Timeless Regency Collection: A Country Christmas Part 7

Sailing Master Able Six never minded a little walk. His naturally long stride had suffered some constriction in a French prison after the capture of his s.h.i.+p, the HMS Swiftsure, but that had been a mere trial to endure until he escaped through a long-forgotten drain into the ocean.

The three fellow prisoners brave enough to squeeze after him through the claustrophobic confines of a drain were quick to sing his praises when they swam to the HMS Carlisle in the Brest blockade. Praise was never a bad thing, especially for a talented fellow with ambition to be Sailing Master without "Second" after his name and pay rate.

Able's exploits meant prompt advancement, with one yawning chasm to his ambition. Sadly, time, tide, and the Peace of Amiens wait for no man, so here he was, a master now, but cast ash.o.r.e by the unwelcome, pernicious peace treaty engineered by First Consul Napoleon Bonaparte and Prime Minister Henry Addington-drat their hides.

Which is why the end of November 1802 found Master Able Six, half-pay cheque in hand, walking up from the Clerk of Cheques office in the Plymouth dockyard to a boarding house with not many more comforts than the not-soon-enough-forgotten French prison.

He didn't mind discomfort, up to a point. However, eight months of discontent, chafing about peace, wanting to be at sea again, tiring of cheap lodgings and cheaper food had taken the bloom off the rose for many a seaman stuck in Plymouth, Able among them. The thought of facing one more bowl of porridge with cream verging on blinky was more than he could manage.

He solved his breakfast dilemma easily enough. It was time for a fast, or nearly so. A cup of hot coffee, as served at the Seaman's Welcome, did the job. A few pennies saved on breakfast bought an extra pasty for noon. Night meant potatoes and gravy at the grandiloquently named Captain Hawkins, with its poorly drawn but still interesting murals of the doughty seadog's exploits at San Juan de Ula against a Spanish fleet. Able could sit there for hours, warming himself with potatoes and stories of others' days of courage and desperation.

Night came early now. He would still be full by the time he crawled into bed in his solitary room. Able knew he could have saved a few more pennies by sharing a room with one or two other waifs of the Royal Navy cast ash.o.r.e by peace, but he chose not to.

And that was the deal: he could choose. He knew he had the luxury of changing his mind, but right now the pleasure of a room of his own outweighed better food. After all, a man born somewhere in Dumfries, deposited naked and squalling on the steps of St. George's Church, then taken to the parish workhouse was well enough acquainted with slim rations from an early age. The familiar, empty spot in Able's stomach was just that: familiar.

A lesser man than Master Six would have wasted time kicking himself that he had taken a portion of his first prize money back to St. George's Church for a headstone for his mother, found dead in the alley behind the church, bearing all the signs of having recently given birth. Her only possession, now his, had been a Book of Prayer with the name Mary written in childish script.

Of course, Able had no way of knowing if the dead woman had swiped the prayer book from someone, in which case, who knew what his mother's real name was? He chose-ah, that word again-to believe his mother's name truly was Mary. He had used some of his still-meager prize money earned in a hard way at the Battle of Aboukir Bay to buy a simple headstone to replace the wooden marker for No. 143. Able Six knew what it was to be given a numbered name. Whether Mary was his mother or not, at least No. 143 was gone.

As the Peace of Amiens wore on, that lesser man would have wished he had not bothered with the expense of that headstone and used the money to live on. Master Able Six was not, and never had been, a lesser man.

He still had his boat cloak, that durable bit of Royal Navy garb doubling as an extra blanket when his room turned cold and frost rimmed the underside of the ceiling. Generous by nature, Able had taken pity on a bosun's apprentice mate who had traded away his own cloak for food, and redeemed from p.a.w.n such a garment for the s.h.i.+vering lad.

That bit of philanthropy had occurred a month ago, when unseasonably cold wind roared into Plymouth and he was walking toward The Drake with Elias Caldwell, third luff on the Swiftsure, a confident fellow who had no idea how little he knew. Caldwell owed his freedom to Able because he had the good sense to follow the sailing master down that unused drain and into the ocean.

