A Season of Love

by Carla Kelly

  They laughed together.

  “She said if she ever got some watercolors, she would steal in here and touch it up.” His eyes grew wistful. “I hope she does. That’s as close as this old body will come to such a feast.”

  “I beg to differ, Mr. Laidlaw,” Thomas said, his mind made up. “When Mrs. Poole finishes work today, I propose to take the three of you to a good restaurant for just such a meal. Do you think she will agree to my scheme?”

  “If I assure her that I won’t get to go if she doesn’t!” the old fellow declared. “I intend to be most persuasive.”

  Thomas left it at that, bidding the man good day and promising to return at six of the clock, when Mary Ann Poole trudged home from a job where she had to do as Lady Naismith told her without catching the eye of Sir Edwin. And look forward to no employment after Christmas Eve, a worse prospect than her current lot.

  Thomas was a man with a good imagination, but he could not begin to grasp how frightened she must be right now. Yet in no way had she indicated her fears. Well certainly not to you, you simpleton, he berated himself. She probably doesn’t want to terrify Beth, and it’s none of your business.

  Acutely aware of the desperation Mary Ann Poole must be feeling and finding himself powerless to think of a solution, he spent the next few hours back in Plymouth, closeted with the headmaster of St. Clement’s School, arguing the merits of accepting as a student the daughter of an army man dead at Corunna.

  “It isn’t done,” the man assured him. “Females, yes, but she must be the poor child of a Royal Navy man.”

  “Could it be done if I donated a whacking amount of money to St. Clement’s?” he asked bluntly, out of patience with nitpicky rules.

  “We will see about it,” the old priss said quickly, and dismissed him.

  And then what? Suppose he succeeded in getting Beth enrolled in a far better school than the one in Haven run by an idiot? He couldn’t kidnap Mrs. Poole and drag her to Plymouth to do … what with her? He wondered if she would consent to moving into his house under his sister’s charge, but that idea strangled itself at birth. Although he planned to be at sea soon, Mary Ann Poole would probably never consent to such an arrangement out of pride, or fear that what might have happened to her in Lady Naismith’s employ might be repeated in his own establishment. He knew it would not—he was a man of honor—but society would never countenance such a solution.

  He stewed some more, and then got back in the post chaise for the little drive to Haven, an unhappy man.

  “I am far from bored,” he announced to the world at large, which happened to be a cat slinking down an alley. But was worried any better?

  CHAPTER SIX

  U

  Although she would not miss her current position as secretary to an ungrateful employer, Mary Ann dreaded Christmas Eve, when she would dot her last i for Lady Naismith and close the door on her miniscule income.

  Walking slowly past Christmas carolers, she stopped for a moment in appreciation and tugged her muffler tighter. They sang of a baby’s birth, shepherds minding their own business on a Judean hillside, and angels with something miraculous to tell the world.

  She decided that on Christmas Eve—rather than stay at home and dread what was about to happen to them—she would take Beth and tag along with carolers. They could sing and take away the fear for a few hours.

  Christmas Day would bring revelry as Haven’s citizens partied and prepared to welcome a new year—1816—fresh with promise and absent war for the first time since the French revolution began. Perhaps if it wasn’t too cold, she and Beth could walk through one or two neighborhoods and watch the people inside. Mary Ann was past those days of wishing she were among the company.

  As much as she enjoyed being home before Beth, she took a moment to sit on one of the benches for old people and think through the pleasure of Saturday’s visit to Thomas Jenkins and his sister in Plymouth. She tried to imagine the sheer delight of sharing her burdens with another adult. Such a novelty was hard to conjure up, because the experience had never been hers. She had gone from daughter in a modest household to bride, with a brief five days in Portsmouth to love her new husband and wave goodbye to him from the dock as the transport pulled away for Portugal and war.

  She never saw Bart Poole alive again. From the time he waved goodbye and blew her kisses, she had worked and contrived and struggled to make ends meet by herself. She tried to imagine what it would be like to sit at home, safe and protected by a husband who submitted his body to toil, as Shakespeare put it, so she could welcome him home and ease both their lives. If hard times came, they would share them.

