by Carla Kelly
She made a little noise of disgust. “How can I quiz you if you won’t rise to the bait? There’s plenty of veal. More of Pete’s draught, too, if you’re difficult.”
“Miss Massie, you are wicked,” he told her, following her down the narrow hall to the kitchen. He glanced in the dining room, where several patrons were smoking clay pipes and playing cards. He crossed his fingers that she wouldn’t suggest he could eat in there, but she never even looked in the dining room.
It was veal all right, delicate and warm and accompanied by mushrooms and gravy with a distinct flavor of ale. Bread both fluffy and yeasty helped sop the gravy, and rice pudding with currants finished him off. Nana shook her head at veal and gravy, but served herself a bowl of rice pudding to accompany his.
They ate in companionable silence. He felt himself relaxing, forgetting himself so much that he even leaned back in his chair. I’m tired, he thought. I should go to bed. But that would mean too many hours without Nana in my sight.
“You’re tired. You should go to bed,” Nana told him.
He looked at her, startled. Hopefully you didn’t read the rest of my mind, he thought, as he stood up.
She stood before him, looking like a schoolgirl with her hands clasped in front of her. He would have given ten years off his probably too-short life to have had the courage to grab her by the shoulders, pull her close and kiss her with all the fervency of his heart. Luckily, the moment passed.
“Thank you again for sending business our way,” she said.
He shrugged. “It’s not hard. A few words here and there, and then if your place is good enough—and it is—word of mouth takes over. I won’t tease you or Gran—times are hard and no one’s getting much custom. Mr. Childers did tell me there will be two more frigates under construction soon, but the crews are housed at the dry docks.”
“I know,” she replied, but the look she gave him was hopeful. “Maybe they’ll have wives and sweethearts who want to visit them.”
“Nana, you’re a raving lunatic optimist,” he declared.
“How else would anyone survive at the Mulberry?” she said as she bobbed a schoolgirl’s curtsey and went into the scullery, coming out in a minute with hot water in a can and towels. “Chamber Three reminded me ten minutes ago that we are still an inn. Good night, Captain Worthy.”
He nodded to her and returned to the last of the rice pudding. He looked up to see Gran standing silently by the door, her eyes on him. He made to stand up, and she shook her head. She came to the kitchen table and sat down.
I’m too obvious, he thought with dismay. I should allay her fears once and forever. Then he remembered his visit to Brustein and Carter. At least I can coat her misgivings with good news.
“Mrs. Massie, I have established a fund for the Mulberry with Brustein and Carter,” he told her, after setting down his spoon. “They will circulate a paper to the local victuallers and all you need do is sign your name to all bills.”
“I am having second and third thoughts about this, Captain,” she told him.
“You needn’t,” he said, knowing that none of his air of command would in any way sway her, if she was determined to change her mind. “I have no ulterior motives beyond a desire to see you all in better health and earning a living.”
A woman of experience—what kind, he didn’t know—she saw right through him, as he knew she would.
“Captain, let me say this. I will say it only once, because you are a gentleman,” she said, never taking her eyes from his face. “I lost my only child to the Royal Navy, and I will not sacrifice a granddaughter, too. You cannot ruin her. We will starve first.”
That was plain, he thought. I shall be as plain. “Mrs. Massie, when I was a midshipman, we put into Portsmouth after two years in the Orient. All over town, I kept noticing women in black. I asked one of the mates if every woman wore black in Portsmouth. He told me, ‘Aye, lad, it seems so.’”
Gran stirred in her seat. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it when he kept talking. He knew that if he stopped now, he would never have the heart to continue, because his was breaking.
“Even now, when we return from a voyage, or land in a foreign port, I can’t help myself, but it’s the first thing I look for. Are the women in black? Aye, Gran, they are. I told myself I would never deliberately do that to some kind lady. I am also the son of a vicar and too much a gentleman to ruin her. Please believe me.”
