by Carla Kelly
Mary wondered when her ever-so-distant cousin Ross had last spent Christmas ashore. It was too late to ask him. She knew the mail coach to Dumfries left before the sun was up. He and his son would be long gone before the York Mail left. She only knew that because she had overheard some of the other passengers talking about York. She would have to trust his sister to make his holiday—his shore leave—a good one. On that note, she finally slept.
* * *
Ross knew his son would go back to sleep as soon as he was in his nightshirt, but he didn’t. Instead, Nathan put his hands behind his head, wriggled into a comfortable spot and frowned.
‘What?’ Ross asked. ‘I know that look.’
He couldn’t quite bring himself to tell his boy that Inez had given him that same look a time or two, when he wasn’t quite measuring up. A pity his son never knew his own mother.
Nathan didn’t question his comment. ‘It’s this, Da,’ he began. ‘I don’t think we should let Cousin Mary travel by herself on the Royal Mail. I mean, the common coach is fine for us, but she’s a lady.’
‘Aye to that. You know, I’ve been having the same thought. What can we do, though, outside of kidnapping her?’
‘Oh, Da!’
They laughed together. Ross lay down beside his son, assuming the same position, hands behind his head. After a moment’s thought, he leaned on his elbow. ‘Are you expecting me to think of something?’ he asked.
Nathan nodded. ‘You’re the man here.’
‘Very well. I’ll think about it.’ He leaned over and kissed his son, then rose to put on his own nightshirt. ‘Now go to sleep.’
‘We really don’t have much time,’ Nathan pointed out. He closed his eyes, his expression blissful. ‘Da, she touched me and I liked it.’
She touched me, too, and I liked it, Ross thought, surprised. ‘All right. I’ll devise a plan. Will that do? Will you go to sleep now?’
* * *
When Mary woke up, dawn struggled in the east. She must have been roused by the sound of the Royal Mail, departing for Scotland. She yearned to be on it, even if she found herself squashed between ordinary folk headed to early markets, as she had found on other early mornings. Well, Captain Rennie and Nathan would only be crowded for a few hours themselves, since Dumfries was not far. Her destination was York, which made her sigh, turn her face to the wall and snuggle deeper into her blankets, eager to put it far from her mind for another hour.
* * *
When she woke again, the room was light and she could not ignore the day. She sat up, not pleased with herself and even more cross with Mrs Morison, who had so calmly enlisted her for this trip. No matter; Mary could put on her quelling face and no one on the Royal Mail would trouble her with conversation.
She washed and dressed, then went into the sitting room, looking with real distaste on the Cumberland sausage and wishing she had directed the innkeep to remove it after the Rennies had left. She would do that when she went into the commons room to request breakfast, a prospect that didn’t thrill her. The commons rooms were usually peopled by farmers resting after taking produce to market and she did dislike being ogled.
She stopped at the door and looked down at a folded square of paper pushed into the room, her name on it. She smiled to see ‘Cousin Mary’ and picked it up, curious. She read the note and her eyes opened wider. She read it through again out loud, thinking she might comprehend better what Captain Rennie had wrought.
‘“The Lords of the Admiralty wish to inform Miss Mary Rennie that Captain Ross Rennie, post, requests and requires her permission to serve as an escort during times of war, and all trips into enemy territory—York,”’ she read, shaking her head in amazement. She laughed out loud to read smaller printed words in parenthesis. “Aye, we are at peace now, but I know my employer pretty well and do not trust him to stay on that little island so close to France.” You would know,’ she murmured.
The note was close-written, but easy to read. Perhaps the economy of space came because he was used to writing in a ship’s log. She scanned the remaining paragraph, gasped at his impertinence, laughed at its conclusion, then reread it, touched.
