Coming Home for Christmas

by Carla Kelly

  “Sir, what will happen to that pretty lass?”

  “I have no idea.”

  There was a long pause. Thomas glanced at Ralph, wondering what it was the man wanted to say, but appeared uncertain how to say it. “Look, Ralph,” he said finally, “call me Thomas, please. We’re both a long way from home and I’m not inclined to continue any protocol. What’s on your mind?”

  “Laura is,” Ralph said promptly. “You need to find out what will happen to her.”

  “Why?”

  Even to Thomas’s own ears, it sounded so bald, almost as though he was still sulking about being left behind. He felt his face go red with the shame of his own meanness.

  Bless him, Ralph was too kind a man and too charitable to think ill of his doctor. There was no reproach in his reply, only a certain reasonable quality that forced Thomas to admit he was in the presence of a better man than himself.

  “Because she’s pretty and you like her a little, I think. Unlike you, I doubt she has any friends at all in San Diego right now.”

  “Surely you are wrong,” Thomas replied.

  “I wish I were, sir…Thomas. Speaking as one who has a lived a bit more on the edge than you have, people don’t look kindly on anyone—the perpetrator or his relatives—who cheats them. I think the milk of human kindness in San Diego is turning sour right now.”

  You could be right, Thomas thought later as he made his way to the pueblo outside the presidio, wondering if there really was going to be an auction of all the Ortizes’ possessions. There was. For people who enjoyed a lengthy siesta each afternoon and considerable lassitude, they seem to have made an exception today.

  Spread out in the plaza were what looked like everything the disgraced accountant and his daughter must have owned. This isn’t right, Thomas thought to himself, looking around for Laura. She was nowhere in sight, which didn’t surprise him. He felt his face grow red from such humiliation visited on someone who, as far as he knew, barely tolerated him.

  The women of the presidio pawed through a mound of intimate clothing. They held up Laura’s delicate chemises to their own ample fronts, laughing among themselves. Thomas turned away, embarrassed. And there was Father Hilario, watching from the portico in the late afternoon’s shadows. Thomas walked to him, shaking his head.

  “This is shameful, Father,” he said, speaking low.

  The priest nodded. “True, but this is a crowd of upset people. I almost cannot blame them.”

  Thomas remained where he was by the priest as the auction began. He astounded his Presbyterian soul by bidding on and winning the family’s surprisingly simple prie-dieu, and a triptych of Father, Son and Holy Ghost that caught his eye with its primitive style. Thanks to doctoring among the San Diegans, Thomas had money enough to buy more and he did. For some reason he could not explain to himself, he bid on housewares, a table and chairs, a blue-painted cabinet and what was probably Laura’s bed.

  He didn’t question why he was doing this, except that he knew what it felt like to be alone and left with little, beyond his medicines and capital knives. Maybe whoever took in Laura would take more kindly to the imposition if her possessions came, too.

  Thomas said as much to Father Hilario, who shook his head. “Tomás, I fear you are awarding these San Diegans more virtue than they deserve,” he cautioned.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, his eyes on the auctioneer, who was now holding up a calfskin trunk of clothing.

  “No one will take her in.”

  “You’re quizzing me, Father!” He hadn’t meant to speak so loudly. People turned to look. “Seriously?” he asked in a whisper.

  “After what her father did, she has no friends.”

  Thomas threw up both hands in surprise and suddenly found himself the owner of a trunk of female finery. The women around him tittered as he blushed, then turned back as the auction continued.

  “Someone should do something,” he said, glaring at the women’s backs.

  “My thought precisely,” Father Hilario said in his most matter-of-fact voice, the one he probably reserved for the confessional. “Marry her, lad.”

  Chapter Four

  Thomas couldn’t have heard Father Hilario correctly. What the man had said must be an idiom he had never encountered before.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked, his voice really low now.

  “Marry her. She has nowhere to live. For unknown reasons, you have just purchased some of her clothing and much of her furniture. She will thank you for the prie-dieu—we call it a reclinatorio. Your own quarters are rather sparse and could use some nice furniture, if I may say.”

