A Night of Angels

by Andersen, Maggi

  And Charlotte still looked up at him, a little frown now furrowing her brows.

  Life, love, and warmth flooded into him. He scooped Charlotte into his arms and held her tight. His daughter giggled and squeezed him tightly in return.

  “I’m sorry, sweetness,” he whispered, “I promise not to be in a mope. We’ll have a lovely Christmas with Aunty Abigail and Uncle Daniel, and we’ll make some new friends.”

  Hearing Saunders shoulder the first of their small trunks, Adam put Charlotte down and offered a wan smile to Olivia before picking up another of the trunks. If he were a gentleman, he would leave the work to his servants, but he wasn’t. He knew enough to play the part, but he was a working man at his core. If there was a job to be done, then he would roll up his sleeves and do it.

  “Is someone else joining us at Aunt and Uncle’s for Christmas?” asked Julia as their laden carriage lurched into motion.

  Adam and Olivia shared a look. He knew his wife so well to know her expression meant she would support his choice as to how much he told his daughters.

  “Lady Abigail has invited some new friends to join us,” he began. “As coincidence would have it, they have the same surname as us.”

  Both Julia and Charlotte wore matching expressions of surprise.

  “Are we related?” asked Charlotte.

  “We would almost certainly be,” said Julia with authority.

  Charlotte was nearly squirming with delight.

  “But a very, very distant one I would expect,” her sister continued. “I think if we didn’t know about them, they couldn’t be any more than very, very distant cousins. Isn’t that right, Papa?”

  The look of Charlotte’s disappointment might have been amusing, except Adam found he’d held his breath and couldn’t release it. Thank God for Olivia.

  “Well, we won’t know until we meet them,” she said.

  “What are their names?” Charlotte asked, her enthusiasm quickly restored as only a child’s could be.

  Adam silently pleaded with his wife to answer in his stead.

  “His name is Christopher and his wife’s name is Sophia. He’s a sea captain who lives in Sicily. Do you remember where Sicily is? We looked it up on a big map when we were naming the countries of the world.”

  “We’ve been there!” announced Charlotte.

  “No, that’s the Scilly Isles,” said Julia. “Sicily is a big island off the Italian peninsula, isn’t that right, Maman?”

  “Well done, Julia, that is correct.”

  Adam found he was able to breathe again. He even found enough in him to smile. Even after all these years, Olivia was still a governess and teacher at heart. Over the years she had taught him much to make up for his own lack of formal schooling.

  “Have you sailed to Sicily, Papa?” said Julia.

  “No, my ship the Andromeda sailed all the way to the Americas.”

  “You and Captain Christopher will have a lot to talk about, won’t you?” chimed in Charlotte.

  Adam simply nodded his head.

  Plenty to talk about? Oh, pumpkin, more than you know. More than you can possibly know.

  Chapter Seven

  Kit squirmed uncomfortably on the heavily-padded leather seats in the liveried coach Sir Daniel Ridgeway had sent for them. He watched the view through the pane of glass Sophia insisted remain uncovered on their fifteen-mile journey from Falmouth to the outskirts of Truro.

  He marked their journey by the water – alongside the wide mouth of the Penryn River, along the road that followed the River Kennall for quite some miles, then acre upon acre of farmland before crossing the Carnon River, a water crossing downstream of a mill on a tributary of Calenick Creek, and finally crossing over the Truro River.

  At last, the carriage slowed and squeezed through a stone archway that opened up to a wide gravel drive and sweeping lawns designed to showcase the house which was the jewel at the center of Bishop’s Wood.

  The Georgian manor house – with its regimented symmetry – was a sight to behold. It reminded Kit of the jauntily-colored terrace houses on the Packet Quays, except this was larger and grander by far.

  Rendered in cream – in contrast to the blue-grey stone of many great buildings they had passed, this house gleamed, although the day was now overcast.

  “Well, one thing is for certain, Morwena will certainly be pressing for more trade with the Ridgeways,” said Sophia.