  Now what? She had no money to allow her to look for a new position at leisure, no cushion from disaster. She closed her eyes against what she knew was coming. Boxing Day would be followed by a typical working day, only she would have no work. There would be nothing to do but knock on the vicar’s door, pour out her troubles, and steel herself for entry into the Plymouth workhouse, she and Beth, who both deserved better.

  Better instead to think about Thomas Jenkins, and remember the real pleasure of listening to the lilting voice that marked him as a son of Wales. She admired his confidence, earned in a hard school, no doubt. She liked the ease with which he teased his sister and their casual relationship. His attention to her darling daughter’s love of numbers warmed her maternal heart.

  Funny that she should even remember the way he smelled, a combination of good honest soap and bay rum, a man’s odor, something she realized she missed. She even liked the casual way he was dressed, in ordinary trousers and without a neckcloth. More than likely he had not expected visitors when Beth knocked on his door.

  Those were externals. She had no explanation for the way she felt in his presence—a combination of relief, because he seemed to be so in control of things, and the barely remembered pleasure of being in the same room with a man she instinctively liked.

  She knew Thomas Jenkins was just an ordinary fellow, retired and not much liking it. He obviously wasn’t worried about his next meal or eviction, or any of those terrors that kept her awake at night. She could have envied and hated him, but all she wanted was to see him again.

  That was it, plain and simple. She wanted to drift into Thomas Jenkins’s generous orbit once more, even though the odds of that happening were less than remote. She had returned his package, he had paid her for the postage, and each had resumed his and her own spheres. End of story.

  Beth liked her to make up bedtime tales. Through the years, her stories had been of princes and princesses, and the occasional dragon or villain. Maybe in a few years, if the workhouse didn’t separate them, she could tell her daughter of a man with dark hair getting a bit gray around the edges, and dark eyes, and wrinkles around those eyes that probably came from sun, rain, and wind, and the stress of grave national emergency, for all she knew. She couldn’t tell such a bedtime story now. Something told her she would cry, an emotion she gave up years ago, because it solved nothing.

  She had sat too long woolgathering, and now it was snowing, a rarity this close to the coast. She watched the big flakes settle on her dark cloak and admired their intricacy. Maybe she and Beth could go outside after their bread and milk and study the snowflakes.

  She hurried down Carmoody Lane and stopped in surprise to see smoke coming from her chimney. “Beth, you know better than to start a fire,” she said out loud. “It isn’t that cold yet.” She hurried inside her house and stopped in open-mouthed amazement. There was Thomas Jenkins sitting at the table, book open on the table, drawing an angle with a compass while Beth watched.

  They looked over at her with uniformly guilty expressions. “I’ll get you some more paper,” Mr. Jenkins said, while Beth chimed in with, “He wanted some warmth and said he would get us more coal.”

  Mary Ann wanted to clap her hands at the pleasure of seeing the sailing master again. She had wished for years and not one wish had come true. Yet here he was. She took off her clo
ak and bonnet and stuffed her mismatched gloves in her reticule.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again, Mr. Jenkins,” she said, which was no way to greet the man, but she hadn’t had a lot of practice.

  “Here I am anyway,” he said simply, and she had to swallow down tears at such an unvarnished comment. Here he was. For just a little while, she could forget her fears because she was back in his orbit again.

  Oh dear, it was time for dinner, and she had nothing beyond their usual bread and milk. She opened her mouth to apologize for the paltriness she was about to inflict on him, when he spoke first.

  “I delivered the package to Mrs. Myrna Poole,” he said, emphasizing the Myrna. “I took a moment before Beth returned from school to visit with Mr. Laidlaw next door. I have invited him for dinner in my favorite restaurant in Plymouth—it’s not so far—and I extend the invitation to you two ladies, as well. Do say aye.”

  “Aye,” she said with no hesitation, which made the wrinkles around his eyes deepen.

