The Wedding Ring Quest

by Carla Kelly

  Miserable, Mary shook her head. She wanted to cry, but her hostess didn’t need that kind of distress.

  Apparently, Mrs Everett was made from a sterner mould. She took Mary’s hand, led her to the stairs and sat her down. ‘I can spare a moment from the kitchen. I saw you and the captain go into the church and here you are. What is troubling you? And him?’

  I’m not going to cry, Mary told herself, and she didn’t. Sitting there on the stairs, she told Mrs Everett the whole silly business with the fruitcake, and her adventure, and how she met the captain and his son. ‘He’s planning to take me all the way to York, so I needn’t travel alone in this foreign country,’ she said, choosing to overlook Mrs Everett’s smile at that, because she already felt foolish enough. ‘I bullied him into coming to see you. I don’t think he was going to. I mean, your son’s death couldn’t possibly be harder on him than you. Could it?’

  She couldn’t help her tears then. Mrs Everett dabbed at them with her apron, her expression so kind, suggesting to Mary that this vicar’s wife was much the same as her own mother had been—willing to bear other’s burdens.

  Mary took out her handkerchief and blew her nose with some vehemence. ‘I’m making a botch of this.’

  ‘No, my dear, you are not,’ Mrs Everett said firmly. ‘That little book that Captain Rennie has. Did you see a lot of names in it?’

  Mary swallowed, because her mouth was so suddenly dry. ‘Many hundreds.’

  ‘If I were a wagering woman, I would wager that Captain Rennie feels the pain of each death, not just one, such as we feel for our son.’ She caressed Mary’s cheek with her hand. ‘My dear Miss Rennie, the vicar and I have four other children, three of them with families of their own. Do we miss Dale? Certainly we do and always will.’

  ‘Please forgive me, I...’

  Mrs Everett stopped Mary with a kiss to her forehead. ‘There now! I think the cost to him is higher than you or I will ever know, but today, Captain Rennie gave us an indelible portrait of our son. Now I will always see him fifteen years old, sitting barefoot on a deck on the Pacific Ocean, learning how to navigate. Dale enjoyed what he was doing.’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘I can live with that, Mary. It was the kindest of Christmas gifts and I believe I owe it to you.’ She kissed Mary again. ‘Don’t argue with me! Acknowledge your own kindness.’

  She patted Mary’s knee and stood up, holding out her hand. ‘Up you get, missy! Some of the ladies and I are finishing the refreshments for the returning choir. Help us, please. We’ll trust the captain to come indoors when he feels ready.’

  * * *

  Twelve paces up and twelve back. Ross was hardly aware when Mary left. Two more twelves, twenty-four and thirty-six. He stopped, embarrassed that he had startled Mary. He had asked a question and she had answered it so innocently. Inez had told him the same thing. On the morning of his last day in port, his Portuguese wife had held him close, pressed his hand to her abdomen, where their baby kicked, and told him, ‘I will love you until I die.’

  And she had. The damned shame was that she had died only four months later in an earthquake. When he returned to port, knowing that their baby would be perhaps a week or two old, he had stared in disbelief at the ruins of her father’s house.

  A few servants had survived the vicious contortions of the earth that had buried and killed outright Inez’s parents and slowly suffocated his wife, trapped under the rubble with their son. They had met his frigate to give him the terrible news, leading him by the hand to a nearby cloister, partially damaged, too, where the Sisters of the Blessed Mary tended his son. It was enough of a shock to see his little one with a gash on his cheek that had nearly healed.

  If only Inez’s maidservant had stopped there. But no, she had told Ross how they had found Inez three days after el temblor, locating her by the faint cries of their infant, near death from starvation. Before she died, his lovely wife, the woman so proper and with never a hair out of place, had written with her own blood on the piece of roof tile that had gouged her stomach, I will love you for ever.

  He could have done without that information. Really, he could have.

  And now he had driven off his sweet cousin, who was only trying to do the right thing. Tired, his stump paining him, he sat down again at the back of the church, breathing in the fragrance of pine boughs, letting the scent so alien to a seafarer work its Christmas magic. He could apologise to Mary and take her to York the next day. Mr Maxfield would probably relinquish the fruitcake happily enough and they could both be on separate mail coaches, Mary to Edinburgh and he and Nathan to Dumfries. It didn’t seem right to him, but this little jaunt was eating into his shore leave, after all.