  “You may not,” Thomas snapped. He felt light-headed, but he was damned if he’d take his own pulse in front of the Franciscan. “That is the craziest thing I have ever heard. She doesn’t even like me.”

  “Ah! So you have thought of it!” the priest chortled, pouncing.

  “I have not!” Thomas whispered back furiously. “Well, only a little.”

  “I could ask why you purchased so many of her possessions, but I know how easy it is to get caught up in the spirit of a bargain,” the priest said generously, with only a hint of a smile.

  “Um, yes.”

  “You English,” the priest said, his voice kind.

  “Scot. Scot,” Thomas said weakly.

  The auction was over. His mind traveling in all directions at once, Thomas went to the auctioneer and paid what he owed.

  “Shall we deliver this tonight to your quarters?” the man asked.

  “Of course not! Find Doña Laura Ortiz and give it back to her,” Thomas declared.

  The auctioneer pressed his lips together in a thin line, disapproval etched deep. “That child of a cheat and a gambler has no home now. I do not know where she is.” He waved his hand at Thomas’s new possessions. “This is now yours and it is going to your quarters. And that is that.” He turned on his heel in the way only a Spaniard could—or would—and left the surgeon standing there.

  “Do it, then, man, damn your eyes,” Thomas muttered in English. He turned to the priest, his voice low. “Marry her? That is out of the question.”

  Father Hilario only nodded. “Find her and see what she says.”

  “I know what she will say!”

  “Are you so certain?” Father Hilario murmured. “Good night, lad. Go with God. Find her.”

  “A fat lot of help you are,” Thomas had muttered to himself as he returned to the fort. In another moment he was seated beside Ralph Gooding. The carpenter’s constant fever always burned brighter in the evening, so he wiped the man’s face and neck.

  Ralph didn’t open his eyes. “Did you go to the auction?”

  “Aye, more fool me,” Thomas replied. “Out of the goodness of my heart I bought some of Laura’s things. Just to return them to her, mind you. Father Hilario thinks I should marry her!”

  Even at the worst of times, Ralph Gooding had a sense of humor. Thomas expected him to laugh, but he was disappointed. The carpenter opened his eyes and his expression was thoughtful.

  “Oh, no, not you, too,” the surgeon said, holding up his hands to ward off this odd contagion that had spread from the Franciscan to the English patient.

  “It’s an excellent idea. She’s so pretty, and who knows how long you will be stuck here in paradise? I don’t intend to live forever, you know. She’ll make you happier than I will.”

  Thomas smiled in spite of himself. “Ralph, you are an antidote, but this is no joking matter.”

  “I never thought it was.” Ralph’s eyes were closing. “I’m tired. Would you snuff that wick and let me sleep? Go find that pretty lady.” He sighed and tugged at his blanket. “Father Hilario is so clever. He can probably find a million ways to marry a Roman Catholic to a Presbyterian in Alta California.” He smiled. “Some of them might even be legal. G’night.”

  “I don’t know where she is,” Thomas protested, as he tucked Ralph’s blanket higher.

  “Don’t you
?” was Ralph’s drowsy reply.

  “Why would I?” Thomas said. Even as he said it, he did know where she was—at any rate, where he would be, in similar circumstances.

  Obtaining permission to visit the cells was easily granted by the turnkey in charge, whose twins he had recently delivered. There she was, sitting on the floor by the iron bars, her hand looped through and resting on her father’s shoulder. Thomas squatted beside her, saying nothing because there was nothing to say. He glanced at Laura, admiring her creamy complexion. He had been close to her before, but maybe the way the light from a single torch glinted off her hair brought out the auburn highlights. The dungeon stank as usual, but she smelled sweetly of lavender.

  She was moving her deliciously lovely lips just slightly and he thought she might be praying. Then she sighed and sat back, looking at him with the intense gaze he was familiar with, but with something more besides. He wouldn’t have thought it possible earlier, but he saw shame and humiliation in her expression.

