A Christmas Promise

by Joanna Barker

  James felt a swell of gratitude. He hesitated one instant longer, trying to find the right words to express his appreciation, and to admonish her to be safe, but she gave another push, and he spun, rushing out the door into the cold night.

  The high street curved past shops and houses and the stone wall of the churchyard. James squinted through the darkness. The moonlight was dim, and he cursed himself for not bringing a lantern. There were too many shadows and darkened pathways. Matthews could be anywhere, and James had no idea of his mental state. His stomach felt ill as he thought of what the man might do in a deep melancholy.

  He came to the arched bridge and took a deep breath before looking over the edge. The banks were steep, shadowing the water beneath. “Matthews!” James yelled. He slipped down the muddy slope to get a better view. Beneath the bridge, he could scarcely make out anything in the darkness. He climbed back up, crossing the bridge and sliding down the slope on the other side. He could see no better on this side.

  A cold feeling of despair wrapped around his lungs, squeezing. He felt helpless. And with every minute that passed, he worried it was one more minute he’d been too late to find his friend.

  He climbed back up the riverbank, slipping in the mud as he did. When he came to the top, he considered walking farther along the road. He looked up and down the river in both directions, wishing he knew which way to choose. If he selected one, was he getting farther away from his friend or closer? He finally decided to follow the water’s current and tromped through the reeds and tall grass until the brambles became too thick to move through. Even the moonlight couldn’t pierce the shadow of the trees, and if not for the sound of the water, he would have lost his way in the darkness.

  He turned around and followed the river back to the bridge, trying to judge how long it had been since he’d left the inn. An hour at least. With each step, he felt heavier. How had things gone so wrong? A week ago, his plans had been so simple: deliver a message to the colonel’s daughter and bring Matthews home to a place he could feel safe.

  Somehow, he’d botched everything. He peered over the bridge again and sighed. He was wasting time trying to see anything in the darkness. He started back to the town, holding on to the shred of hope that Matthews had returned to the inn. Or perhaps the ladies had found him. But James did not feel confident with either scenario. Matthews was his responsibility. And he’d let his friend down.

  When he returned to the inn’s eating area, he found Miss Breckenridge there, speaking to one of the servers.

  Seeing James, she broke off her conversation, hurrying toward him. Her mouth was tight. “You had no luck either?”

  He shook his head.

  “Meg and I walked up the high street to the edge of town and returned,” she said, rubbing her arms. “We looked down side roads and between houses, but it was just too dark. I’m so sorry, Captain.” She glanced at his trousers and boots, and following her gaze, he saw that he was covered in mud. “You searched by the river?”

  James nodded, pulling off his soiled gloves and moving to stand by the hearth. “I’m going back,” he said, rubbing his hands together before the fire, “with a lantern.” Images of his friend in the dark, cold waters came into his thoughts, but he pushed them away, hoping desperately that the man was somewhere safe.

  “I’m going with you,” Miss Breckenridge said. “I put Meg to bed, and a drink is being delivered to her room to help her sleep. She was very upset.”

  “Out of the question,” James said. The very idea of Miss Breckenridge climbing around the muddy riverbank in the dark was preposterous. And if they discovered Matthews while she was there . . . He shook his head. “I’m going alone.”

  Miss Breckenridge’s eyes narrowed. “Captain, I am perfectly—”

  Her words cut off when the door opened and Mr. Owens entered. Mr. Matthews followed behind him.

  “Oh!” She put her hands over her mouth, gasping.

  Relief flooded through James, making his muscles feel weak.

  Miss Breckenridge rushed to the door. “Mr. Matthews, come in.” She took his hand and led him toward the hearth. “Your skin is like ice. Sit here by the fire. And you as well, Mr. Owens.”

  The men did as they were told.

  Matthews leaned forward in his chair, staring at his hands.

  “I am so glad you’re safe, Mr. Matthews,” she said. “We were so worried.”

  “Didn’t mean to make you worry,” the man muttered in a quiet voice. He didn’t look up.

