Homespun Regency Christmas (9781101078716) Read online

  ‘‘Well, then, shall I knock on this door and hope for better?’’ he asked no one in particular.

  ‘‘I think we are a great trouble,’’ Sally said. ‘‘What will you do if no one answers, or if . . .’’ She stopped, and he could almost feel her embarrassment.

  ‘‘Or if she will have nothing to do with me?’’ he continued. ‘‘Why then, Miss Partlow, I will marry you promptly, because I’ve compromised you past bearing already!’’

  He meant it to sound funny, to lighten what he knew was a painful situation for them both, but when the words left his mouth, he knew he meant them, as much, if not more, than he had ever meant anything. Say yes and then I will kiss you right here in front of Tom and all these trees, he thought, filled with wonder at himself.

  To his disappointment, she smiled. Come, come, Michael, you know that was what you wanted her to do, he told himself. ‘‘You’re being absurd, Captain,’’ she said.

  ‘‘So are you, my . . . Miss Partlow,’’ he answered. ‘‘I think we are both deserving of good fortune at this very moment.’’

  ‘‘I know I am,’’ she said in such a droll way that his heart lightened, and then sank again when she added, ‘‘But please remember that you are under no real obligation to us, no matter how you felt about my uncle.’’

  It was just as well that the door opened then, because he could think of no satisfactory reply; she was right, of course. He turned his attention to the door and the old man who opened it.

  Simpson stood there, older certainly, but Simpson. ‘‘You have aged a little, my friend,’’ Lynch said simply. ‘‘Do you remember me?’’

  After a long moment of observation, the butler smiled and bowed. ‘‘I did not expect this day,’’ he said just as simply. ‘‘Your mother will be overjoyed. Do, do come in.’’ He looked at the Partlows, and Lynch could see none of the suspicion of the other butler in the darkened house. ‘‘Come, come, all of you! Coal’s dear. Let’s close the door.’’

  They stood silent and close together in the small entranceway while Simpson—dignified, and yet with a little spring to his step—hurried down the hall. He listened intently, shamelessly almost, for some sound of his mother, amazed at his own discomposure. For the first time in his life, he understood why so many of his men died with the word ‘‘Mother’’ on their lips. He felt a great longing that brought tears to his eyes. He could only be grateful that the hall was ill-lit. And then his mother was hurrying toward them from the back of the house, and then running with her arms outstretched. She threw herself at him and sobbed into his shoulder, murmuring something incomprehensible that eased his soul in an amazing way.

  ‘‘Mother, I am so sorry for all those years,’’ he managed, when her own tears had subsided, and she was standing back now to look at him.

  Her eyes roamed him from hat to boot, assessing him, evaluating him. He smiled, familiar with that gaze from a time much earlier in his life. ‘‘I still have all my parts, Mum,’’ he said finally, as he looked her over as well.

  She was still pretty, in an older way now, a calmer way than he remembered, but her clothes were drab, shabby even, which caused his eyes to narrow in concern. She was no longer the first stare of fashion that he remembered, not the lady he never tired of watching when she would perch him on her bed while she prepared herself for a dinner party or evening out.

  She must have known what he was thinking, because she touched her collar, which even to his inexpert eyes looked frayed. ‘‘La, son, things change. And so have you, my dear.’’ She rose on her toes and he bent down obligingly so she could kiss his cheek. ‘‘Now introduce me to these charming people. Are you brother and sister?’’ she asked, turning to the Partlows.

  ‘‘These are Tom and Miss Partlow,’’ he said. ‘‘Next of kin to David Partlow.’’

  ‘‘Your first mate?’’ she asked, as she smiled at the Partlows.

  He stared at her. ‘‘How did you know that, Mama?’’ he asked. ‘‘We . . . you and I . . . have not communicated.’’

  She tucked her arm in his and indicated the Partlows with a nod of her head. ‘‘Come along, my dears, to the breakfast room, where we will see if Simpson can find a little more coal, and possibly even another lamp. In fact, I will insist upon it.’’

  This is odd, he thought, as they walked arm in arm. He remembered being a little taller than his mother when he left at age fourteen, but he fairly loomed over her now. The gray of her hair did not startle him, and then he remembered that the last time he saw her, she wore powder in her hair. It was another century, he thought in wonderment. How much had happened in that time!

