by Carla Kelly
‘Da, this is a good idea.’
He smiled and looked back to see his son approach, hopping through the snow, because it came up to his knees. I wish I could hop like that, Ross thought, amused now.
‘Well, now,’ he said as Nathan stood beside him. He grinned as his son unbuttoned his trousers and let fly. Not one to hang back—he had drunk more at breakfast than usual—Ross did the same. The companionable sound was the only noise in the copse, the homeliest sound in the world of men. As he buttoned up, Ross decided that men must be the simplest of creatures, if something that mundane could restore his good humour. Of course, he was approaching the age when even a half-full bladder meant some discomfort. My kidneys are growing old in the service of my nation, he thought, and laughed out loud.
‘I feel better, too,’ Nathan confided. ‘Mary thought I might.’
Oh, shudder. Nothing is sacred on a questing journey for fruitcake and brown bread. He turned towards the road again, Nathan close by, and then hand in hand.
When he opened the chaise door, Mary was looking relentlessly in the other direction. Still, he detected spots of colour on her cheeks when she turned her head. My Lord, what an attractive woman she was.
When they were moving again, and Nathan on his back now with his head against his father’s leg, Ross conquered his own embarrassment. ‘You know that wasn’t why I left,’ he said, wanting to explain it to her, but not certain why.
‘I know,’ she said, complacent. ‘You needed some company.’
More than you know, he thought suddenly and resumed staring at a book which could have been written in Russian, for all he knew. With all his heart he blessed the unknown Mrs Morison for sending Mary Rennie on an adventure. He hoped the brown bread in Ovenshine would not disappoint.
Chapter Thirteen
The brown bread and quince jelly at the Weeping Willow, renamed Bloody Swash by the new owner, was all Ross could have asked for. Unfortunately, the purser had not improved. Since separating from the Royal Navy after Trafalgar, Ralph Clarke’s fortune was made, but his cowardice in battle remained undisputed.
And so Ross informed his wide-eyed cousin—that tender, trusting soul—as they pulled up to the inn yard in late afternoon.
‘I don’t want to stop here, then,’ she told him. ‘It’s just brown bread.’
She was probably right. When he’d left home for sea years ago in the last century, his father had admonished him to listen to good advice and take it. Like most young men, he ignored wisdom. Now that he was well-seasoned, he still ignored it.
‘Ovenshine and brown bread are on my list,’ he reminded her, knowing how childish and stubborn he sounded.
‘Very well,’ Mary said, sounding a little stubborn and childish herself. Maybe he could tease her about it later.
If his former purser was surprised to see him, he never let it show. After a glance and then a stare, Clarke’s smile of welcome seemed genuine enough. Of course, the man played host to Ovenshine in the Bloody Swash and business probably outranked sincerity. Ross felt his misgivings gather like sea birds around a whale’s carcase. He wanted to pull Mary close to him, but he didn’t.
For some reason, he introduced Mary merely as Mary Rennie, not mentioning their cousinly connection. Mary made no move to edit his introduction, beyond putting her hands on his son’s shoulders in a possessive fashion that made Ross smile. When Nathan just seemed to naturally back up closer to her, Mary’s hands slipped from his shoulders to his chest, folding him in her gentle embrace. If Ross had suddenly introduced Mary as his cousin and not the mother of his son, Clarke would never have believed him.
Amid the misgivings, something magic was happening; Ross couldn’t have explained it. He asked for a private parlour and two chambers connecting, and then for brown bread and quince jelly.
‘We can do better than that, Captain,’ his former purser assured him. ‘I can get you an excellent roast squab.’
In answer, Ross held out the list. ‘Remember? The South Atlantic, with no wind for weeks.’
Clarke’s smile went from businesslike to genuine, if only briefly. He looked at Ross and his eyes were bright. ‘We were a lonely bunch of men.’ He inclined his head towards the commons room. ‘I can accommodate you, Captain. Do have a seat. This will be my pleasure.’