"You're a kind fellow," Caldwell had remarked, after the visit to the p.a.w.n shop and gift of a cloak to a cold sailor.

Able shrugged. "Could've been me," was enough comment for the occasion.

Speak of the devil-here was Lieutenant Caldwell now, coming up behind Able from the docks with his own half-pay cheque, which he waved to Able.

"Master, I am off to the country," he said. "Mother will have dinner on the table precisely at six, because she keeps country hours. I'll just pop in on the whist game first."

Master Six smiled to himself. He had seen Caldwell's dedication to whist and his less-than-stellar ability at the table, because he was no mathematician. By the time Mama sat down to dinner, her son would likely still be deep in cards at The Drake. If his usual pattern persisted, Lieutenant Caldwell would leave the table with barely enough to get a conveyance into the country, where he would bide his time until the next half-pay cheque. Caldwell-drat his hide, as well-had a home to go to, a bed and food.

But Able Six was not a bitter man. He could wait for the tide to turn, as it invariably did, if not every twelve hours, at least soon enough. An ambitious man himself, the sailing master understood ambition in others. He knew First Consul Napoleon would not long be able to resist the siren call of war.

Until that happened, it would be porridge for breakfast as late as possible, potatoes and gravy in the afternoon, and an early bedtime for Master Six.

Nodding to Lieutenant Caldwell, Able ducked into the labyrinth called the Barbican that const.i.tuted Plymouth's famous-or infamous, depending-warren of shops and cheap lodgings. As a sailing master and therefore a warrant officer now, he could have stayed at The Drake, but since he had spent more years fore with the crew than aft with the officers, Able found the Lady Luck more to his personal taste and certainly cheaper.

After a visit to the postal office to cash his cheque, he repaired to the Lady Luck, paying the landlady for his pathetic room, and then her skinny daughter with chapped hands for was.h.i.+ng his linens. He took the stairs quickly and flopped on his bed, already relis.h.i.+ng the constant pleasure of his best friend-his nearly worn-out copy of Euclid's Elements.

The book was on the slanted night table next to his virtuous bed, a cot too small for more than one person. He reached for it, first patting Mary's prayer book as he always did. He didn't bother to open Elements, because he knew it by heart, the same as he knew every book he read for the first time. When Swiftsure's captain had learned of Master Six's peculiar ability to never forget anything he ever read, he had quizzed him at length, then just shook his head, declaring that one hundred years ago in Germany, Able Six would have been burned to death as a witch.

"I'd probably have lit the fire myself," Captain Hallowell had commented, but only in jest, because he liked Able Six.

But this was Plymouth, England, in 1802, and geniuses who had such abilities needn't fear the burning grounds or Bedlam. His captain had suggested he not spread word about this unheard-of prowess. "You're a nice enough lad, though young to be a sailing master," Captain Hallowell stated. "You might make people nervous."

Able recognized good advice when he heard it, and kept his odd gift to himself. With Captain Hallowell's kind complicity, though, he had promptly gone about reading every book on the Swiftsure, including all logs. He stored up a wealth of knowledge, which might perhaps come in handy someday.

Able Six gave a contented sigh, rested Elements on his chest, closed his eyes, and whispered, "'Number one, a point is that which has no part. Number two, a line is a breadthless length. Number three, the extremities of a line are points.'"

Another sigh and he slept, content-or nearly so.

Chapter Two.

To Able's surprise, Lieutenant Caldwell, who must have finally made it to the country, came to his attention only two days later in the form of a badly spelled letter. Able didn't even begrudge the two-penny postage he had to pay, because the novelty of a letter outweighed the expense.

The only other letter he had ever received was the official notice of his warrant status from the Navy Board four years ago, proclaiming him fit to serve as a sailing master on any vessel of King George. Captain Hallowell told him later in the privacy of the empty officers' wardroom that the Board had questioned Able's age. Twenty-two was young to receive such a warrant for the most scientific member of any crew, next to the surgeon.

