Читать книгу The Wedding Ring Quest - Carla Kelly - Страница 13

Chapter Six

Mary frowned. She knew where York was on her uncle’s atlas. For years she had considered it high adventure to flop on the sofa when no one was using the sitting room, prop open the atlas on her stomach and imagine herself in exotic locales like London and Brighton. The prospect of actually venturing farther south from Carlisle into England was something she had not considered when she let Mrs Morison and Aunt Martha cajole her into retrieving the dratted Christmas cakes.

It’ll be simple, she thought with some chagrin, remembering Mrs Morison’s words. You’ll probably find the ring in the first cake you pick up. You’ll be home in no time.

‘Hmm, from the look on your face, Cousin, I think you hadn’t planned on voyaging in foreign waters,’ her cousin told her.

‘No, indeed.’ You must think me a complete ninny, she thought, considering the obvious competence of the man looking at her with such a pleasant expression. Might as well admit it. ‘I can imagine what your opinion of me is,’ she said, eager now for him to quit her sitting room, because she felt like a fool. ‘You’ve sailed into real danger for more than twenty years and I’m frightened of the prospect of York!’

Mary couldn’t even look at him. He startled her by touching her chin until she had no choice but to look into his eyes. And quite blue eyes they were.

‘My opinion of you is merely that you have never been to York and it is a large city.’

He said it so kindly that her embarrassment vanished and her charity returned. ‘I suppose it is a little odd for someone to be canvassing the countryside for fruitcake,’ Mary said, then laughed out loud. ‘I think it’s odd!’

‘No more strange than a post captain traipsing about for Cumberland sausage.’ He glanced at his son and lowered his voice when the boy muttered something in his sleep. ‘Personally, I could have stayed another day in York when we passed through earlier this week. My current sailing master told me about a shop in York that makes excellent blood pudding.’

‘You’re hopeless!’

‘I know.’ He didn’t touch her hand, but he stood closer. ‘Let us accompany you to York and retrieve that pesky cake.’

She wavered, then decided, with a shake of her head. ‘You have just been there. I’m no navigator and I expect you are, so you know better than to backtrack to York. You’re so thoughtful, Captain Rennie, but I can find York, Apollo Street and this old gent pining for love of Miss Bruce.’

‘It’s no hardsh—’

‘Yes, it is,’ she interrupted. ‘You tell me this is your first actual holiday—’

‘Shore leave.’

‘—in twelve years.’ She glanced at the Cumberland sausage, supine in its solidified juices. ‘You’ve obviously been planning this...shore leave for eons.’ She held out her hand to him. ‘Cousin, don’t worry about me. I hope you have a happy Christmas on land. Goodbye.’

The look of disappointment in his eyes surprised her, she who never elicited much response from her own relatives, much less one on such a distant branch of her family tree as the captain. She also knew he would recover, because that was what men did.

Captain Rennie shrugged. When he turned to pick up his son, he took a side step to get his balance. Mary shot her hand out automatically to steady him, her hand firm against the small of his back.

‘Thank you,’ he told her with no embarrassment. ‘Sometimes I still overset myself.’ He picked up Nathan.

Mary released her grip on the captain, deciding not to be embarrassed by her quick reaction if he wasn’t. She touched Nathan’s hair, brushing it back from his forehead. When he opened his eyes and blinked, she touched his cheek. ‘I hope you have a lovely Christmas, too,’ she said softly. ‘Don’t let your papa eat too much sausage all at once.’ She gave it a thought, then shrugged and kissed Nathan’s forehead.

Mary held the door open for the captain, watching as he carried the child from her room. He stood there a moment, then shook his head and turned around.

‘Cousin Mary, I never told the innkeep that I needed a separate room. He’s thinking we’re slinging our hammocks in here with you, because we are all Rennies.’

‘My goodness.’ She gestured to the sofa. ‘Put Nathan down in here again and make your arrangements.’

