Page 7 of Snowbound Regency Christmas
He sounded weary. It was brazen of her, but she reached across the small space separating them and touched his ragged cloak. ‘Truly, it’s my turn. Sleep.’
He did. She sat there, comfortable in Bess’s warmth, Bess a trusting little sister through trying times, and now a treasured wife to a good man.Bess dear, I could envy you, if I didn’t love you, she thought.
So Rosie Harte watched over them. Not far from Endicott, she felt the road ice up again, with corresponding caution from horses and coachman, who watched over them all, and the Royal Mail in its padlocked box.
Their stops at small villages were quickly accomplished. Finally, through swirling snow, Rosie saw Endicott. She wondered if Mr Coachman would blow on his yard of tin in this silent world. He did, because his horses were tired and there were fresh ones waiting for the harness and the continuing trip taking them through other slumbering villages toward Exeter.
Everyone woke up by degrees, sailing master first, then Egg Lady, Bess and Ben.
‘Mama, will Papa be here for us?’
‘Aye, son,’ Bess said. She nudged Rosie. ‘Sis, you’re a fine pillow.’
The coach swayed as the driver left his perch. He opened the door. ‘Endicott, thank the Lord.’ He held out his gloved hand for Egg Lady. ‘Is someone here for you, goodwife?’
She pointed to an elderly gent picking his way across the frozen ground. Rosie saw her father next, getting down from the familiar gig, with her brother-in-law right behind him in his larger vehicle.
The sailing master waited for his turn to leave the coach. Rosie thought he might object to a hand down from the coachman, but he didn’t. ‘Still not too steady, sir?’
‘Alas, no, Mr Coachman. Is there an inn?’
‘Full up,’ said the ostler cheerfully, as he reached for the lead horses’ harnesses. ‘Roads are bad in all directions. You know inns and Christmas, sir.’
‘Is there somewhere I can wait?’
Poor man, you are so weary, Rosie thought.
Bess and Ben had already been handed into her husband’s gig. Papa held out his hand to her. She looked at the sailing master, who leaned against the mail coach, eyes closed. The navy officers in Plymouth always appeared in control and decisive. This one was tired, he was sick, he was human and he appeared not to know what to do.
Her heart went out to him, and she did something unexpected, against her usually cautious nature. ‘Papa, may we help this man? He’s a Royal Navy master of some sort who escaped from a Spanish prison. May he stay with us tonight?’
She took Papa’s hand and tugged him toward the coach, where the ostler was harnessing the new team. The sailing master opened his eyes at their approach and tried to brace himself in what she was certain was his usual military way. He failed utterly.
Please, Papa, please, she thought.
He didn’t fail her, even as Rosie wondered why this mattered so much to her. ‘Ho, lad, you’re coming with us,’ Papa stated firmly. ‘Nothing is open in Endicott, and you look like someone who bit off more than he can chew.’
She held her breath. Master Hadfield could easily say no, and do…what? She took his arm, silently begging him not to resist. ‘Papa, we’re kidnapping this stubborn man and taking him home.’
Papa took his other arm. ‘Sir, I never argue with my daughter when she is resolved.’
The sailing master did not resist. In fact, he surprised her, perhaps as much as she had surprised herself.
‘Lead on. I’ve been captured before. Believe me, this is more pleasant. Aye, lead on.’
Chapter Five
Andy had no particular recollection of what followed, except that someone strong helped him onto a wagon seat of a small vehicle he remembered from his own farming boyhood. In no time he was sandwiched between the big man and Rose, who kept her arm around him.
His memory became random. He remembered a farmyard, and then an older lady spooning delicious stew into his mouth like a farmwife feeding an orphan lamb. He hoped it was the farmer who half carried him upstairs and removed his clothing, then dropped his nightshirt down his thin frame.
He remembered saying ‘Two years a prisoner will do this,’ and that was all. He was done. Not even gale force winds of the velocity around Cape Horn could have roused him.
And yet something did. During the night, he became aware he was muttering in faulty French, back in that prison of the mind that Stonehouse’s chief surgeon had warned him against. He panicked and braced for death when the door opened. Instead, he heard a chair moved right beside his bed. In another moment, his hand was clasped in a warm and soft grip, that and nothing more.
Now it was morning. An older fellow occupied the chair, the man he vaguely remembered who had helped him out of his clothes and into bed, surely the father of Rose and Bess. He recognized the same kindness in the eyes remembered from yesterday’s ordeal, when he probably made an idiot of himself.
There he was, still at the mercy of others, which should have bothered someone used to command and obedience. Right then, in that pleasant room with icy shards rapping on the window, he knew he could relinquish command. This was a tidy home. He was no prisoner.