  “Good! I’ve been leading people about for so many years that I probably would have hauled you along anyway, if you had told me nay.” He turned to Beth. “We had better clear the table and give your mother a chance to freshen herself before we drag her away.”

  Mary Ann took the suggestion and went into the bedchamber she shared with Beth. She washed her face in the blessedly cold water she poured from her pitcher, happy to tamp down her high color and warmth. Did I wish for this? she asked herself, and marveled.

  A glance into her dressing closet assured her that nothing new had materialized since this morning. She had another dress, but it was scorched on the side and she hadn’t yet figured out how to hide the narrow burn streak. Her two other dresses were fit for their own burn pile. She found a lace collar that she smoothed out with her fingers. The brooch she used to pin it had been traded to an apothecary for medicine when Beth had the croup last year. She found an ordinary straight pin to tack it together.

  The image in her mirror looked back at her with anxious eyes, but at least the straight pin didn’t show. She looked every one of her thirty-two years, but she had no more remedy for that than for the scorch on her other good dress. Hopefully, the restaurant wouldn’t be too grand.

  She returned to the other room and let the sailing master put her cloak around her. He rested his hands on her shoulders for the briefest moment, and she could have died with delight from the simple pleasure that gave her. Beth was ready, her eyes lively. Mr. Jenkins sent her next door to alert Mr. Laidlaw that the excursion was about to begin.

  Mr. Jenkins handed over her bonnet. “Mrs. Poole, the Myrna one, told me that Lady Naismith was letting go several of her workers, including you,” he said, with no preamble.

  She nodded, embarrassed. “I only learned last week, and haven’t had time to look for another position. Please don’t mention anything to Beth.”

  “What are the odds of finding work?” he asked.

  “Not good, Mr. Jenkins,” she said, determined to be as calm as he was, even though ruin stared her in the face. “I could easily do bookkeeping, too, but most employers would rather hire men. Now that the war has ended, there are many men looking for work.” She returned his gaze with all the serenity she could summon on short notice. “I’d rather just enjoy dinner tonight, sir, and not worry about something I have little control over.”

  “Bravo, Mrs. Poole,” he said and held the door open for her. He handed her into the waiting post chaise, and kept her hand in his longer than he needed to. He gave it a gentle squeeze and released her to help Beth into the carriage, and then Mr. Laidlaw. He seated them opposite her, then nodded to the post rider and closed the door.

  Beth broke the silence with, “I like traveling this way,” which led Mr. Jenkins to tell her about riding in rickshaws in China and Siam.

  “Have you been everywhere?” Beth asked, after he told them about traveling by gondola in Venice.

  “I believe I have,” he replied.

  “What is your favorite place?” Mary Ann asked. The post chaise was a tight fit for four, but she did not mind the pressure of Mr. Jenkins’ shoulder against hers. Quite the contrary.

  “I was going to say ‘the sea,’ but do you know, I am enjoying this chaise right now,” he said.

  “That’s no answer,” Beth chided.

  “Now, Beth,” Mary Ann admonished.

  “It probably isn’t,” Mr. Jenkins agreed. “Ask me another day.” He shifted slightly. “Mr. Laidlaw assured me this afternoon that he likes the little village in Kent where he was raised. What about you, Mrs. Poole?”

  She felt her face grow warm again from such a prosaic question. She couldn’t help leaning against Mr. Jenkins’s arm as she tried to remember when she had last imagined any place but where bad luck had anchored her. She shook her head, close to tears—she who had resolved never to cry again.

  “I’ll ask you another day, Mrs. Poole,” he said.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  U

  Because he knew anything grander than the dining room of the Drake would upset Mrs. Poole, the Drake it was. Mrs. Fillion had already turned over the evening’s work to her son, but she had taught him well. David Fillion assured Thomas that there was still a private parlor left and led them to it.

  “The other two are full of Christmas revelers,” he said as he handed around the menus. “I already have a case of the shudders that might just last until Twelfth Night.”

  Mrs. Poole smiled at that, so Thomas knew her equanimity had been restored. She sat next to him, looking so lovely that he could only marvel at her composure.

