The Wedding Ring Quest

by Carla Kelly

  ‘But what does this have to do with the missing cake?’ Captain Rennie asked. To Mary’s surprise, he sounded interested.

  ‘I, sir, am a romantic,’ Mr Barraclough announced, with a click of the teacup on the saucer. In his tight, shiny suit, he looked more like the counting-house clerk he probably was, and no solicitor. Mary felt her heart soften as she began to understand this little man, probably no more acquainted with adventure than she was.

  ‘After ten years of listening to my aunt suffer this annual torment, I decided to mail the fruitcake to Tavish Maxfield, along with a note declaring her steadfast love and a proposal of marriage. I signed it Ella Bruce.’

  Silence, then the captain applauded. ‘Well done, Mr Barraclough!’ he declared.

  ‘D’ye think so?’ the man asked, blushing like a maiden. He tweaked the few hairs forming a fringe around his head, smoothing them with nervous fingers.

  Mary stared at them both, the captain’s admiration seemingly genuine, and Mr Barraclough’s pleased expression told Mary worlds about his own quiet life, shared with a spinster aunt. Almost like my life, she thought reluctantly.

  ‘Sir, it takes a bold stroke to conquer the heart! Rather like war at sea,’ Captain Rennie said. ‘If Mr Maxfield follows through and goes to Carlisle, your auntie will be so pleased. If he does nothing, she’ll at least be none the wiser.’ Rennie clapped the man on the shoulder. ‘Brilliant!’

  Mr Barraclough beamed at Mary. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have fretted and worried so much,’ he said. ‘I am not ordinarily so impulsive.’

  ‘Maybe you should not fret,’ she agreed, in charity with him because Captain Rennie was. She glanced at the captain, who now sat calling no attention to his peg-leg. ‘More tea, Mr Barraclough?’

  * * *

  While Nathan slumbered on, Mr Barraclough stayed another hour, drinking tea, eating some of the rapidly congealing Cumberland sausage and telling them about his life in the counting house of Mackey and Wilde. It was as boring and dry as toast, but the captain seemed to take an interest in each dull detail. Mary listened in growing admiration of her cousin as Ross Rennie teased out little scraps of information about Mr Barraclough’s own pining for Jennie Lynch, a rector’s daughter. As her cousin made affable conversation with a man probably as lonely as his maiden aunt, Mary had the smallest glimmer what sort of captain he was and felt her own heart grow warm at his effortless kindness. She amended that mentally—his kindness once he had got past his teasing nature.

  Just as kindly, Captain Rennie found a way to end the evening’s interview. He took out his watch and shook his head sadly. ‘Sir, all good things must come to an end, and look you here, my son is sound asleep.’

  The two men shook hands, then Barraclough bowed gallantly over Mary’s hand. It was a self-conscious attempt, but it touched her heart. Maybe she could take a page from her cousin’s book.

  ‘Mr Barraclough, perhaps it is time you gave Jennie Lynch a kiss under the mistletoe,’ she suggested, pinking up as much as her parlour guest at her presumption.

  ‘Aye to that,’ the captain said. ‘Remember the bold stroke.’

  The counting-house clerk nodded thoughtfully. He bowed to them both and started for the door.

  ‘Oh, wait!’ Mary said, hurrying to his side. ‘You didn’t tell us where you sent the fruitcake.’

  ‘I forgot.’ Mr Barraclough giggled. ‘I directed it to Tavish Maxfield, Esquire, Number Fifteen Apollo Street, York.’ He beamed at them. ‘Mrs Rennie, you must be so happy to have your captain home from the wars.’

  ‘My...’ She glanced at the captain, then looked away, suddenly as shy as Miss Ella Bruce, who was probably sobbing out her heart in Stirling right now.

  ‘She certainly is happy to see my waterlogged carcase,’ the captain said to Mr Barraclough’s retreating figure. ‘And I am glad to be here.’ He closed the door and leaned against it.

  ‘You could have told him the truth,’ Mary said, her face on fire.

  ‘We’ll never see him again. If I had corrected him, he would have been embarrassed. What would be served?’ He sat down by his sleeping son again, his hand going naturally to Nathan’s leg in a caress. ‘He was a little fellow in need of an audience. I hope to goodness he does kiss Miss Lynch under the mistletoe. Hope he gives her a really loud smack.’