  As his mother sat them down in the breakfast room, he looked around in appreciation. Simpson was well ahead of the game. Even now he was bringing tea, and here was Cook, her sparse hair more sparse but her smile the same, following him with Christmas cakes. ‘‘One could almost think you have been expecting us, Mama,’’ he said, taking a cup from the butler.

  To his alarm, tears welled in her eyes. He held out his hand to her and she grasped it. ‘‘I have done this for twenty-two Christmases, son,’’ she said, when she could manage. ‘‘Oliver and your father used to scoff, but I knew that someday . . .’’ She could not continue.

  He sat back in amazement. ‘‘You astound me, my dear,’’ he told her. ‘‘When I never heard anything, not one word from you, I knew that you must be of the same mind as Oliver and Father.’’ He took a sip of the tea, then glanced at Sally, who was watching him with real interest. ‘‘After fifteen years, I quit writing to you.’’

  His mother increased her grip on his arm until it became almost painful. ‘‘You . . . you wrote to me?’’ she asked, her voice so low he could hardly hear it.

  ‘‘Every time I reached a port where the natives didn’t have bones through their noses, or cook Englishmen in pots,’’ he replied with a smile. ‘‘Must’ve been two times a year at least.’’

  He knew that he wouldn’t have started to cry, if his mother hadn’t leaned forward then and kissed his hand and rested her cheek on it. ‘‘Oh, son,’’ was all she said, but it wore him down quicker than any lengthy dissertation ever could. After a moment he was glad to accept the handkerchief that Sally handed him, and had no objection when she rested her own hand on his shoulder.

  ‘‘You never got them, I take it,’’ he said, after he blew his nose. ‘‘And you wrote?’’

  ‘‘Every week.’’ She said nothing more, but stared ahead with a stony look. ‘‘God help me, Simpson, I left those letters in the bookroom, along with my husband’s correspondence. Did you never see them?’’

  ‘‘Madam, I never did,’’ the butler said.

  Lynch felt more than heard Sally’s sharp intake of breath. She dropped her hand from his shoulder and sat down heavily in her chair. ‘‘Simpson, none of my letters ever arrived here?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Never, Captain.’’

  No one said anything. It was so quiet in the breakfast room that Lynch could hear the clock tick in the sitting room. Then his mother sighed, and kissed his hand again. ‘‘Son, if the scriptures are true and we are held to a grand accounting some day, your father may find himself with more debt than even Christ chooses to cover.’’

  She spoke quietly, but Lynch felt a ripple go down his back and then another, as in that long and awful moment before a battle began. He couldn’t think of a thing to say, except to turn to Sally and say more sharply than he intended, ‘‘And weren’t you just telling me about forgiveness, Miss Partlow?’’

  She stared right back. ‘‘Nothing has changed.’’

  ‘‘All those years,’’ his mother murmured. She touched his face. ‘‘You want to know how I am acquainted with your first mate?’’

  He nodded, relieved almost not to think of the hot tears he had shed—a man-child of fourteen—wanting her arms about him, when he lay swinging in his hammock over the guns. He thought of all the tears he had swallowed to protect himself from the laug
hter of the other midshipmen, some of them younger than he, and hardened already by war. ‘‘Mama, was it the vicar? I can think of no other.’’

  ‘‘My dear son, Mr. Eccles was on his deathbed when he asked me to attend him. Oh, my, hadn’t I known him above thirty years! He was too tired to talk, really, but he said he would not be easy if I did not know that for five years he had been hearing from you.’’

  ‘‘It was never much, Mama, but I did want to know how you got on, even if you never wanted to speak to me . . . or at least, that was what I thought,’’ he corrected himself.

  She stood up, as if the telling required activity, and in her restless pacing, he did recognize the woman of years ago. I do much the same thing on a quarterdeck, Mama, he thought. To his gratification, she stopped behind his chair finally, and rested her arms upon his shoulders. He closed his eyes with the pleasure of it. ‘‘He woke and dozed all afternoon, but before he died that evening, he told me that you were well, and in command of a frigate of the line.’’ She kissed his head. ‘‘He told me a story or two that included David Partlow, and ports from Botany Bay to Serendip.’’ She sat beside him, taking his hands again. ‘‘He never would tell me if you wanted to hear from me or not; indeed, he feared that he was betraying your confidence.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t know what to think, Mama, when I never heard from you. All I had ever asked of him in letters was to let me know how you were.’’ He squeezed her hands. ‘‘And that he did.’’ He hesitated a moment. ‘‘He told me that Father died ten years ago.’’

