by Carla Kelly
“Miss Partlow, what on earth are we to make of each other? And what is so deuced funny?” he asked when he nerved himself for speech. She laughed out loud as though her mirth couldn’t be kept inside another moment, her hand over her mouth to keep from waking her brother. She looked at him, her eyes merry, and he knew he had never seen a prettier woman. “I tell you a sad story—something that has been an ulcer all of my adult life—and all you can do is ask me if I really minded the Navy all that much! Drat your hide! I’m almost thinking now that going to sea was probably the best thing that happened! It’s your fault! And you want me to give up my grudges, too? Whatever happened to the… the shy commentary of scarce acquaintance? Have you no manners?”
“None whatsoever, I suppose,” she told him when she could speak without laughing. “Do I remind you of my uncle?”
That was it, of course. “You do indeed,” he replied. “David would twit me all the day long.” He paused to remember, and the remembering hurt less than it had a week ago. “I don’t know… what to think at the moment, Miss Partlow.”
She was silent a long time. “We are both of us in an impossible situation, and I say at least one of us should make the best of it. I am determined that you at least will have a happy Christmas.”
My stars, but you have a way about you, he marveled to himself. “If I must, I must,” he said. “Can you think of any subterfuge that will explain your presence and that of your brother?”
“Not any,” she said cheerfully. “Paint us how you will. There’s no denying that while Tom and I are genteel, we are definitely at ebb tide in our fortunes at present. Just tell them the truth, because they will believe what they want anyway. We are objects of charity, sir.”
Who of us is not? he thought suddenly and then dismissed the notion as stupid in the extreme. I am not an object of charity! I have position and wealth, and every right to be offended by my brother. She is lovely, but she is wrong.
Thomas was awake then, and Sally moved over to sit by him again. Captain Lynch envied the way the boy so matter-of-factly tucked himself under her arm. He belongs there, Lynch thought and could not stop the envy that rose in him.
“Do you know, Sally, I rather think I will give up the idea of the sea,” Tom announced.
“That is probably best,” she replied, “considering that I cannot buy you a midshipman’s berth. What will you do then, sir?”
She spoke as though to someone her own age and not to a little brother with wild ideas, and he knew she was serious. Lynch knew that this woman would never trample on a boy’s heart and cause him pain. He watched them and remembered a Benedictine convent—more of a hospital—in Tenerife where he was brought during a terrible bout of fever. From his pallet he could see a carving in Latin over the door. He read it over and over, stupidly at first, while the fever still tore at him, and then gradually with understanding: “Care must be taken of the sick as though they were Christ in person.” That is how she treats people, he told himself and was warmed in spite of himself.
“I think I will go into business in Fort William,” Tom announced to Sally. “Wool. We can buy a large house and take in boarders and be merry as grigs.”
“I think we should do that, too,” Sally replied and kissed the top of his head. “We’ll serve them oatmeal twice a day at least and cut up stiff if anyone asks for hot water.”
They both laughed, and Lynch wondered if that was their current lot. He wanted to ask them why they were not burdened down by their circumscribed life or the bleakness of their future, but his manners weren’t entirely gone. And besides, they didn’t seem to be as unhappy as he was.
As they drew closer to Lynch Hall, he knew that Sally Partlow was not a chatterbox. She was content to be silent and asked only one question as dusk arrived. “What is your mother like?”
He was irritated for a moment as she intruded on his own growing misgivings, and then he had the charity to consider her question. “I suppose you would call her a frippery lady,” he said at last, “always flitting here and there, running up dressmaking bills, and spending more on shoes than you would ever dream of.” He smiled. “I doubt my mother ever had two consecutive thoughts to rub against each other.”
“But you loved her?”
“I did.”
They arrived at Lynch Hall after dark. He wished the Partlows could have seen it in daylight. “I hope Oliver has not changed too much about the place,” he murmured into the gloom. “Do you think anything will be as I remember?”
Sally leaned forward and touched his hand, and he had the good sense not to pull back even though she startled him. “People change, Captain.”
“I don’t,” he said quickly.
“Perhaps you should.”
Cold comfort, he thought, and turned himself so he could pointedly ignore her.
“You never told me. Did your brother marry that young lady you loved?”
He sighed. How much does this woman need to know? “He did. I have this from the vicar. Apparently there have been no children who have survived even to birth.”
“Seems a pity,” Sally said as the manor came into view. “What a large house, and no children.”
He knew she was quick, and in another moment, she looked at him again. “Heavens, does this mean you will inherit someday?” she asked.
He nodded. “I suppose it does.” He thought of the long nights standing watch and watch about on the Admirable, staring at the French coast and thinking about riding back to Lynch Hall in triumph. He never thought much beyond that, and the sour knowledge that Oliver would be dead then, and what was the point in triumph? “I suppose it does.”
He was certain his voice had not changed, and he knew in the dark that Sally Partlow could not distinguish his features, but she leaned across the space separating them and touched his face, resting the palm of her hand against his cheek for a brief moment.