  Mr. Owens patted Matthews’s shoulder.

  Miss Breckenridge glanced at James, her eyes still worried. “I’ll fetch you men something warm to drink,” she said.

  He gave a grateful nod, and she left to find a server.

  James sat at the table next to his friend. “You all right?” he asked.

  Matthews nodded. “Mr. Owens and I talked.”

  James looked up at the older man. “How did you find him?”

  Mr. Owens shrugged. “Just ’ad a feeling. Thought he’d just keep walking. ’S whut I’d have done. Found him on the road, halfway to the next town.” He patted Matthews’s shoulder again, resting his hand on the back of the younger man’s chair. “Know what the lad’s going through. Wasn’t myself for a good while after Guilford Courthouse.”

  James nodded, recognizing the name of one of the bloodiest battles in the war for the American colonies. He was immensely grateful for the old man’s wisdom.

  Miss Breckenridge set three mugs on the table.

  Mr. Owens took a sniff and scowled at the drink but gulped it down anyway.

  James took a sip and let the warmth from the buttered toddy spread through him. He’d never have ordered the drink himself—especially in a public place—but found it soothing. And he enjoyed the feeling of being taken care of by the young woman.

  Miss Breckenridge sat at the table with them. “Do you feel better now?” she asked in a soft voice.

  For an instant, James thought the question was directed at him, and he felt a bit of disappointment when he realized she was talking to Matthews.

  “I just . . . shut myself away for so long after . . .” Matthews began, then swallowed hard. His voice was so soft that James had to strain to hear it over the crackle of the fire. “So much easier than feeling the pain.” Matthews glanced up at Miss Breckenridge.

  She nodded and gave a compassionate smile.

  “Then Miss Riley and I . . . It all came back, all that pain.”

  Mr. Owens put the drink into Matthews’s hand, motioning for him to drink. “Have to let yourself mourn, lad. Let yourself hurt for whut you’ve lost. Or you’ll never move past it.”

  Matthews drew in a jagged breath and nodded, taking a sip of the toddy. “So much easier to hide from it,” he whispered.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Matthews,” Miss Riley said. She stepped to the table, moving so quietly that none of them noticed her until she spoke. “I didn’t mean to upset you tonight.”

  Matthews looked up, and James saw that his eyes were red. He’d wept, which, according to Mr. Owens, was a good thing.

  “I’m damaged, miss,” he said, dropping his chin to his chest.

  “Damaged, but not worthless,” Mr. Owens said. “You’ll just have to be patient with ’im, Meg. He’ll be all right. But healing takes time. And there will be setbacks.” He turned to Matthews. “You’re a new person living a new life. Might take some work to find where you fit in it. Do ya understand?”

  Matthews nodded.

  Miss Breckenridge wiped her eyes. When she saw James looking at her, she gave him a sad smile.

  “Mr. Matthews,” Miss Riley said after a long moment.

  He lifted his head, looking up at her with nervous eyes.

  “If there’s room for a friend in your new life, perhaps it might be me?” She bit her lip, eyes wide and hopeful.

  Matthews bent his head back down, rubbing his eyes, and nodded. “I’d like that very much, miss.” He spoke in a creaky vo
ice.

  James and Miss Breckenridge left the table quietly and moved to the other side of the room. He wanted to give the couple privacy but remained close enough to keep an eye on his friend.

  Mr. Owens watched Matthews for a moment before he departed as well. The man seemed hesitant to leave, and James didn’t blame him.

  Miss Riley moved to sit beside Matthews.

  Miss Breckenridge yawned. Her hair, which had been arranged so carefully earlier tonight, hung messily around her face, and the hem of her dress was dirty. She looked exhausted.

  “Shall I order you a drink, Miss Breckenridge?” James asked. “A toddy?”

  She shook her head. “No thank you. It will make me too sleepy.”

  “You should sleep,” he said. “I will see Miss Riley safely to her room.”

  “Perhaps in a bit,” she said. She looked pensive, running her finger along the wood grain of the tabletop. “You were worried for Mr. Matthews, weren’t you?”