  ‘‘He did,’’ she said, and he could detect no more remorse in her voice than he felt. ‘‘Since then, Oliver has had the managing of me.’’

  ‘‘And a damned poor job he has done, Mama,’’ Lynch said, unable to keep his voice from rising.

  To his surprise, Lady Lynch only smiled. ‘‘I thought that at first, too, son.’’ She looked at the Partlows. ‘‘Thomas—does your sister call you Tom? I shall then, too. Tom, you’re drooping! I hope you will not object to sharing a chamber with my son. Miss Partlow . . .’’

  ‘‘Do call me Sally,’’ she said. ‘‘It’s what everyone calls me, even if the captain thinks I should be Miss Partlow.’’

  ‘‘And here I thought he would know nothing of the niceties, after all those years at sea!’’ Mama exclaimed, with a smile in his direction. ‘‘Sally it is, then. My dear, there is the tiniest alcove of a bedroom next to my room, with scarcely a space for a cat to turn around. How fortunate that you are economical in size.’’ She looked around the table, and Lynch could see nothing but delight in her face. ‘‘We will be as close as whelks in a basket, but I dare anyone in Lincolnshire to have a merrier Christmas.’’

  She had directed her attention to the Partlows, but he followed them upstairs, leaning against the door-frame of the little chamber he was to share with Tom while Sally tucked her brother in. ‘‘I want my own bed,’’ he heard the boy say to his sister as she bent over him for a good night kiss. ‘‘I want to be home.’’ Don’t we all? Lynch thought, remembering years and years of writing unanswered letters, letters where he pleaded with his parents to forgive him for being a younger son, for being stupid, for being a child who thought he was a man, until the day came when he could think of nothing that warranted an apology, and stopped writing, replacing remorse with bitterness. I was intemperate and wild, he thought, as he watched the Partlows, but these are forgivable offenses. Too bad my father never thought to forgive me, and Mama was never allowed the opportunity.

  He thought his cup of bitterness, already full, should run over, but he was filled with great sadness instead. My parents have missed out on my life, he thought with regret, but no anger this time. He remained where he was in the doorway while Sally conferred with his mother in low whispers. He heard ‘‘night-mare’’ and ‘‘mustn’t trouble you,’’ and looked away while they discussed him. I am in the hands of managing women, he thought, and again, he was not irritated. It was as though someone had stretched out a wide net for him at last, one he could drop into without a qualm.

  He said good night to Sally there in the hall, standing close because it was a small corridor, and then followed his mother downstairs, where she gave a few low-voiced orders to Cook, and bade Simpson good-night. She took his hand and just looked into his face until he wanted to cry again. ‘‘Have I changed, Mama?’’ he asked at last.

  She nodded, her eyes merry. ‘‘You’re so tall now, and—’’

  ‘‘That’s not what I mean,’’ he interrupted. ‘‘You’ve changed in ways I never thought you would. Have I?’’

  ‘‘You have,’’ she said quietly. ‘‘How much, I cannot say, because you have only returned.’’

  ‘‘For better or worse?’’

  ‘‘We shall see, Michael,’’ she replied. ‘‘Oh, why that look? Does no one ever call you Michael?’’

  No one ever did, he realized with a jolt, as he heard his Christian name on her lips. ‘‘No, Mama. I am Captain to everyone I know.’’

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. ‘‘Then we will have to enlarge your circle of acquaintance.’’ She pulled him down to sit beside her. ‘‘And you must not look at me as an object of charity, son! I am nothing of the kind.’’

  He knew he must only be pointing out the obvious, but he did it anyway. ‘‘Mama, there is little coal in this house, few candles, and I have never seen you in a dress so shabby!’’

  But she only smiled at him in a patient, serene way he had never seen before in his parent, and tucked her arm in the crook of his. ‘‘I don’t know that any of it matters to me, son, now that you are home for Christmas.’’

