“We’ll leave you now,” Merryn said. “I’ll come back tomorrow afternoon and see how you’re getting along.”
Ellison knelt and took her hands, his head bowed. “Thank you, my lady. Thank you.”
Merryn and Geoffrey left the cottage and she said, “It was the right thing. It was what Daralys wanted. Adam will be the light of their lives.”
Geoffrey cradled her face with hands. “Just as you are my light, my love.” He kissed her.
Merryn decided of all the Christmases to come, this one would remain close to her heart.
The End
Father’s Day
A Christmas Story
Elizabeth Ellen Carter
Noble fathers have noble children.
– Euripides
Dedication
To Russ Harmon and Chris Harmon for whom the above quote is true.
Chapter One
London, November 1818
Kit Hardacre ignored the mildly vexed expression on his wife’s face.
Tap, tap, tap, tap tap…
The silver tip of his ebony walking stick continued to beat a tattoo on the floor of the carriage until Sophia leaned across and rested a gloved hand over his to still the restless rapping.
“Tell me again why we’re here?”
He sounded peevish and knew he did, but it was a cover to hide the terror that roiled through his gut since he’d hailed the cab at St. James’ Square.
Through his black gloves, he felt Sophia squeeze. He turned his hand and squeezed hers back, an apology of sorts.
“It will be better to know than not,” she said. “Imagine – a piece of your past you can truly own. You said as much yourself when we received the reply from the Foundling Hospital.”
Kit shifted until he had his arm around Sophia. Seated so close, he could share her view through the window of the grey and bleak wintery streets of London, then the green-painted bridge of Westminster taking them across the Thames into Southwark.
He hated being cold. It made his damaged right leg ache and stiffen. He was only thirty-four but the damp and the chill made him feel like an old man. Their home in Sicily much better suited his leg – and his temperament.
Sophia’s silky black hair was hidden under a close-fitting bonnet and her hands beneath a sable fur muff. Kit looked at his wife’s face in profile, her olive skin set off by the fitted jade green velvet coat she wore against the cold. God, she was beautiful…
She’d been unwell this morning, but seemed fine now.
Damned English winter.
How he loved her – brave, strong, resourceful, intelligent. Every night he would go to sleep thanking the good Lord above for the privilege of lying next to her and every morning he would wake in gratitude that it hadn’t all been a dream.
Occasionally, he would have nightmares in which he’d never liberated her from that harem. He would start awake, panting, until the steady breathing of his wife beside him lulled him back to sleep.
He ought to be annoyed at his friends who had talked him into this fool’s errand in England – and made him break in a new crew – then stayed at home in Sicily while he froze his arse off here.
Elias was about to be a father in his own right. Although Elias would argue that he was already a father – with Sophia’s cousin, Laura, about to give birth to her second child. Then there were Jonathan and Morwena, now proud parents of twins.
Kit fought a grin. Twins! Morwena was never a woman to do things by halves.
Their adorable baby boys, now three months old, would be enough to keep most mothers busy. But they hadn’t stopped the merchant Morwena issuing orders as they left the wharf at Palermo even after the Calliope’s gangplank was withdrawn.
Thank God Jonathan knew his wife well enough to know when it was wise to let her have her way and when to temper some of her excess ambition. Kit reflected he’d learned a lot about marriage from Jonathan and a lot about business from Morwena.
Seeing his dearest friends become parents had made Kit think of his own at a vulnerable moment. On a whim, he’d written to the superintendent of the Foundling Hospital where he had been weaned. They replied to say he should write to St. Thomas’ Hospital, and so he had.
Their reply arrived the week before he was to set sail for England on business anyway. But, by that time, Kit changed his mind about his personal mission. What would be the point of knowing who his parents had been? It wasn’t going to make a jot of difference. They were probably both dead anyway.
Kit had tossed the letter aside and no longer knew where it was. He suspected Sophia had kept it safe against his sometimes capricious moods.
The carriage lurched to a stop outside St. Thomas’, just past the statue of Sir Robert Clayton, the Lord Mayor and philanthropist who’d followed in the footsteps of another mayor of London, Richard Whittington. Whittington had originally endowed the hospital with a lying-in ward for unwed mothers and their babies.
Babies like him.
Kit helped Sophia down from the carriage, and they hurried through the newly-started drizzle into the undercroft, over which stood a wing of the hospital.
To his surprise, a porter snapped to attention when he gave their names and assured them that they were, indeed, expected. As they climbed a wide staircase leading to an upper floor, Kit gritted his teeth against the bone-deep ache that ran the length of his right leg.
The office into which they were shown was well-appointed, more like a study of a grand house than a hospital superintendent’s office. Bookshelves lined two walls. An oak desk dominated the side near the window. But best of all, it was warm. Kit edged closer to the fire allowing the heat from it to warm his right leg from hip to ankle.
“We seem to be getting the royal treatment,” he remarked. “How much are we donating again?”
“Six hundred pounds,” Sophia answered.
“Dear God, woman! That much money could re-rig the Calliope!”