"I convinced the Navy Board you were a bit of a prodigy, and besides, I needed a sailing master," his captain had told him. "The looks of skepticism ran higher than a spring tide in that room, but by Neptune's trident, Able, you're already the best."

Able had tucked away that letter and gone about his business. Four years later, here was another letter. Rain thundered down, so he ducked into a tavern two doors from the postal office, ordered a cup of coffee, and wondered what Elias Caldwell had to say.

The route to what Swiftsure's third lieutenant had to say was pitted with misspellings. During a lull in the Doldrums a year ago, a month with Captain Hallowell's two-volume copy of Dr. Johnson's dictionary had provided Able with total recall of all the words crammed within. Granted, he had long suspected that proper spelling was a bit like beauty-something in the eye of the beholder-so he cut Lieutenant Caldwell some slack. Who didn't relish the occasional letter?

He sipped coffee and read. One virtue Elias Caldwell possessed was the ability to cut through layers of offal and get right to a subject. "Able, considering that I oh you my freedom from that French prisson," the sailing master read, "I have found employment for you, pervided you do not minde teaching arithemetic to two little boys."

"Not at all," Able told the letter, thinking of his own school days in the workhouse, where the overworked teacher, a bit of a bully, had thrashed him for being smart and ignored him ever after.

He read on, learning of Elias's mother's best friend from childhood, who lived a cluttered life as wife of a Church of England cleric. "Four children in five years, Able. Imagin."

Apparently, the lady needed some help, which made Able chuckle. What the lady needed was her own bedchamber, more like, but who was he to question such matters-he who slept in a narrow bed in a rooming house?

After getting a refill for his cup, Able read on. "It's nothing fancy, but I thot of you. Basicly, it's room and board and ten s.h.i.+llings a month. It should tide you over, because I no youre not used too much."

Trust Caldwell to be helpful and condescending at the same time. Able chuckled at the notion of Lieutenant Caldwell's philanthropy and knew it probably extended no farther than this offer. Still, it was honest work and sorely needed. He continued his perusal of the doc.u.ment, all smudged and ink-stained because Caldwell was no dab hand at committing thoughts to paper.

At the end of the page, there was a long line with an arrow pointing in a starboard direction, so Able turned over the letter. "P.S. Don't be alarumed if Mama hangs about yur neck and weps tears of grat.i.tude, my friend," Able read silently. "Besids all this, youll be spending Cristmas with a fambly."

Now there was a novelty that intrigued Able Six almost more than the promised ten s.h.i.+llings a month. He had never spent Christmas with anyone and had no real idea how to go about such a venture.

The letter concluded with precise directions to Pomfrey, described by Lieutenant Caldwell as a "smallish villag" not terribly distant from Dartmoor with its vile prison. "Just show up, friend," the letter concluded. "I think youre only neded through the Cristmas hollydays, because the vicar will be in fiting trim once the hollydays are behinde him and he can continew teaching them himselv."

Able drained his coffee cup, shook his head at another refill, and stared out the window. He had just paid another month's rent at the Lady Luck, and his landlady wouldn't refund a penny of it if he jumped s.h.i.+p. His own natural caution made him willing to maintain the room, just in case Lieutenant Caldwell's offer of employment proved less than desirable. If he kept the room, he wouldn't have to take along all of his admittedly few possessions.

What did he have to lose? The scuttleb.u.t.t down at the docks was of French buildup of s.h.i.+ps in ports in Spain and France, obscure harbors where the French seemed to a.s.sume a British spy had never set foot. The rumors had come in a circuitous route from a distant cousin whose brother-in-law's grandfather heard such news in pa.s.sing by Admiralty House. Although not inclined to skepticism, Able was a realist: the peace could end next Thursday or last for years.

I'll do it, he told himself as he rose and swung his boat cloak about his shoulders. Once outside, he turned up the collar against the rain, which had tapered off to sprinkles, even though a cold wind blew off Plymouth Sound. What could possibly be difficult about teaching two boys some math?

A few words with his landlady had left her cheerful and probably glad he hadn't demanded a refund. Keeping his quarters through December meant money to her, with no need to clean, dust, or change sheets in that room tucked under the eaves.