There. He got through it. He even believed it, because he knew he had to. She might doubt his word, but she would not call him a liar. He was counting on her common upbringing to weigh in his favor. As staunch as she was in defending her granddaughter, he hoped his superior presence might give him some weight.
It did, but barely. “Very well, Captain,” she said at last, after he had started to sweat inside his wool uniform. “I have to trust you, don’t I?”
“No, you don’t,” he was honest enough to reply. “You can, though, and I hope you will.” He stood up. “I have to tell you, I see myself as a walking dead man. There are matters afoot right now in Spain that will tax the Tireless to the limit. Let me do this one good thing for you and your granddaughter.”
“Very well,” she said again, and this time there was finality in her voice.
He allowed himself the tiniest sigh of relief. He went to his room, where he lay awake until nearly dawn.
Two or three times before the sun rose, he had convinced himself to move to the Drake. There wasn’t anything else he could do at the Mulberry except be reminded every time he saw Nana Massie that it was possible to fall in love without intending to.
He tried to disgust himself by considering her questionable lineage. His was an ordinary family. No Worthys had any connections, beyond his mother’s uncle, who commanded a frigate and had secured him a position on the Temeraire. All else he had achieved by his own efforts, but still, his was a respectable family with a good name.
He knew such men as he would never consider a permanent alliance with a bastard, no matter how charming. It just wasn’t done. He knew his brother officers would call it bad form. At least he reckoned they would, if he hadn’t been who he was: a highly successful commander of men and ships. He also knew that once those skeptics got to know Nana Massie, they would be as charmed as he was. Once people had their chatter and gossip, she would be accepted in any circle because her manners were impeccable, she was delightful and he was distinguished enough to cover any sins that fathers visited on their innocent children.
He finally gave up sleep as a bad idea and padded in his bare feet to the window, looking out on a grey morning. I simply must quit thinking along these unprofitable lines, he told himself. I am heading back to the Spanish coast. There is no place for a wife in my life. There never has been, and there never will be.
Oliver told himself he didn’t want to set eyes on Nana at breakfast; it was time to stifle whatever pleasant camaraderie they had developed. He also knew if she wasn’t there, he would eat slowly enough to hang around until she appeared.
She was there, pouring tea for two vendors who were trying to chat her up. I wonder how long it will be, before she starts to look better fed? he asked himself as he took a seat. I will probably never know.
“Tea, sir?” she asked him, ready to pour.
He put his hand over his cup. “Actually, coffee would be better, if you have it.”
“We do.”
She returned with coffee, followed by Sal and Pete, who laid the food on the sideboard. He looked at it appreciatively: bacon, sausages, porridge with cream, eggs and toast with jam. No one could fault the Mulberry’s breakfasts now.
Nana was sitting at his table with her own bowl of porridge when he returned with a full plate to his seat. She ate silently, until finally he put down his fork.
“You can talk to me, you know,” he suggested.
“Gran says never to bother men who are eating.”
“I don’t mind,” he said, certain she had no ide
a how he yearned for just those trivialities of table chat that Gran frowned upon. By custom at sea, he often took his meals alone, his only company a chart or Admiralty dispatch. Before he went to sea, he remembered how his own parents had discussed the day ahead, or perhaps difficult parishioners, or the virtues of lamb over pheasant for dinner.
“What will you do today?” he asked.
“Gran wants me to inventory the linen,” she told him.
She was looking at his toast. He tore it in half and gave her the bigger part. She shook her head and indicated the other one, which she took and covered with plum jam.
“I will probably be mending sheets this afternoon.” She made a face. “There now. I dare you to come up with a more exciting day.”
“I couldn’t possibly,” he told her, wondering what the two vendors at the other table would do if he suddenly leaned across the table and kissed Nana. He had the oddest feeling that Nana wouldn’t mind in the least, which did nothing to firm his resolve to put her completely out of his mind.
“Oh, you could,” she said.