  Mary wasn’t certain she should say what was on her mind, but now her cousin was giving her that same interested look he had given to their late guest. She saw no subterfuge in his expression and it gave her courage. Or maybe it aroused her lately submerged sense of humour, because no one on Wapping Street in Edinburgh seemed to tease or joke.

  ‘Don’t deny that you started out to discommode the man,’ she chided. ‘I thought he was going to climb the wallpaper when you started waving about your...your peg.’

  He crossed his leg again and gave it another waggle, which made her laugh softly, so as not to wake Nathan.

  ‘Dear Cousin, you’d be amazed how San Agustin can disturb the pompous. Yes, my crew named it after the Spanish ship o’ the line that gave it to me at Trafalgar!’ He put his hands behind his head then, regarding her. ‘Eventually, they just called it Gus,’ he added, when she laughed. ‘Of course, they never dared to tell me what they called it, but word gets about in close quarters.’

  His expression became serious, almost wistful. ‘D’ye know, when Mr Barraclough started to talk about the counting house and his little life, I was reminded all over again what a large stage I have been playing on. Would I change places with him? Sometimes.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘During this leave of mine, I must accustom myself to life among people who have never worked for Napoleon, as I did.’

  She looked at him, startled, then understood what he meant. ‘The grand wizard of Europe?’

  ‘Aye, lass. Puppermaster, grand wizard, what you will. The Admiralty pays my salary, but Napoleon employs me. We all dance to his tune.’

  So did I, Mary reminded herself, unwilling to say it out loud. She hadn’t thought of Lieutenant Reginald MacDowell in five years at least, but for just a moment, she was seventeen again and in love.

  ‘You, too?’ he asked.

  You surprise me, she thought, wondering at his ability to delve deep without appearing to. She nodded, too shy to say more. No reason for this man soon to leave her life, once they said goodnight, to know how her heart broke when the lieutenant informed her of his need to marry a lady with money. Rather than yielding to bitterness, she had pined in sorrow, then suffered in more silence when she learned of his death at Salamanca two years later. By then, Lieutenant MacDowell had his own widow and a son who would never know him. Funny that she had never thought to blame Bonaparte.

  ‘It appears Boney has meddled in all our lives.’

  Captain Rennie said it softly. Mary opened her mouth to tell him about Reginald, then closed it, choosing not to become as pathetic as Malcolm Barraclough. She decided he looked a little disappointed and wondered how many midshipmen and lieutenants he had counselled through the years. The captain had been kind to take an interest, but the hour was late and the Cumberland sausage had well and truly adhered to the serving platter.

  ‘How did he meddle in your life, Mary? Call me nosy—I want to know.’

  ‘I nearly became engaged to a lieutenant in the light artillery, until he decided he needed a wife with an income of her own,’ she said. ‘I gather that uniforms are expensive.’

  ‘Cad,’ he said. ‘And?’

  ‘He found someone else rather quickly, so I do not think he was truly invested in me,’ she said, finding it less difficult to talk about than she would have thought. ‘Perhaps it was for the best.’

  ‘I trust he died on some battlefield,’ Ross told her. ‘Serve him right.’

  ‘Actually, he did, but he left a wife and infant. Don’t be so flippant, Captain.’ S
he hadn’t meant for that to come out with real force, but it did. Maybe she had cared more than she knew. Maybe she should have talked about Lieutenant MacDowell to another human being and not kept it all inside her.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he replied. ‘Callous of me. No one is unscathed, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Captain, I think...’ she began, then stopped, wanting to change the subject. She was silent a moment, and the enormity of Mr Barraclough’s parting words sank in. ‘Dear me, York.’

  * * *

  Ross hadn’t known his cousin long, but her sudden frown told him the obvious: this little lady bent on finding a ring in a fruitcake had probably never ventured any farther south than Carlisle. And for God’s sake, had someone bullied her into traipsing around for fruitcake? She was a lady alone on the Royal Mail. He smiled inside. At the mercy of bores like Malcolm Barraclough? The smile left. And maybe a sea captain? Did she have enough money? Was he ever going to feel free of responsibility that had descended like a sodden mantle around his shoulders when he strode his first quarterdeck? Perhaps not. Perhaps he didn’t want that peculiar sense of stewardship to vanish now.

