by Carla Kelly
Mr Smathers stood there, his face calm now, all exhaustion gone. He smiled at her.
‘Have you come to take me with you?’ she asked, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘I still want to go, even if I go alone.’
‘Actually, this pencil pusher comes as an emissary, dear Grace Curtis. There is a man outside who wants to know if you could love him one-legged.’
Grace felt the blood draining from her face, and grasped the corner of the pastry case to steady herself. ‘He’s alive,’ she whispered.
‘Aye, quite alive. He’s been in hospital in Bristol. Damn Captain Shortland! He sent the wounded everywhere and would not tell me anything. I had to search every hospital and physician’s office in Cornwall and Devon.’
‘Bless you,’ she murmured, edging for the door.
She saw the emotion in his eyes then and her heart went out to him. ‘I found him in Bristol.’ He smiled at her. ‘He wants me to find out your answer, before he either comes inside or continues down to Plymouth.’
Grace didn’t try to stop her tears; she knew they would flow anyway, no matter how determined she was to be calm about the matter. ‘You may tell him for me that I think he is a blithering idiot to even consider I could not love a one-legged man.’
‘“Blithering idiot”. I like that,’ Mr Smathers replied. ‘Any other embellishments? You always were prone to speak your mind.’
‘That will do,’ she said crisply, going to the bread bin for the deed as he left the shop. She turned to Mrs Gentry, who stood transfixed in the door to the back room. ‘My dear, would you gather up my clothing into a bundle? Put in the Bible, but you may have the other books.’
She stood in the centre of the shop, hands clasped calmly in front of her. When the door opened again, Rob Inman stood there. He shouldered his way in, coming toward her on crutches. She sighed to see where his pant leg was pinned back below one knee, then put any doubts behind her. He was her man and she would cleave to him until she died.
‘Rob Inman, it seems I own a home in Nantucket. I’ll share it with you.’
Then he was in her arms, the crutches clattering to the floor. She held him up and she held him close, kissing his thin face and murmuring all endearments that came to her mind.
‘Beloved, I have missed you from the day Ugly Butler took me away,’ he said into her ear.
‘He’s not so ugly,’ she said, shivering a little at the power of his breath on her ear and knowing quite well where it could lead. Where it had led, she amended. That bit of news could wait for a more private moment.
‘Aye, lass. He’s not so ugly. He assures me that we can find an American preacher on board an American ship who will marry us. Are you game, Gracie? It’s time to celebrate some freedom, even if we have to share a tiny berth.’
She blushed, which only made him laugh. Mr Smathers had retrieved the crutches and Rob tucked them in his armpits again. ‘I know there will be a carpenter on board who can whittle me a peg leg. D’ye mind, really?’
This was said seriously, so she answered as seriously.
‘Not a bit, Rob.’ She held herself off from him for a good look. ‘I didn’t love just that half a leg that’s missing. I have no doubt that you could tread any slanting deck again, if that is your choice. And if it is, then it is mine, too.’
Rob looked around the room. She noticed his glance lingered longest on the now-fading Yankee Doodle Doughnuts sign. ‘I have a better idea. There is my prize money, long overdue. Mr Smathers tells me that there is someone rather high up on this little island who wants to be a silent partner in a Nantucket bakery. He tells me you can fill in the details later.’
Grace clapped her hands in delight and smiled at Mr Smathers this time, who bowed in answer. She kissed Rob’s cheek. ‘My love, running a bakery isn’t nearly as exciting as…as visiting Jamaica, or maybe the Barbary Coast.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Rob replied. ‘You may be right, but I’d rather wake up every morning from now on and see your face sharing my pillow.’
She was wiping her eyes again, close in the circle of Rob’s arms, when Mrs Wilson came into the store, carrying her bundled clothes. She took the bundle and clung to Mrs Wilson for a long moment. ‘You did so much for me,’ she whispered. Mr Wilson tried not to cry and failed, too. Mrs Gentry kissed her and took over at the table, cutting doughnuts.
Grace went outside, where a wagon nearly full of Dartmoor’s former prisoners waited. Mr Smathers handed up her bundle and accepted his own duffel.
‘You’re not coming, too?’ Grace asked, after he helped Rob Inman back into the wagon.
‘Not yet,’ he told her. ‘I have some more men to locate.’
‘Your own family must miss you, Nahum.’
He shook his head. ‘For a two-year war, it’s been a long one. My wife and child died of a fever a year ago, so I have learned. No one is waiting for me, but I will go home to Braintree eventually.’
‘I am so sorry, Nahum,’ she said.
He flicked at her tears, then impulsively kissed her. The look he gave Rob was a close cousin to the glower she knew well. He still held her hand and he pressed it now.
‘As I said, I’ll see to it in person that you receive your thirty pounds per annum.’ He turned to stare at Rob, seated now in the wagon and holding out his hands for Grace. ‘If I find that you are dead, or not treating this excellent woman well, I intend to court and marry her. Be on your best behavior, Sailing Master Inman.’
‘Make that Baker Inman,’ Rob said. His face was serious. ‘I always knew I’d have to watch my back around you, Smathers.’
‘Damn straight, you do,’ Nahum said, giving Grace a hand up. He looked her in the eye with the kinder expression she had come to know, in her time of great need. ‘Change your mind, Gracie?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘You’re a good man, Nahum Smathers.’ Her glance went to the man she loved. ‘But I still choose Rob Inman.’
* * * * *
In Closing
The infamous Dartmoor massacre of American prisoners of war, nearly four months after the signing of the treaty to end the War of 1812, remains shrouded in mystery.
Some historians believe the Americans were trying to retrieve a ball that went over one of the interior walls. When the guards would not return it, the POWs broke a hole in the wall to get it back. Others think the Americans were angry about their continued imprisonment and reduction of the bread ration, and tried to break out.
Whatever the reason, prison guards were ordered—perhaps by prison governor Captain Thomas Shortland—to fire on the milling prisoners. Seven or eight men were killed, six POWs lost arms or legs because of injuries and another fifty-three were more lightly injured.
The dead were buried in what has become known as the American Cemetery. In all, the cemetery contains the remains of 271 Americans who died in prison between 1812 and 1815.
Through the years, various American societies erected monuments and markers. Neglected for years, the cemetery recently received a needed facelift by U.S. Navy personnel stationed in the United Kingdom. At this time, serious effort was made to learn the names of all the American dead. These names are now memorialised by two new plaques at Dartmoor Prison. There may be others still unaccounted for; old records are sometimes vague. As Nahum Smathers wisely pointed out, that time when a war is ending is the most confusing time of all.
But many care. The new memorial plaques contain the following words: Dedicated to the memory of those who died at Dartmoor Prison during the War of 1812. You have not been forgotten.
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ISBN: 9781459230545
Copyright © 2012 by Carla Kelly
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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