* * *
Perhaps she had been foolish to worry about Ralph Clarke, Mary decided, after raising both hands against another slice of the most amazing brown bread she had ever eaten. Whatever his moral failings, if she could believe the captain, Mr Clarke was right about the quince jelly, too. It was tart and sweet in turn, almost depending upon the whim of where it sat in the mouth.
However stilted their conversation had begun, the captain and his purser relaxed and began a tentative reminiscence. Of course, such camaraderie may have been encouraged by the arrival of hot buttered rum toddies. Mary shook her head over that and drank tea instead. Napkin around his neck, Nathan tucked away a respectable bowl of kidney pie and more brown bread.
Nathan’s eyes began to droop and he leaned against Mary. She looked at the two convivial men, frowning to notice that the former purser seemed to be nursing his toddy along, while the captain drank rather more deeply. I should talk to my cousin about that, she thought before reminding herself that it was none of her business. They would be in York tomorrow, anyway. Maybe a throbbing head would be a more convincing tutorial than the sharp tongue of a nagging woman.
But here was Nathan, drooping and sagging, as his father drank deeper. ‘Ross, I’m going to put Nathan to bed,’ she said.
Ross gave her an owlish look, and she itched to slap his head. ‘You are about fifty per cent to let,’ she said, which made Mr Clarke giggle.
The captain looked at his cup, as though wondering why there was nothing in it.
When his garrulous host noticed the same thing, the man snapped his fingers for the barmaid’s attention.
‘No more, Mr Clarke,’ Mary said distinctly. ‘Not unless you drain your own cup and start filling it with toddy as well, instead of letting the captain drink it all. Do you have malicious plans?’
‘Really, Mary,’ Ross said. He gestured to his former purser. ‘Mr Clarke and I have had our differences, but the war is over, is it not?’
She opened her mouth to object, then closed it. Her face felt suddenly warm, but she could not blame the captain—at least she did not—because Mr Clarke’s smug look was embarrassment enough.
On second thought, perhaps the former purser was not so congenial. The look he gave Mary contained equal parts of vitriol and venom, much like the balance of the toddy’s rum and sugar. Mary gave him stare for stare until he looked away. She gathered Nathan close to her and walked from the commons room. She would have preferred to flounce off, the way it was done in those overheated novels Dina preferred to read, but she had no practice in flouncing.
She heard a loud laugh and turned around to see Captain Rennie on his feet, his cup raised. ‘A toast to Napoleon Bonaparte, my employer these twenty years,’ he announced to the room at large, which suddenly became silent.
Her urge was strong to return and drag off the captain, too.
‘What’s wrong with my da?’ Nathan asked, more alert.
He’s drunk, he’s tired, he’s weary of war, he’s taking a little memory trip that might not be so good for him. Perhaps it’s better than the one I forced on him yesterday. The thoughts chased each other around in Mary’s brain until she hardly knew how to reply.
Nathan offered a solution, which touched Mary. ‘I get happy like that when school is finished,’ he confided.
I only have to do this for another day, she reminded herself as she squeezed his hand. ‘I believe he has earned a break, too. But it’s bed for you now, lad.’
She couldn’t fault the accommodations at the Bloo
dy Swash. After a sleepy face wash, the little boy left a trail of clothes to the bed, stopping only long enough for Mary to help him into his nightshirt, which looked like a cutdown affair from his father. Some put-upon servant had provided a warming pan, so Nathan’s sigh of contentment was genuine.
She sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, watching him settle into sleep. She thought of Inez, his long-dead mother, who had never enjoyed such a moment with this child of hers and Captain Rennie. She had no doubt that Mrs Pritchert did the same thing, night after night, the homely task of women. With a pang, she suddenly realised that she did not want life to pass her by for even one more second. She did not know what lay ahead after York, beyond fetching a fruitcake, but she had no urge to return to Edinburgh and pick up where she had left off. It was a daunting thought because she had no idea how to change her fortunes.
