Homespun Regency Christmas (9781101078716) Read online

  ‘‘Heavens, Captain Lynch,’’ Sally interrupted.

  ‘‘Yes, fourteen!’’ he retorted. ‘‘Miss Partlow, have you never been in love?’’

  She stared back at him, and then smiled. ‘‘Not at fourteen, sir!’’

  ‘‘Is it warm in here?’’

  ‘‘No, sir.’’

  ‘‘Miss Partlow, you are a trial. Amelia was eighteen, and I was a slave to her every glance. Did a boy ever fall so hard?’’

  ‘‘You were young,’’ she said in agreement. ‘‘And did she . . . did she encourage you?’’

  ‘‘I thought she did, but I may have been wrong.’’ He sighed, thinking of all the years he had hung on to that anguish, and wondering why now it felt so remote. ‘‘At any rate, Oliver found out and challenged me to a duel.’’

  She looked up from her contemplation of her sleeping brother and frowned. ‘‘That does seem somewhat extreme, sir.’’

  He nodded. ‘‘I can’t say that Oliver and I ever loved each other overmuch before, and certainly not since. Twenty paces in the orchard with our father’s dueling pistols. I shot him and ran away.’’

  ‘‘Worse and worse,’’ she murmured. When he said nothing more, she cleared her throat. ‘‘Possibly you could discard economy now, Captain, and fill in the narrative a little more?’’

  He could, but he didn’t want to tell her about foggy days shivering on the Humberside docks at Hull, wondering if his brother was dead, wondering how soon his father would sic the Runners on him, and all the while eating potato peels and sour oats gleaned from ashcans in a city famous for its competitive beggars. He told her, and not even all his years, prizes, and honors could keep the distress from his voice.

  As he spoke, Sally Partlow slipped out from beside her sleeping brother and came to sit next to him. She did not touch him, but her closeness eased the telling. ‘‘It’s hard, not knowing what to do,’’ she commented. ‘‘And to be alone.’’ She looked at Tom and smiled. ‘‘I’ve been spared that.’’

  And why do you seem unafraid? he wanted to ask her. Your future is even bleaker than mine was. ‘‘The magistrate nabbed me after a week of dockside living,’’ he said instead.

  ‘‘And returned you home?’’

  He shook his head. ‘‘Father would not have me. He wrote that Oliver was near death, and what did I think of that?’’

  ‘‘Was he?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ He looked down at his hands where they dangled between his knees. ‘‘I learned that much later from the vicar, who also told me that Oliver from his bed of pain had assured my father that the duel was all my idea, and that I was a hell-born babe, impossible of correction.’’ He clapped his hands together. ‘‘That ended my career as son and brother, and I was invited—nay, urged, at age fourteen—to seek a wider stage beyond Lincolnshire.’’

  He could feel Sally’s sigh. ‘‘The world can be a frightening place, eh, Miss Partlow?’’ he said. He hesitated, and she looked at him in that inquiring way. ‘‘Actually, I sometimes wonder if I even shot him.’’

  ‘‘I don’t understand.’’

  ‘‘Well, when the smoke cleared, Oliver was on the ground. I just ran, and do you know, I heard a shot when I was on the edge of the orchard.’’ He shifted in the seat, uncomfortable as though the event had just happened. ‘‘I sometimes wonder if he shot himself after I left. You know, just the veriest flesh wound to paint me blacker than I already was.’’

  She stared at him with troubled eyes, and then did lean against him for the smallest moment. Or perhaps the chaise lurched in the slushy snow; he couldn’t tell.

  ‘‘My father—bless his nipfarthing heart—did buy me a midshipman’s berth with Nelson’s fleet, even though I was a little beyond the usual age.’’ He couldn’t help a laugh, but it must not have sounded too cheerful, since it made Sally put her hand on his arm. ‘‘In the first and only letter I ever received from him, he said he was in high hopes that I could not long survive an adventure with the Royal Navy.’’ Another laugh, and the pressure of her hand increased. ‘‘Deuce of it was, I did. I hope that knowledge blighted his life, Miss Partlow.’’

  ‘‘Oh, dear, no,’’ she whispered.

  ‘‘He was a dreadful man!’’

  ‘‘He was your father.’’