He did as she said, then grinned and knuckled his forehead like a common sailor as he backed out. ‘Suppose there are no spare rooms?’ He winked at her and it took years off his weather-blasted face. ‘Come, come, Cousin, it’s nearly Christmas, and we know how troublesome landlords are at that season!’

‘You, sir, are a rascal,’ she said firmly. ‘Find a room at this inn.’

He did, returning quickly with a key in hand. He stood by the sofa, looking down at his son. ‘You know, Mary, I have it on good authority that parents will often stand as we happen to be standing and just gaze at their sleeping children. That has never been my luxury. Pardon me, but I am savouring this moment.’

‘Savour all you want, Captain,’ she replied, her voice as soft as his. ‘I’ve never had this luxury, either.’ She couldn’t help herself. She brushed the hair from Nathan’s forehead. ‘His mother must have been a beautiful woman.’

‘She was. I never saw a bonnier lady.’

He must have thought such a comment was a bit cavalier, since she was a woman, too. He touched her nose with his finger, just a light touch. ‘But I do like freckles, something a man never sees in the Iberian Peninsula. ’Night, Mary, and goodbye, I suppose.’

He picked up his sleeping child again and, key in hand, went a few doors down the hall. She almost went to help him when he fumbled with the key and kept Nathan from waking up, but he managed. He closed the door and that was that.

* * *

But it wasn’t. Hours later, Mary was still wide awake and staring at the ceiling. She worried about money first, then reminded herself that she was excellent at economising and York wasn’t so far. Besides, if she needed more funds, Uncle Samuel would send them.

Thank goodness that the forlorn Miss Bruce didn’t pine for a man in Bath. York likely had modest establishments for careful travellers. Mary worried next about her fellow travellers, then reminded herself that since Aunt Martha had never felt inclined to send a servant to accompany her on trips about Edinburgh, she had long ago perfected her stern, leave-me-alone face that could quell all but the most relentless bores and roués. No one would bother her on the Royal Mail, not even in England.

She had no remedy for the loneliness that was beginning to plague her, even though she had only been a little more than a week on her quest for the Christmas cake. The days were lively enough, because there was usually a woman or two on the Royal Mail of sufficient gentility to share a nod with and then a polite conversation. And she always carried a book in her reticule. The nights were troublesome, cooped up in one inn or another with no one to speak to, once she had tracked down, acquired, sifted through and then discarded the Christmas cakes.

Until she had begun this impromptu journey, Mary hadn’t realised how much she enjoyed popping down to the kitchen for a chin-wag with Mrs Morison, or even listening to her Aunt Martha complain about this or that, or Uncle Sam speak to her until he retreated behind his morning newspaper. Cousin Dina hadn’t been any fun at all, since she had agreed to marry Mr Page.

‘It’s only a few more days to be lonely and then you will be home in Edinburgh, Mary,’ she told the ceiling. ‘Buck up a wee bit.’

That should have been enough, but she took her thoughts a step further tonight. Maybe she could blame it on Mr Barraclough and his little hopes, dreams and flights of fancy. He was a man living with a maiden aunt, perhaps for years, and he was fussy and silly already. All good wishes aside, Mary doubted supremely that Miss Jennie Lynch would ever stand with him under the kissing bough.

She lay in bed and realised that the saddest specimen of humankind in the world must be a ridiculous spinster or bachelor. Spinster I may be, but please God, not a ridiculous one, she thought as she fluffed her pillow, then pounded it and tried to sleep.

Nothing worked, so she thought about Captain Rennie, wondering how a man did what he did, taking the punishment of broadsides at close range or typhoons in the South China Sea without wanting to run screaming into a dark corner, as she thought she might. And how in the world did he maintain his balance on a slanting or pitching deck? She wanted to ask him, but the opportunity was gone.

