Page 13 of Snowbound Regency Christmas
‘Hmm. I wonder, was that good or bad?’
‘Aunt Dorothea!’
‘Just a thought, dearest. Here is a knife. Peel me some apples.’
Chapter Eight
Papa came home none the worse for wear, even if he did smell of ale and his eyes were brighter than usual. Rosie thought back to those hard years after Mama died and he stopped smiling. She felt like laughing now, settling into the kitchen, wrapping dough around the last of the sliced apples for the apple turnovers Aunt Dorothea planned for pudding.
Along with the fragrance of ale and the chill of the outdoors, Papa brought in a battered letter. ‘This was in the gig,’ he said, placing it on the kitchen table. ‘It must belong to our slumbering guest.’
‘It looks a little worse for wear,’ Aunt Dorothea said. ‘You could take it upstairs, Rosie. No. Leave it. Master Hadfield should eat down here tonight. Fred, would you check on him? Dinner will be ready soon.’
Papa returned minutes later, his expression lively. ‘What did I find but a caged animal pacing up and down, wondering where his trousers are!’
Aunt Dorothea laughed, which made Papa stare because she might smile now and then, but this hearty laugh was a new development. ‘Silly me! I washed them and sewed on two buttons. They’re in the washing room. Take them upstairs, Fred.’
Papa retrieved them, stopping on the way upstairs to say, ‘He claims he is going fair crazy with the smell of hot apples!’
Aunt Dorothea pointed to the ceiling with her turning fork. ‘Cooking for Master Hadfield is greatly satisfying. The man will eat anything.’
The man came downstairs when Rosie was setting the table in the breakfast room off the kitchen, where they took all their meals, the actual dining room having been turned into Aunt Dorothea’s private parlor. Rosie heard him talking to Fred in the kitchen, and hurried with her task, wanting to see him, to assess him and assure herself that he was going to thrive here better than in a room in Endicott. Why it mattered, she couldn’t have explained to a jury.
To her delight, he joined her in the breakfast room, carrying the plates. ‘I told Aunt Dorothea that I am a useful sort. Plates for you, Rosie.’ He watched her. ‘Ah, so the knife and spoon go on that side?’
‘Silly man. You know they do. I suspect you have dined with admirals.’
‘One or two.’ He took a deep breath of kitchen fragrances. ‘I swear I could put on a stone or two, just breathing here.’
‘I doubt you will be so fortunate in town,’ she warned.
He straightened one plate so the painted rose lined up with the edge of the table. ‘Fred—I am to call him Fred—said the innkeep told him that all the rooms were occupied until after Boxing Day. I never thought Endicott would be so busy. He told me I am welcome here.’
‘You are,’ she said, even as she felt her face grow warm. Aunt Dorothea saved her by bringing in a roast of beef with more ceremony than usual.
Dinner was a delight, a prosaic meal to them, but everything to the sailing master, who ate steadily and with great appreciation. When Aunt Dorothea brought in the apple turnovers and set them down in front of him, they couldn’t help watching him down that first one, and then a second.
‘We used to dream about food,’ he said finally, which made Rosie swallow down her emotion.
‘Wh-what in particular did you dream about?’
He gestured at the remains of the food on the table. ‘Nothing this fancy. All I really, truly wanted was porridge drenched, positively buried, in sugar and cream.’ He smiled at his own recollection. ‘Here I am, and I am grateful.’
Rosie knew better than to look at her father. She had known him to get weepy over a new lamb struggling to its feet for the first time.
‘I nearly forgot.’ Fred left the table and returned moments later with the letter. ‘You must have left this in the gig.’
‘I did.’ Andrew set it next to his empty plate. ‘This is why I came to Endicott.’
‘You, sir, will be our after-dinner entertainment then, because we want to know why,’ Papa said. ‘Let us hear it in the sitting room, where I can put my feet up and unbutton the top button on my trousers when no one is watching. Let the plates soak, ladies. This we want to hear.’
Papa motioned Andrew to the most comfortable chair. He sank into it with a sigh, the letter on his lap. ‘I won’t bore you with the details of what some are calling the Battle of the Nile,’ he began, then told them about the massive explosion aboard the Frenchies’L’Orient,which damaged his frigate, theLeander. ‘My sailing master died on the deck, and I took over,’ he said. He held up the letter. ‘I wrote a letter to Master Hale’s widow, hoping to deliver it in person. She and their daughter, Sadie, have always been so kind to me. I have known them for years.’
He tapped it. ‘A simple letter, but we limped into Plymouth for drydock work, and were sent immediately to Chatham instead. I should have left the letter with Mrs Fillion, but I forgot. I only found the letter a few days ago, at Mrs Fillion’s hotel.’
‘Who is she?’ Aunt Dorothea asked. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t pry into your affairs.’
Andrew smiled. ‘Nothing like that. Mrs Fillion owns the Drake, a hotel in Plymouth where many of us stay.’