  No one had any idea what they wanted, so Thomas ordered beef roast and dripping pudding all around, with bread and cheese. He nodded to Mr. Laidlaw. “This excellent fellow showed me your picture of roast beef, Mrs. Poole.”

  By gadfreys she had a fine smile. She clasped her hands on the table and gave the old man the full effect of it. Thomas saw the affection in her glance and wondered what such a smile aimed at him would do to his ability to function.

  “You’re the best landlord, Mr. Laidlaw,” she told him.

  And then, mercy, she turned that smile on him. “And you sir, are a kind friend,” she told him. He could have wriggled like a puppy from the pleasure, but he was forty-three and knew better.

  Dinner was an unalloyed delight. He thought of all the roast beef and dripping pudding he had eaten through the years in this dining room without overmuch thought, and found himself looking at the tender beef before him through Beth’s eyes.

  “Mama, have we ever had anything like this before?” she had asked her mother after the first bite.

  “If we have, I don’t remember it,” Mrs. Poole replied, which told him more than he ever wanted to know about their meals.

  Thomas lightened whatever embarrassment she may have been feeling at such a question by regaling his guests with stories of weevils at sea, and water so thick and long in the kegs that it nearly quivered like pudding. As his guests ate, then ate more when he summoned David Fillion to keep the food coming, Thomas told them stories of rice and mysterious concoctions in the Far East, a memorable dinner of pasta and tomatoes in Naples, and homely corn pudding in South Carolina, washed down with something called apple jack that left him with a two-day headache.

  Dessert was cake, which made Beth clap her hands in wonder, and Mrs. Poole mouth I love cake as she turned her unmatched smile on him again.

  “I am too full to eat this,” she told him, and touched her little waist, but she ate it anyway, closing her eyes with each forkful she downed. She ate slower and slower, as if wanting to savor each bite and hold it in memory. Finally, she could eat no more. She shook her head with obvious regret.

  A whispered conversation with David Fillion when Thomas went to the front of the house to pay the bill meant that he could present the rest of the cake in a pasteboard box to Beth. She took it with a curtsy, handed it to Mr. Laidlaw, then threw herself into his arms.

/>   “This is going to be such a Christmas because we will have cake,” she whispered in his ear. “Mr. Jenkins, thank you.”

  And then she was a well-mannered child again, and it was her mother’s turn to struggle, which gave Thomas a little unholy glee. He could do his own struggling later in the quiet of his home.

  Mr. Laidlaw assured him that he could easily escort the ladies home in the post chaise, so he would not have to make another round trip, but Thomas wouldn’t hear of it.

  “My sister will just scold me for eating too much, if I come home now,” he said as he loosened the top buttons on his trousers. “Excuse this, but I’m in pain.”

  Beth laughed and waved the pasteboard box under his nose, which made her mother giggle like a school girl.

  They were all so easy to laugh with that he wished he could have signaled to the post rider to slow down so he could savor the moment in much the same way as Mrs. Poole had slowed down to enjoy her cake. He snagged an errant thought out of the cold night air and wondered if this was what it felt like to have a family. If it was, he wondered how any man, soldier or sailor, could tear himself away to go to something as stupid and time-consuming as war.

  Back in Haven on Carmoody Street, Mr. Laidlaw shook his hand once and shook it again. Mrs. Poole invited him in, which was a fortunate thing, because he wasn’t going to leave without a few more minutes of conversation.

  Beth set the cake box on the table and just stared at it a moment, before yawning.

  “Young lady, you are going to bed,” her mother said.

  Beth made a face.

  “I mean it.”

  He watched them both, enjoying the loveliness of the moment, even though it was prosaic in the extreme and probably what went on all over the world, even though he had missed it, he and many men like him. I was cheated, he thought.

  He stared out the window in the sitting room while the ladies of the house went into the bedchamber. He heard muffled laughter, and then a gasp and more laughter, and knew right down to the soles of his feet that he had indeed been fleeced out of much of life’s sweetness, courtesy of Napoleon. If he called it unfair, he would sound like a child, but unfair it was.