by Carla Kelly
“He did have a lot of wrinkles around his eyes, Mama,” Diana said.
Her children, the traitors, seemed perfectly satisfied to drop the subject entirely. “He was probably fleshy, wasn’t he?” she prodded, picking up the sock again, as well as the conversational thread.
“Oh, no. He was lean and looked quite excellent in his uniform,” Diana said. “Probably like Lord Nelson himself. Except he was taller. And he had both eyes.”
All saints and the Lord Almighty Himself seemed to smile then, and use Diana as their willing messenger. “Mama, I really think you should invite him here for Christmas. He has nowhere to go.” Diana leaned closer, as though it was a deep secret. “Mama, he looked quite shabby.”
“That is a sad thing to contemplate,” Ianthe said, harrowed with guilt as she remembered who had sent his prize money, which he obviously could have used.
“I liked him, Mama,” her son said. “He didn’t scold me because my money was gone, but said something about how he had lost money enough in Plymouth himself.”
Probably on whist and women, she thought, amused. “No, Captain Faulk was never one to belabor an issue.” She put down the sock for the last time, knowing she had no wish to darn, not when she wanted to walk down to the quay and back, her usual remedy when the ache of her widowhood clamped down in her loins and allowed her no church-sanctioned release.
“We will invite Captain Faulk to spend Christmas with us,” she said decisively. “I must reimburse him for the money he gave you, and why not invite him? Shoo, now. I’ll write a letter and walk it down to the quay.”
“Mama, can we afford a guest?” Diana asked, hesitant. “I know you don’t want to worry us, but…”
“It will be fine,” Ianthe said, churning inside because of the letter she had written to the school in Bath, some lie about wanting Diana closer to home, and therefore she would not be returning to the academy after the holiday. Having Miah here would mean she could postpone breaking the bad news to Diana for a few days.
But what will my darlings say when the house goes up for sale in the new year? Ianthe asked herself as she walked to the quay that afternoon, head down against the wind that had blown several warships into anchorage. What yarn can I spin about lodging in rented rooms now? Maybe Jem was still young enough to think it great fun, but Diana would know how low the tide was with the Mears family.
She stood a long time on the jetty, watching the frigates at anchor. From what she had gleaned from the Naval Chronicle, most ships were headed for home ports to be put in ordinary, now that the endless war had ended. No wonder Miah was homeless. How ironic that she would be homeless soon, as well.
Not even as a favor to Mrs. Fillion could Faulk force himself back into the storeroom, except to cart his twelve journals upstairs. The whole time in the storeroom, his skin crawled with so much death around him: Abercrombie, Ainslie, Baker, Bridewell, Bothell, Carruthers, Dixon, Edgeley, Etheridge. Mrs. Fillion had stored everyone’s effects alphabetically. He only felt relief when Faulk was no longer among them. He could carry his journals with him in a canvas bag until he figured out what he was going to do with his life.
The weather was raw, but he spent the next two days walking from Plymouth to Devonport and back, drawn to where the Spartan swung on her anchor, sails furled, guns gone. He envied the ships still manned, taking on supplies and headed back to duty.
Mrs. Fillion stopped him when he returned from one lengthy walk with the news that he had three pieces of mail at the desk, an event in itself. The first one he expected—his quarterly statement from Brustein and Carter, indicating that all was well in the world of banking. No worries there.
His heart beat faster at the next letter, more of a document, with its prominent seal so well-known to him. He spread out the document, hardly daring to hope.
Praise God. The Sea Lord was offering him another ship. He was “requested and required” to report to Admiralty House at four bells in the forenoon watch, January 15, 1816.
They were offering him another frigate, this one a forty-four with the mellifluous name of Golightly. The Golightly was bound as escort to Australia for a convoy of convict ships. “That is one place I have not sailed in recent years,” he murmured out loud. As rain turned to sleet outside the window, he could almost feel the warmth of the antipodal sun on his back.
