It Happened One Christmas: Christmas Eve ProposalThe Viscount's Christmas KissWallflower, Widow...Wife! Read online

  She stopped a moment, just to look at the Navy man. Palm on chin, he was looking out the window at the driving sleet. He had taken off his bicorn hat and his hair was a handsome dark red, further staking his claim as a son of Scotland. He looked capable in every way, but he also looked tired. The blockade must be a terrible place, she thought, as she moved forward.

  ‘Dripping pudding first and lots of gravy,’ she said to get his attention. ‘I’ll bring some water and then there will be beef roast with carrots. Will that do?’

  ‘You can’t imagine,’ he said, tucking his napkin into the neck of his uniform.

  She set down the plate and smiled as he poured a flood of gravy over the pudding. A cut and a bite was followed by a beatific expression. Nothing made Mandy happier than to see pleasure writ so large on a diner’s face. She wanted to sit down and ask him some questions, but Aunt Sal had raised her better.

  Or had she? Before she realised what had happened, she was sitting across from him at the small table. She made to rise, astounded at her brazen impulse, but he waved her back down with his knife and gave her an enquiring look.

  ‘Where are my manners, you are likely wondering?’ she said.

  ‘I could see a question in your eyes,’ he said. ‘Ask away, as long as you don’t mind if I keep eating. I’m used to questions at sea.’

  He had a lovely accent, Mandy decided, and she could understand him now. How that had happened in ten minutes, she didn’t know. ‘It’s this, sir—I was wondering about your uniform. I know you’re not a common seaman, but I don’t see an overabundance of gold and folderol on your blue coat.’ She smiled, which for some reason made him smile. ‘Are you a Quaker officer of some sort and must be plain?’

  He set down his knife and fork, threw back his head and laughed. Mandy put her hands to her mouth and laughed along with him, because it was contagious.

  ‘Oh, my,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll have to share that in the wardroom, miss...miss.’

  ‘Mandy Mathison,’ she said.

  ‘You’re Mandy’s Rose?’ he asked, as he returned to the dripping pudding.

  ‘I am! My name is Amanda, but Aunt Sal has always called me Mandy. She scolded me one day when I was two and pulled up a handful of roses, then cried because of the thorns.’

  ‘An early lesson, lass, is that roses have thorns.’

  ‘So true. When she leased this building and started the tea room, she named it for me. But, sir, you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ he said and Mandy knew she had overstepped her courtesy. She started to rise again and he waved her down again. ‘I’m senior warrant officer on the Albemarle, a forty-five frigate. Forty-five guns,’ he explained, interpreting her look. ‘It’s only been in the last three years that we masters have had uniforms.’ He held up one arm. ‘This is the 1807 model. I hear the newer ones have a bit of that folderol on the sleeves now.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have called it that,’ she said. ‘What do you do?’

  He chewed and swallowed, looking around. Mandy leaped up and hurried into the kitchen again, returning with the pitcher of water and a glass.

  ‘I forgot.’ She poured him a drink.

  He drank it down without stopping. He held out the glass again and he did the same. He let out a most satisfied sound, somewhere between a sigh and a burp, which made the vicar turn around.

  ‘We drink such poor water on blockade.’ He picked up his knife and fork again and made short work of the dripping pudding. Mandy returned to the kitchen with empty plates from other diners and came back with that healthy slab of roast and more gravy, setting it before him with a flourish, because Aunt Sal had arranged the carrots just so.

  ‘Sit,’ he said, as he tackled the roast beef. After a few bites, he took another drink. ‘I’m in charge of all navigation, from the sails and rigging, to how the cargo is placed in the hold, to ballast. Everything that affects the ship’s trim is my business.’

  ‘I’m amazed you can get away from your ship at all,’ Mandy said. She hesitated and he gave her that enquiring look. ‘Are you going home for Christmas?’

  ‘Too far, lass.’ He leaned back and gave her an appraising look. ‘Do you know Venable well?’

  ‘Lived here all my life.’