  On this we will never see eye to eye, he thought. He turned to face her then, sitting sideways. ‘‘I wrote to my mother every time we made landfall, but never a word in reply did she send, Miss Partlow! There is every likelihood that there will be no welcome for me, even at Christmas, even after all these years. And God knows I have wanted Oliver to suffer every single day of those twenty-two years.’’ He wished he had not moved, because she had taken her hand from his arm. ‘‘If that is the case, then Miss Partlow, I’ve put you in an uncomfortable position.’’

  ‘‘We can go to a workhouse and you can go back to sea, Captain,’’ she said, as calmly as though they discussed whether to take tea in Barton or Fielding. She leaned toward him slightly. ‘‘But to harbor up such bitterness, Captain! Has your life been so horrible since that duel?’’

  What a strange question, he thought; of course it has. Under her steady gaze, he considered again, his thoughts directed down an avenue he had never explored before, much less even considered. ‘‘Well, no,’’ he told her finally after he had thought through twenty-two years of war at sea, shipwreck, salvage prizes, foreign ports, exotic women, rum from tin cups, and the odd cat curled and warm at the end of his berth. He smiled. ‘‘I’ve actually rather enjoyed the Navy. Certainly I have done well.’’ He lowered his voice when Tom stirred. ‘‘I doubt that Oliver’s led such an exciting life.’’

  ‘‘I daresay he has not,’’ Sally agreed. ‘‘Uncle Partlow’s letters were always interesting enough to share with the neighbors.’’ She touched his arm again. ‘‘Think what a nice time of year this would be to let it all go, sir, and forgive Oliver.’’

  ‘‘You must be all about in your head,’’ he blurted without thinking. ‘‘Never, Miss Partlow. Never.’’ He made no effort to disguise the finality in his voice, which he knew sounded much like dismissal. She sat up straight again and directed her attention to something fascinating outside in the snow.

  ‘‘It was just a thought,’’ she said quietly, after some miles had come and gone, then said nothing else.

  ‘‘Rather a totty-headed one,’’ he growled back, then gave himself a mental slap. See here, he thought, irritated with himself, can you forget for half a minute that she is not a member of your crew and doesn’t deserve the edge of your tongue?

  Furious with himself, he looked at her, and noticed that her shoulders were shaking. And now I have made her cry, he thought, his mortification complete. His remorse grew, until he noticed her reflection in the glass. She was grinning, and for some odd reason—perhaps he could blame the season—that made all the difference. I see before me a managing woman, he thought, observing her reflection. We scarcely know each other, and I know I have not exactly been making myself charming. Indeed, I do not know how. She is a powerless woman of no consequence, and yet she is still going to make things as good as she can. I doubt there is another woman like her.

  ‘‘Miss Partlow, what on earth are we to make of each other? And what is so deuced funny?’’ he asked, when he nerved himself for speech. She laughed out loud as though her mirth couldn’t be kept inside another moment, her hand over her mouth to keep from waking her brother. She looked at him, her eyes merry, and he knew he had never seen a prettier woman. ‘‘I tell you a sad story—something that has been an ulcer all of my adult life—and all you can do is ask me if I really minded the Navy all that much! Drat your hide, I’m almost thinking now that going to sea was probably the best thing that happened! It’s your fault! And you want me to give up my grudges, too? Whatever happened to the . . . the shy commentary of scarce acquaintance? Have you no manners?’’

  ‘‘None whatsoever, I suppose,’’ she told him, when she
could speak without laughing. ‘‘Do I remind you of my uncle?’’

  That was it, of course. ‘‘You do indeed,’’ he replied. ‘‘David would twit me all the day long.’’ He paused to remember, and the remembering hurt less than it had a week ago. ‘‘I don’t know . . . what to think at the moment, Miss Partlow.’’

  She was silent a long time. ‘‘We are both of us in an impossible situation, and I say at least one of us should make the best of it. I am determined that you at least will have a happy Christmas.’’

  My stars, but you have a way about you, he marveled to himself. ‘‘If I must, I must,’’ he said. ‘‘Can you think of any subterfuge that will explain your presence and that of your brother?’’

