Page 4 of Snowbound Regency Christmas
A grimy letter, stuck half under a box on the shelf below, caught his eye—rather, the name did. He looked closer, then reached for it. He blew off the dust, remembering precisely when he had written it to a widow. ‘Mrs Fillion, this is a relic from the Nile. I left it here by mistake. I know what I will do now.’
‘You mean you won’t stay here and eat?’ She looked at the name and sighed. ‘My goodness. The Battle of the Nile. Isn’t that what you chaps called it?’
‘Or the Battle of Aboukir Bay.’ He gestured to the letter. ‘You remember Sailing Master Edward Hale, don’t you?’
She nodded. ‘He loved to talk about his wife and their daughter, Sadie.’ She touched the name, running her finger across it. ‘Didn’t you…? Weren’t you…?’
‘Aye. I was his mate at the battle. He died in my arms and I became the sailing master,’ Andrew said, remembering too vividly the yard-long splinter from the quarterdeck railing that flew into Master Hale’s neck, killing him instantly. Once he set his mentor down on the bloody deck and moved to the master’s position, Andrew’s own course had been charted.
It was a gamble, at best. Mrs Hale had long known of her husband’s passing, but the forgotten letter became his purpose. ‘Mrs Fillion, I’ve known Edward’s widow and Sadie for many years. I believe I will look for her at Endicott, their last address. This is only my account of the battle but she might like it. Endicott isn’t far from here, is it?’
‘Nay, lad. Ten miles maybe.’ Mrs Fillion started toward the open door. ‘I know she wasn’t a young woman, but it’s been no more than…than…’
‘Almost thirteen years,’ he said, thinking of where his life had taken him since then. There were times in prison when a day seemed to stretch into a fortnight. Thirteen years. ‘Not that long. I’ll find her.’
Chapter Three
Andrew spent the rest of the evening observing the Drake’s perpetual whist game. The other officers knew who he was and what he had endured. The whispers went around, but they were too kind—or too involved in whist—to question him, which suited him.
Back in his room, he put the letter in his nearly empty duffel bag. It was a small thing, something easily overlooked. He had meant to give it to Mrs Fillion to mail to the sailing master’s widow, because there was no time for even a short trip of consolation to Endicott.
‘Are you still there, Mary?’ he asked out loud. ‘I earnestly hope so.’
He lay wide awake for the longest time, remembering the battle in Aboukir Bay, falling masts, decks splintered at close range and the fearful explosion of the FrenchL’Orient, close enough for hisLeanderto feel the sudden heat. He knew Aboukir Bay had been his first mention in theNaval Chronicle, because his captain cited his courage under the guns ofSpartiateandTonnant, and the death of Master Hale, well-known in the fleet.
He barely slept, and woke to bad weather, which went from bad to worse during breakfast, rain becoming sleet, then snow and icy roads. It may have matched his mood, thinking of the undelivered letter, but he was impatient to be off.
To his chagrin, not even the mail coach moved from Plymouth until mid-morning. Before he left the Drake, Mrs Fillion handed Andrew two slices of bread and meat, delivered with apology in her eyes. He ate the sandwich before he was halfway down the road, unable to resist food.
He made himself comfortable in the mail coach, seated in a corner with his borrowed boat cloak to keep him warm. He regarded his companion travellers with interest, mainly because one stood out.
She was a lovely English beauty, the quiet kind. Her hair, brown with red highlights, was pulled back into a bun low on her neck. She glanced at him once or twice, out of blue English eyes the hue of his own.
He knew from Mediterranean experience that women of Italy and Spain powdered themselves to get that delicate blush. This lady needed no embellishment. He admired her, happy to know that England still produced the fairest flowers.
Seated close to her and leaning against her arm was a little chap. The two of them made a pretty picture, clearly mother and son. So much for his wandering thoughts.
Or not. The next person to board was a younger woman cut from the same cloth as the first beauty. He noticed the baby bulge that even a cloak couldn’t hide. When she touched the little boy’s head, Andy noticed a gold band. He laughed to himself, surmising now that this was a mother and son, and Pretty Lady perhaps an older sister.
The last person to board plumped herself down beside him. She wore a winter hat that had seen a few years, like its owner. She wedged a large basket with eggs and bread between them.
No one said anything. He knew he had no leave to brazen up a conversation with women as ordinary as himself, but who appeared well-mannered. It would be a silent trip, and a short one. Endicott was eleven miles away.
So he thought, except that the journey became an ordeal, thanks to the weather. In the space of an hour, he learned how ill-prepared he was, how utterly useless.
They made adequate time, until the road turned icy. The coachman slowed down immediately. The same could not be said for a post-chaise, whose outrider, coated with ice, tried to pass the mail coach. The result was two of the post horses down and the chaise spinning around and blocking the whole road. From the look of his front leg, one horse would never rise again. The other flailed and kicked, striking the horse behind him, which took exception and bit the animal. Hysterical shrieks inside the chaise made Andy wince.
The mail coach couldn’t move forward, plain and simple. It couldn’t turn around, as other vehicles piled up behind. The post rider did the necessary thing. He took out a pistol.
Pretty Lady across from him closed her book, her face a study in concern. ‘Bess, Papa would have a fit if he knew what was going on,’ she said. ‘Cover Ben’s eyes and ears.’
Bess obeyed, then turned her face into her sister’s shoulder, which told Andy worlds about both women, because he knew what command looked like. Pretty Lady stared at her lap as the post rider fired.
Egg Lady, seated next to him, shook her head. ‘Now there’s a bloke without a job.’
To his surprise, Pretty Lady acknowledged him. ‘Sir, you do not see this sort of thing at sea.’
‘Not horses,’ he replied, pleased she didn’t mind conversation with a stranger. ‘Not even mermaids,’ he added, which made her smile.
