by Carla Kelly
‘There are worse prisons than this one,’ he began, and she put her finger to his lips. ‘And it’s not your fault,’ he said around her finger.
‘And you have probably been in one or two, I shouldn’t doubt. I have not. I’m just a quiet lady and I’d rather be anywhere but here.’ She squared her shoulders, which touched his heart. That alone would have startled a generation of midshipmen, who were probably certain he had no heart. ‘But now I have to get you out of here, so don’t give me grief, Ross.’
The constable unlocked the cell and gestured to them.
‘Where is the captain’s blanket?’ Mary said, the spark back in her voice and the stiffening in her spine.
‘Damn the blanket. You’re coming with me,’ the constable said. ‘Sir Henry Pontifract will see you now.’
They were joined on the stairs by two healthy-looking rural types who had probably been routed from warm beds because the constable felt he needed some stiffening. The postilions still waited at the top of the stairs, neither of them as hulking as the constable’s stooges, but lean, in that way of city men. Ross took heart to see them, mainly because he was beginning to suspect he was not the only man around who wanted to protect Mary Rennie. It was not a pleasant reflection to realise that he was in no position to help her or his own son. He was honest enough to know he had not a soul to blame but himself.
He had been in uncomfortable circumstances like this before, most notably in Cadiz, and again in Mersin, a plaguey Turkish backwater, where he and his crew had languished for nearly a year, waiting for the tide of their fortunes to turn. By the time the unpredictable Lord Thomas Cochrane had liberated the prison, Ross was thirty pounds lighter and could speak fair Arabic. At least Sir Henry Pontifract, whoever he was, wouldn’t require a translator. It was some consolation.
Still, he hesitated at the door, suddenly weary down to his toenails and convinced he was the most naive man ever let loose on an unsuspecting population. His hesitation earned him a mighty prod from one of the constable’s goons, which put him off balance and sent him sprawling in a massively undignified way.
No fears, though, because Mary was at his side immediately, gathering him tight in her arms, as if daring anyone to touch him again. He wasn’t so certain he needed to be protected, but he also wasn’t so certain he wanted her to ever let him go. And there was Nathan on his knees, too. With a sudden lift to his heart, he knew he had two champions.
‘How can you be so unkind?’
Mary was on her feet again, backing his assailant into a corner, reminding him of wrens he used to watch from his bedroom window when he was a boy Nathan’s age. The wrens regularly did battle with much larger birds, but they never lost an engagement.
‘I’m well enough, Mary,’ he told her. ‘Just give me a hand up.’
She did, tears sparkling in her eyes, but somehow not falling yet. He began to think she had a mighty arsenal of feminine weapons. He glanced at the massively rotund man seated behind a desk who must be Sir Henry Pontifract, Ovenshine’s magistrate and Justice of the Peace. Sir Henry’s eyes were on Mary, too, and he appeared none too confident.
When Ross was on his feet again, Mary asked for a chair. Sir Henry shook his head and she did not argue, but stood close to Ross, one arm around his waist, and the other around Nathan. Sir Henry opened his mouth to speak, but he was overruled by other voices in the hall, then the entry of his former purser, looking smug as only Ralph Clarke could, and several other men, one or two who seemed familiar. He recognised them from the commons room of the Bloody Swash.
His expression sour—Ross thought Sir Henry did not often see the shady side of midnight—the magistrate turned his attention to Mr Clarke.
‘Well, sir, well, sir, you have insisted this matter could not wait until morning,’ Sir Henry began, with no preamble. ‘You tell me about spies and I see before me one post captain, a wife and son.’
‘Appearances are deceiving, Sir Henry,’ Mr Clarke said with a smirk. ‘That’s what they want you to think.’
He paused and struck a funny little pose, one that Ross was familiar with. He had seen it often enough at sea, when his former purser had some minuscule complaint to trouble him with, usually something that a better-regulated officer could have dealt with by himself and solved with no fanfare.
Sir Henry appeared to be of the same mind. ‘Well, sir, what? My bed is getting cold.’