  ‘In a weak, weak moment, I agreed to help Thomas Walthan cram for his lieutenancy examinations.’ He lowered his voice. ‘He’s a fool, is Tommy, and this will be his fourth try. I’ll be here three weeks, then it’s back to Plymouth and those sails and riggings I mentioned. Do you know the Walthans?’

  Oh, did she. Mandy decided that after this meal she would probably never see the sailing master again, but he didn’t need to know everything. ‘They’re the gentry around here. His father is Lord Kelso, an earl.’ She couldn’t help her smile. ‘Thomas can’t pass his tests?’

  The master shook his head. ‘I fear there’s a small brain careening around in that head. My captain wants him to pass and promote himself right out of the Albemarle.’

  He returned to his meal and she cleared away the dishes from the last group of diners, the vicar and his wife, who came in every day at noon.

  ‘I believe you’re flirting with him,’ the vicar’s wife whispered, as Mandy helped the old dear into her coat. ‘You’ll recall any number of sermons from the pulpit about navy men.’

  Mandy nodded, hoping the master hadn’t overheard. She glanced at him and saw how merry his eyes were. He had overheard.

  ‘I’ll be so careful,’ Mandy whispered in her ear as she opened the door.

  Reverend Winslow took a long look at the master and frowned.

  Now the dining room was empty, except for the sailing master, who worked his way steadily through the roast, saving the carrots for last. When he thought she wasn’t looking, he spooned down the last of the gravy.

  ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’ she asked, determined to wrap herself in what shreds of professionalism remained, after her battery of questions.

  ‘What else is in your kitchen?’ he asked.

  ‘Just a custard and my Aunt Sal,’ she replied, which made him laugh.

  ‘How about some custard? Maybe I can chat with your aunt later.’

  She returned to the kitchen, just in time to see Aunt Sal step back from the door.

  ‘I’ve been peeking. He’s a fine-looking fellow and that is an odd tattoo,’ Sal whispered. ‘He certainly can pack away food.’

  ‘I don’t think life on the blockade is blessed with anything resembling cuisine. He’d like some custard.’

  Aunt Sal spooned out another massive portion, thought a moment, then a more dainty one. ‘You haven’t eaten yet, Mandy. From the looks of things, he wouldn’t mind if you sat down again.’

  ‘Auntie! When I think of all your lectures on...’ she lowered her voice ‘...the dangers of men, and here you are, suggesting I sit with him?’

  Aunt Sal surprised Mandy with a wistful smile, making her wonder if there had been a seafaring man in Sal’s life at some point. ‘It’s nearly Christmas and we are at war, Mandy,’ she said simply.

  ‘That we are,’ Mandy said. ‘I suppose a little kindness never goes amiss.’

  ‘My thought precisely,’ Sal told her. ‘I reared you properly.’

  Mandy backed out of the swinging door with the custard. The master formally indicated the chair opposite him and she sat down, suddenly shy. And sat there.

  ‘See here, Miss Mathison. Despite what that old fellow thought, I have enough manners not to eat first. Pick up your fork.’

  She did as he said, enjoying just the hint of rum that her aunt always added to her custard. In a week, they would spend an afternoon making Christmas rum balls and the tea room would smell like Percival Bartle’s brewery on the next street.

  He ate with obvious app
reciation, showing no signs of being stuffed beyond capacity. Then he removed the napkin from his uniform front and set down his fork.

  ‘I have a dilemma, Miss Mathison...’ he began.

  ‘Most customers call me Mandy,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve only known you about an hour,’ he replied, ‘but if you like, Mandy it is. By the way, I am Benneit Muir.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘My dilemma is this—Thomas Walthan won’t hear of my staying at Walthan Manor. Apparently I am not high bred enough.’ He chuckled. ‘Well, of course I am not.’

  Mandy sighed. ‘That would be the Walthans.’

  ‘I can probably find a room at the public house, but more than anything, I’d like some peace and quiet to read. Can you suggest a place?’

  ‘Venable doesn’t...’ she began, then stopped. ‘Let me ask my aunt.’

  Aunt Sal was putting away the beef roast. Mandy slid the dishes into the soapy water where soon she would be working, now that luncheon was over.

  ‘Aunt, his name is Benneit Muir and he has a dilemma.’