Besides the obvious differences, Mary suspected that men were different in other ways, too. Her urge had always been to stay as far away from trouble as she could. Possibly if women ran the world, no one would fight. Although still not married to her, perhaps Lieutenant MacDowell would at least be alive to know his son, instead of dead on a Spanish battlefield he had probably never heard of, before it became his final resting place.

Mary wondered when her ever-so-distant cousin Ross had last spent Christmas ashore. It was too late to ask him. She knew the mail coach to Dumfries left before the sun was up. He and his son would be long gone before the York Mail left. She only knew that because she had overheard some of the other passengers talking about York. She would have to trust his sister to make his holiday—his shore leave—a good one. On that note, she finally slept.

* * *

Ross knew his son would go back to sleep as soon as he was in his nightshirt, but he didn’t. Instead, Nathan put his hands behind his head, wriggled into a comfortable spot and frowned.

‘What?’ Ross asked. ‘I know that look.’

He couldn’t quite bring himself to tell his boy that Inez had given him that same look a time or two, when he wasn’t quite measuring up. A pity his son never knew his own mother.

Nathan didn’t question his comment. ‘It’s this, Da,’ he began. ‘I don’t think we should let Cousin Mary travel by herself on the Royal Mail. I mean, the common coach is fine for us, but she’s a lady.’

‘Aye to that. You know, I’ve been having the same thought. What can we do, though, outside of kidnapping her?’

‘Oh, Da!’

They laughed together. Ross lay down beside his son, assuming the same position, hands behind his head. After a moment’s thought, he leaned on his elbow. ‘Are you expecting me to think of something?’ he asked.

Nathan nodded. ‘You’re the man here.’

‘Very well. I’ll think about it.’ He leaned over and kissed his son, then rose to put on his own nightshirt. ‘Now go to sleep.’

‘We really don’t have much time,’ Nathan pointed out. He closed his eyes, his expression blissful. ‘Da, she touched me and I liked it.’

She touched me, too, and I liked it, Ross thought, surprised. ‘All right. I’ll devise a plan. Will that do? Will you go to sleep now?’

* * *

When Mary woke up, dawn struggled in the east. She must have been roused by the sound of the Royal Mail, departing for Scotland. She yearned to be on it, even if she found herself squashed between ordinary folk headed to early markets, as she had found on other early mornings. Well, Captain Rennie and Nathan would only be crowded for a few hours themselves, since Dumfries was not far. Her destination was York, which made her sigh, turn her face to the wall and snuggle deeper into her blankets, eager to put it far from her mind for another hour.

* * *

When she woke again, the room was light and she could not ignore the day. She sat up, not pleased with herself and even more cross with Mrs Morison, who had so calmly enlisted her for this trip. No matter; Mary could put on her quelling face and no one on the Royal Mail would trouble her with conversation.

She washed and dressed, then went into the sitting room, looking with real distaste on the Cumberland sausage and wishing she had directed the innkeep to remove it after the Rennies had left. She would do that when she went into the commons room to request breakfast, a prospect that didn’t thrill her. The commons rooms were usually peopled by farmers resting after taking produce to market and she did dislike being ogled.

She stopped at the door and looked down at a folded square of paper pushed into the room, her name on it. She smiled to see ‘Cousin Mary’ and picked it up, curious. She read the note and her eyes opened wider. She read it through again out loud, thinking she might comprehend better what Captain Rennie had wrought.

‘“The Lords of the Admiralty wish to inform Miss Mary Rennie that Captain Ross Rennie, post, requests and requires her permission to serve as an escort during times of war, and all trips into enemy territory—York,”’ she read, shaking her head in amazement. She laughed out loud to read smaller printed words in parenthesis. “Aye, we are at peace now, but I know my employer pretty well and do not trust him to stay on that little island so close to France.” You would know,’ she murmured.

The note was close-written, but easy to read. Perhaps the economy of space came because he was used to writing in a ship’s log. She scanned the remaining paragraph, gasped at his impertinence, laughed at its conclusion, then reread it, touched.

