Page 3 of Snowbound Regency Christmas
It came with a caution. ‘Do not exert yourself, Master,’ the chief said, his expression serious. ‘Your entire ordeal might recall itself to your mind in ways you have not anticipated.’
‘That sounds ominous and cautionary.’
‘It should. I mean it.’
But where was he going? He had no family. He mentioned his dilemma at dinner, and his fellow crewmen had all manner of ribald and hilarious suggestions, none of which appealed. He finally decided on the most prosaic of destinations: nearby Plymouth and more specifically, the Drake, favoured hotel of the officer class. He had two mundane tasks in Plymouth, both of which were necessary. Maybe something else would occur to him.
Two days later, Master Hadfield sprang himself from Stonehouse with a few misgivings that surfaced almost immediately, to his dismay. Burdened solely by a tattered, hand-me-down and nearly empty duffel slung over his shoulder, he discovered that walking from the Stonehouse quadrangle to the nearest hackney stand exhausted him. He considered returning to the safety of the hospital.
Andy’s misgivings receded, mainly because the short ride to Plymouth restored him sufficiently. Even more positive was his visit to Carter and Brustein, where the chief accountant happily knew what to do with Andrew’s official voucher for two years’ back pay.
His additional request for cash in hand to refurbish himself and finance a Christmas visit somewhere also met with enthusiasm. ‘With this voucher and your already-existing prize money, you’re doing well, sir,’ the accountant said, which Andrew suspected was high praise. Accountants were built that way. ‘Name the amount, and I will send you on your merry way.’
Maddy and Son’s Clothier was his next stop, to be measured for badly needed new uniforms. Arriving naked on the deck of the blockader had been followed by a borrowed nightshirt, then cast-off clothing at Stonehouse from less-fortunate warrant officers who didn’t survive the hospital. He was no clothes horse, but disliked being this shabby.
Maddy’s wasn’t far from Carter and Brustein’s, but he stopped several times to rest, sitting on a bench by the water. The wintry breeze seemed to whistle through his skull, reminding him of the chief surgeon’s caution: ‘Do not, I repeat, donotoverexert yourself.’
To his relief, the clothier shop was warm. Andy spent the next hour nodding where needed as the tailor measured him for new uniforms. He asked the tailor that trousers, shirts and coats be left a little roomier, because he was still putting on weight, or hoping to, after that sojourn in a Spanishfortalezawhere food was scarce and beatings regular.
The tailor came to attention at that news. ‘You were one of those gallant men who escaped and swam to the blockade?’
‘Aye, we did. Where did you…?’
The tailor waved his tape measure around, indicating the universe at large. ‘Everyone knows. And one of your number carried the captain on his back?’
‘Aye, one did.’ That was all Andrew said about the matter. His intention now was to go to the Drake, Mrs Fillion’s marvelous inn, and eat. He knew the doughty lady well enough to know that plenty of heroes passed in and out of the Drake. He wouldn’t be noticed.
‘Master Hadfield, where should we send your new uniforms?’
‘I suppose my order will take some time?’ he asked, unsure what address to leave. He knew the Drake would store whatever he had ordered from Maddy’s until his return from anywhere—to be determined—even Bangkok, for that matter. ‘I suppose the Drake is best. I realize that Christmas is no time to demand uniforms.’
‘Master Hadfield, your order goes to the top of the list,’ Mr Maddy himself said firmly, when he totted up the bill. ‘You’re a hero.’
Sigh. A hero.
Andy took a careful stroll to the Drake, still embarrassed that a mere walk exhausted him. He gave Mrs Fillion the now-traditional kiss on the cheek that every mariner administered, and asked for a second-floor room. She held out the key, and being Mrs Fillion, couldn’t help a saucy comment.
‘Master Hadfield, if you ever marry, I will put you and your wife on the third floor at the back, the quiet floor for couples long away from each other, thanks to Boney and the blockade.’
He refused to let her embarrass him, because truth to tell, he liked Mrs Fillion. They all did. ‘No woman is that brave, my dear,’ he teased in turn.
‘These are your best years,’ she reminded him.
Then why do I feel eighty?he asked himself.
Andrew considered the matter after his dinner of beef roast, chicken, a mound of potatoes and two puddings. When Mrs Fillion circulated among the tables, he remembered the clothing he ordered and gestured to her.
‘Mrs F, I have ordered new uniforms, well, new everything,’ he said. ‘I wonder, could I leave them in your storeroom, if I do decide to travel a bit?’
‘Aye, you may. Come with me.’
He followed her into the kitchen, where he snagged two biscuits, then down steep stairs to the storeroom he remembered. He paused in the doorway, seeing trunks, books, rain slickers and boxes. The sight drew him up sharply, because he knew that many of the long-stored items could never be reclaimed by dead men.
‘There’s the whole history of Napoleon’s wars here,’ he said.
‘Aye, lad. It always gives evenmea start when I open the door.’ She stood a moment, then directed him to the right. ‘There’s some space here. You tell me if you think it is enough. Your new hat will take up some space.’
He observed a tidy area. ‘This is fine. I shouldn’t need you to keep it long.’