Elaborately, Mr Clarke drew out the much-folded list of towns and food. Ross almost expected to hear a fanfare from somewhere, but the only sound was the breaking of wind from a geriatric hound of questionable lineage who must have come inside seeking warmth. Nathan turned his face into Mary’s sleeve so he would not giggle.
His face red, the former purser took the list the Sir Henry, who picked it up.
The magistrate frowned as he read down the list. ‘All I see is a list of towns, some of which I know, and food.’
‘I am convinced it is code, Sir Henry. Perhaps the food stands for something else.’
Sir Henry nodded and looked at the list again. ‘Or it could just stand for food.’ He jabbed a pudgy finger somewhere in the middle of the list. ‘The Orion, shepherd’s pie, Everly.’ His expression became contemplative. ‘I had a shepherd’s pie at the Orion once. It was a mouthful of heaven.’ He looked at Ross. ‘A little inn located in the wilds of Northumbria? Somewhere near Leel?’
Ross felt himself relax. ‘The very place, Sir Henry. I ate there last week, on my way to Carlisle.’
Sir Henry absorbed that news and proved he was no fool. ‘Northumbria. Carlisle. Ovenshine. Captain, where are you going? Hopefully your sense of direction is better at sea than on land, or this nation is in deep trouble.’
Everyone laughed, including Mary, who seemed to think this was the funniest witticism she had ever heard. Her laugh was so charming and infectious that Ross had to smile, too, even though he knew not even Ben Pritchert had been better at finding latitude and longitude than he was. A man had his pride.
Mary cleared her throat and picked up the tale. ‘Sir Henry, if you please, my dear husband was on his way to retrieve us. We’re usually in Dumfries, but we had started out to find him and we have been backtracking here and there.’
It was a lovely lie and Ross believed her completely; more usefully, Sir Henry appeared to believe her, too. Ross sighed. ‘I haven’t seen them in nearly two years and, wouldn’t you know it, we miscommunicated.’ He rested his arm on Mary’s shoulder and caressed her neck. ‘Two years. That’s a long time to be without a wife.’
Sir Henry nodded, a small spot of colour blooming in each jowl. ‘And I suppose you have a limited time on short leave.’ He peered closer at Mary. ‘My, but she’s a pretty one.’
Mary blushed and turned her face into Ross’s sleeve.
‘Aye, she is a bonny lass, Sir Henry. I must report back to Plymouth in two weeks.’ He shook his head. ‘We found each other in Carlisle. Now we’re on our way to relatives in York.’ There, Mary, I can lie, too, he told himself with some satisfaction.
Mary gave him a shy glance, which made the larger of the constable’s goons sigh. The hound passed more gas and Nathan giggled. The corner of Sir Henry’s mouth twitched.
Apparently, Mr Clarke began to suspect his quickly constructed plan was unravelling. After a hissed comment, he pushed the two men forwards that he must have brought from the Bloody Swash. Both of them swayed, suggesting too much libation. Sir Henry frowned.
‘Speak, sirs,’ he said, adding, ‘if you can.’
‘Your Excellency, we heard this man propose a toast to Napoleon himself, and call the Corsican Devil an employer!’ The man from the Bloody Swash looked around, satisfied with himself and righteously prim. ‘I know what I heard.’
The room was silent. Even the hound seemed to sense something else in the wind besides his own contributi
on.
‘Ah, yes. There is that matter, Captain. How do you explain this?’ the magistrate asked.
‘Allow me, Sir Henry,’ Mary said, the blush gone now and replaced by a look so wifely—and not in a kind way—that Ross felt his insides rearrange themselves. How did she do that?
‘I have been trying to break my husband of that regrettable habit.’ She looked at Ross, her glance softer. ‘I believe I understand it now.’ She tucked her arm through his. ‘For twenty years, we have all danced to the Corsican Devil’s tune.’
Mr Clarke started to say something. A glance from Sir Henry stopped him.
Mary was in tears now, the beautiful kind that slid down her cheeks and not the kind that would have made another woman’s eyes redden and her nose run. Ross wondered if she had practised such artifice and decided that Mary would never do that. Maybe she was just gifted. He wondered if her Edinburgh relatives had any idea what kind of woman lurked beneath her calm demeanour. More to the point, he wondered if Mary even realised it.