‘“Because the Royal Mail is reliable, but uncomfortable, and Captain Rennie likes to travel in comfort when he can—which hasn’t been often in the past twelve years—he has already engaged a post chaise for the journey to York,”’ she read, amazed at his effrontery, which Aunt Martha probably would have called it. Mary wasn’t so sure. ‘“Besides, he is determined to stop at Skowcroft for excellent dessert and the mail coach would not oblige him. Cousin Mary, do not disappoint this peg-leg warrior of the Royal Navy.”’
‘So you will stoop to the sympathy card, sir?’ She laughed out loud and read the postscript. ‘“He also knows of some excellent shepherd’s pie in York proper.”’
Mary stood still for a long moment, tapping her finger against the note. She read it again, wondering about a man who had already engaged a post chaise to take her to York, because he knew she felt nervous about travelling alone. She couldn’t think of a time when anyone had been so generous to her on such short notice.
A reminder of the timid Mr Barraclough made up her mind. ‘I will do it, Captain Rennie,’ she said out loud. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
There they stood in the corridor, father and son, both looking at her with a hopeful air. She burst out laughing.
‘Oh, you two! What can I do but accept your kind offer?’ she told them.
‘Wise of you, since we weren’t going to take no for an answer,’ the captain said. ‘Would you be willing to break your fast with us in the commons room?’
She was, sitting down to another excellent sausage, considerably shorter than four feet, eggs and coffee. If she had felt shy, the emotion didn’t last long, not with Nathan needing a little attention tucking his napkin under his chin and then a better alignment of the buttons on his shirt when he finished. Perhaps he had dressed in the dark; possibly fathers didn’t notice such details of dress.
* * *
When Nathan was tidy and the dishes withdrawn, the captain pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. He spread it on the table. ‘I have here a list of inns along our route,’ he told her. ‘Through the years, this sheet has graced the wardroom table on occasion, as I solicited information about good food in all corners of Britain.’
She looked at the list, seeing different handwriting. ‘This is what passes for entertainment on a frigate at war?’
‘Aye, miss, especially on the far side of the world, when we are drifting along in the doldrums and it’s hotter than Dutch love.’
Mary blushed. ‘Really, Cousin.’
Ross Rennie looked not a bit dismayed. ‘I confess to a salty tongue. You’ll get used to it.’ His expression turned nostalgic. ‘When you’re down to bad beef, weevily bread and thick water, and the wine has run out, a list like this is surprisingly comforting.’
He jabbed a line. ‘Look you here. If we leave now, we’ll be in Skowcroft for luncheon, and that is where...’ He stopped and looked at the barely legible line. He ran his finger gently across the words now. ‘I had a midshipman, name of Everett from Skowcroft, who swore by the lemon-curd pudding at the Begging Hound.’
‘I trust he has been back to enjoy it,’ Mary said.
‘Alas, no. He died in the Pacific. He was but fifteen.’ The captain leaned back, his eyes troubled now. ‘I...I suppose I want to have a dish of pudding for Dale Everett.’
She took the list from the table and scanned it. ‘Brown bread with quince jelly? I do like quince jelly.’
‘My former purser told me about a public house in Ovenshine.’ He shook his head. ‘A true scoundrel he was.’ He correctly interpreted her expression and took the list from her. ‘Here now, blood pudding in Wamsley, according to a pharmacist’s mate who lives i
n Wamsley as we speak. They’re not all dead, Mary, or rascals.’
Could it be that you need this little side trip to York even more than I do? she thought. The idea beguiled her far more than the prospect of fruitcake.
‘Isn’t your sister going to wonder where you are?’ she asked, making one more attempt to call the man to reason.
‘I sent her a letter before the sun was up, telling her we had to go to York on business.’ He grinned, and it threw years off his weather-thrashed face. ‘Hopefully, she will never ask what the business is. When do you need to report back to Edinburgh?’
She sipped her coffee and thought a moment. ‘For certain by Christmas Eve. I believe that is when Dina’s fiancé will arrive in Edinburgh and expect to see that little ring on her finger. And you?’
‘Probably about the same time. That gives us about a week, which will give me another week after to return my son to Plymouth and school, and get me back to sea.’
‘We can be in York by tonight.’
