‘‘Your uncle is dead,’’ he told her, the bald words yanked right out of his mouth by her forthrightness. ‘‘We had a terrible accident on the blockade. He was killed, and my ship nearly destroyed.’’
She winced and briefly narrowed her eyes at his words, but she returned his gaze with no loss of composure, rather like a woman used to bad news.
‘‘Your uncle didn’t suffer,’’ he added quickly, struck by the lameness of his words as soon as he spoke them. He was rewarded with more of the same measured regard.
‘‘Do you write that to all the kin of your dead?’’ she asked, not accusing him, but more out of curiosity, or so it seemed to him. ‘‘All the kin of your dead,’’ he thought, struck by the aptness of the phrase, and the grand way it rolled off her Scottish tongue.
‘‘I suppose I do write it,’’ he said, after a moment’s thought. ‘‘In David’s case, I believe it is true.’’ He hesitated, then plunged ahead, encouraged by her level gaze. ‘‘He was attempting to push off the Admirable with a grappling hook and a carronade exploded directly in front of him. He . . . he couldn’t have known what hit him.’’
To his surprise, Sally Partlow leaned forward and quickly touched his hand. She knows what he meant to me, he thought, grateful for her concern.
‘‘I’m sorry for you,’’ she said. ‘‘Uncle Partlow mentioned you often in his letters.’’
‘‘He did?’’ It had never before occurred to him that he could be a subject in anyone’s letters, or even that anyone on the planet thought him memorable.
‘‘Certainly, sir,’’ she replied. ‘‘He often said what a fair-minded commander you were, and how your crew—and he included himself—would follow you anywhere.’’
These must be sentiments that men do not confide in each other, he decided, as he listened to her. Of course, he had wondered why the same crew remained in his service year after year, but he had always put it down to their own fondness for the Admirable. Could it be there was more? The matter had never crossed his mind before.
‘‘You are all kindness, Miss Partlow,’’ he managed to say, but not without embarrassment. ‘‘I’m sorry to give you this news—and here you must have thought to bring him Christmas greetings and perhaps take him home with you.’’
The brother and sister looked at each other. ‘‘It is rather more than that, Captain,’’ Thomas Partlow said.
‘‘Oh, Tom, let us not concern him,’’ Sally said. ‘‘We should leave now.’’
‘‘What, Thomas?’’ he asked the young boy. ‘‘David Partlow will always be my concern.’’
‘‘Uncle Partlow was named our guardian several years ago,’’ he said.
‘‘I do remember that, Thomas,’’ Lynch said. ‘‘He showed me the letter. Something about in the event of your father’s death, I believe. Ah yes, we were blockading the quadrant around La Nazaire then, same as now.’’
‘‘Sir, our father died two weeks ago,’’ Thomas explained. ‘‘Almost with his last breath, he told us that Uncle Partlow would look after us.’’
The room seemed to fill up with the silence. He could tell that Miss Partlow was embarrassed. He frowned. These were his lodgings; perhaps the Partlows expected him to speak first.
‘‘I fear you are greatly disappointed,’’ he said, at a loss. ‘‘I am sorry for your loss, and sorry that you must return to Scotland both empty-handed and bereft.’’
Sally Partlow stood up and extended her hand to him, while her brother retrieved her cloak and shawl from the end of the sofa. ‘‘We trust we did not take up too much of your time at this busy season,’’ she said. ‘‘Come, Thomas.’’ She curtseyed again and he bowed and opened the door for her. She hesitated a moment. ‘‘Sir, we are quite unfamiliar with Portsmouth. Do you know . . .’’
‘‘. . . of a good hotel? I can recommend the Spithead on the High.’’
The Partlows looked at each other and smiled. ‘‘Oh, no!’’ she said, ‘‘nothing that fine. I had in mind an employment agency.’’
He shook his head. ‘‘I couldn’t tell you. Never needed one.’’ Did they want to hire a maid? he wondered. ‘‘Thanks to Boney, I’ve always had plenty of employment.’’ He bade them good day and the best of the season, and retreated behind his paper again as Miss Partlow quietly shut the door.
Two hours later, when Mrs. Brattle and the maid were serving his supper, he understood the enormity of his error. Mrs. Brattle had laid the table and set a generous slice of sirloin before him when she paused. ‘‘Do you know, Captain, I am uneasy about the Partlows. She asked me if I needed any help around the place.’’