The last letter was in a hand he did not know. He could feel coins inside, though, so he could guess. Ianthe, you didn’t need to reimburse me, he thought, as he spread out the letter on his leg.
Dear Miah,
Imagine my surprise when I learned you had come to the rescue of my foolish children. Starting as soon as you can get yourself here to Torquay, you are invited to spend Christmas with us. We are all of the same mind on this, so don’t try to weasel out. We are the white house with the light blue shutters on Claremont Street.
Yours sincerely,
Ianthe Mears.
He hadn’t expected she would still be Mears, not at all. What is the matter with the men of the Devon Coast? he wondered. He remembered Claremont Street, too, and frowned. It was a modest address, where the families of ships’ carpenters, gunners and surgeons’ mates lived. He read the letter again, but it divulged no more secrets.
Content, he read through all three letters again, happy about his quarterly statement, ecstatic about the Golightly, and philosophical about the missive from Torquay. It had been so many years since he had seen Ianthe Snow—far too long to still be in love, especially since during some of those years, he hadn’t thought of her more than a handful of times a month. Still, he had been a poor shepherd, where she was concerned. Maybe he could actually do Jim the favor he had promised him on the slimy deck of the Conqueror. Maybe Ianthe did need some sort of watching over.
Torquay was much as Faulk remembered it, a lovely town in a beautiful bay. His courage, never an issue when under fire, seemed to take a direct hit as he walked down Claremont Street toward the only house with light blue shutters. He frowned to see how small the house was, and shabby, too, in need of paint. He couldn’t fault Ianthe’s tidy yard, or the pot of hopeful Johnny-jump-ups still protected by the house from winter’s prevailing wind. There was something endearingly brave about the flowers that made him nod in recognition.
He was still smiling when Ianthe Mears opened the door. He hadn’t even knocked yet; perhaps she had been watching from the window.
He reckoned she could have done anything then. What she did was clasp her hands together across her breasts as though he was the greatest treat she had ever seen. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder and see if perhaps the Lord Mayor of London, or the great Sarah Siddons herself stood behind him on the walk, jockeying for position.
“It’s the same Miah Faulk,” he said. “Just older.”
She frowned then, or he thought at first she frowned, until he saw how tightly her lips were pressed together, as though she was forcing herself not to burst into tears.
“Ianthe, you were never a watering pot, were you?”
That was all it took. She burst into tears, then holding out her hand to him, practically hauled him into her house. His astonishment increased as she swiped at her eyes then reached up to unbutton his overcoat. He put his hands over hers.
“I can still take off my own overcoat, silly widgeon,” he told her, which only made her dab at her eyes with her apron, then turn around and run up the stairs, her hand to her face. He stared after her, unable to decide where he had gone wrong.
He wasn’t the only one staring. Jem and Diana watched him from the door to what must be the sitting room. Their looks were just accusatory enough to make him realize that Ianthe Mears had two fierce champions. He had better plead innocent.
“Look you here, all I did was say hello,” he told them, not sure whether to take off his overcoat or put about. “Does she do that often?”
“I have never ever seen her cry,” Jem said, his tone only a shade short of belligerent.
&
nbsp; “I have,” Diana said softly. “It was when she received a letter saying Papa was dead. I barely remember.”
“I sent that letter,” he told her. I remember it all too well, he thought. “Miss Mears, what should I do? Is it better if I just leave?”
Diana gave it some thought, then shook her head. “I think that might make her even more sad.” She looked at her brother, as if for reassurance, then back at him. “After all, Captain Faulk, we have been saying a prayer for you every night for the past ten years.”
This was apparently to be a season of surprises, Faulk thought, as he slowly unbuttoned his overcoat. Jim took it from him without a word, practically staggering under the weight of it, and hung it on a peg in the hall. “You’re serious?” he asked.