He possessed nothing in the way of clothing except his sailing master uniforms, or what pa.s.sed as a uniform, as the Navy Board hadn't yet taken the time to authorize one. Able had adopted the plain black trousers and black coat of other masters, which showed neither dirt nor blood. His smallclothes were ragged, but n.o.body's business except his own. They went into the bottom of his duffel bag. Shaving gear took its usual amount of s.p.a.ce. He was cursed with a heavy beard that required shaving each morning, and occasionally at night, if he was summoned to eat at the captain's table. Comb and brush followed, and the little bottle of olive oil that proved highly useful to untangle his black curls.

He debated whether to take his s.e.xtant, then decided he would feel uneasy leaving it behind. He didn't think his landlady would hurry it to the p.a.w.nbroker, but he had no such a.s.surance about her daughter. He returned the s.e.xtant to its padded box and set it next to the duffel.

Books came next, not that he needed to refer to the information inside the pages. Books were a comfort. After the rout of the Dutch Navy that was Camperdown, he had gone below, once the b.l.o.o.d.y work was done, eased himself into his hammock, and just held Mary's prayer book for the peace it gave him. He knew all the prayers.

And that was it. There was no window in his attic room, but he listened to the raindrops diminish. When all was silent, he shouldered his duffel and his boxed s.e.xtant and left the Lady Luck.

He stood on Notte Street as he called to mind a map of Plymouth and the surrounding countryside. He had pored over it for ten minutes one evening in the Swiftsure's wardroom and memorized it, as he had memorized everything he ever read.

Ten miles was nothing for a man in good shape who still relished a walk for a walk's sake. Eventually, he would be confined to a s.h.i.+p again, and the luxury of such appealing exercise would be a thing of the past. Besides, shank's mare was cheaper.

Truth be told, the road to Dartmoor gave him the megrims as he swung smartly along. He had been there once to facilitate the transfer of a prisoner from the Swiftsure's brig to the formidable prison from which no one escaped. The felon he escorted had been a stoic lad who had broken down in sobs as the big prison gate swung open to receive him.

I know the feeling, he thought, remembering that French prison, where the only thing good that ever happened was the opportunity to learn to speak French with a Provencal accent. He still mourned the loss of his old s.e.xtant, appropriated by his jailers-may they rot in h.e.l.l.

He turned west before Dartmoor and continued his journey until he came to the bank of the Plym River. The rain began again, but he knew he was close to Pomfrey. He would have to ask directions in the village, but another hour should see him to what Elias Caldwell described as a large manor house, home of the lieutenant's parents.

There it was, seen through a screen of rain. His shoes crunched on the gravel underfoot, and he was soon up the low steps and knocking on the front door.

Able was admitted with some reluctance, after he explained to the footman that he wasn't a journeyman seeking work, but the invited guest of Lieutenant Caldwell. Luckily, Elias came into the foyer in time to spare any further embarra.s.sment.

"Able, you're all wet," Elias told him, as though it were news.

"You underestimate the power of a good boat cloak, friend," Able replied, happy to hand off the dripping garment, which easily weighed an additional ten pounds in rainwater. And yes, he was wet, but that was another advantage of black clothing.

Soon, he was drinking tea in a pretty parlor off a larger one and being stared at by Lady Caldwell, Elias's mother. While she hadn't thrown her arms about his neck and wept tears of thanksgiving for the rescue of her son from a French prison, Lady Caldwell did dab at her eyes and look at him at some length. He sighed inwardly, knowing what was coming.

"You're certain you are from Dumfries, Scotland?" she asked as she handed him a cup of tea.

"As certain as a man can be," he replied, amused.

"I mean, you sound like a man from Scotland, but, sir, you don't look like one," she replied. She spoke with that same air of moral certainty that her son employed upon occasion, which told Able Six that particular apple hadn't fallen far from the tree.

"No, I don't, Lady Caldwell," he replied. "That's what I am, though, and I hear your friend is in need of a teacher. Please tell me more, if you would."