  ‘Cousin Mary, it appears you have to go to York. Could you use some company?’

  Chapter Six

  Mary frowned. She knew where York was on her uncle’s atlas. For years she had considered it high adventure to flop on the sofa when no one was using the sitting room, prop open the atlas on her stomach and imagine herself in exotic locales like London and Brighton. The prospect of actually venturing farther south from Carlisle into England was something she had not considered when she let Mrs Morison and Aunt Martha cajole her into retrieving the dratted Christmas cakes.

  It’ll be simple, she thought with some chagrin, remembering Mrs Morison’s words. You’ll probably find the ring in the first cake you pick up. You’ll be home in no time.

  ‘Hmm, from the look on your face, Cousin, I think you hadn’t planned on voyaging in foreign waters,’ her cousin told her.

  ‘No, indeed.’ You must think me a complete ninny, she thought, considering the obvious competence of the man looking at her with such a pleasant expression. Might as well admit it. ‘I can imagine what your opinion of me is,’ she said, eager now for him to quit her sitting room, because she felt like a fool. ‘You’ve sailed into real danger for more than twenty years and I’m frightened of the prospect of York!’

  Mary couldn’t even look at him. He startled her by touching her chin until she had no choice but to look into his eyes. And quite blue eyes they were.

  ‘My opinion of you is merely that you have never been to York and it is a large city.’

  He said it so kindly that her embarrassment vanished and her charity returned. ‘I suppose it is a little odd for someone to be canvassing the countryside for fruitcake,’ Mary said, then laughed out loud. ‘I think it’s odd!’

  ‘No more strange than a post captain traipsing about for Cumberland sausage.’ He glanced at his son and lowered his voice when the boy muttered something in his sleep. ‘Personally, I could have stayed another day in York when we passed through earlier this week. My current sailing master told me about a shop in York that makes excellent blood pudding.’

  ‘You’re hopeless!’

  ‘I know.’ He didn’t touch her hand, but he stood closer. ‘Let us accompany you to York and retrieve that pesky cake.’

  She wavered, then decided, with a shake of her head. ‘You have just been there. I’m no navigator and I expect you are, so you know better than to backtrack to York. You’re so thoughtful, Captain Rennie, but I can find York, Apollo Street and this old gent pining for love of Miss Bruce.’

  ‘It’s no hardsh—’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she interrupted. ‘You tell me this is your first actual holiday—’

  ‘Shore leave.’

  ‘—in twelve years.’ She glanced at the Cumberland sausage, supine in its solidified juices. ‘You’ve obviously been planning this...shore leave for eons.’ She held out her hand to him. ‘Cousin, don’t worry about me. I hope you have a happy Christmas on land. Goodbye.’

  The look of disappointment in his eyes surprised her, she who never elicited much response from her own relatives, much less one on such a distant branch of her family tree as the captain. She also knew he would recover, because that was what men did.

  Captain Rennie shrugged. When he turned to pick up his son, he took a side step to get his balance. Mary shot her hand out automatically to steady him, her hand firm against the small of his back.

  ‘Thank you,’ he told her with no embarrassment. ‘Sometimes I still overset myself.’ He picked up Nathan.

  Mary released her grip on the captain, deciding not to be embarrassed by her quick reaction if he wasn’t. She touched Nathan’s hair, brushing it back from his forehead. When he opened his eyes and blinked, she touched his cheek. ‘I hope you have a lovely Christmas, too,’ she said softly. ‘Don’t let your papa eat too much sausage all at once.’ She gave it a thought, then shrugged and kissed Nathan’s forehead.

  Mary held the door open for the captain, watching as he carried the child from her room. He stood there a moment, then shook his head and turned around.

  ‘Cousin Mary, I never told the innkeep that I needed a separate room. He’s thinking we’re slinging our hammocks in here with you, because we are all Rennies.’

  ‘My goodness.’ She gestured to the sofa. ‘Put Nathan down in here again and make your arrangements.’