  “I did not think that you, of all people, would come to gloat.”

  Startled, he frowned. “Laura, you know I would never do that.”

  He had spoken just as quietly. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry. I should never have said that. This is hard.”

  Thomas understood hard. He nodded and looked at her father, who, in his shame, looked away. Tentatively, the surgeon reached his hand through the bars and grasped the accountant’s shoulder. The man began to weep.

  Thomas decided it was a good thing that he was there, and not someone unfamiliar with tears. He kept his hand on the man’s shoulder, thinking of the times his instructors had told their students that often a kind touch was the sum total of their medical arsenal, when all else was gone.

  “She wants to go with me to Mexico City,” Señor Ortiz said finally. “It is nearly a six-month journey, so hard, and through Apachería. I fear the trip alone would be a death sentence.” He raised his eyes to Thomas’s then. “But I have shamed us both and no one here will take her in.”

  “I will,” Thomas heard himself saying. When Laura gasped, he hadn’t the courage to look at her. “I will,” he said again. “Señor, may I have your permission to marry her? She’ll be safe. No one will harm her, because I am valuable to this garrison.”

  “She comes with no dowry,” the Spaniard said, the mortification of a proud man almost palpable.

  “Not precisely,” Thomas said, still not brave enough to look at the woman seated beside him on the floor. “I…uh…I purchased quite a few of her possessions at the auction. That would count for something in Scotland.”

  Whether that was true or not, he didn’t care. Here he was, sitting by a man who did not think he—or his daughter, if she accompanied him—would survive the trip to Mexico City. He glanced at Laura, who was looking at him, but without her usual intense gaze. She seemed unsure of herself, a far cry from the capable lass with the superior air who had only to look in his direction to intimidate him. Suddenly she looked young, vulnerable and desperate. And lovely, so lovely, even in this extremity.

  He hadn’t quite enough courage to hold out his hand to her. “Laura, you will be safe as houses with me.”

  That must not have been a familiar simile in Spanish, because her expression became more quizzical than fearful.

  “You will be safe,” he amended. “Marry me.”

  He expected an immediate refusal, but she surprised him. “No one will receive me, or speak to me, señor,” she told him. “You will be ruined, the same as me.”

  At least she was considering his impulsive offer. “No, I will not,” he contradicted. “This presidio needs me. The people will not dare to ruin me, because I am probably the only surgeon between Los Angeles and Tucson.” He chuckled, aware of his own pride. “At least, the only good one.”

  “I know what you mean,” she told him, then leaned close to her father. “Papa?”

  Thomas got to his feet and stood in the doorway of the dungeon, allowing them a moment of privacy. Father and daughter whispered together, both cried, and then Laura stood up. She looked at him, then glanced away, her lovely face pale.

  There wasn’t time to think about what he had done; no time to consider how foolish it probably was; no time to reflect on how it might actually affect his life here, or in the future; no time to do anything except square his shoulders and take whatever came. Whether that was the refusal he expected or acceptance, which would complicate his life in Alta California, at the very least.

  The turnkey was standing by him in the doorway. “Did…did I hear you right, señor?” he whispered.

  “You probably did, Emilio,” Thomas whispered back.

  “She’s awfully superior,” the turnkey warned.

  “Not now,” Thomas said, and his heart went out to the young woman seated on the floor of the filthy prison, in tears. “Not now.”

  He held his breath as Laura looked at him. The tears slid down her face. She glanced at her father for reassurance, then gracefully stood up, smoothed down her dress and squared her shoulders. To his everlasting pity, she glided across the floor in that magical way he had observed before and knelt at his feet.

  “No, no,” he said, reaching for her.

  She raised her hands to his and he helped her up.

  She could barely lift her eyes to meet his gaze. “I will marry you,” she said, her voice soft. “Only, please treat me well.”

