A Night of Angels

by Andersen, Maggi

Good question.

  Kit pointed in a random direction.

  “There will do, I suppose,” he said, indicating a cluster of headstones without much enthusiasm. He skimmed the names, they meant nothing to him.

  He and Sophia approached an edifice not too weathered. The inscription caught his eye.

  Beaufort Denton

  Esq.

  9 September 1732 – 6 February 1804

  Late of Kenstec House

  husband of Caroline Denton

  father of Lydia Denton

  No mention of a Constance. Kit moved on to the one next to it which was much older and far less grand than the one belonging to the squire. He eased himself down on one knee to get a better look at the inscription.

  Tressa Denton (nee Keast)

  1754 – 1782

  loving wife of Beaufort Denton, Esq

  mother of Constance

  forever missed

  Kit traced Constance’s name over with his fingertips. His mother outlived her own by only two years.

  He closed his eyes a moment. After so many years of knowing nothing of his past – not even the names of his mother or father – Kit finally had some answers. His mother was the daughter of Squire Beaufort Denton and his first wife, Tressa.

  He barked out a bitter laugh. That was as goddamned close to aristocracy as he’d ever get. At this rate, dear papa could be a baronet!

  Kit got to his feet with the same unsettled feeling in his gut that once upon a time would have him reaching for opiates. He reached, unseeing, for Sophia. She was the only one who could ground him. Her hand squeezed his tight until the sharp pain running through his every nerve eased.

  “He’s here, Sophia, I know he is,” he said.

  “Who’s here? Kit, wait!” He heard Sophia, but already he was hurrying down rows looking for the Hardacre name. Even his leg no longer pained him.

  His search ended in a small corner of the cemetery, where two modest headstones bore the name Hardacre. One of them seemed almost ancient and didn’t even bother with a Christian name or a date of birth or death. The other, not quite as weathered as the other, simply bore the names John and Mary. Conveniently, the dates of their births and deaths were there, barely legible against the roughened stone face.

  Clearly husband and wife, an older couple who passed away only within a year of each other twenty-five years ago. Did they have a son?

  Kit slapped the stone with the flat of his hand. Damn it! Damn it all!

  “Kit!”

  Sophia’s voice pulled him out of his sea of self-pity. He looked about the cemetery and could not see her.

  “Where are you?” he called.

  Kit found her waiting for him in the porch of the church, the door open.

  “You have to see this.”

  She led and he followed down the side aisle of the church. Between two windows was a small brass plaque, not brand new but polished and well cared for.

  To the memory of Constance Denton (1765 – 1784)

  and her son Christopher, lost at sea (1784 – 1794).

  He thanked the good Lord above that his legs held on long enough for him to sink into a pew.

  Someone knew him.

  Someone knew him and remembered.

  Chapter Five

  Adam shucked off his working clothes and dropped them over a chair. Standing stark naked by the fire, he washed quickly and thoroughly using the sandalwood-scented soap. He ran a hand over his face, and decided he could get away without shaving.

  He could hear the sound of Daniel and Abigail’s arrival downstairs already. They’d have to take him as he was – and, let’s face it, they’d seen him looking a whole lot worse over the years.

  His home was not grand – not like the country estate just outside of Truro owned by the Ridgeways – but it was more than he ever dreamed of owning as the son of a carpenter and a press-ganged young sailor.

  A little cottage by the sea was once the height of his ambition, but here he was with his family living in a very smart three-story townhouse. He even had servants, for crying out loud!

  He had been offered somewhere much more imposing – Kenstec House itself. But life as a country gentleman was not for him. Adam didn’t feel right unless he was doing manual labor of some kind. It was enough that his wife and children were comfortable and wanted for nothing.

  As he dressed, he wondered how long he could delay up here, to put off the inevitable discussion about meeting the man who may be his son. He wandered to the west-facing window that overlooked the river Fal and saw an unfamiliar vessel – a three-masted schooner that had not been there this morning.