  “Can you imagine how many unfortunates and orphans Elias would house if his villa and estate was as big as this one?” Kit added.

  He would be pleased to be out of the carriage. The drive may not have been too far, but he was getting a better understanding of how some of the Calliope’s passengers felt when they suffered a bout of mal de mer.

  Kit knew full well, however, it was not the travel that caused his stomach to effervesce.

  As soon as the carriage came to a halt, three footmen led by a butler emerged from the house. The liveried men swarmed over the carriage and retrieved the trunks without a moment’s hesitation or instruction; the butler discreetly drew attention to himself.

  He was an imposing man, as wide as he was tall, with black hair not yet turned grey. The air of brisk energy about him gave the impression that managing a dozen different tasks at once was his specialty.

  “Welcome to Bishop’s Wood,” he said. “I am Musgrave and at your service. Sir Daniel and Lady Abigail would like to welcome you in the drawing room, where you might warm yourselves after your journey.”

  The drawing room was a large but cheerful place, the cold of the decorative marble offset by the walls painted in warm and sunny colors of reds, oranges and yellows. Indeed, a still life of a bowl of potted marigolds held a prominent place on a wall.

  “Captain and Mrs. Hardacre! It’s a delight to see you again,” Lady Abigail greeted them with the over the top theatrical manner she had used in London.

  Good. That was familiar to Kit, and he could wield the same weapon just as effectively. If nothing else, an evening’s entertainment with ever grander hyperbole and one-upmanship between him and his hostess should amuse.

  Kit accepted her proffered hand and made the sound of a kiss over her wrist, making sure he kept an eye on his host. Some men took exception even to such obviously harmless flirtations with their wives, but Sir Daniel seemed to find the whole thing rather droll.

  “You do us an honor inviting us into your home for Christmas, My Lady,” said Kit, “although I’m surprised you would not find Christmas in the country dull compared to the abundance of entertainments to be found in London.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find plenty to amuse us here.”

  Sir Daniel stepped in.

  “Good to see you again, Captain,” he said. “Please, be seated.”

  Sophia took a seat by the fire; Ridgeway and Lady Abigail occupied the gold velvet love seat together. Kit elected to remain standing at Sophia’s side.

  Ridgeway cleared his throat. “There is a tale to tell, Captain Hardacre,” he began. “It is a story of a remarkable coincidence and I hope when I’ve finished telling it, that you won’t think too harshly of my wife’s actions. Are you prepared to listen?”

  The wing of Bishop’s Wood where Adam and his family were placed was like a separate apartment. Separating the main bedroom from their daughters’ bedroom was a sitting room. Cream couches with cushions embroidered with pink roses stood on either side of an octagonal oak table. A dozen of real pink blooms stood in a bowl in the middle of the table.

  The room was just as cozy as home with its own fire and a view out over the formal gardens and the woods beyond.

  Around him were the domestic sounds of his wife and daughters making themselves at home – Olivia unpacked while the girls found a game of nine men’s morris to amuse themselves.

  He’d seen Abigail and Daniel’s carriage return and caught a quick glimpse of Christopher Hardacre, although from beneath his hat and heavy overcoat, there appeared nothing remarkable,
except a cane in one hand.

  He seemed able to enough to help his wife down from the conveyance.

  Did the Ridgeways mention a limp? He couldn’t recall. Or was the cane an affectation?

  He heard a knock at the door and through the reflection in the glass, he saw Musgrave fill the doorway and the peak of a maid’s white cap behind him. Adam turned.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, Sir Daniel requests the company of you and Mrs. Hardacre in the Marigold Room. This maid is Amy and My Lady has instructed her to attend to your young misses.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsy.

  Olivia emerged from their daughters’ room and self-consciously touched a hand to her hair.

  “Thank you, Musgrave, we’ll be right down,” said Adam. He paused while Olivia reviewed her reflection in an oval wall mirror.

  “Will they like us, do you think?” she asked.

