by Carla Kelly
The notion shook her, because, just for a moment in the guildhall, Mary was certain she had been essential to his salvation from the charges levelled against him. Under the cover of darkness, she looked at his face, contrasting it with the more vulnerable man in the dungeon of the guildhall, the man who needed her briefly. She could tell he didn’t need her now, which was going to make York simpler. So what if she had meant every word she said to the magistrate? Captain Rennie preferred the thrill and terror of war; better she understand that now. They truly had nothing in common and matters were not likely to change that understanding.
‘You were going to tell me something?’ he asked.
‘Nothing important,’ she replied and closed her eyes to stop any further enquiry. She had never felt such pain in her heart before, which caused her even more anxiety. She took a deep breath and faced an unpleasant truth: She, Mary Elizabeth Rennie, had been dwindling into more than old maidenhood. She was becoming bland and colourless. Soon she would blend into the very walls at Wapping Street and no one would know she had ever lived. In a few years, maybe only a few months, she might tell a friend about the time she fell in love and the friend would have to turn away to keep from laughing at her.
Too bad that her only guide to love and nuptials was her cousin Dina. All Dina could do was complain about her fiancé, then go into spasms when she realised that the ring she had so wilfully thrown away was valuable.
‘Come now, Mary, what is it?’ Ross asked.
Mary didn’t know what his ocean-going voice sounded like, but there was a firmly persuasive tone she had not heard before. Perhaps she owed him some sort of comment. ‘It’s this,’ she began. ‘You are eager to return to sea, because it has become your natural habitat.’
‘Aye, lass. You have more insight than most.’
‘I, on the other hand, have no wish to return to my chair by the fireplace in Wapping Street. Edinburgh is starting to seem tame. Is that what happens with adventure? Once I find that dratted ring in York, I’m not certain what to do.’
Ross thought a moment. ‘You could emigrate to Canada.’
That seals it, Mary thought, as wry amusement rendered moot whatever she thought she had felt for Captain Rennie. My affection for this man might be growing, but he is not interested, if he would send me to Canada. ‘And do what in Canada, once I have emigrated?’
He considered the question for so long she thought he had dropped off to sleep. The rhythm of the post chaise was making her eyelids droop, too. He startled her when he spoke, partly because he had covered Nathan with his boat cloak and moved to her side of the chaise.
‘Not many avenues open to single ladies who emigrate, I suppose.’
‘None, I should think,’ she said. ‘I suppose I could be a governess, except that my aunt and uncle would likely object and consider it beneath me.’
‘Why does it matter what they think?’
‘Why, indeed?’ she said. ‘I have it. I will take ship to Canada and hang a placard around my neck.’ She spelled it out with her hand. “Governess for hire. Is not afraid of Indians or polar bears.” At any rate, I’ve never met either, so how would I know?’
He smiled, which only reminded her how much she was going to miss his company after he dropped her off at Apollo Street. ‘I suppose we all have our worries,’ she told him. ‘Mine are lighter than yours, sir.’
‘I doubt that. I’m used to dealing in death.’ His tone was matter of fact. She wished he had not taken her hand just then. ‘You’re just not used to adventures.’
‘I suppose I am not.’
‘But what, above all things, would you like to do, Mary Rennie?’
No one had ever asked her that, not even her own parents, because there was only so much a female could do. ‘I’ve never thought of that,’ she told him.
‘Come now. Everyone does.’
‘Men do,’ she said quietly.
He took her hand and kissed it, then put it back in her lap. ‘I’m an ass.’
‘No, you’re not. If it were within my scope, and I doubt that it is now, I would love to have children.’ She felt her face grow warm. This was no subject to ever discuss with a man and hardly even a husband, probably. ‘I would love them and take care of them. I wish I could tell you something more dramatic, Captain, but I cannot.’
‘It’s a noble occupation; only ask poets and painters. But if that does not happen, what then?’