  James nodded, the feeling still too raw for him to speak about it easily.

  “You thought you might not find him, or if you did, it would be too late.” She spoke slowly, in a quiet tone as if still considering the thoughts she was putting into words. “That is why you did not want me to accompany you to the river.”

  James nodded again.

  “You are a good man to care so much for your friend,” Miss Breckenridge said. “He is fortunate to have you.”

  “Matthews saved my life,” James said in a low voice. “Such an action is not something one soon forgets or takes lightly.”

  Miss Breckenridge studied him for a moment, then glanced across the room to where Miss Riley sat quietly beside the discouraged young man. “Then I owe him my gratitude as well,” she said. Her cheeks turned pink, and she stood.

  James stood with her.

  “Please tell Meg to wake me when she comes to bed,” she said.

  “I will.” He studied her, feeling as if he should say something significant. Tonight had felt different—dancing with her, worrying about her, and then later, worrying with her. Something had changed between them, but did he dare put into words the transformation that was taking place in his heart? Not yet—not when he didn’t fully understand it himself.

  A sick feeling roiled around inside. He still hadn’t told the young lady about her father. But would the truth be too much for her after the strain of this evening? Or was he finding another excuse to avoid a conversation he knew would cause her pain? In the end, he decided that more than anything she needed sleep. They had another day’s journey tomorrow. He would surely find the opportunity to talk to her then.

  “Good night, Miss Breckenridge.”

  Chapter 7

  Lucy felt frustrated when the carriage at last got underway the next morning. The drink she’d ordered for Meg had made her groggy, and she didn’t wake until much later than Lucy would have liked.

  The gentlemen moved slowly as well, and by the time they’d all loaded their luggage and eaten breakfast, the hour was nearly ten.

  Captain Stewart and Mr. Owens rode inside the carriage with Lucy. The two men had been much more amiable toward one another after their shared experience the evening before. They shared a new respect, evident in their friendly banter through breakfast.

  Meg had chosen to ride with Mr. Matthews and sat up on the driver’s bench beside him, wearing her new fur-lined gloves. The two had seemed happy this morning, and Lucy was glad that no tension remained.

  She settled back onto the carriage seat beside Captain Stewart and pulled the blanket onto her lap, careful not to wrinkle her skirts. She was disappointed that her best dress was dirtied in the search for Mr. Matthews last evening, but her father would not think any less of her if she wore another. She felt tired and nervous and so anxious all at the same time. How pleased he would be when she arrived this afternoon. She looked up through the window and saw the sky was clear. Hopefully it remained so, and they would enjoy dry roads and a quick journey.

  Resting her head back against the bench, she closed her eyes, imagining Christmas with her father, and the familiar thrill moved through her. How surprised he would be to see her. They would attend church services in the morning, and of course arrangements would be made to include her fellow travelers in their Christmas dinner. But once the others had all gone home, she and her father would tell stories and look through the Christmas album with a blanket on their laps and watch the fire burn low, just as they used to. She tucked back her heels, feeling the lump of the Christmas album in her bag beneath her bench. She had updated it this morning as she waited in the dining room for the others.

  “Mr. Owens,” Captain Stewart said. “I must thank you again for your assistance last night with Matthews. If not for your intuition—I don’t believe my friend would be here with us today.”

  “Any soldier would ha’ done the same,” the older man replied. “Fine young man, that one. Reminds me of myself once upon a time.”

  “I’m grateful for your words and your understanding,” Captain Stewart said. “They gave him hope.”

  Lucy listened with her eyes closed. She didn’t want to interrupt the conversation or make the men feel as if they needed to include her in it.

  “Taken him under your wing, haven’t ya, sir?” Mr. Owens said. “How is it that a captain with hundreds in his command has such an interest in this one private?”

  “He saved my life,” Captain Stewart said simply, in the same tone he’d used the night before.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  Captain Stewart didn’t answer right away, and Lucy got the impression he was checking to see if she were sleeping. She kept her eyes closed, breathing steadily. She knew he wouldn’t tell the story if he knew she was listening. A prickle of resentment tightened her skin. He was protecting her, but she wished he understood that she was not as fragile as he believed.