What? Kiss you? he thought. Good God, Oliver, pay attention. “You mean, my day?”
She looked at him patiently, as though he were a not-too-bright child.
“Uh, I will go aboard the Tireless and walk around my wounded frigate and dare any of the workers—which includes my crew—to spend an idle moment. They’re stepping a new mainmast today.”
“Take me along,” she asked. “I have never seen that.”
“Dry docks is no place for a lady.”
He glanced at the vendors, who were looking at Nana and then laughing softly. She is a lady, you dimwits, he wanted to declare. Just down on her luck a bit. Nana, her face flushed, had turned her attention to her porridge bowl. He narrowed his eyes and gave the men his quarterdeck glare, famous in the Channel Fleet. It had the desired effect. The vendors quickly turned their attention to their food.
She was embarrassed now. Before he could say anything, Nana got up and left the room.
There wasn’t any reason to stay in the dining room any longer. The eggs had turned to slate and the coffee tasted worse than gall. Even the sky outdoors, seen through lace curtains, looked as though the clock had turned back and it was oily dawn again. How does she manage to take all the life from a room when she quits it? he wondered.
He walked the three miles to dry docks. Rain threatened, but it suited his mood. At a high point in the road, he looked toward the sound, squinting to see several ships, looking no larger than sloops of war or hoys. The sloop probably bore dispatches meant for the Admiralty. He knew Marshal Soult was somewhere around Burgos in the north, which meant Sir John Moore and his army would probably head in that direction, now that Napoleon had crossed the frontier again with his own Grand Armée. Ferrol was his duty station in the Channel Fleet. I should be there, he thought. And soon.
By the time five days passed, Matthew had returned to the Mulberry for his shore leave, and Nana had convinced herself to think of something besides Captain Worthy. The men from the royal armourers had come and gone a second time, and recommended the Mulberry to an accountant and his clerk, in Plymouth for an audit that would take several weeks. Mrs. Brittle had returned to Torquay but her husband stayed on, which meant the sailing master generally rode to and from the inn each morning with the captain. Mrs. Fillion had even sent the captain of a sloop of war their way, saying the Drake was full.
Nana wasn’t entirely sure of that, mainly because the two captains and the sailing master spent several evenings together in the dining room, long after everyone else was asleep, poring over charts and talking quietly, as though they had planned this visit. When the captain of the sloop returned to his ship, Captain Worthy walked him down to the docks, still deep in conversation. When Captain Worthy returned, he was silent and grim-faced.
So grim, in fact, that when she took his boat cloak, she just held it and said, “I wish there was some way I could help you.”
He looked at her, surprised, then startled her by enveloping her in a firm embrace.
Pete had hugged her once, and the brother of the schoolmate at Bath had tried to, but this felt nothing like her previous experiences. She couldn’t have moved if she wanted to, but she didn’t want to. She was sure she shouldn’t be so brazen, but she found her arms tight around him in the next second, as though she wanted to absorb him within herself, or at least, his war-weariness.
He said nothing, merely held her so tight she could feel his uniform buttons against her breasts. She decided the sensation was not even remotely unpleasant. In height she was level with his heart, which beat against her ear. She closed her eyes, hoping he would forget what he was doing, and just stand that way with her until the Tireless was ready for sea in two weeks.
“For goodness’ sake,” he said finally, and released her. He held her off at arm’s length, but seemed to have no qualms about looking into her eyes. “That was the best help I could have had, Nana.” He crouched down a little to peer closer at her on her own level. “This would be a good time for a massive change of subject, but I can’t think of what it would be, can you?”
She shook her head, speechless.
He rubbed the top of her head and started for the stairs. He paused with one foot on the first step. “I needed that.”
I do not understand men at all, she told herself as she watched him go. They are so self-centered. I needed that, too. Perhaps he didn’t notice.