“Captain Faulk, Mama is not the daughter of a vicar for nothing,” Diana informed him. “Every night, we pray for poor King George, the Regent, the army, the navy, the marines sometimes and Captain Faulk always.”
“Mama says, ‘God bless Captain Faulk, wherever he sails,’” Jem chimed in.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, then felt his face go warm. “I mean…”
Jem was generous. “No fears, Captain. Mama’s warned us about the navy.”
“Wise of her! What should I do?”
Diana had made up her mind. “I think you should go upstairs, knock on her door, and tell her I’m not certain when to turn the roast. Second door on the right.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” he said.
In the ten years she had lived in her house, Ianthe had never heard a man’s steps on her stairs. Jem had been born on the Mears’s estate, because her father was dead by then, and her mother living in Northumberland with her sister’s family. There were nights she wished for the sound of footsteps. She got up quickly and dabbed at her eyes with her apron as he knocked.
She knew she couldn’t ask him to come in. Her bedchamber was as small as the other rooms, and certainly no place for a man. Still, she wasn’t prepared to go downstairs and face her children.
He knew what to do, which shouldn’t have surprised her. Of the three of them, Jeremiah Faulk had always known what to do. He opened the door wider, then elaborately ushered her out and pointed to the stairs, where he sat himself down.
Shy still, but less so, she sat beside him. She looked down the stairs at her children, who were wide-eyed with amazement.
“You must not sit on your stairs too often,” he whispered, barely moving his lips.
“Never.”
He nudged her ever so slightly. “Diana has a culinary question.”
Ianthe leaned forward over the step, and found herself almost too startled to say anything when the captain clamped his hand on her apron strings. She blushed, but he didn’t release her. “See here, Captain,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
“Habit, Ianthe. Captains look after everything.”
She offered no more protest. “Yes, my dear? You have a question?”
Diana recovered faster than Ianthe would have imagined. She even seemed to be trying not to laugh. “Mama, should I turn the roast?”
“Certainly. Jem, you may set the table now.”
She thought there might be objection, considering that nothing this interesting had ever happened before in their house, but her children scurried away without a fight. She sat back, and Jeremiah released her apron.
How on earth could both Jem and Diana have overlooked his best feature? she asked herself, remembering her quizzing earlier in the week. Well, his best feature after his broad shoulders, which had changed not a bit. His hair was certainly gray, but how could Diana have overlooked how finely chiseled Captain Faulk’s lips were? The years had done nothing to change that. She gave him another sidelong look, and had to agree with Jem. He did look a trifle hard. More than a trifle. And he wore a shabby uniform.
“No, not the same old me,” he assured her. “I creak in the mornings like a coal ship from Newcastle, and I barely remember what color my hair was.”
“Auburn,” she said immediately.
“It went gray after Trafalgar.”
“You were only twenty-eight then,” she said, dismayed.
“Blame Bonaparte,” he replied, then leaned back on one arm on the stairs. “Ianthe, you haven’t changed at all.”
“Oh, I have,” she contradicted, although pleased. If he chose to overlook that her figure was that of a mother of two children, she could overlook it, as well. Suddenly she wished she had done more with her hair than twist it into a knot on the top of her head. She had planned to do something better before he arrived, but time got away.
His steady look remained the same, but reminded her she should change the subject. Maybe she should just get up. No, it was too nice to sit on the steps with Captain Faulk. She could remember her manners, though.
“Miah, thank you for helping my children.” His old nickname just slipped out. “Oh, I should perhaps call you—”
“Miah will do,” he said. “Ianthe, no one ever calls me by my first name, let alone your nickname.”
How sad, she thought. How sad. Then she blushed and thought, It was my nickname, wasn’t it? I had forgotten.
“Should I call you Mrs. Mears? I don’t want your children to think I am a ne’er-do-well with rag manners.”
“It would be proper,” she said. “No. Call me Ianthe. It is my name and…” She was struck by something. “Come to think of it, no one ever calls me by my first name, either. I am Mama, or Ma-am, if Jem is peckish, or Mama, if Diana feels like putting on Bath airs.”