  ‘‘Not any,’’ she said cheerfully. ‘‘Paint us how you will, there’s no denying that while Tom and I are genteel, we are definitely at ebbtide in our fortunes at present. Just tell them the truth, because they will believe what they want anyway. We are objects of charity, sir.’’

  Who of us is not, he thought suddenly, then dismissed the notion as stupid in the extreme. I am not an object of charity! I have position and wealth, and every right to be offended by my brother. She is lovely, but she is wrong.

  Thomas was awake then, and Sally moved over to sit by him again. Captain Lynch envied the way the boy so matter-of-factly tucked himself under her arm.

  He belongs there, Lynch thought, and could not stop the envy that rose in him.

  ‘‘Do you know, Sally, I rather think I will give up the idea of the sea,’’ Tom announced.

  ‘‘That is probably best,’’ she replied, ‘‘considering that I cannot buy you a midshipman’s berth. What will you do then, sir?’’

  She spoke as though to someone her own age, and not to a little brother with wild ideas, and he knew she was serious. Lynch knew that this woman would never trample on a boy’s heart and cause him pain. He watched them, and remembered a Benedictine convent, more of a hospital, in Tenerife where he had been brought during a terrible bout of fever. From his pallet he could see a carving in Latin over the door. He read it over and over, stupidly at first, while the fever still tore at him, and then gradually with understanding: ‘‘Care must be taken of the sick, as though they were Christ in person.’’ That is how she treats people, he told himself, and was warmed in spite of himself.

  ‘‘I think I will go into business in Fort William,’’ Tom announced to Sally. ‘‘Wool. We can buy a large house and take in boarders and be merry as grigs.’’

  ‘‘I think we should do that, too,’’ Sally replied, and kissed the top of his head. ‘‘We’ll serve them oatmeal twice a day at least and cut up stiff if anyone asks for hot water.’’

  They both laughed, and Lynch wondered if that was their current lot. He wanted to ask them why they were not burdened down by their circumscribed life, or the bleakness of their future, but his manners weren’t entirely gone. And besides, they didn’t seem to be as unhappy as he was.

  Sally Partlow was not a chatterbox, he knew, as they drew closer to Lynch Hall. She was content to be silent, and asked only one question as dusk arrived. ‘‘What is your mother like?’’

  He was irritated for a moment as she intruded on his own growing misgivings, then had the charity to consider her question. ‘‘I suppose you would call her a frippery lady,’’ he said at last, ‘‘always flitting here and there, running up dressmaking bills, and spending more on shoes than you would ever dream of.’’ He smiled. ‘‘I doubt my mother ever had two consecutive thoughts to rub against each other.’’

  ‘‘But you loved her?’’

  ‘‘I did.’’

  They arrived at Lynch Hall after dark. He wished the Partlows could have seen it in daylight. ‘‘I hope Oliver has not changed too much about the place,’’ he murmured into the gloom. ‘‘Do you think anything will be as I remember?’’

  Sally leaned forward and touched his hand, and he had the good sense not to pull back, even though she startled him. ‘‘People change, Captain.’’

  ‘‘I don’t,’’ he said quickly.

  ‘‘Perhaps you should.’’

  Cold comfort, he thought, and turned himself so he could pointedly ignore her.

  ‘‘You never told me. Did your brother marry that young lady you loved?’’

  He sighed. How much does this woman need to know? ‘‘He did. I have this from the vicar. Apparently there have been no children who have survived even to birth.’’

  ‘‘Seems a pity,’’ Sally said, as the manor came into view. ‘‘What a large house, and no children.’’

  He knew she was quick, and in another moment, she looked at him again. ‘‘Heavens, does this mean you will inherit someday?’’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘‘I suppose it does.’’ He thought of the long nights standing watch and watch about on the Admirable, staring at the French coast and thinking about riding back to Lynch Hall in triumph. He never thought much beyond that, and the sour knowledge that Oliver would be dead then, and what was the point in triumph? ‘‘I suppose it does.’’

  He was certain his voice had not changed, and he knew in the dark that Sally Partlow could not distinguish his features, but she leaned across the space separating them and touched his face, resting the palm of her hand against his cheek for a brief moment.

  And then she was sitting up straight again, as though the gesture, the tenderest he could ever remember, had never happened. Her hand was grasping Thomas’s shoulder as before, and she had returned her gaze to the window.