There wasn’t any reason to return to the commons room. Mary looked in the other bedchamber, smiling to see a lump in that bed which meant another warming pan. She started to unbutton her bodice, then changed her mind, knowing she would not be easy until Captain Rennie was sleeping beside his son.
The commons room was still full of patrons, but they seemed to be talking among themselves now, casting glances towards the other open door. She looked for the captain, but he was either passed out on the bench, or not there.
One of the farmers pointed. ‘If you want your soggy man, look in there.’
She did as he said, her cheeks flaming as they laughed at her. No wonder her father used to preach any number of sermons from the pulpit about the evils of strong brew. The sooner they left the Bloody Swash and Ovenshine, the better she would feel.
Mary stood in the doorway to the kitchen and couldn’t help smiling. His feet planted wide apart, as though on a pitching deck, Ross Rennie stood at the Rumford, stirring a pot. Mr Clarke perched on the table, his attention on the captain. He glanced at her, then looked away, the smile gone.
‘Whatever is going on in here?’ Mary asked.
Ross turned around at the sound of her voice. The owlish look was gone, replaced by a satisfied expression. He bowed. ‘Madam Mary, I am making the purser a pot of burgoo. He claims he misses it. I know I do.’
‘Burgoo?’ she asked, coming closer to look into the pot. ‘It looks just like porridge.’
He handed her the spoon, and she stirred, while he added more finely ground oatmeal. ‘I suppose it is. I make it sugary.’
She stared as he poured in a generous handful of caster sugar, grated from a large block, then felt her heart settle as he stirred the spoon round. She glanced at his face, which was red from the combined effects of cooking and drinking. She saw something more, something wistful in his expression, which forcefully bore home to her that he truly wasn’t comfortable away from the sea, or food that a lubber would scorn. She peered in the pot.
‘Burgoo. How many times a day?’
‘One or two. Before a battle, cooks on my frigates were always under orders to make a big pot of the stuff before extinguishing their fire. Crew and officers alike, we ate it.’
He dipped in a smaller spoon and held it out to her. ‘Try it.’
She did, tasting nothing but over-sugared oatmeal.
‘After a battle, sometimes it was a day before anyone had time to relight the cooking fire.’ He glanced at the purser and lowered his voice, but not by much. ‘Mr Clarke there, he was generally hiding on the orlop deck before burgoo, so I doubt he remembers it.’
Mary put her hand on the captain’s arm and shook her head. ‘Don’t,’ she said softly.
He took the spoon from her, turned back to the pot and kept stirring. She felt Mr Clarke’s eyes boring into her back as she took three bowls to the Rumford.
‘Only a little, then it’s time you came to bed, Ross,’ she said, suddenly aware how intimate that sounded.
To her relief, he nodded. He poured in another generous handful of sugar, then dealt out three portions. In went a lump of butter large enough to rim the porridge as it melted. They ate in silence. Mary nodded her approval. ‘You never put in any milk or cream?’ she asked, hopeful of starting a convivial conversation to drain some of the tension in the kitchen.
‘Hardly ever. D’ye like it, Mary?’
She did, even after a lifetime of porridge. Maybe it was all the butter. Mr Clarke frowned into his burgoo, his face deadly serious. There was more afoot here than she understood, but she tried conversation again. ‘What’s next on your list?’ she asked, wondering what subject would be safe in a place where the captain must have spoken his mind to his former purser.
He took the much-creased list from his pocket. ‘Looks like an encryption,’ he joked. ‘See here: Walmsey— lobscouse. Pickering—Naples biscuits. And my personal favourite: Shoreham—Pigs Pettitoes. Ah, Mary, I’m tired. Lend me a hand?’
She could have knelt on the floor in relief. She wasn’t a big woman, but she hauled her cousin to his feet, balanced him against her hip like a married woman and started him towards the door. He had a slight smile on his face and she wanted to thrash him into the twentieth century. I am cured of whatever affection I might have felt for this man, she told herself as she towed him from the commons room and more laughter, and down the hall. York cannot come soon enough. She pressed her hands against his back when they reached the stairs and he made a creditable attempt to climb them before he sat down and pulled her onto his lap. Before she could turn her head, he kissed her most thoroughly.