  He decided he owed his cousin a prompt apology, but when he left the church, here came the carollers, chilled and hungry, but triumphant as one of the leaders rattled the collection box. Feeling guiltier than usual for his own raft of sins, Ross dug into his purse and extracted several coins, the kind large enough to make the boy’s eyes widen. He handed them over with what he knew was a hypocritical flourish and only laughed when the vicar assured him that they really weren’t proficient carollers.

  His cheeks ruddy with cold, Nathan took his hand next. ‘Da, I had such fun! We never carol in Plymouth!’

  ‘Perhaps you should,’ Ross declared, getting into his son’s Christmas mood. ‘Heaven knows a seafaring town could use a Christian message.’

  That only earned him a puzzled stare and reminded him that Mrs Pritchert, Nathan’s keeper, was a careful woman. He shook his head at his own folly. Nathan ran ahead to join his new friends, and Ross found himself in tow by the vicar.

  ‘I vow, Captain, this has been a fine day all around.’

  Ross kept up his own pretence at good humour because Mr Everett was so obviously sincere. Mary was right; the Everetts had been starved for what he, and he alone, could tell him about their son at sea.

  ‘I agree, Mr Everett,’ he said, walking with the vicar. It touched him that the man slowed down a bit, to accommodate his obvious limp. He had been on his peg too long.

  Once inside, he had no chance to speak to Mary. The ladies hurried around, pouring hot chocolate for the young singers. There were several varieties of biscuit circulating, as well as fruitcake. He couldn’t help a glance at Mary when he saw the fruitcake and was rewarded with a wry look from her that made him think she had not entirely cast him off for his rudeness in the chapel, if that’s what it was.

  Even after everyone left with their children, there was still no opportunity for privacy. Mary had already disappeared, and Mrs Everett took him upstairs with Nathan, who was yawning and trying not to show it.

  ‘I’m putting your son in Dale’s room and you next door. Mary is across the hall. Come in here.’

  His reluctance to enter the room where his late middie had slept was quickly overcome. He looked around in delight at the maps and charts on the walls, then a row of what appeared to be well-thumbed books about the sea. He couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘My midshipman seemed to have the ocean on his mind for many years before I acquired him.’

  ‘He did! I can’t tell you how many times he and I read Robinson Crusoe to each other.’

  ‘Is it not a little unusual, madam, considering how far we are from the ocean here?’

  ‘We took our children to Scarborough one year and that fixed the ocean in his mind for ever.’ She touched his arm. ‘You probably usually do the honours, but let me tuck your son in bed tonight.’ Her face took on a wistful expression. ‘It will bring back lovely memories.’

  ‘Aye, then.’

  ‘I think you’ll find the vicar in the bookroom.’

  He took her hint, even if he did want to work up his courage, knock on Mary’s door and apologise to her. The vicar was waiting for him with two more mugs of the wonderful wassail. They sat in comfort before
a declining fire. Between the wassail, and the vicar’s persuasive air, Ross found himself refighting any number of engagements, from fleet action at Trafalgar, to the little ship-to-ship affairs that only made dry and dusty news in the Naval Chronicle.

  Ross knew better than to drink any more of the wassail, not if he didn’t want to endure Cousin Mary’s scrutiny in the morning. He held up his hand and declared enough. ‘I need a clear head to get to York tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Captain,’ Mr Everett said with considerable good cheer. ‘She distinctly said something about brown bread and quince jelly in Ovenshine. York must wait.’

  Ross laughed. ‘Quince jelly in Ovenshine. My God, but that sounds like a spy’s password!’

  ‘It is a small village, but no spies there,’ the vicar joked.

  Arm in arm, they helped each other towards the stairs. Mrs Everett met them at the top of the stairs, lending her husband a hand when he appeared to waver on the top step.

