by Carla Kelly
‘I was glad to help,’ she whispered back, ‘but you are overdue in Dumfries.’
‘Are we, Da?’
The captain shook his head. He took out the list again, tracing his finger down the page. ‘Aha! Apple turnovers at the King’s Arms in Knaresborough. That settles it. Besides, Mary Rennie, Knaresborough is on our way.’
* * *
All misgivings aside, Mary had to agree that the duck à l’orange at the Maiden’s Prayers was far superior to any of the plain fare she was used to in Edinburgh. How the cook kept the duck both moist and crackling was probably a state secret. She needed no particular coaxing to try some of the ale that was the public house’s other speciality. She drank enough of it to make her laugh at the pub’s swinging sign, an old woman kneeling by her bed with a man peeking out from underneath it.
* * *
After an hour, Mary took Nathan upstairs to his room while Captain Rennie, encouraged by the ale, described Trafalgar to an interested audience. The Maiden’s Prayers’s excellence didn’t extend above the ground floor. The rooms were small and spartan, with no chambers off private parlours. As usual, Captain Rennie was sufficiently intimidating to get a chamber with a larger bed, and a smaller room on the next floor up, even though the publican assured him that they could easily fit a truckle bed in the larger room for their son. No need for the man to know that Mary’s room was the one up another flight.
Although they had been travelling in close quarters for four days, she felt a little embarrassment at even entering the chamber Nathan shared with his father. There wasn’t any warming pan, so Nathan had no trouble convincing Mary to get into bed with him for as long as it took to read another page in the Naval Chronicle, which formed the boy’s curious bedtime routine. When Mary had questioned it earlier, Ross had told her, ‘It puts us both to sleep.’
Mary struggled to keep her eyes open as she read a column on the hails and farewells from Portsmouth and Plymouth, then a stifling article on the proper way to store victuals in the hold in tropical climes. When she finished the last dreary paragraph, Nathan slumbered beside her, his head resting against her bosom.
She kissed his forehead and got out of bed, pulling the coverlet high around his neck, because the room was so cold.
She stayed in the room a little longer, bracing herself for her solitary bed upstairs, which she knew would never warm up. The captain had already arranged his shaving gear on the bureau and there was a bottle of lemon cologne. She took a whiff, a little sad because she knew she was going to miss the Rennies after Knaresborough.
He had left his food list on the bureau. She opened it and looked for apple turnover at the King’s Arms in Knaresborough. She found no turnovers of any sort, and no King’s Arms, and her over-active conscience smote her soundly. Ross Rennie was just wasting his shore leave when he could be in Dumfries with his sister’s family. It was time to pull the plug on such good intentions, however kindly meant. She had tried before, tried several times, in fact, but she meant it now.
Mary sat for a long time on the narrow bed upstairs, wondering why on earth she had let herself be talked into chasing after fruitcake in the first place, and then succumbing to Captain Rennie’s insistence on accompanying her on such a silly errand. True, she was pretty certain she loved him, but once she had given herself that stern talking-to a few nights back, she had stifled the matter.
The bed was as chilly as she had feared. Mary removed only her dress and shoes and put her cloak on the coverlet, wishing for a warming pan. She couldn’t help but think of the hour she had shared her bed in Skowcroft with the captain. She certainly hadn’t been bold enough to put her bare feet on his legs, but she had slid her feet as close as she dared, enjoying the little warmth. Heavens, Mary, stop it, she scolded herself. Think of something else!
Mary thought about the United States, wondering if a brand-spanking-new country would employ a female banking clerk somewhere. She had a little money from her father’s estate and Uncle Samuel had kindly put it to work in his banking firm. In another year or so, there might be sufficient to provide passage to North America. She knew a little about bookkeeping and was willing to learn.
She held her eyes closed long enough to actually fall asleep.
* * *
When Mary woke up, the sky wasn’t beginning to lighten yet. A few minutes sufficed to render her tidy and write a short note to push under the door on the floor below. She thanked them both for their escort, assured them she could manage Knaresborough and wished them Happy Christmas.