‘I have walked the floor many nights, wondering where my darling was,’ she said. ‘When he was in prison, I was in prison, too. When he lost a leg in the service of his country at Trafalgar...’
She paused, giving the constable’s goons a moment to collect themselves.
‘...it was as though I felt his terrible pain, too. Sir Henry, we have all danced to Napoleon’s tune. Surely you cannot deny it.’
‘I suppose I cannot,’ the magistrate agreed.
She went forwards and took the list from Sir Henry, then returned to Ross’s grasp. ‘Last night we stayed in Skowcroft with the vicar and his wife. Their youngest son served with my husband and died at sea of a fever.’ She swallowed, and Ross knew her plea was genuine. ‘The Everetts of Skowcroft have been in Napoleon’s employ, too. That’s all he meant. Through no one’s fault but Napoleon’s, we have suffered grievously. Think of the worst employer you can imagine, Sir Henry. Granted, it is an unorthodox way to put it, but surely you understand.’ She shook her head. ‘I know I have danced in the employ of the monster, my son and I.’
Mary smiled at him, and Ross felt the power of her words so softly spoken. He suspected that she, who had probably never put herself forwards in her life, was giving him a defence worthy of England’s finest barrister, whoever he was. He had never been so moved.
‘That’s all it was, Sir Henry. I will do my best to see that Ross never gives such a toast again, but I can make no guarantee. We are as you see us: a family so long separated by war that it’s hard for us to imagine anything else. Please let us go our way.’
She stopped then, looking around at her captivated audience and suddenly shy. The look she gave Sir Henry—reaching for his handkerchief—would have turned any man to mush. ‘All we want is to have a happy Christmas together. We have never had such a thing before. I hope I didn’t speak out of turn, Sir Henry.’
The magistrate blew his nose. Even the postilions in the doorway dabbed at their eyes and they knew the deception. Ross looked around. Mr Clarke and his witnesses had left the room. Ross knew he could probably take a moment to acquaint Sir Henry with the exact nature and faulty character of the man who was part-owner of the Bloody Swash, but he said nothing. He knew Ralph Clarke well. In a year or so, maybe sooner, he would muddy his nest and Ovenshine would understand what a viper he was.
‘Please, Sir Henry,’ Mary said.
Her quiet words must have reminded the magistrate that the hour was late, he was tired and there was no need to continue the matter before him.
Sir Henry leaned across the desk and gestured Mary closer. She released her death grip on Ross and came forwards.
‘Take good care of him, Mrs Rennie,’ Sir Henry said. ‘And perhaps it would be better if he not show himself in Ovenshine any time soon.’ His tone became conspiratorial. ‘You never know who might take offence over something trite and trivial. I would never, but there are some...’ He looked around and caught the constable’s eye.
‘Aye, Sir Henry. Once we visit those relatives in York, Nathan and I will see him safely to Dumfries for Christmas.’ She sighed again. ‘And then it’s back to Plymouth and the Channel Fleet.’ She put her hand in Sir Henry’s. ‘And do, sir, pray for peace. I want my darling with me evermore.’
Sir Henry adroitly turned a gasping sob into a sneeze and buried his face in his handkerchief. Mary gave him a lovely curtsy, then led her men from the chamber.
The night air braced him as they waited at the bottom of the steps for the postilions to remove the blankets from their horses. He wasn’t brave enough to look at Mary Rennie, who stood so quietly beside him, her arm still in the crook of his arm as though it belonged there.
When they were seated inside, the postilion stood by the open door. ‘Are we going back to the Bloody Swash?’
‘No need,’ Ross said. He looked at Mary, so composed, but with a level of sadness in her eyes, even though the charade was done and he was free—if one could overlook the admonition never to return to Ovenshine. ‘Where, my dear?’
‘York. You know it must be so.’
Chapter Sixteen
They travelled through the night in silence. I meant every word I said, Mary thought, dazed. Ross probably thinks it was all for show, but not a word of it was false. I doubt Mrs Morison intended this much adventure. She took a deep breath, wondering just when an admittedly odd journey turned into that moment in her life that Mama had predicted, but which Mary had thought would never happen, events being what they were. Mary, you cannot possibly be in love, she scolded herself. It doesn’t happen like this.