The next morning, after Captain Worthy left the inn, a new lodger came to stay. Nana answered the jangle of the doorbell because Gran and Sal were upstairs changing sheets, and Pete and Matthew had left earlier, baskets on their arms, to visit the greengrocers. She put down the pillowcase she was mending and opened the door in midjangle.
A man with eyes as brown as her own stood there, looking rumpled as only someone can who has come off the mail coach. He carried a valise, and had slung a satchel over his shoulder.
She couldn’t help but smile at him, because his own expression was so engaging—not at all like Captain Worthy, who lately wore a perpetual frown. He came as close to looking carefree as anyone she had ever seen before.
“Mademoiselle,” he said with a slight bow. “It isn’t near Christmas yet, but I hope that you have room at this inn.”
Amused, she nodded, and opened the door wide. “Please come in. I am certain we can accommodate you, even if you are not a magi.”
“Touché,” he exclaimed, and kissed his fingers.
His name was Henri Lefebvre, and he was a painter of portraits. “Large, small, groups and individuals,” he told her as he signed the register and took the key she handed him. His accent was obviously French, with a curious admixture of northern England, maybe even Scotland in the lilt of his English. She looked down at the register, trying to read upside down what he had written.
Obligingly, he turned it around. “I am from Carlisle,” he informed her. “But you do not believe that, do you?”
“Not precisely,” she said, captivated by his quick speech.
He bowed again. “I am from Paris, of course. Do not frown at me, mademoiselle! Your own Sir Arthur Wellesley once said, ‘Just because a man is born in a stable, this does not make him a horse.’”
Nana laughed, in spite of herself.
“I have not been in France in years,” he assured her, “but I am as I said I was—a painter of portraits. Thank the Lord Almighty Himself there are many rich squires and their fubsy wives in Carlisle who like their portraits painted.” He winked broadly. “But only if I can make them look slightly less old, gouty, fat, bald or without teeth. Name your defect.” He laughed. “Name them all! I can make them disappear! Poof!”
She put up her hand, as if to ward off the flow of words that seemed to spill out of him. “I did not mean to question you, Mr….Mr….”
“Lefebvre,” he said. He put his thumb and forefinger to his lips and seemed to draw out the syllables. “Le…feb…vre…Ah, yes. You p
urse your lips as though you were going to kiss some lucky gentleman. Lefebvre.”
Nana blushed, which made him sigh and slap his forehead.
“Ah, to be young enough to blush!”
“He speaks in exclamation points,” Nana told Captain Worthy that night—late that night—over steak and ale pie, the crust only slightly soggy from the long wait for him to show up.
“I suppose he is the stereotypical Frenchman, then,” the captain said. “The only ones I see are those willing—no, eager—to administer a broadside to my ship.” He leaned toward her. “I am not in favor of the French. You may add an exclamation point to that.”
Nana wasn’t sure how it happened, but they seemed to have come to some declaration of nondiscussion about what happened yesterday evening. Perhaps if nations can declare embargos, and decrees and orders in council, people could, too, Nana decided.
She was happy enough to watch him eat, his eyes on her occasionally, but more often on the dinner in front of him. He shook his head at seconds, and leaned back in his chair, that breach of naval etiquette he seemed willing to commit in her presence.
“Did he say why he is here in Plymouth?” he asked.
“He supplied all kinds of information,” she replied. “He said he is on holiday.”
“Here? Excuse my skepticism,” he said dryly.
“I suppose it makes sense. Monsieur Lefebvre likes to paint landscapes, even though he says none of his clients want to buy them.”
“I have to wonder how good he is, then.”
“Good enough, I think,” she told him, getting up and going to the cupboard by the scullery. She handed him a picture. “He sketched this portrait of Sal. I don’t think it took him more than five minutes. She was so excited she burst into tears and threw her apron over her face.”
The captain examined it. “Yes, I would agree he’s good enough.” He stood up and stretched. “Well, let us hope he finds plenty of land here to paint. Does he plan an expedition to the moors?”
“He didn’t say.”