  Captain Christopher Hardacre. Is that his ship?

  There was a light rap at the door. “Do you need assistance, Captain Hardacre?” a voice called.

  He shook his head at the symmetry of the titles. The voice was Saunders, his man servant – batman, butler, footman, valet, groom… whatever was needed, Saunders was very competent at it.

  The man also insisted on calling Adam by his honorary title – one awarded to him for his service to the king, rather than one he’d earned at sea. When he was in the Royal Navy, he didn’t have the family connections to rise beyond the rank of Petty Officer. One encounter with Ridgeway changed everything.

  “Tell Mrs. Hardacre I’ll be down in five minutes,” he instructed as he shrugged on a waistcoat.

  Adam took one more glance at the schooner, then went in search of his boots and slipped on a jacket. By the time he joined his wife and guests, he also managed to find a smile and a bit of his old self returned.

  Charlotte was playing with a doll he’d never seen before, one with a porcelain face and a scarlet velvet gown. Julia clutched a book in her lap.

  “I see Christmas has come early,” he announced. Ridgeway rose to his feet and Adam shook his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Adam turned his attention to Abigail. She had a mischievous twinkle in her eye. She held out her arm with mock imperiousness. He duly bowed his head over it.

  “Am I forgiven?” she asked sweetly.

  A woman of her vintage should not be able to get away with playing the coquette – and yet, somehow, Abigail did successfully, Adam reflected.

  Before he could answer, Olivia instructed the girls to thank the Ridgeways for the gifts and to play upstairs. They did so without complaint. Adam was grateful his daughters took after their mother—and not their godmother who he regarded now with equanimity.

  “What’s done is done, isn’t it?” he said, keeping his voice level.

  Abigail’s face dropped a little, giving the smallest hint of her age. Out of the corner of his eye, Adam could see the reproving look Daniel offered his wife – one that said “I told you so”.

  “But now that it’s done,” Adam continued, “how are you going to break the news to this poor young man and his wife that they have a whole family to spend Christmas with? Spring the surprise on him as you did me? How do you know he’s even interested in finding his parents?”

  “Dear Adam,” Abigail said, her face brightening, “I thought you were going to ask something difficult! Captain Hardacre was already looking for his parents – I asked the superintendent at St. Thomas’ Hospital to let me know if he called in. As for the young man himself, I just gave him a nudge in the right direction. The fact that he’s here in Ponsnowyth means he’ll learn about you soon enough and he’s already accepted the invitation to spend Christmas with us. The fact he will meet you is our gift to him. Does that answer all your questions?”

  Adam shook his head and found Olivia watching him carefully. How was it he was left with the feeling he’d just been press-ganged once again?

  “Just one more,” he replied, and hesitated, taking a seat beside Olivia. She took his right hand and warmed it between hers.

  “You’ve met him, Abigail,” he said at last. “What is Christopher like?”

  Kit had to admit that Ponsnowyth was a quaint, little village. The he
art of it was a coaching inn and local tavern; across the way was a large hall, freshly whitewashed. The place was surprisingly busy for such a little hamlet. He hadn’t known why until he and Sophia rounded the corner and saw the crossroads closed for a market day.

  “Oh, Kit! Let’s stop,” said Sophia. “We might find a little gift for Laura and Morwena.”

  If Sophia was happy, then so was he. They strolled arm-in-arm, up and down the rows of stalls. Much of the goods were farm produce, but there were a few stalls with ribbons and beads. Not surprisingly, there were tin objects for sale – some practical household items, others inexpensive pieces of jewelry. Sophia unerringly gravitated toward a stall selling jewelry made from silver extracted from the mines of Cornwall.

  While she haggled over the price of two pairs of enamel-decorated earrings, Kit took time to observe the people around them. Some gave them distinct looks up and down – no doubt simply marking them as strangers. Others, he noticed, took a second glance as if something had caught their eyes.