‘How would you know how it happens?’ she murmured under her breath, her face turned towards the window.
‘Beg pardon?’ Ross asked, and Mary thought he sounded a little breathless.
‘It’s nothing,’ she whispered back, mortified that she had spoken out loud.
She glanced at Ross, who stared out the window, Nathan’s head resting on his lap. She watched how his hand caressed his child, this boy he saw only now and then. Whatever peculiar emotion had gripped her was destined to pass. She could hurry it along by putting Ovenshine completely out of her mind. She thought it might be a little harder to dismiss Captain Rennie in a skimpy nightshirt, but anything was possible, she reasoned. As embarrassment washed over Mary, it was followed by remorse of the acutest kind. She regretted taking up one more minute of the father and son’s time together because of her silly quest. Whatever she was feeling was her problem and not theirs.
When Nathan was asleep, Mary cleared her throat and Ross turned towards her. She opened her mouth to speak and he put his hand up to stop her.
‘Allow me to be ungentlemanly and go first, Cousin,’ he said. ‘Please accept my apology for this whole wretched turn of events.’ He looked out the window again as if collecting himself. She waited. ‘There are times when I wonder if I will ever be fit for land.’
‘Ross, you know you will,’ she assured him, puzzled at his train of thought. ‘Napoleon—your employer—’ he chuckled at that ‘—will remain on Elba. You can buy an estate in...in...’
‘Dumfries. Or was it Kirkbean?’
‘Whichever, and turn into a country gentleman.’ She stopped, because the whole idea seemed suddenly unpalatable to her, never mind how he felt. ‘Or not,’ she concluded, chastising herself with how lame she sounded. ‘You will be on half-pay, won’t you? Perhaps I shouldn’t wish unemployment on you.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I have prize money being put to good use by Brustein and Carter in Plymouth. The damned thing is this: I want to go back to sea right now and it isn’t even Christmas. I have two more weeks of shore leave. Two whole weeks.’ He shook his head, as though the idea of that much leisure was a plot hatched by Talleyrand himself.
‘Only think how disappointed your sister would be,’ Mary said,
dismayed how eager he was to put real distance between him and her.
He shrugged again. ‘My sister’s disappointment will pass. She told me once that I only come to go away. Do you have the list?’ He held out his hand.
She took it from her reticule and handed it to him. He stared at it for a long time, then he smiled. ‘The Orion, shepherd’s pie in Everly; Quarie, steak-and-kidney pie at the Bugle; The Last Judgement and Ragoo’d Mutton in Frampton. It does sound suspicious. I spy and what do I spy? Did you ever play that child’s game?’
‘We all did.’ She looked at his face. It was bland now, with no show of emotion, a contrast to his bare pleading when he sat so vulnerable without his leg. Or perhaps she had imagined any concern or fear. He was a man in perfect control. ‘How close did Mr Clarke come to the truth? Did you ever spy?’
He folded the list and tucked it in his inside uniform pocket. ‘Not how you are thinking. Or him. For a man at sea, Mr Clarke was amazingly oblivious. Maybe that came from too much drinking or too much hiding when we engaged the enemy. Did you know it’s a hanging offence to hide during a battle?’
‘I would have hid myself at the first sign of a French ship,’ Mary declared.
‘I doubt that supremely, Mary, my handy wife,’ he teased. ‘You’re at least as brave as Mr Clarke.’ He ducked when she threw her tatting spool at him. ‘Mind your manners.’ He tossed it back. ‘Actually, we dropped off many a British agent on the Spanish and French coasts and retrieved others. It was a dangerous game.’
His eyes seemed to light up with the animation that had been missing since they arrived in Skowcroft for the lemon-curd pudding, reminding her again how taxing it was for him to visit the relatives of a dead man. I shouldn’t have forced him to do that warred with But the Everetts needed to talk about their boy, but she did not make herself happy with her interference. The light in his eyes brought home to her his need for the excitement of his life, which was bound up with war. With a pang, Mary realised she had nothing to offer such a man. He was nothing more than a supremely distant relative who thought to help her.