  Aunt Sal gave her an arch, all-knowing look. ‘Mandy, you have never been so interested in a diner before.’

  ‘You said it—he’s interesting. Besides, you as much as suggested I be pleasant to him, because it is Christmas.’ She took a good look at her aunt, a pretty woman faded beyond any bloom of youth, but kind, so kind. ‘Apparently he has agreed to tutor Thomas Walthan in mathematics, but you know the Walthans—they won’t allow him to stay there.’

  ‘No surprise,’ Aunt Sal said as she removed her apron.

  ‘The posting house is too noisy and he wants quiet to read, when he’s not tutoring. We have that extra room upstairs. What do you think?’

  ‘A room inches deep in dust.’ Aunt Sal took another peek out the door. ‘We don’t even know him.’

  Mandy considered the situation. She had never been one to cajole and beg for things, mainly because she had everything she needed. She didn’t intend to start now, but there was something about the master that she liked.

  ‘No, we don’t know him,’ Mandy said, picking her way through uncharted water. ‘Maybe he would murder us in our beds. Or shinny down the drainpipe and leave us with a bill.’

  ‘That seems doubtful, dearest. He just wants peace and quiet? There’s plenty of that here.’

  Mandy said no more; she knew her aunt. After a moment in thought, Aunt Sal gave her another long look.

  ‘On an hour’s acquaintance, you think you know him?’

  ‘No,’ Mandy replied. She had been raised to be honest. ‘But you always say I am a good judge of character. And besides, didn’t you just encourage me?’

  Aunt Sal folded her arms. ‘That chicken is coming home to roost,’ she said. ‘Remind me not to be so soft-hearted in future.’

  ‘It could also be that I am tired of my half-brother riding roughly over everyone,’ Mandy said softly.

  Aunt Sal put her hands on Mandy’s shoulders and they touched foreheads. ‘Should I have started Mandy’s Rose in another village?’

  ‘No, Aunt. This is our home, too.’

  Aunt Sal kissed Mandy’s forehead. ‘Let’s go chat with the sailing master.’

  * * *

  Here comes the delegation, Ben thought, as the door to the kitchen swung open. At least I’m not on a lee shore yet.

  This could only be Aunt Sal. He took her in at a glance, a woman past her prime, but lively still and obviously concerned about her niece. He knew he was looking at a careful parent. He got to his feet, swaying a little because he still didn’t have the hang of decks—no, floors—that remained stationary.

  She came closer and gave a little nod of her head, which he returned with a slight bow. She moved one of the chairs closer from the nearest table, but Mandy sat at the same table where he had eaten that enormous lunch. That gesture told him whose side Mandy was on and he thought he might win this. It was a game he had never played before, not with war and eighteen years at sea.

  ‘I am Sally Mathison, proprietor of this tea room. My niece tells me you are looking for quiet lodgings for a few weeks.’

  ‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘I am Benneit Muir, sailing master of the Albemarle, in dry dock near Plymouth. I’ll be here three weeks, trying to cram mathematics into young Thomas Walthan’s brainbox. It will be a thankless task, I fear, and I would most appreciate a quiet place at night, the better to endure my days.’

  ‘Is he paying you?’ Sal Mathison asked.

  ‘Aunt!’ Mandy whispered.

  ‘No, it’s a good question,’ he said, quietly amused. ‘He is paying me fifty pounds.’

  He could tell from the lady’s expression that the tide wasn’t running in his favour, despite Mandy’s soft admonition. Honesty meant more honesty.

  ‘I’m tired, Miss Mathison. I often just stay with the ship during dry dock, because I am invariably needed because my ship’s duties are heavy. Scotland is too far to go for Christmas, and besides, my mother is dead and my brothers live in Canada. I... I wanted something different. And, no, I do not need the money. I bank regularly with Brustein and Carter in Plymouth.’ That should be enough financial soundness, even for a careful aunt, he thought.

  ‘I was rude to ask,’ Sal Mathison said.

  ‘I rather believe you are careful,’ he replied, then put his hands palm up on the table, petitioning her. ‘Just a quiet place. I don’t even know if you have a room to let.’