  Did he look like a Hardacre from Ponsnowyth? Could the man who strolled past with his wife and children be Kit’s cousin? Or the little girl rolling an iron hoop with a stick – could she be his niece?

  Every time he made eye contact with one of the villagers, Kit waited for a spark of recognition, from someone, anyone, so he could ask.

  The sun retreated behind a cloud, taking whatever warmth the day possessed with it. They should have something to eat and be sure to set off back to Flushing while there was still plenty of daylight. Sophia tucked her arm through his.

  “You were miles away,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s strange,” he said, urging her away from the markets and toward the inn. “I’m searching for someone, and I don’t know his name or even what he looks like. Hell, I don’t know if he’s even still alive.”

  Sophia nodded, understanding his half-articulated thoughts in a way no one else did or ever would.

  “The innkeeper would be the man to ask,” she said, nodding in the direction they walked. “He’d know every family in the district.”

  “Maybe I’d be better off not knowing. What if dear papa is a drunkard who beats his latest wife, or a thief, or a murderer?”

  “Or what if he is a perfectly nice man?” Sophia chimed in, her look of amusement a reminder to not lose himself in the darkest of his thoughts.

  He opened the door to the Angler’s Arms and ushered Sophia in before him. “A perfectly nice man who conveniently forgot he had a son?”

  “A perfectly nice man who didn’t know he had a son.”

  They gravitated toward the fireplace and found an empty table.

  “He must have known. Who else would have put the plaque in the church?”

  “We don’t know it was him,” Sophia answered. “Constance might have family or a devoted servant who loved her. All I know is if your father is half the man you are, he’s a good man, one to be proud of.”

  The warmth of her words thawed a little ice from around his heart as much as the roaring fire warmed his body.

  “Then what right do I have to upend a good man’s life?”

  Before Sophia could respond, a tavern maid arrived. She greeted them warmly and took their orders, but Kit wasn’t ignorant of the fact that she paused by the bar and spoke to the man behind it, glancing back at them, rather than going straight to the kitchen.

  Part of him wanted to slump in the corner, away from the gape of other people; another part of him, long inured to such things, indeed even inviting it, urged him to face the room, lift his chin, and make people stare at him.

  No one did. Not even when their meals and warm drinks came.

  It was just a little disappointing.

  What was encouraging was Sophia ate all of the hearty meal. Her stomach had been delicate for the past week, and she had gone to great lengths to hide it from him.

  When the maid came to clear the table, she did not come alone. The large innkeeper accompanied her. Kit straightened in his chair and watched the man, about his age, search for the right words and the right expression for his face.

  The result was an uncomfortable cross between a grin and a grimace.

  “My compliments to your cook,” said Sophia. “The star-gazy pie was the best I’ve had since returning to England.”

  The innkeeper blinked rapidly, her words clearly breaking his train of thought.

  “Thank ye, ma’am. ’Tis me ma’s recipe, God rest her soul, and now my wife makes it.”

  Kit jumped in, calling the man’s attention back to him. “So you and your family have lived in Ponsnowyth for a while?”

  “Nigh on seven generations,” he said proudly before dropping himself uninvited onto a spare chair. “I’m William Trellow; most folks call me Will. My ma and pa ran the Angler’s Arms before me.”

  William Trellow was not subtle. The man was guileless and wore his curiosity openly. There was something in it that set Kit at ease. He offered his own name.

  “I’m Kit Hardacre, and this is my wife, Sophia.”

  Sophia inclined her head but Will never even looked her way. The man just stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at Kit.

  “Hardacre? Ye wouldn’t be a relative of Adam Hardacre would ye?”

  Ah-ha! Adam – a name he hadn’t seen on the gravestones.

  “The chances are almost certain,” Kit replied. He took another sip of the warm spiced wine and watched Will Trellow process that fact.

  “I thought ye were, right from the very minute ye walked in! I said to Elena ye looked like our Adam Hardacre; the spitting image of him. Are ye visiting for Christmas?”