And then she was sitting up straight again, as though the gesture, the tenderest he could ever remember, had never happened. Her hand was grasping Thomas’s shoulder as before, and she had returned her gaze to the window.
There were few lights burning inside Lynch Hall when the post chaise drew up at the door and stopped. He remembered nights with lights blazing in all the windows, and he wondered if there was some great shortage of beeswax this year, some wartime economy he had not heard of before.
“Does… does anyone live here?” Sally was asking.
“I believe so,” he replied, no more sure than she.
The coachman said he would wait there until he was “sartin, sor, that you’ll not be needing me.” Lynch helped Sally from the post chaise. He was prepared to let go of her hand, but she wouldn’t turn loose of him. Or maybe he did not try hard enough. However it fell out, they walked hand in hand up the shallow front steps, Tom behind them. She did release his hand so he could knock.
After what seemed like an age, a butler he did not recognize opened the door, looked them over, informed them that the master and mistress were out for the evening, and prepared to shut the door. Lynch put his foot in the space. “I am his brother, and we will wait,” he said. “Inside,” he concluded, when the butler continued to apply the pressure of the door to his foot.
“I do not believe Sir Oliver has ever mentioned a brother,” he said.
“I doubt he ever has,” Lynch replied. “I am Captain Michael Lynch of the White Fleet, home for Christmas from the blockade.”
The butler peered closer, as if to determine some family resemblance and then looked beyond him to Sally and Thomas, who were standing close together on a lower step. “Pray who, then, are these Young Persons?”
“They are my friends,” Lynch said quietly, stung to his soul by the butler’s condescension.
“Then may you rejoice in them, sir, at some other location.” The butler pressed harder against the door.
“Where is my mother?” Lynch asked, his distress increasing as the Partlows left the steps and retreated to stand bes
ide the coachman.
“If you are who you say you are, then she is in the dower house,” the man replied. “And now, sir, if you would remove your foot, perhaps I can close this door before every particle of heat is gone.”
Lynch did as the butler asked, but stood staring at the closed door, embarrassed to face the Partlows. He hurried down the steps and took Sally by the arm. “Miss Partlow, I do not believe there is a more toplofty creature in all England than a butler! You must have formed such an opinion of this nation.”
She leaned close to whisper, “I cannot think that Tom and I will further your cause with your mother if the butler is so… so…”
She couldn’t seem to think of anything to call the man, even though Lynch had half a hundred epithets springing to mind as he stood there in the snow. These two are babes, he thought. She is too kind even to think of a bad name, and Thomas, if I know that expression, is getting concerned. Look how closely he crowds his sister. He looked at the coachman. “Suffer us a little longer, sir, and drive around on the road I will show you.”
No one spoke as the coachman followed his directions. They traveled through a smallish copse that he knew would be fragrant with lilacs in April. Somewhere there was a stream, the one where he sailed his first frigates years ago.
The dower house was even smaller than he remembered, and lit even less well than Lynch Hall. He took a deep breath, and another, until he felt light-headed. Be there, Mother, he thought. I need you.
The post chaise stopped again. He could see a pinpoint of light somewhere within, and he remembered the breakfast room at the back of the house. Silent, he helped down an equally subdued Sally Partlow. “I think I am home now,” he told the coachman, walking around to stand by the box.
The man, his cloak flecked with snow, leaned down. “Sor,” he whispered, “I know this trip has been on sufferance for you, wha’ wi’ your standin’ an’ all. No skin off me to take Sally and Tom wi’ me. My missus’ll find a situation for the girl wot won’t be amiss, and Tom can ‘elp me at stable.”
Stables and Christmas, Lynch thought, and curse my eyes for acting so put upon because I have had to do a kindness. The man means well. “Thank you for the offer, but I will keep them with me,” Lynch whispered back.
The coachman did not appear reassured, but after a moment of quieting his horses, he touched whip to hat and nodded. “Verra well, sor.” With a goodbye to Tom and another touch of his hat to Sally, he was gone.
“Well, then, shall I knock on this door and hope for better?” he asked no one in particular.
“I think we are a great trouble,” Sally said. “What will you do if no one answers, or if…” She stopped, and he could almost feel her embarrassment.
“Or if she will have nothing to do with me?” he continued. “Why then, Miss Partlow, I will marry you promptly, because I’ve compromised you past bearing already!”
He meant it to sound funny, to lighten what he knew was a painful situation for them both, but when the words left his mouth, he knew he meant them, as much, if not more, than he had ever meant anything. Say yes and then I will kiss you right here in front of Tom and all these trees, he thought, filled with wonder at himself.
To his disappointment, she smiled. Come, come, Michael. You know that was what you wanted her to do, he told himself. “You’re being absurd, Captain,” she said.
“So are you, my… Miss Partlow,” he answered.
“I think we are both deserving of good fortune at this very moment.”
“I know I am,” she said in such a droll way that his heart lightened and then sank again when she added, “But please remember that you are under no real obligation to us, no matter how you felt about my uncle.”
It was just as well that the door opened then, because he could think of no satisfactory reply. She was right, of course. He turned his attention to the door and the old man who opened it.
