Читать книгу Regency Christmas Wishes - Carla Kelly - Страница 14

Chapter Three

James made a note in his log—personal logs were a habit not easily broken—to let Owen Brackett know when next they saw each other that his jaw stopped aching at Latitude North thirty-eight degrees, four minutes, Longitude West forty-eight degrees, forty-six minutes, roughly the middle of the stormy Atlantic.

The passengers aboard the Marie Elise were a disparate lot, some Americans heading home, a French emigré or two and Englishmen who were no more forthcoming about their reasons to travel than he was. He had a private chuckle, thinking that some of them might have been what the harbourmaster thought of him, spies or government emissaries.

The crossing was rough enough to keep many of the passengers below deck during the early days of the voyage. Jem had no trouble keeping down his meals, and less trouble standing amidships and looking at oily, swelling water hinting of hurricanes.

He only spent two days in the waist of the ship before Captain Monroe invited him to share the quarterdeck. Jem accepted the offer, scrupulously careful to stay away from Captain Monroe’s windward side. From Monroe’s demeanour, Jem knew the Yankee appreciated the finer points of quarterdeck manners.

Captain Monroe apologised in advance for some of his passengers. ‘Hopefully they’ll stay seasick awhile and not pester you with gibes about Englishmen who couldn’t fight well enough to hang on to the colonies.’ He laughed. ‘And here I am, making similar reference!’

‘I’ll survive,’ Jem said, and felt no heartburn over the matter. ‘We need to maintain a friendship between our countries.’

‘From what you tell me, the United States might be your country, too,’ Captain Monroe pointed out. ‘D’ye plan to visit Massachusetts during this visit?’

‘Perhaps. We’ll see.’

Mostly Jem watched the water, enjoying the leisure of letting someone else worry about winds and waves, especially when it proved obvious to him that Captain Monroe knew his ropes. He felt not a little flattered when Lucius—they were on a first-name basis soon—asked his opinion about sails and when to shorten them.

Even better than the jaw ache vanishing was the leisure to recall a much earlier trip in the other direction. He stared at the water, remembering that trip when he was ten years old; he’d been frightened because so-called patriots had torched the family’s comfortable Boston house. He remembered his unwillingness even then to leave the colony where he had been born and reared and now faced cruel times.

Looking around to make certain he was unobserved, Jem leaned his elbows on the ship’s railing, a major offense that would have sent one of his midshipmen shinnying up and down the mainmast twenty times as punishment. Most painful had been his agonized goodbye to his big yellow dog with the patient, sorrowful eyes and the feathery tail always waving because everyone was a friend. ‘I want another dog like you, Mercury,’ he said quietly to the Atlantic Ocean.

Papa had named Mercury, because he was the slowest, most good-natured creature in the colony, even after some Sons of Liberty rabble caught him, tarred and feathered him. If Jem’s tears could have washed the tar away, Mercury would have survived. He never asked Papa how he put Mercury down, but at least his pet did not suffer beyond an hour or two.

Here he stood, a grown man of some skill and renown among his peers, melancholy over a long-dead dog. As with most complicated emotions that seem to surface after childhood is gone, James wasn’t entirely sure who the tears were for.

Contemplating the water through many days of the voyage, Jem found himself amazed at his impulsive decision to bolt to the United States, after reading a mere scrap of a decade-old letter. He knew himself to be a careful man, because he understood the monumental danger of his profession and his overarching desire to see all the officers and seamen in his stewardship as safe as he could make them. Quick decisions came with battle, but this hasty voyage had been a quick decision unrelated to war.

In the cold light of this Atlantic crossing, he justified himself, convinced that the Peace of Amiens, while a fragile treaty, would last long enough for him to make sure all was well with Theodora Winnings and return with Admiralty none the wiser.

Or so he thought. Anything seemed possible, now that his jaw didn’t ache all the time and he was sleeping eight hours instead of his usual four. Until this voyage, he had forgotten the pleasure of swinging in a hammock and reading.