  ‘Hush now, you two!’ she whispered. ‘Everyone else is abed. Captain, Nathan is in here as you probably don’t even remember.’ She smiled into her hand, her eyes lively. ‘Mary is across the hall and you are next door to Nathan. Do you have that?’

  He did, ready to assure his kind hostess that he was sober...well, nearly sober. From habit, he planted his legs a little wider for balance. ‘Aye, madam. Your husband makes a wicked brew, but I am more or less immune to wassail.’

  The three of them laughed, arms around each other, maybe for balance, maybe because it just felt good. Ross was struck by the realisation that the only person who touched him was Nathan. No, not true. Mary had given him a push in the back in Carlisle, unbidden, but aware of his slight stagger. Good woman, his cousin.

  Mrs Everett opened the door to his room, but he shook his head and looked in on Nathan first, pleased to see him sleeping so soundly in the unused room of one of the vicar’s sons. He closed the door, a smile on his face, but an odd lump in his throat. Blame the wassail.

  He said goodnight to his kind hosts, who went down the hall. He looked around his room, surprised to see his own luggage ready for him and the bedcovers turned down. The Everetts must have sent their man to the Begging Hound for the Rennie trappings when they were carolling.

  Ross stretched and took off his uniform coat, glad to get out of it. Maybe when he felt more sure of peace and he was a post captain cast ashore living on half-pay, he could indulge in a civilian wardrobe. It could wait, because he wasn’t at all convinced that his employer would be content to be emperor of Elba, after ruling the world. Instead of following his appetite from village to village, perhaps he should return to London and impress upon his superiors that Napoleon wasn’t done yet. Ross doubted they wanted to hear his glad tidings, but he was nearly convinced.

  With a sigh, he unbuttoned his trousers, balancing himself precariously and wishing for his servant, a hard-bitten old seaman who decided to stay on Abukir during drydock because he had no love of land. Hardly mattered; he could do this. The wassail didn’t hold a candle to rum.

  He shifted his trousers down to his hips, backed up to the bed to sit down and missed. With a thump, he landed on the floor, bruising his dignity more than his ass. Blame it on a strange room, late at night. He laughed.

  The door opened. His cousin peered inside, her eyes wide. As he watched, wondering what she would do, his little prayer was answered, the little prayer he didn’t even have a name for.

  ‘Cousin, you could use some help.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘I believe you’re right, Mary. Give me a hand up.’

  Mary pulled her robe tighter. All was quiet at the Everetts’ end of the hall, so she stepped inside and closed the door.

  There sat the captain on the floor. The light from the fireplace lit him quite well. He sat there, his trousers around his knees now, his shirt out. He squinted, as though wondering who she was, so she came closer. He held out his hand to her.

  She did her best, but he was a big man. She wrapped her arms around his waist and tugged at him until he got his good leg under him. They both sank on to his bed, and he started to laugh. It was funny; she joined in.

  ‘Oh, Mary, I’m not three sheets to the wind. Just a bit cheerful.’

  ‘Aye, Cousin. I’ll believe you, even though thousands wouldn’t.’

  It must have struck him as witty beyond words, because he started to laugh again.

  ‘Hush!’ she whispered and put her hand over his mouth. To her amazement, he kissed her palm. To her further amazement, she liked it. She took her hand away, but stayed next to him.

  ‘Now what?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you a game goer?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ she assured him a trifle tartly. ‘Do you know anyone else who would travel miles and miles to track down fruitcake?’

  In for a penny, in for a pound, Mary thought. She stood up and straightened his legs. It was short work to remove his trousers. Thank goodness he wore smallclothes underneath. She draped his trousers over a chair after smoothing out the wrinkles.

  ‘Hmm.’ Mary looked at the brown-leather straps that bound his peg-leg to his waist. They were attached to an iron brace clamped tight to the top of the wooden peg. Simple enough. She glanced at the captain and his eyes were closed. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled up his long shirt tail and unbuckled the strap at his waist.

  He wasn’t asleep. When he felt the motion he raised his hips so she could manoeuvre the strap from around his waist. It was an easy matter to pull out the strap and then gently tug away the device.

  ‘Ahh.’