There. That should fix the old biddy. I dare you to change the subject, he thought and reached for a biscuit, the kind with sprinkles of sugar that he liked though they played merry h.e.l.l with a black uniform.

Knowing she was defeated, Lady Caldwell let the s.h.i.+p of his parentage sail away and told him of her childhood chum, Amanda Bonfort, who had married the vicar holding the living on the next estate. Now Amanda Ripley, she was the mother of many and in need of educational a.s.sistance.

"She specifically mentioned help with arithmetic," Elias threw in, "but I a.s.sured Mama that you can teach practically anything."

"How can that be?" Lady Caldwell asked.

"I read a lot, ma'am," Able replied with a straight face, even as Elias's eyes grew merrier by the moment.

She nodded and said nothing, perhaps at a loss. Able knew he had a commanding air about him. She wouldn't be the first person who chose not to question it.

"Where is this vicar's house?" he asked when the silence stretched on.

"Not far," Lady Caldwell replied, looking relieved to find the muse of conversation again. "You can, er, walk if you prefer it, but I know Mrs. Ripley's youngest sister is coming by soon in a dogcart to bring me something."

Lady Caldwell looked at the timepiece pinned to her spa.r.s.e bosom. "Oh, the time. Will you kindly excuse me?" she asked as she rose.

And there they stood for a moment. Able thought she would escape from the room because he was obviously not a man of quality like her son, but he underestimated Lady Caldwell. Instead, she came forward, took both his hands, and kissed his check, to his amazement.

"Thank you for freeing my son, Master Six," she said, and there was no mistaking the tears in her eyes.

"We were all getting pretty tired of incarceration," he said, touched by her emotion. "I just wish others had followed those of us who left."

She nodded. "Not everyone is brave," she said and left the room.

"I didn't expect that," Able told Elias.

"I warned you she would weep a bit and hang about your neck," the lieutenant joked. "Mothers are like that."

I wouldn't know, Able thought as he followed his friend into a breakfast room, where luncheon waited. As he ate-the food was excellent-he nodded and smiled and commented where required, while the other half of his active brain had a sudden epiphany about his own mother. The master of the workhouse had told him of his origins-how he was found naked and crying on the steps of St. George's Church in February, left there by a drab who somehow managed to get from the church to the back alley, where she died.

"A trrrail of blood," the beadle had told him, relis.h.i.+ng the drama of the incident. "In both dirrrections, lad, as though she birthed you in the alley, but took you to the front steps. Odd, that."

Able had taken the news in stride, which was the only way to take anything in a workhouse. He was never angry at the woman he never knew, but as he ate and listened to Elias Caldwell, he had the most marvelous feeling that his dying mother had made certain he was found, by dragging herself to the church steps. She wanted him found; she wanted him to live.

He looked out the breakfast room window at the sound of a wheeled vehicle on the gravel outside. He looked, mainly so Elias would not see the sudden emotion on his face.

He looked again because the la.s.s driving the dogcart had glanced in the window at him as she drove by and halted the cart. She raised her whip to wave.

"What a pretty girl," Able couldn't help blurting out to his luncheon partner. He heard the doorbell jangle and resisted a sudden urge to get up and answer it, galloping down the hall to beat out the footman.

"She surely is," Elias said with a sorrowful shake of his head. "Poor thing, youngest of six daughters. I believe her father-G.o.d rest his soul-ran out of dowry after the first three. All I know about her is that she helps her sister, the vicar's wife, with the younger children." He stood up and gestured that Able do the same. "And here she is."

Chapter Three.

The door opened on a young lady with the brightest blue eyes Able had ever seen. The rich color dominated her face and left a man no choice but to admire them. Her hair was brown and she had a dimple in her left cheek and the hint of one in her right.

"Able, let me introduce you to Miss Bonfort, your ride to the vicarage, even though she had no idea this would happen when she drove up, eh, Meridee?" Elias was saying. Strange how his voice sounded far away. "Miss Bonfort, this is Master Able Six, here to help educate your . . . your-"

"My nephews," she supplied, turned to Able, and gave him-him!-a curtsy.