As the journey neared its end, he spent a pleasant evening in Lucius Monroe’s cabin, drinking a fine Madeira; maybe he drank too much. However it fell out, he told the Yankee skipper about Theodora Winnings and the long-delayed letter.

‘Am I a fool for this expedition?’ he asked Lucius.

‘Probably,’ the Yankee replied. ‘She helped nurse you back to health from a malaria relapse?’

‘Aye, she did. I was a stinking, sweating, puking, pissing, disgusting mess.’

‘Then it must be love,’ Lucius Monroe joked. ‘More?’

Jem held out his glass. ‘I never had the courage to ask her why she was even there. There were other women in the ward besides the nuns, but they were all slaves.’

‘Who can understand the ladies?’ Lucius said. He leaned back and gave a genteel burp that he probably would have apologised for a few weeks earlier, before theirs turned into a first-name acquaintance.

Lucius broke the comfortable silence. ‘I’ve been curious about this since you came aboard, James. You tell me you were born in Massachusetts Colony and spent your first decade in my country. How do you feel about it now?’

‘I liked Massachusetts,’ he said finally. ‘I liked the dock people who didn’t mind my chatter, and my friends who took me fishing. My father was next in authority after Benjamin Hallowell, Senior, then serving as Admiralty High Commissioner. Papa let me roam all around the docks.’

He saw by the way the American nodded, that his own childhood had been spent much the same way. ‘You understand, Lucius, don’t you? There is a freedom here that I cannot explain or understand.’

‘Did you come back for another glimpse of that, or of Miss Winnings?’ Captain Monroe asked.

‘I wish I knew.’

* * *

When the Marie Elise docked in Baltimore, James walked down the gangplank, took a deep breath of United States’ air, realised it smelled the same as it did in Plymouth, and laughed at himself. With instructions from Captain Monroe, he arranged passage on a coasting vessel to Charleston, South Carolina.

After an evening of good food with Captain Monroe at the curiously named The Horse You Came In On Tavern at Fell’s Point, and a night at the inn next door, James boarded the Annie, a vessel that deposited him in Charleston a day and a half later, none the worse for wear, even though the vessel was less sound than he liked and the crew even more dubious.

He had stuffed his effects in his old sea bag, which still naturally fit the curve of his shoulder. After a short walk, spent trying to divest himself of the seagoing hip roll, he stood in front of the Magnolia Tavern and Inn, took a deep breath and wondered again what he was doing.

He didn’t bother with luncheon. After dropping his duffel in his room that overlooked magnolia trees with their heady blooms, he walked the route from the dock to Winnings Mercantile and Victuallers. At least, he walked to where it should have been, and stared up at a swinging sign that read South Carolina Mercantile. He reminded himself that things change in eleven years, and opened the door.

The smells remained the same—dried cod, pungent tobacco, turpentine. Jem fancied he even recognised the man behind the counter, a fellow with an outmoded wig and a big nose.

‘May I help you?’ the man behind the counter asked.

Jem relished the soft sound of his speech, wondering how it was that an English-speaking people not so long removed from the British Isles could sound so different. When he was coherent, he had asked Teddy Winnings about that. She had reminded him that African slaves had much influence in the language of the Carolinas.

‘Perhaps you can help me, sir,’ he asked. ‘I came into port here some eleven years ago, when this place was the Winnings establishment. What happened?’

‘Mr Winnings died of yellow fever and his widow sold the property to the current owner,’ he replied.

That was a fine how-de-doo. Now what?

‘Where do the widow and her family live now?’ he asked.

The counter man shrugged. ‘She didn’t have any family. Don’t know where she is.’

‘No family? I distinctly remember a daughter,’ Jem said. Who could ever forget Theodora Winnings and her quiet, understated loveliness? Obviously he hadn’t.

‘No. No daughter.’ A pause. ‘Where are you from, sir?’

‘Nowhere, I suppose,’ Jem said, surprised at himself. ‘I am a ship captain.’

‘From somewhere north?’

‘At one time. No idea where the widow is?’

The shop’s front bell tinkled and three men came in. The man at the counter gave Jem a polite nod and dismissed him. ‘Sirs, may I assist you?’

