Gerard. Ring any bells with you?’
‘Andrew,’ she replied promptly. ‘Named after the saint, but wasn’t, or so my father said. Papa was a rector, though, so few measured high on his scale. Papa’s grandfather was Gerard.’
He smiled at that. ‘Douglas was mine. I met Great-Uncle Andrew once.’ He leaned closer and there was no mistaking the twinkle in his eyes. ‘I also remember that Da counted the silverware when he left.’