The taproom was dark, so she did not have to explain herself to the publican. Last night, she had overheard him tell another patron that the Royal Mail left from a public house on Edgecombe Street, but two streets away. Snow still fell, but her travelling case was light. She travelled the short distance in time to secure herself a seat on the Royal Mail, leaving at sunrise, and a cup of tea and a roll.
Knaresborough wasn’t so far. With any luck, she would be on her way to Edinburgh by tomorrow, mission accomplished. She hated to think how disappointed Nathan might be, but she knew he would be more upset than his father. Captain Rennie would probably chalk the whole thing up to a little detour on his well-deserved shore leave. By spring, he wouldn’t give the matter a thought.
* * *
They left town as the sun rose behind the bulk of York Minster. With an ache in her heart, Mary knew down to the last memory just how much she was going to miss both Rennies. Apple turnovers at the King’s Arms? There was no such place. Drat the man and his wardroom list.
Chapter Nineteen
‘Da, she’s pulled a runner on us.’
Ross’s head felt too large for his body. Nathan’s words seem to pummel him from a great distance. He touched his eyes with tentative fingers, certain they were bulging from their sockets. He resolved right then to never touch spirits again, especially since he thought his son had shouted that Mary had given them the slip.
No, no, Nathan couldn’t have shouted, not if the look on his face was any indication. Tears slid down his face as his son mourned silently. In one of her rare bursts of candour, Mrs Pritchert had written to him once that for days after his frigate sailed back to the Channel Fleet, Nathan would just sit by his window, weeping in silence. ‘I give him time to grieve,’ she had written, ‘and then it’s back to our lives.’
But watching his father come and go was Nathan’s life, Ross realised, as he looked at his son, still dressed in his nightshirt, standing by the bed they had shared, when Captain Rennie had finally dragged himself into it. With a wince—all his parts ached—Ross pulled back the coverlets, holding them high as an invitation. With a sigh, Nathan joined him again.
‘How do you know she’s gone?’ Ross asked. He wiped Nathan’s eyes with the pillow slip. ‘Surely you didn’t go above deck—upstairs—in just your nightshirt?’
‘It was still dark,’ his son said. ‘No one saw me, Da. I just didn’t think she was in there. I peeked inside.’
He paused, as though unwilling to unburden himself. Ross wondered how much of his young life he kept bottled inside. He knew Mrs Pritchett was an estimable woman, but Nathan was not her boy. He also knew how little acquainted he was with his own child. By the same token, he knew in his bones that Cousin Mary understood Nathan. Call it a knack. Nathan might be his son, but Mary Rennie had the surer touch.
‘What should we do, Son?’ he asked.
‘Follow her to Knaresborough.’
Ross tried once more. ‘She made it pretty plain we weren’t to follow.’
‘Da!’ Nathan made no effort to disguise his bare pleading. ‘Don’t you want to go, too?’
The fact was, he did. ‘Very well. Still...she’ll think we’re managing her.’
‘She won’t,’ his son replied. ‘She likes me a lot.’
‘I believe she does.�
�� Ross’s reward was a relieved smile.
* * *
They set out in the distant backwash of the Royal Mail, easy enough to follow at first. As the weather worsened, his own vehicle moved slower. Amused, and a little exasperated that he had listened to his son, Ross looked out the window at the white world around them. Knaresborough couldn’t be more than eight miles away now.
He couldn’t help but think of patrolling Arctic waters to keep the Danes in check, during their enforced alliance with Napoleon. He remembered snow on the deck and powder monkeys scampering about and throwing snowballs, when the work was done—if it ever was on a frigate.
‘Does Mrs Pritchett allow snowballs?’
Nathan shook his head. ‘She says I’ll catch my death and won’t you be disappointed.’ He gave his father a kind look. ‘Besides, Da, it doesn’t snow much in Plymouth.’
‘You’ve never built a snowman?’