Jem took the hint and left the mercantile. He stood a brief moment on the walkway, then turned south, confident the Sisters of Charity hadn’t left their convent.

There it was, much the same. He recalled ivy running over the walls, but someone had mentioned a hurricane years ago that had stripped some of it away. The Virgin smiled down at him from her pedestal perch, reminding him of his first view of the statue while lying on his back on a stretcher. With some embarrassment, he remembered shrieking like a girl because she seemed to be falling on him. Oh, those malaria fever dreams.

He rang the bell and waited for quiet footsteps on the parquet floor within. He never prayed much, if at all, but he prayed now that someone would know where Theodora Winnings lived. He squared his shoulders to face the reality that if Mercantile Man said Widow Winnings had no children, then Teddy might be dead, too.

‘Don’t disappoint me,’ he said out loud, not sure if he was trying to exert his non-existent influence on God Almighty, or the world in general, which had been stingy with blessings, of late. He remembered himself and thought, Please, sir, that and no more.

Before he could ring the bell again, the door opened on a young face, probably one of the novitiates. In her calm but practical way, Teddy had told him that every yellow fever epidemic meant more young girls in the convent because they had nowhere else to go.

‘Sir?’ she asked.

He took off his hat. ‘I am looking for Theodora Winnings, who used to assist here. Her father owned what is now South Carolina Mercantile. Can you help me?’

She opened the door and he stepped into the familiar coolness that had soothed his fever almost as much as the mere presence of Teddy sitting by his bedside, doing nothing more than holding his hand.

‘I will take you to our Abbess, sir,’ she said. ‘Please follow me.’

He walked beside her down the long hall, breathing in the faint odour of incense and something sharper that still smelled of disease and contagion. Underlying it all was the still-remembered rot of a warm southern climate.

The novice knocked on a carved door, listened with her ear to the panel, then opened it. She stepped inside and motioned for him to wait.

He stood in the hallway during the quiet conversation within, then entered the room when the nun sitting behind the desk gestured to him. The novice glided out quietly.

The nun behind the desk indicated a chair. She clasped her hands on the desk and wasted not a moment on preliminaries.

‘I have not thought of Theodora Winnings in years,’ the nun said. ‘Apparently you have, sir.’

He could blush and deny, but he was long past the blushing stage of his life. ‘I have, Sister... Sister...’

‘Mother Abbess,’ she corrected. ‘And you are...’

‘Captain James Grey of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.’

With that announcement, she gave him a long look, one that came close to measuring the very smallclothes he sat in, down to his stockings. ‘I remember you, sir. We despaired of your survival for several weeks.’ She permitted herself a smile. ‘Even your ship sailed away.’

‘With a promise to return,’ he reminded her. ‘Aye, you have me. I didn’t think I would live, either. At times, death sounded almost welcome.’

She chuckled, probably all the emotion her order was capable of permitting. ‘Teddy held your hand when we had done all we could.’

It was his turn and he took a page from her no-nonsense book. ‘I doubt you knew this, but I left her a letter the morning I walked out of here under my own power to rejoin my frigate. I proposed marriage in that letter, but I never heard from her. I want to know how she is. That’s all. The man at the mercantile said Widow Winnings had no children, but that can’t be right. Where is she?’

Only an idiot wouldn’t have noticed that he had disturbed the serenity of a woman probably committed by oath to be calm in all matters. She stood up quickly and turned her back on him to stare out the window.

‘If she’s dead, I understand,’ he said. ‘I want to let her know I would have moved heaven and earth to respond, had I known of her letter’s existence. Her letter was misplaced and I only received her reply in September. Granted, eleven years is a long time...’

He let his voice trail away. He knew enough of people to tell, even with her back to him, how upset Mother Abbess was. ‘I had good intentions,’ he insisted. ‘I proposed, after all.’

She turned around. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘Understand what?’ he asked, fearful and bracing himself for what, he had no idea. ‘Mrs Winnings must have had children. Teddy was one of them.’

‘Teddy is a slave.’