Mystified, he shook his napkin into his lap. ‘‘That is odd. She asked me if I knew of an employment agency.’’
He sat a moment more in silence, staring down at the beef in front of him, brown and oozing pink juices. Shame turned him hot, and he put his napkin back on the table. ‘‘Mrs. Brattle, I think it entirely possible that the Partlows haven’t a sixpence to scratch with.’’
She nodded, her eyes troubled. ‘‘She’ll never find work here, so close to Christmas. Captain Lynch, Portsmouth may be my home, but it’s not a place that I would advise a young woman to look for work.’’
He could only agree. With a speed that surprised him, considering how slowly he had dragged himself to the rooming house only yesterday, he soon found himself on the street, looking for the Partlows and hoping deep in his heart that their dead uncle would forgive his captain’s stupidity. He stopped at the Spithead long enough to tell his brother officers that they would have to find another fourth to make up the whist table tonight, then began his excursion through town. It brought him no pleasure and he berated himself for not being more aware—or even aware at all—of the Partlows’ difficulties. Am I so dense? he asked himself, and he knew the answer.
Christmas shoppers passed him, bearing packages wrapped in brown paper and twine. Sailors drunk and singing stumbled past. He thought he saw a press gang on the prowl, as well, and his blood chilled at the thought of Lieutenant Partlow’s little nephew nabbed and hauled aboard a frigate to serve at the king’s good pleasure. Granted he was young, but not too young to be a powder monkey. Oh God, not that, he thought, as he turned up his collar and hurried on, stopping to peer into restaurant kitchens over the protestations of proprietors and cooks.
He didn’t even want to think about the brothels down on the waterfront where the women worked day and night on their backs when the fleet was in. She would never, he thought. Of course, who knew when they had even eaten last? He thought of the beef roast all for him and cursed himself again, his heart bleak.
When it was full dark and his cup of discouragement had long since run over, he spotted them on the fisherman’s wharf, seated close together on a crate. Their arms were around each other and even as he realized how awful was their situation, he felt a tug of envy. There is not another soul in the world who would care if I dropped dead tomorrow, he thought, except possibly my landlady, and she’s been half expecting such an event all these years of war.
He heard a sound to his left and saw, to his dismay, a press gang approaching, the ensign ready with his whistle, and the bosun with a cudgel, should Tom Partlow choose to resist impressment in the Royal Navy. As an ensign, he had done his own press gang duty, hating every minute of it and only getting through it by pretending that every hapless dockyard loiterer that he impressed was his brother.
‘‘Hold on there,’’ he called to the ensign, who was putting his whistle to his lips. ‘‘The boy’s not for the fleet.’’
At his words, the Partlows turned around. Sally leaped down from the packing crate and stood between her brother and the press gang. Even in the gloom, he could see how white her face was, how fierce her eyes. There was something about the set of her jaw that told him she would never surrender Tom without a fight.
‘‘Not this one,’’ Lynch said, biting off each word. He recognized the bosun from the Formidable, whose captain was even now playing w
hist at the Spithead.
To his irritation—he who was used to being obeyed—the young officer seemed not to regard him. ‘‘Stand aside,’’ the man shouted to Sally Partlow.
‘‘No,’’ Sally said, and backed up.
Lynch put a firm hand on the ensign’s arm. ‘‘No.’’
The ensign stared at him, then looked at his bosun, who stood with cudgel lowered. ‘‘Topkins, as you were!’’ he shouted.
The bosun shook his head. ‘‘Sorry, Captain Lynch!’’ he said. He turned to his ensign. ‘‘We made a mistake, sir.’’
The ensign was almost apoplectic with rage. He tried to grab Lynch by the front of his cloak, but in a moment’s work, he was lying on the wharf, staring up.
‘‘Touch me again, you pup, and I’ll break you right down to able seaman. This boy is not your prey. Help him up, Topkins, and wipe that smile off your ugly phiz.’’
The bosun helped up his ensign, who flung off his assisting arm when he was on his feet, took a good look at Lynch, blanched, and stammered his apologies. ‘‘There’s those in the Formidable’s fo’castle who’d have paid to see that, Captain Lynch,’’ the bosun whispered. ‘‘Happy Christmas!’’