The captain shook his head, then raised his finger for the innkeeper’s attention. ‘Weren’t you listening, Mary? It’s Skowcroft for lemon-curd pudding and Skowcroft ain’t exactly on the beaten path.’
Chapter Seven
Skowcroft was far from the beaten path, but the thought of lemon-curd pudding set Mary’s mouth tingling, even so soon after breakfast. How kind of Captain Rennie to concern himself with her welfare and how kind to have a list of places to stop along the way. She made one last half-hearted attempt to dissuade him, assuring him that the Royal Mail was good enough for her, but he wasn’t buying it.
‘Cousin, I’m not used to an argument,’ he said firmly as he let the postilion open the door and pull down the step. ‘Up you get,’ he said to his son and boosted him inside. He looked at Mary. ‘Do I need to boost you inside?’
Alarmed, she shook her head, then noticed the humour in his eyes. ‘I suppose I must go to York in style,’ she told him as he helped her into the chaise.
‘I believe you must,’ he agreed.
She made herself comfortable while the post boy put her satchel in the boot. She glanced out the window, where the captain was acquainting the older postilion with his list and probably explaining the need for Scowcroft, off the regular route. They were travelling in style, with four horses to pull their chaise and a postilion seated on each near horse.
‘Papa likes to have his own way,’ Nathan told her.
‘I believe most of us do, but seldom get it,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Perhaps another requirement is being a post captain. People probably do what he says.’
Nathan nodded. ‘I do.’ He smiled at his father when the captain came inside the chaise and settled next to him. ‘Papa, I have been carrying on a creditable conversation.’
Mary laughed out loud. ‘A most creditable conversation, Cousin!’ she declared. ‘Nathan tells me that you are used to getting your way.’
‘I expect it, madam,’ he assured her.
His arm just naturally seemed to curve around his son’s shoulders, and Nathan leaned close with a small sigh that went to Mary’s heart. How seldom they must see each other, she thought, but how close they are. I see nothing of command here.
‘Well, I usually expect my own way,’ the captain amended and exchanged an amused glance with his son. ‘It was Nathan’s idea that we ride the Royal Mail. He likes it when the coachman blows his yard of tin. How could I say nay?’
‘Does this coachman have a yard of tin?’ the boy asked.
‘No. Postilions do not announce themselves. By the way, his name is Tom Preston and his son is mounted on the horse closest to the chaise.’
Nathan absorbed that fact. Mary could practically see the gears turning in his brain. ‘I doubt your father will let you do that, too,’ she told him. ‘It’s cold out there. I hope they can keep warm.’
The boy nodded, his expression thoughtful. ‘Da takes care of me.’
Mary glanced at the captain, then looked away, startled to see tears in his eyes. My goodness, how hard it must be to say goodbye to a child and sail into danger, she thought. Thank God the war is over.
‘I have the distinct impression that you take care of many people and now you have added one more to that number,’ Mary said, her voice soft. Impulsively, she leaned forwards across the small space and touched his hand.
He looked up from his contemplation of the floor boards and grinned at her. His eyes were still shiny with tears, but he didn’t seem to mind that she saw them. ‘I have broad shoulders, Cousin,’ he assured her.
She nodded, unsure what to say, because his words touched her heart. She sat back, thinking of all those anonymous members of the Royal Navy who took care of her and everyone else in the British Isles. She thought of them when news came of a sea battle, but ordinarily not otherwise. Still, they patrolled the oceans and English Channel, and had stood blockade duty for dreary years, keeping her safe. And here was this nice man, a far-distant cousin, seeing her to York. Mary smiled to herself, thinking she would have to write a quick note to Mrs Morison, telling her that maybe she was having an adventure after all.
She wanted to chat, but there was Nathan, his eyes drooping already. In a few moments, his head rested against his father’s thigh. In another minute, his eyes closed.
‘He didn’t get much sleep last night,’ the captain whispered. ‘He was so afraid that you wouldn’t let us escort you to York.’