  It was involuntary and made her a little sad, wondering how hard it must be every day to rig out in this uncomfortable leg and balance on a heaving deck. Mary wasn’t certain she would love the ocean enough to do that. Maybe it was duty that drove him.

  The stump of his leg was wrapped in sturdy cloth. Curious, she felt the end, which seemed to be padded with cotton wadding.

  ‘Do you want me to remove this, too?’ she asked.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind too greatly. I’ve been on it so long today and walking more than usual.’

  He spoke quite calmly, not sounding in the least tiddly or luffy or shot in the neck, or any of those slangy terms she heard from some of the servants belowstairs at Wapping Street. I believe you are just tired down to your toenails, she thought. Tears came to her eyes as she unwrapped his stump. She feared what she would see, but did as he asked. When she removed the cloth, she looked down at a fine knee and part of a fine leg that ended abruptly with a fold of skin. Even in the low light, she could see a tidy scar with evidence of where the stitches had gone in and come out. The end of the stump looked a little red. Still curious, she touched it lightly and felt the heat.

  ‘You have gentle hands, Mary. Better than my servant. I can take care of myself now.’

  She nodded and turned to go, but he took her hand. ‘Don’t leave. I need to apologise to you. Wait a minute more.’

  Unsure of herself, she sat down on the chair by the bed. He sat up with another sigh and removed his shirt, then tugged up the bedcovers. ‘Better,’ he murmured. ‘I’m not drunk.’

  She smiled at that. ‘I believe you, actually. I know you’re tired, though.’

  ‘Aye, Mary, aye,’ he said, and it went to her heart. ‘Come a bit closer.’

  She stood up and pushed the chair closer to his bed. He raised up on one elbow. ‘May I tell you why I was so rude in the chapel?’

  Mary nodded, because she knew he would tell her anyway, and she was curious now that she could tell he wasn’t angry with her.

  He spoke softly, but she heard all the emotion as he told her about returning to Oporto and finding the ruins of his wife’s parental home. She couldn’t help her own sigh as he described seeing his baby for the first time
. She had wondered a little about the small scar on Nathan’s cheek. And she couldn’t help her tears as he told her what Inez had written with a bloody finger on the roof tile that had pierced her abdomen.

  He took her hand. ‘When you said what you did, I suppose I wasn’t quite prepared for that. Is that all women want from the man they love?’

  ‘I’m no authority, but I think it must be,’ Mary said as she gently pulled back her hand. ‘I hope men want the same thing from the women they love.’

  ‘I believe they do.’ He settled into bed in that way of someone getting ready to sleep. ‘It’s been a difficult day and I have had many difficult days. Perhaps too many.’ He closed his eyes.

  ‘Tell me, Cousin, before you sleep: how did you get Nathan home to England?’

  He opened his eyes, pleased that she was interested, from the look on his face. ‘The nuns gave me a goat, which I shipped aboard.’

  ‘No one questioned a goat?’

  ‘Not if you’re the captain, m’dear,’ he said with a reminiscent chuckle. ‘Or any officer or master, I suppose. You should see the average frigate before she puts to sea—goats, cows, some chickens. Of course, we were just going from Portugal to England this time.’

  ‘Did they question a baby?’

  He shook his head. ‘Again, not if you’re the captain and therefore Lord God Almighty Himself on the quarterdeck. He slept, well, like a baby, in my swinging cot. When Nathan fussed, I strapped him to my chest, put my uniform jacket over us both and took our turn on deck.’

  ‘You were bound to each other.’

  ‘Aye, lass, in so many ways. I’ve sat in many a wardroom in all seven seas, discussing home and family with my peers. One common complaint—well, no, one regret—is that men and officers seldom get to really know the children they beget on land. Instead, we go to sea and don’t meet until years pass, sometimes. It is the price of Admiralty.’

  ‘You have an easy camaraderie with Nathan.’

  ‘We have to work at it, but I did have a head start, if I can count Oporto to Plymouth. We correspond regularly, even though it might be months between the writing and the receiving.’ He touched her arm. ‘That’s one reason I didn’t object when Nathan wanted to take the Royal Mail. Sitting squished together for a long trip is a fine way to become reacquainted. It’s difficult life, Mary, but it is my life. I know no other.’