Simpson stood there, older certainly, but Simpson.
“You have aged a little, my friend,” Lynch said simply. “Do you remember me?”
After a long moment of observation, the butler smiled and bowed. “I did not expect this day,” he said simply. “Your mother will be overjoyed. Do, do come in.” He looked at the Partlows, and Lynch could see none of the suspicion of the other butler in the darkened house. “Come, come, all of you! Coal’s dear. Let’s close the door.”
They stood silent and close together in the small entranceway while Simpson—dignified, and yet with a little spring to his step—hurried down the hall. He listened intently, shamelessly almost, for some sound of his mother, amazed at his own discomposure. For the first time in his life, he understood why so many of his men died with the word “Mother” on their lips.
He felt a great longing that brought tears to his eyes. He could only be grateful that the hall was ill lit. And then his mother was hurrying toward them from the back of the house, and then running with her arms outstretched. She threw herself at him and sobbed into his shoulder, murmuring something incomprehensible that eased his soul in an amazing way.
“Mother, I am so sorry for all those years,” he managed to say when her own tears had subsided and she was standing back to look at him.
Her eyes roamed him from hat to boot, assessing him, evaluating him. He smiled, familiar with that gaze from a time much earlier in his life. “I still have all my parts, Mum,” he said finally as he looked her over as well.
She was still pretty, in an older way now, a calmer way than he remembered, but her clothes were drab, shabby even, which caused his eyes to narrow in concern. She was no longer the first stare of fashion that he remembered, not the lady he never tired of watching when she would perch him on her bed while she prepared herself for a dinner party or evening out.
She must have known what he was thinking, because she touched her collar, which even to his inexpert eyes looked frayed. “La, son, things change. And so have you, my dear.” She rose on her toes and he bent down obligingly so she could kiss his cheek. “Now introduce me to these charming people. Are you brother and sister?” she asked, turning to the Partlows.
“These are Tom and Miss Partlow,” he said. “Next of kin to David Partlow.”
“Your first mate?” she asked as she smiled at the Partlows.
He stared at her. “How did you know that, Mama?” he asked. “We… you and I… have not communicated.”
She tucked her arm in his and indicated the Partlows with a nod of her head. “Come along, my dears, to the breakfast room, where we will see if Simpson can find a little more coal and possibly another lamp. In fact, I will insist upon it.”
This is odd, he thought as they walked arm in arm.
He remembered being a little taller than his mother when he left at age fourteen, but he fairly loomed over her now. The gray of her hair did not startle him, and then he remembered that the last time he saw her she wore powder in her hair. It was another century, he thought in wonderment. How much had happened in that time!
As his mother sat them down in the breakfast room, he looked around in appreciation. Simpson was well ahead of the game. Even now he was bringing tea, and there was Cook, her sparse hair more sparse but her smile the same, following him with Christmas cakes. “One could almost think you have been expecting us, Mama,” he said, taking a cup from the butler.
To his alarm, tears welled in her eyes. He held out his hand to her and she grasped it. “I have done this for twenty-two Christmases, son,” she said when she could manage. “Oliver and your father used to scoff, but I knew that someday…” She could not continue.
He sat back in amazement. “You astound me, my dear,” he told her. “When I never heard anything, not one word from you, I knew that you must be of the same mind as Oliver and Father.” He took a sip of the tea and then glanced at Sally, who was watching him with real interest. “After fifteen years, I quit writing to you.”
His mother increased her grip on his arm until it became almost painful. “You�
�� you wrote to me?” she asked, her voice so low he could hardly hear it.
“Every time I reached a port where the natives didn’t have bones through their noses or cook Englishmen in pots,” he replied with a smile. “Must’ve been two times a year at least.”
He knew he wouldn’t have started to cry if his mother hadn’t leaned forward, kissed his hand, and rested her cheek on it. “Oh, son,” was all she said, but it wore him down quicker than any lengthy dissertation ever could. After a moment he was glad to accept the handkerchief Sally handed him, and had no objection when she rested her own hand on his shoulder.
“You never got them, I take it,” he said, after he blew his nose. “And you wrote?”
“Every week.” She said nothing more but stared ahead with a stony look. “I left those letters in the bookroom, Simpson, along with my husband’s correspondence. Did you never see them?”
“Madam, I never did,” the butler said.
Lynch felt more than heard Sally’s sharp intake of breath. She dropped her hand from his shoulder and sat down heavily in her chair. “Simpson, none of my letters ever arrived here?” he asked.
“Never, Captain.”
No one said anything. It was so quiet in the breakfast room that Lynch could hear the clock tick in the sitting room. Then his mother sighed and kissed his hand again. “Son, if the scriptures are true and we are held to a grand accounting some day, your father may find himself with more debt than even Christ chooses to cover.”
She spoke quietly, but Lynch felt a ripple go down his back and then another, as in that long and awful moment before a battle began. He couldn’t think of a thing to say, except to turn to Sally and say more sharply than he intended, “And weren’t you just telling me about forgiveness, Miss Partlow?”