Lynch stood where he was between the Partlows and the press gang until the wharf was deserted again. ‘‘There now,’’ he said, more to himself than them. He turned around to see Sally still standing in front of her brother, shielding him. ‘‘They won’t return, Miss Partlow, but there may be others. You need to get yourselves off the streets.’’
She shook her head, and he could see for the first time how really young she was. Her composure had deserted her and he was embarrassed to have to witness a proud woman pawn her pride in front of practically a stranger. He was at her side in a moment. ‘‘Will you forgive me for my misunderstanding of your situation?’’ he asked in a low voice, even though there was no one else around except Tom, who had tears on his face. Without a word, Lynch gave him his handkerchief. ‘‘You’re safe now, lad,’’ he said, then looked at the boy’s sister again. ‘‘I do apologize, Miss Partlow.’’
‘‘You didn’t know because I didn’t say anything,’’ she told him, the words dragged out of her by pincers. ‘‘No need to apologize.’’
‘‘Perhaps not,’’ he agreed, ‘‘but I should have been beforehand enough not to have needed your situation spelled out for me.’’
Tom handed back the handkerchief, and he gave it to the boy’s sister. ‘‘But why were you sitting here on the dock?’’
She dabbed at her eyes then pointed to a faded sign reading FISH FOR SALE. ‘‘We thought perhaps in the morning we could find occupation,’’ she told him.
‘‘So you were prepared to wait here all night?’’ he asked, trying to keep the shock from his voice, but failing, which only increased the young woman’s own embarrassment. ‘‘My God, have you no funds at all? When did you last eat?’’
She looked away, biting her upper lip to keep the tears back, he was sure, and his insides writhed. ‘‘Never mind that,’’ he said briskly. ‘‘Come back with me now and we can at least remedy one problem with a meal.’’ When she still hesitated, he picked up her valise and motioned to Tom. ‘‘Smartly now,’’ he ordered, not looking over his shoulder, but praying from somewhere inside him that never prayed, that the Partlows would follow.
The walk from the end of the dock to the street seemed the longest of his life, especially when he heard no footsteps behind him. He could have sunk to the earth in gratitude when he finally heard them, the boy’s quicker steps first, and then his sister’s steps, accompanied by the womanly rustle of skirt and cloak.
His lodgings were blessedly warm. Mrs. Brattle was watching for him from the front window, which filled him with some relief. He knew he needed an ally in such a respectable female as his landlady. Upstairs in his lodgings she had cleared away his uneaten dinner, but it was replaced in short order by the entire roast of sirloin this time, potatoes, popovers that she knew he liked, and pounds of gravy.
Without even a glance at his sister, Tom Partlow sat down and was soon deeply involved in dinner. Mrs. Brattle watched. ‘‘Now when did the little boy eat last?’’ she asked in round tones.
Sally blushed. ‘‘I . . . I think it was the day before yesterday,’’ she admitted, not looking at either of them.
Mrs. Brattle let out a sigh of exasperation, and prodded Sally Partlow closer to the table. ‘‘Then it has probably been another day beyond that for you, missy, if you are like most women. Fed him the last meal, didn’t you?’’
Sally nodded. ‘‘Everything we owned was sold for debt. I thought we would have enough for coach fare and food, and we almost did.’’ Her voice was so low that Lynch could hardly hear her.
Bless Mrs. Brattle again, he decided. His landlady gave Sally a quick squeeze around the waist. ‘‘You almost did, dearie!’’ she declared, turning the young woman’s nearly palpable anguish into a victory of sorts. ‘‘Why don’t you sit yourself down—Captain, remember your manners and pull out her chair!—and have a go before your brother eats it all.’’
She sat without protest, and spread a napkin in her lap, tears escaping down her cheeks. Mrs. Brattle distracted herself by admonishing the maid to go for more potatoes, and hurry up about it, giving Sally a chance to draw herself together. The landlady frowned at Lynch until he tore his gaze from the lovely woman struggling with pride and took his own seat next to Tom. He astounded himself by keeping up what seemed to him like a veritable avalanche of inconsequential chatter with the boy and removed all attention from his sister until out of the corner of his eye, he saw her eating.
