Page 9 of Snowbound Regency Christmas
‘Then I thankyou,’ she said simply. ‘In these desperate times, we have cause to thank the Royal Navy.’
She was a woman with no pretensions and no airs and graces. ‘Sir, there is a portable commode in the dressing room. If you need assistance, I will call my father.’
There was no point in embarrassment. ‘I can manage.’
She left him to it. After the initial dizziness of standing, he managed. His shabby uniform hung in the dressing room. He looked at it, noting that someone had brushed it and heavens, sewed on a loose button. What a household this was.
He got back in bed and relaxed completely. Even in Stonehouse, he felt obliged to revive as quickly as possible, because those remaining alive were still his charge. He was in charge of no one here, and he liked the feeling.
After a modest interval, Rosie Harte returned. ‘Come in,’ he said to her knock, and she did, bearing a tray with more of the earlier custard and ale. She was followed by an older woman who bore some resemblance to Miss Harte.
She set the tray on his lap and gestured to the woman. ‘This is my Aunt Dorothea Hudgens, Papa’s sister. She raised me and my little sister, Bess, after our mother died. If you want to compliment the cook, here she is.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Hudgens,’ he said, and blew her a kiss, which made both women laugh.
‘No one leaves this farm hungry,’ Rosie’s aunt replied. ‘I am Aunt Dorothea to everyone in Endicott, you included now.’
Was that even kinder than good food? As sure as if he belonged there, Andrew felt himself folded into this family. In the face of such kindness, he knew better than to argue. ‘Then I thank you, Aunt Dorothea.’
‘This snack is just to tide you over. Dinner will come along soon enough,’ she said, obviously pleased. ‘My brother has declared that since you are a hero to the Royal Navy, you are our hero, too.’
Good God, what was this? ‘Um…’ was all he had the wit to say. Rosie sat beside his bed after Aunt Dorothea left, moving the tray when he finished.
‘Blame my father,’ she said. ‘When he divested you of your uniform last night, what looked like a page from a journal fell out of your pocket. Here.’ From her apron pocket, she took out the article from theNaval Chronicle.
‘I’m no hero,’ Andy insisted.
‘I read it. Sounded heroic to me.’
‘We were desperate.’
Was there something in his tone that caused her to rest her hand on his arm, even briefly? She gave him an inquiring look, not a look that demanded answers, but one that wanted to know more, if he felt like talking.
To his surprise, he did. At Stonehouse, he left most commentary to the bosun, who liked to talk, and perhaps impress the matron. Still, there were times he felt it might be a relief to tell someone the whole story, if only to assure himself that there was nothing heroic about it: just a day in the life of desperate men.
‘Take a seat, Miss Harte.’
‘Call me Rosie.’
Was it that simple? ‘Very well, Rosie,’ he said then, ‘I am Andrew. Andy if you choose.’ He put his hands behind his head. ‘We had been inla fortalezafor eleven months. The bosun used burnt firewood on the wall to count the days, which turned into months.’
‘It sounds boring,’ she said. ‘I mean, you probably hadn’t a knitter among you.’
He laughed, relieved at her light tone. ‘Miss Harte…’
‘Rosie.’
He closed his eyes to remember better. ‘One of the foretopmen had a nagging cough, and we were so thin. We had to do something. To do nothing meant certain death.’
‘Had you planned an escape?’
‘We were thinking about making a rope out of our clothing and going down and out through the hole where we…’ How to say this?
‘I understand perfectly,’ she said. ‘I assume everything dropped into the ocean.’
He stared at the ceiling. ‘The walls were thick, but we knew there was a cell next to ours, probably with prisoners. We never saw them.’
He didn’t mean to groan. She touched his arm. ‘One night there was a fearful row. We heard it through all that stone. Screams, weeping, pleading…’