“You can afford it.” she grinned, then removed her muff and bonnet, and lay them on a chair. She skirted around one of the couches and joined him by the fire. “And besides, it’s not all your money. It is also a Christmas gift from Jonathan and Elias. They know how important this is to you really. Your parents won’t be forgotten.”
He accepted a peck on the cheek before turning to kiss his wife properly on the lips.
“Have you ever imagined who they were?” she asked.
“A scullery maid and a second footman,” he offered and laughed at Sophia’s exasperated expression. “No. I’m being serious. I’m not from the upper classes. You know that.”
“But someone thought well enough of your mother to have her come here for her lying-in and then have you sent to the Foundling Hospital.”
“I know you keep hoping for some romantic tale,” he replied and clutched a hand to his breast in theatrical fashion. “The ill-fated romance between a second son of a duke and the daughter of a poor but honest family who has a secret inheritance waiting but, alas, if only the true heir can be found.”
“Ah-ha! You have been reading those novels that Laura is so fond of.”
Kit gave Sophia a broad wink. He’d gladly make himself a fool any number of times over to see her laugh.
He was about to tease her further when the office door opened. Two nurses bustled in with a tray of sandwiches and a silver tea service. Behind them entered a man, aged in his mid-fifties, grey hair swept back, pince-nez across a prominent nose, and a rounded belly that suggested a life of good living.
After the introductions, Dr. Mathewson invited them to sit. One of the nurses remained to serve the tea.
“We’re deeply honored to have you pay us a visit, Captain and Mrs. Hardacre. Your endowment is a very generous one.”
My wife certainly thinks so.
Kit brought the teacup to his lip to prevent the words actually coming from his mouth. With a lift of his eyebrows, he signaled Sophia a silent plea for assistance. She was much better at managing
polite society than he.
“My husband is only too aware of the good work done by St. Thomas’ to care for young women who come to you in an unfortunate state,” said Sophia.
“To be charitably minded, in a gentleman so young, is a further commendation. A credit to the Hardacre name, I would most definitely say.”
The superintendent spoke to Sophia at great length about how they would use their gift. But, in the end, there was only one thing Kit wanted. Dancing around the subject wasn’t going to do it. He was used to frank speaking, so the sooner he got things out in the open, the better he’d feel.
“Dr. Mathewson, I trust the money will be used wisely. I have only one request.”
“If it is within our power to grant, Captain.”
Kit knew what the man was thinking – a plaque or a ward named in his honor. Little did he know.
“On May 12, 1784, a woman by the name of Constance Marie Denton was delivered of a child at this hospital. I was that child.”
Belatedly, the light of revelation went on in the good doctor’s eyes.
“Dr. Mathewson,” Sophia continued, “my husband and I would be grateful for any information St. Thomas’ might possess about his mother’s family. We understand she did not live long afterwards, so to find somewhere to pay respects would be a comfort to us.”
The man smiled. “I would need to check the records. Will you call on me in a week’s time? I’m sure I’ll have the information you seek.”
Kit rose to his feet and shook the man’s hand. As Sophia refastened her bonnet and gathered her things, he rubbed the palm of his hand over the silver pommel of his stick.
There. That wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.
So why do I feel so nervous?
Chapter Two
Lord William Bentinck
The Honorable Member for Nottinghamshire
Requests the Company of
Captain Christopher Hardacre and Mrs. Hardacre
at Burlington House
Kit glanced at the stiff, white card propped on the mantelpiece over their bedroom fire while the butler who doubled as his valet brushed down the sleeves of his jacket.
The former ambassador to Sicily should have had quite enough of the antics of him and his crew, Kit thought. But it seemed the man was a glutton for punishment – either that, or his new life as the MP for Nottinghamshire was dull and needed some spicing up.
Through the adjoining dressing room, he heard Sophia conversing with her maid over which jewelry to wear.
The butler stepped aside. Kit surveyed himself critically in the cheval mirror, pleased he hadn’t pulled back his hair. Instead, he had let the shoulder-length locks fall over his collar.
Good God! It’s a blond-headed Byron!
Kit grinned at the memory of Bentinck’s exclamation on first seeing him. Perhaps he could shock the Right Honorable once again, and his guests. This suit should do it – claret red and black brocade with a gold shot cream waistcoat embellished with sprigs of flowers. Although the breeches ended just below the knee, the cream-colored hose fit his legs snugly – and warmly – and the black sheen of his shoes was highlighted by large, silver buckles.
If dandies were still in vogue, he would fit right in.
Sophia stepped into the bedroom.
“Stewart, send for the carriage,” he said. The butler discreetly left the room.
Kit couldn’t keep his eyes off his wife. She was the very height of fashion in a white silk gown overlaid with net dyed navy blue and embroidered around the neckline, waist and hem with flowers fashioned from ribbons and glass beads. The necklace she chose featured swags of sapphire beads around a silver filigree pendant. Despite her attempt at composure, she colored deep rose at his stare.
He kissed her hand.
“Dare we prove our hypothesis that we’re the best looking couple in London?” he asked.