Mary had her own struggle. ‘Happen he inherited your broad shoulders.’
‘Happen he did.’
He was silent then, looking out the window, where snow began to fall. Mary watched his eyes begin to close, too, which made her wonder if both of the Rennies had stayed awake too late, worrying if she would agree to this decidedly ramshackle scheme.
Mary watched the captain. He did have broad shoulders and the peg-leg wasn’t intrusive; she had already become accustomed to it. Still, how did a man function with such a thing? What did his leg actually look like? How did he stay upright in a storm? She had a hundred questions, not one of which she would ever ask.
‘Suction and straps, Cousin.’
Startled, she glanced at the captain, obviously no longer asleep, as he watched the trajectory of her gaze, a twinkle in his eyes.
Mary felt her face flame. She could have uttered a half-dozen apologies, but what was the point? He had caught her staring at his wooden leg. She recognised the moment for what it was. Yea or nay? she asked herself and decided yea would do.
‘I had wondered. How did you know?’
‘I’ve seen that glance a time or two and generally from the female sex,’ he told her, as calm as could be. ‘The peg itself is padded inside. I ease in my stump and then fasten the two leather straps to a belt around my waist under my clothes. You’re the first lady I’ve ever explained it to.’
Another ripe moment. She knew she could nod, apologise a little, then say no more, except that she wanted to know more. ‘Does it ever hurt?’
Bless his heart, Captain Rennie seemed to understand. ‘If I stand too long, or walk great distances.’ He chuckled. ‘That’s not generally a problem on your average frigate.’
‘Oh. But aren’t there periods when you are on deck for hours?’
‘Most days, Cousin, so, aye, it does hurt,’ he said. He shifted Nathan a bit and settled himself more comfortably. ‘Look you here.’ He raised his trouser leg until she saw the bucketlike contraption and the beginning of a strap.
‘It was amputated mid-calf?’
‘Aye. I’m lucky. I still have my knee. We have a cook on board my frigate who lost his leg to the hip, almost.’ He shook his head, but Mary saw admiration in his expression. ‘He stumps around with a crutch and cooks amazing victuals.’
‘Still, you probably could have left the sea.’
/> ‘Never, Cousin,’ he said, his voice firm. ‘I am at home on the ocean and have somehow convinced the Sea Lords that I am valuable.’
Mary nodded. She had more questions. The captain must have known it, because he extended both hands and curled his fingers, as though trying to coax the words from her. She smiled at that. ‘You make a peg-leg sound simple, but I doubt it is,’ she ventured.
‘On board, I wear a peg that is slightly broader than this one.’ He laughed out loud. ‘This is my gentlemanly town peg! It’s easier to stand on a wider hunk of wood and maintain my balance. And if the sea is really rough, I secure myself to the ship and let it hold me up. There’s no end of rope located conveniently.’
‘Goodness. I can’t imagine trying to maintain balance on a slanting deck.’
‘Like everything, Cousin, practice. We usually stand loose with legs wide apart, maybe one foot behind the other.’
He looked down at his sleeping child and gave the boy a look so fond that she couldn’t help a moment of envy, wishing someone would look at her that way.
‘I was nearly a month in Plymouth for some rapid refitting when Nathan was three. I used to take him in the tin tub with me. He cried when he couldn’t take off his leg, too, when we bathed.’
His comment was so matter of fact and disingenuous that Mary was completely disarmed. ‘Feeling sorry for you would be pointless,’ she stated.
‘Completely.’ He crossed his legs and waggled his peg at her, as he had discomfited Mr Barraclough only last night.
Mary put her hands to her mouth so she would not laugh too loud and wake up Nathan. ‘You’re a rascal and a scoundrel,’ she told him.
‘I’m a navy man. It’s one and the same.’ He looked out the window again, where the snow fell faster. ‘I wouldn’t be a postilion on a day like this. Poor Preston and son. I wonder, Mary: should we stop for the day at Scowcroft? What is today, by the way?’