  “The captain and his wife will love you,” he assured her. “Who could not? But me on the other hand…”

  Olivia turned from the mirror, caught his hand and squeezed it.

  “Let’s see how far the apple has fallen from the tree.”

  They followed Musgrave. Adam listened to the sounds of conversation from the room as they approached. The tone was congenial – so far so good.

  “Captain and Mrs. Hardacre,” Musgrave announced.

  “Two Captain Hardacres and two Mrs. Hardacres… that’s going to be a recipe for confusion, don’t you think?”

  Adam turned to the speaker. The young man with longish blond hair grinned sardonically.

  “Oh, Kit,” breathed the attractive, dark-haired young woman sitting on a chair at his side.

  Adam felt Olivia at his shoulder and welcomed her presence as he regarded Christopher Hardacre. Hazel eyes, just like his, looked back at him. They were about the same height, although the young man had a slightly leaner build.

  Daniel rose to his feet and formally introduced them, but a gulf as wide as the ocean still stood between them. Adam moved first and held out his hand in greeting.

  “Perhaps you’d better call me Adam.”

  The young man hesitated a moment then clasped his hand firmly.

  “Call me Kit. No one calls me Christopher.”

  Now Abigail rose to her feet. “Shall we take a turn about the grounds? We keep country hours here, especially in winter. Dinner will be at six o’clock. That still gives us a few of hours of daylight to enjoy.”

  She turned to Sophia and extended her hand. Kit’s wife rose to her feet, her hand in Lady Abigail’s.

  “Olivia, did you know that Sophia is an accomplished academic? Something to do with ancient civilizations and ruins, but I know she’ll explain it better,” Abigail said, reaching out her other hand to take Olivia’s. “Since you are a teacher yourself, I know you’ll become fast friends.”

  Lady Abigail nodded to the gentlemen, but gave a lingering look to her husband before shepherding her charges toward the door. “Let’s go out by the orangery. Our gardener has been very clever in getting orchards to bloom even in winter. I’m afraid it’s a rather profligate indulgence, but I can assure you it’s one of my few remaining vices.”

  Daniel shook his head indulgently then sobered. “Gentlemen, shall we fortify ourselves?”

  Without waiting for an acceptance, he splashed a double measure of brandy into three glasses and pressed one each into his guests’ hands.

  “A toast: that the frost remains only outdoors and not inside the house.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Captain… yet you rose up through the ranks,” said Kit. “Saw the tattoo on your hand.”

  Adam looked down at it. It had been an indelible part of him since he was twenty. Most of the time he forgot it was even there. But it wasn’t always that way. The crossed anchors on the web of his right thumb had barred as many doors as they had opened.

  “Royal Navy for twenty years – never got promoted above Bosun because I didn’t have the right connections,” he answered. “Captain is an honorary title…” Adam took a sidelong glance at Daniel. “… for services rendered to the Crown.”

  Kit whistled. “Must have been some hell of a service. What did you two do? Stop Napoleon invading England?”

  “Something like that.”

  A flash of surprise crossed Kit’s face before it settled into a mask of caution. Adam made a silent appeal to Daniel. The truth about the King’s Rogues was not his to tell. And it seemed his former employer was not of a mind to speak about it.

  “You’re not the only one who’s led an adventurous life, Kit,” said Daniel who then drained his glass. “I think I’ll join the ladies and leave you two to talk.”

  Two voices spoke in unison: “No!”

  The captains exchanged wary glances. Daniel picked up the three-quarter’s full decanter of whisky with great deliberation and set it on little pedestal table that stood between two wingback chairs that faced the fire.

  “Stay,” Daniel said firmly. “That’s an order. You both have a lot to talk about.”

  Their host left the room and closed the door behind him leaving nothing but the sound of the crackling fire to mark the passage of time.

  “Well, I won’t knock away another drink,” said Kit, suddenly bright and animated. “Our host has a fine cellar. It would be churlish not to help him lighten it.”