Nathan gave his father a cheery smile. ‘Not yet.’
‘Then you’re an optimist.’
‘I could be,’ Nathan said after a moment’s thought. ‘That depends on what an optimist is.’
‘Someone who thinks the best of all situations.’
His son considered the matter some more, then brightened. ‘I believe I am. After all, I just know Mary will be glad to see us.’
* * *
They travelled even slower, then finally stopped. Ross watched out the nearly frost-covered window as the postilion dismounted stiffly. He shook the snow off and trudged in front of the horses, grabbing them by their bridles. The other postboy hopped off to help him. After less than a mile they stopped again.
‘Where away?’ Ross asked.
Tom Preston pointed. Ross left the chaise and peered into the swirling flakes. The familiar colour and shape of the Royal Mail materialised, barely visible and motionless.
Ross returned to the chaise. ‘Nathan, I believe you have your wish. Take a look.’
His son surprised him. He peered out, then leaped from the chaise, running towards the mail coach, calling Mary’s name.
His son might have surprised him, but strangely, Mary didn’t. The coach door opened and there was Mary, barely waiting for the coachman standing by the road to pull down the step. Ross saw that fine pair of ankles he had admired a day or two ago, then his son grabbed her around the waist.
He wasn’t sure what she would do. To his relief, she laughed out loud, returned his hug, then stooped a little and put her forehead against Nathan’s. His scamp of a son kissed her cheek, then towed her back to the post chaise through the deepening snow.
Ross had an inkling what she would say, and she didn’t disappoint.
‘Captain Rennie, there is no Knaresborough and apple turnovers on your infamous list. You continue to waste valuable shore leave with me.’
‘My son insisted.’
‘You did not,’ she pointed out in her matter-of-fact way, reinforcing his belief that Mary Rennie was an honest soul not easily bamboozled. ‘I have the situation in hand,’ she added. When he just smiled, she was frank enough to add, ‘But you don’t believe me, Cousin.’
‘When I tell you I would like to see this ring, I mean it,’ he told her.
‘Very well, then,’ she grumbled, which he took as a good sign to send the footman for her travelling case on the mail coach and stow it where Ross felt it belonged in the post chaise.
‘Well, here we are,’ he said, sounding more inane than someone’s geriatric maiden aunt.
He could have saved his breath. Nathan and Mary were already rolling what was probably going to become the bottom half of a snowman. He watched as a child standing by her mother near the mail coach sidled closer and closer. Mary noticed the little girl and motioned to her. With an affirmative nod from her mother, she came through the snow in that lightfooted way of children and was soon involved in the second portion of snowman anatomy.
Ross smiled to see a child and then another standing in the open doorway of a nearby crofter’s cottage. A wave and a beckon from Mary added them to the building crew.
He couldn’t resist. A few deft pats and he had a snowball in hand, which he threw at Mary Rennie. It connected with her rump, which made her gasp and whirl around, then pelt him with a snowball of her own.
He should have known better; Mary had allies and he had none. Soon Ross was as snow-covered as his postilion, laughing at them.
After another salvo, Mary declared a truce and her crew went back to work. Ross brushed off his boat cloak and put his hat back in the chaise for safe keeping.
‘Beg pardon, Captain?’
Ross turned to his postilion, who stood with his hand on his son’s shoulder. The young man looked pinched and cold. ‘We’re not going anywhere, are we?’ Ross asked.
‘No matter how close Knaresborough is, not tonight, sir.’ He indicated the crofter’s cottage. ‘You might want to see if you three can bed down there for the night.’
‘What about you?’
The post rider squeezed his son’s shoulders. ‘We’ll manage.’
‘Let’s go together, Preston.’
Ross put on his fore-and-aft hat again, smiling to himself. He had never tried to intimidate a crofter with maritime power before. This shore leave had turned into something more than he had bargained for.
The crofter proved amenable to Captain Rennie’s petition for lodging, even before Ross offered a tidy sum of money that the man likely never saw. With a frown of concentration, he looked at the coins in Ross’s outstretched hand and picked up a few.