His lips were sugary from all that burgoo and she had never minded oats. ‘You are a disgrace to your uniform,’ she informed him.
‘I’ll take it off, then,’ he said, and started on his buttons.
She was at a loss to know what would stop him, and for one fleeting moment she didn’t want him to stop. The maggoty thought vanished soon enough, when she noticed the purser peeking around the corner, his eyes lively, glee mingled with satisfaction that worried her more than Ross Rennie, who had started on her buttons.
Uncomfortable with artifice, Mary glanced at Mr Clarke. She knew it was completely within her power to act quite wifely.
‘Later,’ she told the captain and flicked her middle finger against his cheek, as her least-favourite governess used to do. The wounded look she received nearly pleased her. ‘Get up before I do something drastic.’
Maybe it sounded more threatening in her lowland Scots burr, because he did exactly that, hanging on to the wall and pulling himself up the stairs while she pushed from behind. After a long moment in the hall, where he swayed back and forth, she opened the door and shoved him in. She closed it with monumental relief and turned the key in the lock so hard that a deaf man could have heard it.
‘This is the end of your list, Captain Rennie,’ she told him, biting off each word as he stood weaving back and forth in the parlour. ‘Tomorrow it is Apollo Street in York!’
He nodded vigorously, which made him stagger. ‘There was more in that toddy than rum,’ he informed her solemnly, which made Mary roll her eyes.
‘You would say that,’ she accused. ‘Mr Clarke is a bad man, but I doubt even he is that wicked.’
She poured the captain a large glass of water and stood over him until he drained every drop. She filled it again and repeated the only cure she could think of. It was no cure, but when he finished the second glass, he was sweating and his eyes could focus again.
Mary knew she was not an unkind woman and gradually her anger dissipated, replaced by misery of the acutest sort. She wished she had never stopped at the inn in Carlisle and never accepted his invitation of an escort to York. She was a grown woman and any grown woman could find York. If this was what Mrs Morison called an adventure, Mary wanted no more of it, because it was making her unhappy.
She reconsidered. Not precisely unhappy, but edgy and tense, where life before had been flowing as smo
othly as treacle. Here was this man and she didn’t know what to do with him.
‘I’m sorry, Mary,’ he said finally, as she just looked at him. ‘We’ll leave early in the morning.’
‘We could leave right now,’ she said as vast disquiet filled her. ‘I’ll wake Nathan and go find the postilions. You just—just—sit here and behave yourself.’ She leaned closer, whispering even in the little parlour that held no one but them. ‘Did you make some comment to Mr Clarke about his shipboard behaviour?’
He thought for a long moment, as if opening and closing ledgers in his brain. Mary watched him and resolved never to serve anything stronger in her house than extract of vanilla, if she ever had a place of her own some day.
‘Not beyond what you heard me say in the kitchen. At least what I think I said.’
‘You did,’ she assured him. She gave his arm a little shake. ‘Think a minute! You told me he cheated your crew. Did you say anything to...oh, I don’t know who you report to...’
‘The Navy Board.’
‘Aye, them!’
He nodded. ‘It was at least two years later and my first opportunity on land. Portsmouth. I took his doctored ledgers and my suspicions. Apparently, mine were not the first complaints. I never saw him again.’ He shrugged. ‘He was a worthless coward and he grew rich off the Royal Navy. But this was several years after he left my ship.’
Mary sat down, deflated. ‘Hopefully he has only suspicions and no facts and isn’t one to nurse a grudge.’ She gave her cousin a squinty-eyed glare. ‘And hopefully he has had his fun with you. Ross, go to bed.’
She stood up and managed what she thought was a rather effective flounce from the parlour, considering that she only took a peek now and then at Dina’s florid novels. Her lips firm, she propped her chair against the doorknob and went to bed. The captain could figure out his own buttons and remove his leg and why, oh, why was she worried about it anyway?