  He did as she said, then grinned and knuckled his forehead like a common sailor as he backed out. ‘Suppose there are no spare rooms?’ He winked at her and it took years off his weather-blasted face. ‘Come, come, Cousin, it’s nearly Christmas, and we know how troublesome landlords are at that season!’

  ‘You, sir, are a rascal,’ she said firmly. ‘Find a room at this inn.’

  He did, returning quickly with a key in hand. He stood by the sofa, looking down at his son. ‘You know, Mary, I have it on good authority that parents will often stand as we happen to be standing and just gaze at their sleeping children. That has never been my luxury. Pardon me, but I am savouring this moment.’

  ‘Savour all you want, Captain,’ she replied, her voice as soft as his. ‘I’ve never had this luxury, either.’ She couldn’t help herself. She brushed the hair from Nathan’s forehead. ‘His mother must have been a beautiful woman.’

  ‘She was. I never saw a bonnier lady.’

  He must have thought such a comment was a bit cavalier, since she was a woman, too. He touched her nose with his finger, just a light touch. ‘But I do like freckles, something a man never sees in the Iberian Peninsula. ’Night, Mary, and goodbye, I suppose.’

  He picked up his sleeping child again and, key in hand, went a few doors down the hall. She almost went to help him when he fumbled with the key and kept Nathan from waking up, but he managed. He closed the door and that was that.

  * * *

  But it wasn’t. Hours later, Mary was still wide awake and staring at the ceiling. She worried about money first, then reminded herself that she was excellent at economising and York wasn’t so far. Besides, if she needed more funds, Uncle Samuel would send them.

  Thank goodness that the forlorn Miss Bruce didn’t pine for a man in Bath. York likely had modest establishments for careful travellers. Mary worried next about her fellow travellers, then reminded herself that since Aunt Martha had never felt inclined to send a servant to accompany her on trips about Edinburgh, she had long ago perfected her stern, leave-me-alone face that could quell all but the most relentless bores and roués. No one would bother her on the Royal Mail, not even in England.

  She had no remedy for the loneliness that was beginning to plague her, even though she had only been a little more than a week on her quest for the Christmas cake. The days were lively enough, becaus
e there was usually a woman or two on the Royal Mail of sufficient gentility to share a nod with and then a polite conversation. And she always carried a book in her reticule. The nights were troublesome, cooped up in one inn or another with no one to speak to, once she had tracked down, acquired, sifted through and then discarded the Christmas cakes.

  Until she had begun this impromptu journey, Mary hadn’t realised how much she enjoyed popping down to the kitchen for a chin-wag with Mrs Morison, or even listening to her Aunt Martha complain about this or that, or Uncle Sam speak to her until he retreated behind his morning newspaper. Cousin Dina hadn’t been any fun at all, since she had agreed to marry Mr Page.

  ‘It’s only a few more days to be lonely and then you will be home in Edinburgh, Mary,’ she told the ceiling. ‘Buck up a wee bit.’

  That should have been enough, but she took her thoughts a step further tonight. Maybe she could blame it on Mr Barraclough and his little hopes, dreams and flights of fancy. He was a man living with a maiden aunt, perhaps for years, and he was fussy and silly already. All good wishes aside, Mary doubted supremely that Miss Jennie Lynch would ever stand with him under the kissing bough.

  She lay in bed and realised that the saddest specimen of humankind in the world must be a ridiculous spinster or bachelor. Spinster I may be, but please God, not a ridiculous one, she thought as she fluffed her pillow, then pounded it and tried to sleep.

  Nothing worked, so she thought about Captain Rennie, wondering how a man did what he did, taking the punishment of broadsides at close range or typhoons in the South China Sea without wanting to run screaming into a dark corner, as she thought she might. And how in the world did he maintain his balance on a slanting or pitching deck? She wanted to ask him, but the opportunity was gone.

  Besides the obvious differences, Mary suspected that men were different in other ways, too. Her urge had always been to stay as far away from trouble as she could. Possibly if women ran the world, no one would fight. Although still not married to her, perhaps Lieutenant MacDowell would at least be alive to know his son, instead of dead on a Spanish battlefield he had probably never heard of, before it became his final resting place.