She felt a flash of irritation, wondering at his probing. What would she do? Remain quietly in Wapping Street until she died? She stirred restlessly, wishing he would return to his side of the chaise. The space was crowded and he sat too close. What would she do?
She thought to lighten the whole subject. ‘It hardly matters. Better you should be asking yourself what that charming, tall, blonde lady with the French-Caribbean accent is doing now.’
He gave her a blank stare, then started to chuckle. ‘Our Lady of the List?’ he teased. ‘P’raps if the war ever ends, I shall return to Martinique. Come, come, Mary Rennie—what will you do?’
‘I know,’ she said suddenly. ‘I would be a clerk in my uncle’s counting house. I’m clever with figures and columns. I would get my own house and library subscription, and...and eat luncheon in a public house now and then, because I like...Cumberland sausage.’
He laughed along with her. ‘Could it happen?’
‘Never in Edinburgh, I suppose. I wonder...do you think there is room for someone like me in Canada or the United States? I would probably get a kitten or two, because I like them, and cats make my uncle sneeze so we have none. Oh, bother it! I am running on. Maybe you’re giving me ideas.’ She turned her head away. Maybe he would think she slept now. After all, it was long past midnight. She decided it was not wise to think about independence too much—not for a woman, anyway.
* * *
Ross didn’t think she slept, but he respected her silence. He thought for a long moment about returning to the other side of the chaise, but stayed where he was, not wanting to embarrass her by moving away. But was that it? He took a deep breath, enjoying the fragrance of what smelled like cloves.
He knew she wasn’t asleep. ‘Mary, do I smell cloves in your hair?’ It sounded stupid, but he was curious.
She opened her eyes. He saw inexplicable sadness first, which quickly changed, as though she did not want him to question her mood. ‘Aye, it is. Mrs Morison brews a hair tonic with cloves.’
‘I like it.’
To his chagrin, that covered the subject and she turned away again, her eyes slowly closing until he knew she slept this time. When her head started to bump against the side of the chaise, Ross reached for her, pulling her to his chest. She opened her eyes for a groggy moment, then settled against him. The fragrance was more pronounced; he decided he would always think of Mary whenever he smelled cloves. Maybe—if he ever found that blonde lady—he would suggest a hair tonic with cloves.
Ross thought he would sleep, too, but his leg pained him where the constable’s guard had shoved him down. He remembered the humiliation of the moment, grateful at least that he hadn’t been upended, to thrash about like a turtle. In an amazing flight of fancy, probably brought about by the late hour and stomach sour with ale from the Bloody Swash, Ross wondered if Mary would be repulsed by his naked body if they made love. He decided she wouldn’t. After all, she had expressed no qualms helping him into his peg-leg in the cell, with all his assets on display.
Mind your manners, Ross told himself. Once his visit to Dumfries ended and Natham was back in Plymouth with Mrs Pritchert, he knew a discreet establishment where men gamed on the first floor and sported on the second. He could relieve his tension there and return to sea with a spring in his step; he had done it before. Those women never complained about a leg and three-quarters. He frowned; they were paid not to complain.
Looking at Mary, admiring the length of her eyelashes and the softness of her bosom as she leaned against him, he wondered if such sport would satisfy him now. Maybe peace wasn’t such a bad thought—he could lie down at night with a wife, remain with her through all the hours and wake up in the morning with her beside him. He had never felt inclined to do that with second-floor women.
Yes, definitely someone like Mary, even if his cousin did not meet a single of the criteria he had established years ago. As the post chaise travelled closer to York, the idea beguiled him. Imagine waking up, warm and comfortable, with perhaps a child or two bounding into their room to jump on the bed. In a distant life he barely remembered, he recalled the pleasure of snuggling between his parents as they laughed and teased him.