  Thomas knew he could promise that. If there was one lesson he had learned in life, at sea and in school, it was to do precisely that. But a wife? Thirty minutes ago, he had been a little foolish at an auction. Now he was about to become a husband.

  “Of course I will treat you well. I could never do anything else, Laura,” he told her.

  She nodded. “I will find Father Hilario,” she whispered and left him standing there, wondering what he had just got himself into.

  Chapter Five

  Ralph Gooding was right: Father Hilario was perfectly capable of finding a way for a Presbyterian to marry a Roman Catholic in the royal presidio of San Diego. The matter was accomplished the next day, with nary a cried bann in sight. A bit dazed by the whole and the speed of the proceedings, Thomas signed a document in Latin, the gist of which revolved mainly around his agreement to raise any children as Catholic.

  He blushed and signed, even as Laura did the same. He didn’t dare meet her eyes; a quick glance assured him that she no longer wore a superior air. To his dismay, she looked worn down and weary beyond her years, which made him wonder whether she had slept at all last night.

  He knew he hadn’t. True to his word, the auctioneer had delivered Laura’s possessions to his modest quarters, located just off the small hospital’s ward. He had nothing more than a bed and a chest of drawers in one room, and a few chairs and a table in the other. Since there was less furniture in his sleeping chamber, Thomas had directed the men to put Laura’s bed in with his. She won’t like this, he thought, as he tossed and turned all night. Still, better here than in the other room, where patients from the town sometimes came for consultations.

  Her prie-dieu, table and chairs and cabinet went in his consulting/sitting room. The bright blue table and chairs made him smile, which was a good thing, because nothing else did. He who was known fleet-wide as a careful man, one who weighed all options, was about to plunge into marriage. While cooling his heels in the small antechamber at the garrison chapel, he consoled himself by acknowledging that no one in the entire Royal Navy knew what he was about to do.

  His next thought was one of shame at his callous nature. He might have been uncharacteristically impulsive, but it didn’t follow that he would abandon Laura Ortiz de la Garza, soon-to-be Wilkie, as soon as the first Royal Navy vessel hove into view. No. He was to be married, and married he would stay. One didn’t rescue a damsel in distress, only to show a clean pair of heels when times were better. He was in for the long haul. Whether Laura knew that or not was the unknown quantity.

&nb
sp; They were married before noon, but after the disgraced accountant was chained into an oxcart and driven with an armed escort from the presidio. A few whispered words with the presidio’s captain left Thomas feeling less than sanguine about Señor Ortiz’s future. The plan was to avoid Apachería after all. The military caravan would travel south to Baja California, gathering felons along the way who were deemed important enough to bind over for trial in Mexico City. A short crossing of the Sea of Cortez would land them in Puerto Vallarta, and then across to Durango, and down to Mexico City, where a long prison sentence awaited.

  “If he lives that long,” the captain said. “It’s a long trip, and much can happen.”

  And probably would, was the implication. Thomas had no inkling that the captain would be much disturbed if justice along the king’s road was a bit rough on his former royal accountant. Perhaps he had lost money to Señor Ortiz’s gambling. At least he did not try to discourage Thomas from marrying the man’s daughter.

  Thomas did not know where Laura had spent the night, but from the look of her rumpled dress, it was probably on the floor by her father’s cell. No matter—she could sleep well in her own bed tonight, under his protection.

  He watched her as the melancholy oxcart procession left the presidio, skirted the town square at the foot of the hill and disappeared down the king’s road. She stood alone on the porch of the garrison church, her eyes downcast, her hands clasped together in that way of Spanish gentlewomen. He thought she was crying and wanted to go to her, which made him different from most of his sex, who tended to run from a woman’s tears. The difference was his profession; he knew he could comfort.

  But he hesitated. Depending on how long these matters took, he would be married to her in less than an hour. He knew it wasn’t the moment to be shy, but he wanted to give her room to grieve. Whether she was mourning the loss of her father, or the upcoming loss of her freedom, he couldn’t have said.