  Kit poured a triple measure for himself and raised the decanter in a mute question. Adam released a breath and thrust out his glass. Kit filled it to equal measure and they both slumped into the chairs, the manic energy of a moment ago vanished.

  They stared into the flames, drinking in silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Adam watched Kit stretch his right leg and massage it. The cane he carried wasn’t for effect then.

  The whisky and fire was enough to occupy him for a while, but now the glass was empty. Refilling was an easy choice but he was conscious of Kit watching him. Damn. Now he was obliged to speak.

  “More?”

  Kit shrugged his shoulders and nodded, accepting the decanter from his hand.

  Adam sipped the whisky for one last kiss of courage and asked a question “So, what happened to you?”

  “The leg you mean?”

  “No. You. What became of you? I know you were on the Pendragon when it was raided by the Barbary pirates. How old were you? About eleven? Twelve?”

  “Ten. I was ten years old. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Adam heard the warning in Kit’s voice and ignored it. The genie was out of the bottle now. “And then nothing for ten years. Where the hell were you all that time?”

  “Hell. That’s as good a description as any. I was in Hell for ten years, but I escaped and I worked it out. So…” Kit paused to take a sip. It didn’t go unnoticed that he gripped the glass tight. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “The navy happened.”

  “I don’t care about the bloody navy! What the hell happened to you? Why did you desert my mother?”

  Curses learned from a life lived at sea filled Adam’s head – mostly directed at Sir Daniel Ridgeway. Firstly, for not telling Abigail to mind her own business and, secondly, for leaving him here with a man who clearly hated him.

  Merry Bloody Christmas.

  “I had about as much choice leaving your mother as you had when the corsairs took you,” said Adam with as much forced calm as he could muster. “I was barely sixteen. Constance’s father found out about us and had me beaten so badly my first clear memory on waking was being in the middle of the Atlantic, halfway to Jamaica. At first, there’s not a lot of difference between a press-gang and the Turks.”

  The whisky soured in his stomach. Adam lost the taste for the alcohol as well as the conversation. He put down his almost full glass and stood.

  “By the time I learned you’d been born, Constance was dead. Everyone thought you were dead, too. So I mourned you just like I mourned your mother. That’s what happened to me.”

  He stormed out t
he drawing room.

  Kit gritted his teeth. For a moment, he was tempted to hurl his full glass of whisky into the fire but remembered his promise to Sophia that he would act house-trained.

  He set the glass down by the decanter and slumped further in the chair.

  There it was.

  There was the answer to the question that burned within him for nearly twenty-five years. Every now and again, the ten-year-old boy in him still cried out in fear, wondering why there was no one to protect him, to save him from the pain.

  Now he had his answer, and it was as bitter as rue.

  He sighed, picked up the tumbler and drank, letting the heat of the liquor trace fire down his throat.

  Whether he wanted it or not, he had a family history now, a past he could connect with. How much more of it did he want to know? Sophia would want to know. Where did his mother grow up? What was she like? Did he carry any of her features? He remembered telling Sophia he had no memory of his father and mother, so to look into the face of a man in whose features he saw his own was damned disconcerting…

  “Shhh, he’s asleep.”

  “He can’t be asleep with his eyes open.”

  Kit started from his trance-like state and looked into the faces of two little girls.

  “We were looking for Maman and Papa,” said the eldest, half-apologetically. She looked about eleven and had brown hair very much like Olivia Hardacre who he assumed to be her mother.

  “I… uh, um… they went outside for a walk,” he said softly. “I think Lady Abigail was showing them the garden.”

  The other child was a couple of years younger. She stood in front of her sister with naked curiosity in her hazel eyes. Eyes that were the same color as her father’s. Eyes that were the same color as his.

  “You look like Papa,” the little one whispered in something akin to awe. “We really are related!”

  “You know about me?”

  He put the whisky down; all of a sudden it was making him sentimental. Damn Scots.

  The eldest nodded. “Maman said Aunt Abigail had arranged it as a Christmas surprise for Father. Was it a surprise to you, too?”