He wondered what would happen to Mary if she never found a husband. Such a prospect seemed more likely than the alternative, he decided, recalling countless wardroom discussions. Depending on the length of the voyage, his fellow officers might be more inclined to speak of women than compose food lists. First, Mary’s hypothetical husband would have to be indifferent to the idea of money, because she had already said she had little. He appraised her travelling outfit, which was well cut and of good fabric. Obviously, her aunt and uncle didn’t skimp on her. He had no idea of their circumstances, but it wasn’t likely they were inclined to lay out a respectable dowry. They had taken her in and would do their duty, but he doubted that their duty extended to the financial arrangements of a marriage.
Ross studied Mary more carefully, admiring how relaxed she looked when she slept and the length of her eyelashes. Nothing wrong there, he decided. Discounting a cinnamon sprinkle of freckles across her nose, which he found personally beguiling, she had the kind of skin that most females less endowed probably envied. Her lips were not like his, tight and Scottish, and she had a way of pursing them that made him imitate her unconsciously, until he stopped himself. Viewed a bit at a time or altogether, there was nothing unpleasant about Mary Rennie. Surely there was a man somewhere who wasn’t immune to her.
He had to own to feeling a little personal tightness as he surveyed her shape. Since he had put his arm around her to keep her from banging her head against the side of the chaise, the gentle pressure of her bosom against his ribs made Ross edgy. He began to wish he had visited that discreet establishment before he’d started north with Nathan. He knew Mary hadn’t meant to touch his genitals when she helped him into his leg, but she had, and he remembered the feeling.
A man of certain years and experience in a middling-to-dark post chaise could be pardoned for woolgathering. Mary wasn’t one to chatter, and he liked how restful she made him feel, almost as though he could relax or say something, or say nothing, and she would not insist on more than he could provide at once. Certainly a husband would enjoy some conjugal fanfare upon his return from the Channel, but there wasn’t anything about Mary to suggest she could not provide that, too. She had a hearty laugh, which suggested she could be as animated as any woman, given the opportunity that a healthy man could furnish. Perhaps a low laugh wasn’t as necessary as he had imagined.
Great God above, this was sweet Mary Rennie and he was havering on like a randy mariner who hadn’t left his quarterdeck in five years. Thank the Lord she could not read his mind, he decided, closing his eyes with what he felt was an audible snap, causing him to chuckle, which caused Mary to open her eyes—they were so green—then shut them again with a little sigh that went right to his heart as she snuggled closer.
With any luck at all, he’d find the woman he was looking for—maybe with a few of Mary’s qualities. Ross knew in his bones, those present and those missing, that Elba wasn’t far enough for Napoleon. And because there might be years more of battle, he knew better than to claim any woman’s ultimate affection before the whole turmoil finally ended. That would be unfair.
He had decided on such a rational plan years ago, when he hadn’t thought the war would drag on much longer than a year or two. As he stared out the window and watched night turn to dawn, he rubbed his stump and admitted finally that such nobility had lost its appeal.
Chapter Seventeen
Drat the captain. There was no call for him to be so grumpy and out of sorts as they turned on to Apollo Street, Mary decided. She had no idea what had set him off, except that he had been rubbing his stump for more than an hour.
Earlier, when she had opened her mouth to commiserate, he growled, ‘Snow’s coming’, in such an unpleasant tone that Mary turned her attention to a skinny dog lifting his leg against a lamp post.
When she looked away from that spectacle, Nathan gave her a glance of real sympathy. ‘Da gets that way when his leg hurts,’ the boy whispered, which made Da grimace and apologise.
And you’re probably starving, Mary thought, wondering why he had insisted on staying in the post chaise during a luncheon stop. She knew he was too experienced and adult to be pouting. The sooner he was on his way to Scotland, the better, she decided. Heaven knows, she didn’t know what to do with him.
Since Captain Rennie had made no attempt to talk beyond a few monosyllables, Mary had turned her attention to his son, who still found the journey to his liking. While his father glowered in his corner of the chaise and the day wore on, Nathan had entertained her with stories of Plymouth and school. Mary had nothing of interest to tell him about her own modest life, so she described Edinburgh, from the Castle to Holyrood House and the Royal Mile between. In the telling, she found herself a little homesick.