  “I haven’t told anyone,” Captain Stewart said at last. “Not since making my report that day to my commander.”

  “’S good for you to talk about it,” Mr. Owens said. “Most men want to forget completely. But the wars changed us, made us who we are now, and pushing the memories away just leads to confusion later. Best to face it and see it for what it is.”

  “That is very wise,” Captain Stewart said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it put that way before, but I believe you’re right. If only it weren’t so blasted difficult.”

  “Aye, it can be that,” Mr. Owens said. “Matthews told me the pair of you fought at Albuera. ’S that where it happened?”

  “No, it was before that,” the captain said.

  Lucy strained her ears to hear his low voice over the noise of the carriage wheels and the horses’ hooves.

  “It wasn’t during a battle,” Captain Stewart continued. “Private Matthews and I were part of a reconnaissance team, reconnoitering in the Sierra Morena mountains.” He puffed out a heavy breath. “We were ambushed by a band of French deserters. When they saw they’d captured an officer—”

  “They meant to make an example of you,” Mr. Owens finished.

  The captain was quiet for a moment, and Lucy was tempted to peek, but she didn’t dare risk it.

  “They held my men at gunpoint and forced me to kneel.” Captain Stewart’s voice was raspy.

  Lucy’s heart was pounding, and she was certain the men could hear it. She fought to keep her breathing steady.

  “Matthews broke away from his captor and somehow dodged a musket shot. He tackled the man whose sword swung for my neck. It glanced off my shoulder, but I walked away with just a scar.”

  “Brave lad,” Mr. Owens said.

  “He was a leader,” Captain Stewart said. “Even though his rank was low. He’d have made an excellent officer. Men listened to him, trusted him. The man freed me and our entire team without any of us receiving more than a few scrapes.”

  Mr. Owens started to tell about his experiences fighting in America, but Lucy didn’
t listen. She couldn’t get the image of Captain Stewart kneeling while a blade swung toward him. Her hands shook. These men had seen terrible things, experienced horrors. If only she could think of something to bring joy to their lives. She thought again of the Christmas dinner with her father and promised herself she would make it special for all of her friends. They deserved it.

  ***

  It was late in the afternoon when Lucy saw a road sign for the town of Stanley. She had never heard of the place.

  “Stanley.” She pointed out the window. “Surely that is near London.”

  Captain Stewart glanced at the sign. He grimaced. “I’m sorry, Miss Breckenridge. It will be dark within the hour and we’ve still fifteen miles to go.” He shook his head. “We won’t make it to London tonight.”

  “Sorry ’bout that, miss,” Mr. Owens said.

  Lucy tried to swallow her disappointment as they stopped at a coaching inn. They had come so far and were only a few hours away. So close. She put on a smile. At least she would see her father tomorrow on Christmas Day.

  She and Captain Stewart went inside with Meg while the other men tended to the horses. While he made arrangements for their lodgings, the women spoke to the wife of the inn’s owner, Mrs. Whitaker. The woman was plump and cheerful with graying hair beneath her mobcap. She seemed to be a motherly sort of person, and Lucy liked her immediately.

  “Oh, how lovely to have guests at Christmas,” Mrs. Whitaker said. When she smiled, wrinkles fanned out from the edges of her eyes. She settled them near the hearth and brought mugs of hot wassail. She chatted for a moment, telling them about the inn and asking about their journey. “I do hope you are hungry this evening,” she told them. “I always prepare a lovely meal on Christmas Eve. We’ve a few folks in town who come for supper every year.”

  Lucy smiled. She thanked the woman for her hospitality. An idea was forming, and she thought about it as she drank her wassail, considering the details and what it would take to make it happen.

  A few moments later, Captain Stewart joined them, carrying a mug of his own. He sat at the table and took a drink. “I can’t remember the last time I had wassail,” he said. “It’s surprising how something as simple as a drink can bring back so many memories.”