“The point is moot because I’ll only have eyes for you,” she replied.
Ponsnowyth, Cornwall
Adam rarely closed the door to his study. He loved the sound of his daughters playing in the house, and they were as welcome in this room as any.
But right now he needed time to think.
He poured a measure of whisky into a tumbler and stood with his back to the fire, looking to the desk where the letter lay. It had turned his world upside down this afternoon.
It had been years since the sight of an envelope bearing Sir Daniel Ridgeway’s hand put him on alert. England was now at peace. The King’s Rogues, as Ridgeway had dubbed their group, were in happy retirement.
Adam had read the letter a half-dozen times over. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the words.
Dear Adam,
Abigail and I have news, and I struggle to know how to broach it.
Through Abigail’s family connection, we recently renewed acquaintance with Lord William Bentinck who, as you know, has returned to sit in the House of Commons after a commission in Sicily.
Without prompting on our part, Bentinck told us the most remarkable tale of a young English-born sailor who harried the slavers of the Barbary Coast – an entertaining tale of reckless mischief and heroics performed by this man and his crew.
We would have thought nothing of it until Bentinck named the privateer – one Captain Christopher Hardacre, who goes by the name of “Kit” Hardacre.
I know we all believed the cabin boy, Christopher Hardacre, was lost at the age of ten in the sinking of the Pendragon and yet the man of whom Bentinck speaks would be of the correct age.
My friend, I can only imagine your shock is as great as mine, if not more so.
My wife ignored my wish for caution and made direct contact with this Captain Hardacre’s agent in Sicily. She has placed a sizable order for coffee from the Gambino-Afua Trading Company to ensure this man’s journey to England.
Without being given the particulars, Bentinck has agreed to extend a dinner party invitation to Captain Hardacre and his wife. Mrs. Hardacre is a half-Spanish cousin to the Capplemans, a rather successful manufacturing family here in London.
Tomorrow night, we dine with the Bentincks, and we shall see for ourselves whether the name is merely a coincidence. If it is, then we will confirm it and your mind can be at ease. Should we believe this man to be your son, however, then we shall come to you to see how we should proceed.
Give our love to Olivia and the girls. We look forward seeing you all soon.
Yours faithfully,
Daniel
Adam Hardacre took another sip of the whisky, feeling its heat warm his throat and his gullet where it soured rather than comforted.
“Papa?” The question was accompanied by a feminine rap on the door. “Charlotte and I would like to say goodnight before bed.”
That stirred him into action. He opened the door and gave his eldest, Julia, an embrace. At age eleven, she was growing taller, no longer a little girl. Very soon, she would look like her mother with her brown hair and matching eyes. Her sister, at eight, shared Adam’s coloring of sandy blond hair and hazel eyes. She waited five steps up on the stairs leading to their bedroom.
“Remember? I was going to read to you more from The History of Little Henry And His Bearer,” said Charlotte.
Adam fixed a smile on his face. “Yes. Get ready for bed. I need to talk to your mother about something then I’ll be right up.”
The girls were happy enough with that arrangement. He found Olivia in the drawing room at her needlework. He might be able to hide his disquiet from his children, but he could not hide it from his wife.
She set down the embroidery loop.
“Adam? What’s the matter?”
“Can I see you in the study?”
She followed in silence, as grave as his own mood.
“I got a letter from Daniel today.”
“Has something happened? I was so looking forward to spending Christmas with them. I hope they’re not unwell.”
Adam’s throat th
reatened to close up. He wasn’t sure what to say other than motion to his desk. Olivia’s look of concern increased. She went to the desk and picked up the open letter.
“Read,” he said. “We’ll talk when I get back from putting the girls to bed.”
Adam loved his daughters. But Charlotte, with her hair turning blond in some lights, and with her friendly mischievousness, had him wonder on occasion what the son conceived in his youth might have been like.
He listened to his youngest daughter read from the book, stumbling bravely over some of the words she did not know, until yawns rounded out her speech and she conceded defeat.
Next door, Adam walked quietly into the semi-darkened room. Julia was buried under the covers with only the top half of her face in view. She was eleven, about a year older than Christopher was when the corsairs raided and sank the Pendragon.
A fierce tenderness clutched his breast. He would never, never abandon his family. He would ride through the flames of Hell itself to protect his wife and children. And yet, there was one he had failed – the consequence of a summer love thirty-five years ago between himself, a young carpenter’s son, and the daughter of a local squire.
In his defense, he hadn’t even known of his son’s existence until fourteen years ago. He would not have learned about Christopher at all had the tragic story not been pieced together by Olivia who had been governess to the squire’s daughter by his second wife.
And just three months after learning he had a son in the first place, Adam was devastated by the news that the boy was presumed dead. Even the considerable connections of Lord Daniel and Lady Abigail did not bring any further information.
And now, to learn he is possibly alive…
Olivia was in the study, just where he had left her.
“Adam, if this is true…” she breathed.
Adam folded his wife into his arms. “I know,” he breathed into her ear. Her arms tightened around him, giving comfort and seeking it in return.
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