She had tried to involve the captain in their discussion, timidly asking him if he had a particular favourite place. He didn’t say anything for a while, but he stopped rubbing his leg. He leaned back and regarded his son. ‘Probably Oporto,’ was all he said. ‘Aye, Oporto. Good port. Lovely women.’ He rubbed his knee again and returned his attention to the village they passed through, with smoke rising from chimneys and men walking home from work now.
Poor man, Mary told herself. He is thinking of the wife he spent so little time with. I can be kind and overlook his megrims.
‘Is Edinburgh your true home?’ Nathan asked her. ‘I think mine is Plymouth.’
I don’t know, Mary thought. She gave the matter some attention, because Nathan seemed to be genuinely interested. She reminded herself that children had no skill in idle chatter; he probably did want to know.
To answer, she told him about Mrs Morison, the cook and her confidante. In the telling, she became aware that her life was most comfortable belowstairs at Wapping Street, rather than above. She glanced at Captain Rennie, hoping that he wasn’t paying attention. Her life was ludicrously small. She doubted Nathan would notice, but all of a sudden she didn’t want her distant cousin to feel sorry for her. All in all, it wasn’t a bad life.
To her dismay, the captain had stopped rubbing his knee. His expression had turned thoughtful.
‘As slow as it would probably seem to your father, I like my life well enough, Nathan,’ she said, deeply aware of the stinginess of it. As much as Dina complained about Mr Page, they would likely marry and she would have children. Silly Dina would have more experiences than Mary could ever even dream of and it suddenly seemed so unfair. With great effort, Mary swallowed her tears and turned her attention to her tatting. My life isn’t that bad, she thought.
She knew she would find the ring in York and return to Edinburgh. Years from now, no one would ever know anything about her. She would live her quiet life and pass from the scene.
As they finally turned onto Apollo Street, Mary had to admit that perhaps she was the traveller who was feeling cross and out of sorts, grumpy even. She just didn’t show it; perhaps that made her a hypocrite.
‘Number Fifteen Apollo Street,’ Mary said, reminding herself painfully of her aunt, who was famous in family circles for stating the obvious. She glanced at her fellow travellers. Nathan’s expression was
all interest. His father’s was less so. In fact, he had leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. When the chaise stopped and the footman opened the door, she knew this was the right time to end their decidedly odd journey.
Mary held out her hand to Nathan. ‘Dear boy, it’s been a pleasure,’ she told him, overlooking the puzzlement in his eyes. She shook the captain’s hand next. ‘You, too, Cousin,’ she said, hoping she sounded more resolute and decisive than she felt. ‘I can handle the matter from here. Tom Preston can take down my travelling case and you can ride on. Thank you for your assistance. It was a decided pleasure to meet you both.’ She couldn’t help but laugh. ‘If our fractious and odd ancestors had ever got along, we would likely have met at a family reunion!’
The captain’s expression grew thoughtful. ‘Are you abandoning us?’
‘We’re in York,’ she reminded him. ‘I have taken far too much advantage of you, and this is my destination.’
She stepped from the post chaise, helped by Preston’s son, and asked for her luggage. When she tried to close the door, she discovered that Captain Rennie held it open.
‘Not so fast, Cousin. I haven’t come all this way not to see the ring in the cake.’
He had a clipped way of speech, as though he walked his quarterdeck just then. His own Scottish accent sounded more precise, which caused Nathan to look from her to his father, a question in his eyes.
Mary decided not to back down. She smiled at the postilion when he handed her the travelling case. ‘It’s just a small ring and you should be on your way. Your sister must be wondering where you are.’
‘Let her wonder,’ Captain Rennie said with a shrug. ‘I suppose once you acquire the ring, you will just walk until you find lodging for tonight?’