‘That’ll do, Captain. Any more and my wife will scold me for being a thief.’
‘One more,’ Ross insisted, impressed with the man’s honesty. ‘My postilion and his boy need a place, too.’
‘They’ll have one here, if they don’t mind sleeping with my own pack upstairs in the loft.’ The crofter looked at the setting sun. ‘Cold tonight. We’ll all stay warm close together.’ He dared a little familiarity. ‘You and your lady can cuddle right good tonight, sir.’
As he walked back to the chaise, Ross asked himself why he never bothered to correct anyone’s misconceptions.
Mary took the news of the change of travelling plans with that equanimity he was coming to appreciate with each day passing. ‘Do you think the mail coach will travel on?’ she asked the postilion.
‘He might try, mum, but I doubt he’ll get far, even were Knaresborough just over the hill. If I may presume, you’re better off here.’
‘’Pears he’s going to try,’ the postilion said as the coachman whistled up his tired team. ‘I give him ten minutes before he’s bogged down.’ He turned to Ross, deferential appreciation in his voice. ‘Thank’ee, sir, for not making us go on.’
‘It was too much,’ Ross replied. ‘Knaresborough can wait.’ And it could. He liked the idea of another evening with Mary Rennie. He watched her as she walked back to the snowman, which was getting stunted twig arms now. Her hand rested on Nathan’s shoulder and his arm circled her waist. He held his breath with the loveliness of it all when she leaned down and kissed the top of his head. Nathan put both arms around her then and they just stood together in the falling snow.
He knew that Mrs Pritchert was kind and loving to his son, but as he watched Nathan and Mary, he knew there was something more. It pained him that he had become so inured to the harshness of his own life that he had trouble thinking in terms of peace or just the simple things that constituted everyday living. And here was Mary, showing father and son alike the homely little blessings that were either a by-product of peace, or what happens when ordinary folk are allowed to pursue their lives on a much smaller stage than his own.
He envied them.
* * *
Hoping he wasn’t obvious, Ross watched Mary during the simple meal the croft
er’s wife prepared. The kitchen was tiny, but somehow there was room for Callie Blankenship and Mary to work together. Callie started shy, but the two of them were laughing together before the onion-and-potato soup made it to the table. There weren’t enough bowls for them all and they had to take turns with spoons. Somehow, no one was embarrassed. He had the strongest suspicion that the loaf of bread passed around as everyone took a chunk would have lasted the family an entire week. When it came to him, Ross made a mental note to leave a few more coins in some out-of-the-way place that the honest crofter wouldn’t find until they were gone.
He began to think his cousin had blossomed in the past few days, even though he hadn’t known her long. As he admired the efficient way the women worked in the kitchen, he tried to remember her in Carlisle—pale, quiet, too self-conscious to look him in the eyes more than once or twice. This Mary was rosy from the heat of the kitchen. Her hair must have come undone during the exertion of building a snowman. During supper preparations, Callie had tied it back for her with some twine. The effect was homely and workaday, but he began to feel that tightening below his belly again, reminding him he was a post captain, to be sure, but a man, as well.
Absurd. Tomorrow would see them in Knaresborough, the fruitcake in hand. Once his curiosity was satisfied, they would head north-west to Dumfries and Mary north to Edinburgh. Once he was assured of peace, there would be leisure to look around for a stepmother for Nathan. Someone just like Mary Rennie would be nice, but for the life of him, he could not relinquish that blonde, tall lady of his younger dreams.
Is that really it? he asked himself. Other men have found wives in wartime. What was the matter with him? Maybe when peace came, he could think about the matter.
Chapter Twenty
Davy and Callie Blankenship evicted their daughters from the tiny room beside their own and sent the girls up the ladder to the loft after supper, full of admonition about not teasing their little brothers and keeping the postilion and his son awake. The cold settled in almost as soon as the darkness.