  There were few lights burning inside Lynch Hall when the post chaise drew up at the door and stopped. He remembered nights with lights blazing in all the windows, and he wondered if there was some great shortage of beeswax this year, some wartime economy he had not heard of before.

  ‘‘Does . . . does anyone live here?’’ Sally was asking.

  ‘‘I believe so,’’ he replied, no more sure than she.

  The coachman said that he would wait there until he was ‘‘sartin, sor, that you’ll not be needing me.’’ Lynch helped Sally from the post chaise. He was prepared to let go of her hand, but she wouldn’t turn loose of him. Or maybe he did not try hard enough. However it fell out, they walked hand in hand up the shallow front steps, Tom behind them. She did release his hand so he could knock.

  After what seemed like an age, a butler he did not recognize opened the door, looked them over, informed them that the master and mistress were out for the evening, and prepared to shut the door. Lynch put his foot in the space. ‘‘I am his brother, and we will wait,’’ he said. ‘‘Inside,’’ he concluded, when the butler continued to apply the pressure of the door to his foot.

  ‘‘I do not believe Sir Oliver has ever mentioned a brother,’’ he said.

  ‘‘I doubt he ever has,’’ Lynch replied. ‘‘I am Captain Michael Lynch of the White Fleet, home for Christmas from the blockade.’’

  The butler peered closer, as if to determine some family resemblance, then looked beyond him to Sally and Thomas, who were standing close together on a lower step. ‘‘Pray who, then, are these Young Persons?’’

  ‘‘They are my friends,’’ Lynch said quietly, stung to his soul by the butler’s condescension.

  ‘‘Then may you rejoice in them, sir, at some other location.’’ The butler pressed harder against the door.

  ‘‘Where is my mother?’’ Lynch asked, his distress increasing as the Partlows left the steps and retreated to stand beside the coachman.

  ‘‘If you are who you say you are, then she is in the dower house,’’ the man replied. ‘‘And now, sir, if you would remove your foot, perhaps I can close this door before every particle of heat is gone.’’

  Lynch did as the butler asked, but stood staring at the closed door, embarrassed to face the Partlows. He hurried down the steps and took Sally by the arm. ‘‘Miss Partlow, I do not believe there is a more top-lofty creature in all England than a butler! You must have formed such an opi
nion of this nation.’’

  She leaned close to whisper, ‘‘I cannot think that Tom and I will further your cause with your mother, if the butler is so . . . so . . .’’

  She couldn’t seem to think of anything to call the man, even though Lynch had half a hundred epithets springing to mind as he stood there in the snow. These two are babes, he thought. She is too kind even to think of a bad name, and Thomas, if I know that expression, is getting concerned. Look how closely he crowds his sister. He looked at the coachman. ‘‘Suffer us a little longer, sir, and drive around on the road I will show you.’’

  No one spoke as the coachman followed his directions. They traveled through a smallish copse that he knew would be fragrant with lilacs in April. Somewhere there was a stream, the one where he sailed his first frigates years ago.

  The dower house was even smaller than he remembered, and lit even less well than Lynch Hall. He took a deep breath, and another, until he felt light-headed. Be there, Mother, he thought; I need you.

  The post chaise stopped again. He could see a pinpoint of light somewhere within, and he remembered the breakfast room at the back of the house. Silent, he helped down an equally subdued Sally Partlow. ‘‘I think I am home now,’’ he told the coachman, walking around to stand by the box.

  The man, his cloak flecked with snow, leaned down. ‘‘Sor,’’ he whispered, ‘‘I know this trip has been on sufferance for you, wha’ wi’ your standin’ an’ all. No skin off me to take Sally and Tom wi’ me. My missus’ll find a situation for the girl wot won’t be amiss, and Tom can ’elp me at stable.’’

  Stables and Christmas, Lynch thought, and damn my eyes for acting so put upon because I have had to do a kindness. The man means well. ‘‘Thank you for the offer, but I will keep them with me,’’ Lynch whispered back.

  The coachman did not appear reassured, but after a moment of quieting his horses, he touched whip to hat and nodded. ‘‘Verra well, sor.’’ With a goodbye to Tom and another touch of his hat to Sally, he was gone.