‘“Because the Royal Mail is reliable, but uncomfortable, and Captain Rennie likes to travel in comfort when he can—which hasn’t been often in the past twelve years—he has already engaged a post chaise for the journey to York,”’ she read, amazed at his effrontery, which Aunt Martha probably would have called it. Mary wasn’t so sure. ‘“Besides, he is determined to stop at Skowcroft for excellent dessert and the mail coach would not oblige him. Cousin Mary, do not disappoint this peg-leg warrior of the Royal Navy.”’

‘So you will stoop to the sympathy card, sir?’ She laughed out loud and read the postscript. ‘“He also knows of some excellent shepherd’s pie in York proper.”’

Mary stood still for a long moment, tapping her finger against the note. She read it again, wondering about a man who had already engaged a post chaise to take her to York, because he knew she felt nervous about travelling alone. She couldn’t think of a time when anyone had been so generous to her on such short notice.

A reminder of the timid Mr Barraclough made up her mind. ‘I will do it, Captain Rennie,’ she said out loud. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

There they stood in the corridor, father and son, both looking at her with a hopeful air. She burst out laughing.

‘Oh, you two! What can I do but accept your kind offer?’ she told them.

‘Wise of you, since we weren’t going to take no for an answer,’ the captain said. ‘Would you be willing to break your fast with us in the commons room?’

She was, sitting down to another excellent sausage, considerably shorter than four feet, eggs and coffee. If she had felt shy, the emotion didn’t last long, not with Nathan needing a little attention tucking his napkin under his chin and then a better alignment of the buttons on his shirt when he finished. Perhaps he had dressed in the dark; possibly fathers didn’t notice such details of dress.

* * *

When Nathan was tidy and the dishes withdrawn, the captain pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. He spread it on the table. ‘I have here a list of inns along our route,’ he told her. ‘Through the years, this sheet has graced the wardroom table on occasion, as I solicited information about good food in all corners of Britain.’

She looked at the list, seeing different handwriting. ‘This is what passes for entertainment on a frigate at war?’

‘Aye, miss, especially on the far side of the world, when we are drifting along in the doldrums and it’s hotter than Dutch love.’

Mary blushed. ‘Really, Cousin.’

Ross Rennie looked not a bit dismayed. ‘I confess to a salty tongue. You’ll get used to it.’ His expression turned nostalgic. ‘When you’re down to bad beef, weevily bread and thick water, and the wine has run out, a list like this is surprisingly comforting.’

He jabbed a line. ‘Look you here. If we leave now, we’ll be in Skowcroft for luncheon, and that is where...’ He stopped and looked at the barely legible line. He ran his finger gently across the words now. ‘I had a midshipman, name of Everett from Skowcroft, who swore by the lemon-curd pudding at the Begging Hound.’

‘I trust he has been back to enjoy it,’ Mary said.

‘Alas, no. He died in the Pacific. He was but fifteen.’ The captain leaned back, his eyes troubled now. ‘I...I suppose I want to have a dish of pudding for Dale Everett.’

She took the list from the table and scanned it. ‘Brown bread with quince jelly? I do like quince jelly.’

‘My former purser told me about a public house in Ovenshine.’ He shook his head. ‘A true scoundrel he was.’ He correctly interpreted her expression and took the list from her. ‘Here now, blood pudding in Wamsley, according to a pharmacist’s mate who lives in Wamsley as we speak. They’re not all dead, Mary, or rascals.’

Could it be that you need this little side trip to York even more than I do? she thought. The idea beguiled her far more than the prospect of fruitcake.

‘Isn’t your sister going to wonder where you are?’ she asked, making one more attempt to call the man to reason.

‘I sent her a letter before the sun was up, telling her we had to go to York on business.’ He grinned, and it threw years off his weather-thrashed face. ‘Hopefully, she will never ask what the business is. When do you need to report back to Edinburgh?’