She knew she had an unruly tongue and an independent mind. In the years since Jim’s death, it had caused her monumental trouble with the Mears family. She had to ask him, “Why did you never come to see me, Miah?”
He had been watching her face as though trying to memorize it, but when she asked that, he looked away. “There was a war, Ianthe. I’ve been run ragged for twenty-two years.”
It was no answer and he seemed to know it, because he still did not look at her. I suppose men have their reasons, she thought, as she got to her feet and touched his arm.
“I had better see to that roast. It’s been a while since I have splurged, and Jem will be sorely disappointed if I muff it. You’re welcome to grace my stairs, but the sofa in the sitting room is much more comfortable.” She touched him again lightly, unable to help herself. “In fact, I recommend it to someone who has been run ragged.”
Chapter Three
She was right about the sofa. Faulk took off his shoes and made himself comfortable. So a roast of beef is a rare thing, he told himself. Is it that low tide with the Mears family? Surely Jim’s eldest brother and head of the family hadn’t forsaken Ianthe and her brood. He could tell there was more to the story than he knew, but his eyes were closing then.
He didn’t sleep long; it was one of his catnaps famous throughout the fleet. Still, his nap had been long enough, deep enough for someone to cover him with a light blanket and even loosen his neckcloth. She had light fingers.
He was wide-awake when he opened his eyes, but not inclined to move. No officer needed him; no emergency loomed. The weather gauge didn’t matter because the war was over. He could lie there, comfortable, and listen to Ianthe and her children singing in the kitchen. My God, how pleasant, he thought. Poor Jim never heard it. Damn Napoleon anyway.
Now they were laughing about something. He had no idea what it was, but he smiled anyway, enjoying the sound of women. They smelled better than men, too. Ianthe’s house had the pleasant odor of roses, even in December. Still lying there so comfortable, he looked around the sitting room for some sign of Jim, but he saw no portrait, not even a miniature. The thought made him melancholy. After their marriage, Jim was never in port long enough to pose. And what lieutenant would waste that much time, when he had a wife to visit and a daughter to become acquainted with? Perhaps she kept a miniature of him beside her bed.
He was up, shod again and trying to tighten his neckcloth
in the mirror over the fireplace when Ianthe came into the sitting room. She stood beside him so he could see her reflection in the mirror. How was it she did not age? he asked himself again. And I didn’t realize she was so short.
“I remember you as taller,” he said. It was so inane he winced inside, but Ianthe only laughed.
“You were the tall one,” she replied, looking at his face in the mirror.
“None of that! I’m barely past middle height,” he protested.
“Well, then, you always acted tall.” She turned then to look at him and not his reflection. “Is that the secret to leadership in the navy?”
He knew she was teasing. “Aye, that. Never tell anyone this, Ianthe, because I’ll deny it, but it helps to love them, too, and scold them when they need it, and bury them when they die.” He could have slapped himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
She seemed not to be ruffled. “Don’t apologize. I don’t doubt for a moment that it is true. But tell me, did your rough crews have any idea you loved them?”
“Lord, no,” he replied, relieved he had not caused her pain. “There are some things you dare not tell people.”
“Fearing they will think you soft?”
He hadn’t even considered the matter before. One didn’t just tell a gang of hardened men—criminals, some of them—of his love for them. He knew they knew, though, and he had no idea how to explain that to a woman who lived a quiet life in a peaceful place.
“Maybe it’s this way, Ianthe. From my powder monkeys to my number one—my first lieutenant—we were all brothers in arms. I made sure even that powder monkey knew he was vital to our success in Europe.”
“How on earth?”
He did know now, even if it was something he had never even divulged in his journal. “After each engagement, and sometimes for no reason at all, I wandered around my—our—ship and thanked them for their service.” He touched Ianthe’s shoulder. “Thank you for asking. I never put it into words before.”