  ‘‘That is enough?’’

  ‘‘Why, yes,’’ she replied, even sounding startled at his question. After a moment, she released his arm and stood up. ‘‘My dear, morning comes early, and we can be sure that Oliver will be over soon.’’

  He stood up with her, more bemused now than agitated. ‘‘I don’t understand, Mama.’’

  She kissed his cheek again and stood up. ‘‘I don’t know that things are ever quite as bad as we imagine they are, son. Good night.’’

  Oliver was the last person he thought of when he finally slept, and the first person he saw when he woke hours later. He was dimly aware that at some point in the night someone came into his room and sat beside him, but he could not be sure who it was. He sank himself deep into the mattress and did not open his eyes again until much later, when he heard someone clearing his throat at the foot of the bed.

  My, how you’ve changed, was his first thought as he stared—at first stupidly, and then with recognition—at the man gripping the footboards and glaring at him through narrowed eyes. ‘‘Oh, hullo, Oliver,’’ he said with a yawn. ‘‘How are you?’’

  Comfortable in the way that only a warm bed and a venerable nightshirt allow, he gazed up at his older brother, and decided that if he had passed the man on the street, he would not have known him. He folded his hands across his stomach and observed his brother. So this was the object of my bitterness all these years, he thought, as he took in a man thin to the point of emaciation, but dressed in a style much too youthful for him. If I am thirty-six, then he is rising forty-four, Lynch thought, and there he is, dressed like a popinjay. Sir Oliver looked for all the world like a man denying age, with the result that he looked older than he was.

  ‘‘Why did you think to come here now?’’

  To Lynch, it sounded more like a challenge than a question. ‘‘Well, Oliver, I have it on the best of authority that people who are related occasionally choose to spend certain calendar days together. I realize there’s no accounting for it, but there you are,’’ he replied. ‘‘And do you know, even though I am sure no one in the White Fleet believes me, I have a mother.’’ He sat up then. ‘‘Is there some problem with the estate that she must dress like an old maid aunt no one cares about?’’

  Oliver smiled for the first time. ‘‘Economy, brother, economy!
On his deathbed, our father made me swear to keep a tight rein on his widow, and so I did.’’

  My word, two bastards in as many generations, Lynch thought. Vengeful even to death, was the old man? I imagine the next world was a jolt to his system.

  ‘‘We have order and economy, and—’’

  ‘‘—tallow candles cut in half and coal doled out by the teaspoon!’’ He couldn’t help himself; Lynch knew his voice was rising. ‘‘You won’t object if I order more coal and beeswax candles for Mother, will you?’’

  ‘‘Not if you pay for them,’’ his brother replied. ‘‘Through the years Amelia and I have been frugal with everything.’’

  ‘‘You have indeed,’’ Lynch agreed, remembering with some slight amusement that his brother had no progeny. ‘‘Last night we were even wondering if the manor was inhabited. Scarcely a light on in the place.’’

  His brother shrugged, and sat down. ‘‘Why waste good candles when one is not home?’’ He leaned closer. ‘‘And when you speak of ‘we,’ brother, surely you are not married to that . . . that rather common person downstairs?’’

  Any manner of intemperate words bubbled to the surface but he stifled them all, determined for his mother’s sake not to continue the fight where it had begun twenty-two years ago, over a woman. ‘‘No, I am not married to her. She and her brother were wards of my late first mate, with nowhere to go for Christmas.’’

  To his further irritation, Oliver waggled a bony finger at him. ‘‘That’s the sort of ill-natured charity that makes dupes of us all! I’ll wager you don’t even know them!’’

  Better than I ever knew you, he thought, or wish to know you. He got out of bed and pulled down his nightshirt at the same time that Sally Partlow entered the room with a tray and two cups of tea. He wasn’t embarrassed because she seemed unconcerned. ‘‘Your mother thought you two would like some tea,’’ she said, her glance flicking over him then coming to rest on the wall beyond his shoulder. Her face was only slightly pink, and dashed pretty, he considered. He took a cup from her and sat down again, remembering that this particular nightshirt—long a favorite—had been from Bombay to the Baltic and was thin of material. ‘‘And you, sir?’’ she said, indicating his brother. ‘‘Would you like some tea?’’