  Hands in her lap, Aunt Sal looked him in the eye for a long moment and he looked back. This wasn’t a lady to bamboozle, not that he had any skill along those lines. He could only state his case.

  ‘I don’t drink, beyond a daily issue of grog on board. I don’t smoke, because that is dangerous on a ship. I mind my own business. I am what you see before you and, by God, I am tired.’

  He knew without looking that Mandy’s eyes would soften at that, because he was a good study of character, a valuable trait in a master. It was Sal Mathison he had to convince.

  Her face softened. ‘Right now, the room is thick in dust. It used to be my mother’s room, Mandy’s grandmama.’ Her eyes narrowed and he knew the matter hinged on the next few seconds. She nodded, and he knew he had won. ‘Two shillings a week—that includes your board—paid in advance.’

  Happy for the first time in a long while, he withdrew six shillings from his pocket. He handed them to her. ‘I can dust and clean, Miss Mathison.’

  ‘I’ll let you. Mandy can help. I have to start the evening meal.’ She stood up and he got to his feet as well. She indicated that he follow them into the kitchen.

  ‘Go upstairs, Mandy, and open those windows. We need to air it out.’

  Mandy did as she was bid. Curious, he watched her go to an inside door which must lead to stairs. There it was again—she looked back at him for the briefest moment. He felt another care slide from his shoulders. He looked at Miss Mathison, knowing what was coming.

  ‘Under no circumstances are you to take advantage of my niece, Master Muir,’ she told him. ‘She is my most precious treasure. Do you understand?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then follow me. I have a broom and dustpan.’

  He reported upstairs with said broom and accoutrements, left them with Mandy after a courtly bow, then went below deck again for mop and bucket. Mandy’s hair was tied back in a scarf that displayed the even planes of her face. He thought she was past her first bloom, but she still radiated youth. On another day, it might have made him sour to think of his own missed opportunities, thanks to the Beast from Corsica. Today, he felt a little younger than he knew he was. Maybe he could blame such good tidings on the season.

  But there she stood, broom in hand, lips pursed.

  ‘Uh, I paid six shillings for this room,’ he teased, which made her laugh.

  ‘Master
Muir...’ she began.

  ‘I am Ben if you are Mandy.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  ‘Ben.’

  ‘Ben! I’ll dust and then you sweep.’

  She dipped the cloth in the mop water, wringing it out well. He watched her tackle the nightstand by the bed, so he did the same to the much taller bureau. He took off his uniform coat and loosened his neckcloth, then tackled the clothes press.

  ‘Why haven’t you let out this excellent room before?’ he asked, dusting the top of the window sill. He looked out. God be praised, there was a view of the ocean.

  ‘Auntie and I rattle along quite well without lodgers,’ she told him. ‘Besides, it was Grandmama’s only two years ago, when she died.’ Mandy stopped dusting and caressed the headboard. ‘What a lovely gram she was.’

  She started dusting again, whistling under her breath, which Ben found utterly charming. She laughed and said, ‘It’s “Deck the Halls”. You may whistle along, too.’

  To his astonishment, he did precisely that. When she sang the last verse in a pretty soprano, complete with a retard on the final la-la-la-la, he sang, too. ‘Do you know “The Boar’s Head” carol?’ he asked.

  She did and he mopped through that carol, too, with an extra flourish of the mop on the last ‘Reddens laudes Domino’.

  ‘We have some talent,’ she said, which made him sit on the bed and laugh. ‘Move now,’ she said, her eyes still bright with fun. ‘The dusty sheets go downstairs.’

  He waited in the room until she came back up with clean sheets and they made the bed together.

  ‘Aunt Sal thinks we’re too noisy,’ Mandy said and she squeezed the pillow into a pillow slip with delicate embroidery, nothing he had ever seen in a public house before. ‘I told her that you will come with me to choir practice tomorrow night at St Luke’s.’ She peered around the pillow, her eyes small again, which he knew meant she was ready to laugh. ‘You will, won’t you? Our choir needs another low tenor in the worst way.’ She plumped the pillow on the bed. ‘Come to think of it, most of what our choir does is in the worst way.’