  Kit smiled politely; only Sophia would know his expression masked caution. “You could say that, although Adam and I have never met.”

  Chapter Six

  “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

  Sophia lay on the bed in the Calliope’s master cabin. She lay with her eyes closed while he paced up and down the room.

  “Did you want to go?”

  “Oh no, Christopher John Hardacre, you’re not putting this back on to me. This has got to be your decision.”

  He pulled a face, and, although her eyes were closed, Sophia grinned as though she could see him.

  “You’ve faced down marauding pirates, sailed through violent storms, rescued women from harems, and blown up more ships than I can count,” she continued. “What is it that you’re really afraid of?”

  “Maybe I won’t like him… maybe he won’t like me…”

  Sophia opened her eyes and propped herself up on the pillows. “Do you think Sir Daniel and Lady Abigail would invite us to spend Christmas under the same roof as Adam and Olivia Hardacre if they didn’t think we’d all get along?”

  “I hate the fact that we don’t have a choice in the matter. If I refuse, I lose the chance to find out more about my mother. If I accept, then we spend Christmas with a bunch of strangers. Frankly, Lady Abigail could teach Morwena a thing or two about manipulating people.”

  Kit didn’t hear Sophia leave the bed until he felt her hand on his shoulder. “I know,” she said softly. “It’s been quite a strange turn of events these past few weeks. If Elias was here, he’d tell you it was a sign from above. A Christmas miracle.”

  He picked up her hand and kissed it before drawing Sophia into his arms.

  “I have my miracle,” he whispered. “I have you. I don’t dare ask for more than that.”

  Her arms tightened around him. Kit swallowed against the lump in his throat. If they sailed, he could lose himself in the wind and the waves – the unpredictable natural elements were always a safer bet than the unpredictable natures of people.

  He drew himself up. Lady Abigail’s invitation had taken him by surprise, but the reality was he couldn’t run away. His crew was at liberty until the middle of January. And he wanted to ensure Sophia was completely well before they set sail for home.

  “We’ll go,” he whispered. “
We’ll go and see what happens.”

  In a deepening embrace, Sophia’s shoulder shook. He thought she was cold, but one look at her face revealed she was holding back a fit of the giggles.

  “What are you laughing at?” he demanded.

  “I’m just so relieved we’re not spending Christmas with Cousin Samuel.”

  The thought of avoiding that brought a smile to his face.

  “It puts things in perspective. Christmas with a wine-soaked worm or a bunch of strangers, one of whom is supposed to be my long-lost father. It’s a tough choice.”

  Olivia waved the newly-arrived note. “They’ve accepted.”

  Adam didn’t take the letter. He didn’t need to read it, and he didn’t need to be told who they were.

  He was a man who had risked death among Napoleon’s spies yet he felt nervous at this prospect. What would they talk about? Would they simply look at one another, shake hands as strangers, and part with no more connection than that?

  For the first time, he was rather happy to be spending time at Bishop’s Wood, the Ridgeways’ sixteen-room country house just outside Truro. There would be plenty of places to avoid one another.

  “We’ll have to get them something to open on Christmas Day and…”

  Adam experienced a twang of guilt for not listening to his wife as she talked, but all he could think of was imagining how bad the first meeting with his son might be. The churning in his gut was of the kind he felt when he was first rejected for his rightful promotion by the Naval Board.

  The thought of being rejected by his own son would be so much worse.

  “Father, are you not looking forward to Christmas? You’ve been in a mope all day.”

  Little Charlotte stood before him, her hazel eyes large and questioning, her pale hair covered by the hood of the moss green cloak she wore.

  How did he get here in the front hall, surrounded by luggage? Behind him, Adam suddenly heard Olivia and Julia chatting together as they came down the stairs.

  Then the front door opened. Cold, salty air swirled in. The steady clop-clop of their two horses in harness approached.