Having eaten, Tom Partlow struggled valiantly to stay awake while his sister finished. He left the table for the sofa, and in a minute was breathing quietly and evenly. Sally set down her fork and Lynch wanted to put it back in her hand, but he did nothing, only watched her as she watched her brother. ‘‘ ’Tis hard to sleep on a mail coach,’’ she said in a low voice.
He didn’t know why it should matter so much to him, but he felt only unspeakable relief when she picked up her fork again. She ate all that was before her like a dutiful child, but shook her head at a second helping of anything. Weariness had stamped itself upon all the lines of her body. She seemed to droop before his eyes, and he didn’t know what to do for her.
Mrs. Brattle came to his aid again. After the maid had taken the dishes down the stairs in a tub, his landlady sat next to Sally Partlow and took her by the hand. ‘‘Dearie, I have an extra room downstairs and you’re welcome to it tonight,’’ she said. ‘‘Tom will be fine right here on the captain’s sofa. Come along now.’’
Sally Partlow looked at him, distress on her face now, along with exhaustion. ‘‘We didn’t mean to be so much trouble,’’ she said. ‘‘Truly we didn’t.’’
She was pleading with him, and it pained him that he could offer her so little comfort. ‘‘I know you didn’t, Miss Partlow,’’ he assured her, even as Mrs. Brattle helped her to her feet. ‘‘Things happen, don’t they?’’
It sounded so lame, but she nodded, grateful, apparently, for his ha’penny wisdom. ‘‘Surely I will think of something in the morning,’’ she told him, and managed a smile. ‘‘I’m not usually at my wit’s end.’’
‘‘I don’t imagine you are,’’ he commented, intrigued by the way she seemed to dig deep within herself, even through her own weariness. It was a trait he had often admired in her uncle. ‘‘This will pass, too. If you have no objections, I’ll think on the matter, myself. And don’t look so wary! Call it the Christmas present I cannot give your uncle.’’
After she left, he removed Thomas’s shoes, and covered the sleeping boy with a blanket, wondering all the while how someone could sleep so soundly. He sat by the boy, asking himself what on earth David Partlow would have done with a niece and nephew thrust upon him. Tom could be bought a midshipman’s berth if there was money enough, but Sally? A husband was the obvious solution, but it would b
e difficult to procure one without a dowry.
He spent a long time staring into his shaving mirror the next morning. His Mediterranean tan had faded to a sallow color, and nothing that he knew, short of the guillotine, would have any effect on his premature wrinkles, caused by years of squinting at sun and sails and facing into the wind. And why should I ever worry, he considered, as he scraped away at his face.
He had waked early as usual, always wondering if he had slept at all, and moved quietly about his room. When he came into his sitting room, Tom Partlow was still asleep. Lynch eased into a chair, and gave himself over to the Partlows’ dilemma. He knew she could not afford to purchase a berth for Tom, and oddly, that was a relief to him. Life at sea is no life, laddie, he thought, as he watched the boy. After all, you might end up like me, a man of a certain age with no more possessions than would fit in two smallish trunks, and not a soul who cares whether I live or die.
But I did have a mother once, he reminded himself, so I did. The idea hit him then, stuck, and grew. By the time Tom woke, and Sally Partlow knocked on the door and opened it for Mrs. Brattle and breakfast, he had a plan. Like some he had fallen back upon during years of toil at sea, it had holes a-plenty and would never stand up to much scrutiny, but it was a beginning.
‘‘Miss Partlow,’’ he announced over bacon and eggs, ‘‘I am taking you and Tom home to my mother’s house for Christmas.’’
On his words, Mrs. Brattle performed an interesting juggling act with a teapot, recovering herself just before she dumped the contents all over the carpet. She stared at him, her eyes big in her face.
‘‘We couldn’t possibly intrude on your holiday like that,’’ Sally Partlow said quietly, objecting as he had no doubt that she would.
Here I go, he thought. Why does this feel more dangerous than sailing close to a lee shore? ‘‘Miss Partlow, it is not in the nature of a suggestion. I have decided to visit my mother in Lincolnshire and would no more think of leaving you to the mercies of Portsmouth than, than . . . writing a letter of admiration to Napoleon, thanking him for keeping me employed for all these years!’’
Homespun Regency Christmas (9781101078716) Page 2
