Elizabeth Mansfield

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Regency Christmas Wishes Anthology

ALWAYS LEARNING

PEARSON

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fiveteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Special Excerpts

About the Author

October, 1803

Thomas Collinson stood leaning on the rail of the merchant ship
Triton
, watching the waves slap away at the worn piles of the Southampton dock where the ship was moored. The wharf was dingy and rotting, but it was what the crew of a merchantman had come to expect in these days of war. Nelson’s naval vessels had first choice of moorage space, and the vessels of the East India Company had their own prime anchorages. So ships like the
Triton
took what was left.

It was already dark; the sails had been furled and the rigging secured an hour earlier. The captain and most of the crew had already gone ashore, but a few stragglers were still making their way down the gangplank toward the waterfront taverns or, if they were lucky, a woman’s bed. Most of these tag-tails were the ones who hadn’t signed on for the next voyage and had spent the past hour packing their gear. Tom gave an occasional wave of the arm to a departing sailor. He, the ship’s mate, had been given the watch, but he felt no resentment as his glance followed his shipmates, their seabags slung over their shoulders as they walked across the wharf and disappeared into the dark shadows beyond the dock where the light from the ship’s forward lantern couldn’t reach. He didn’t mind having the watch. He was in no hurry to get ashore; there was no place on land for which he had any particular fancy.

A man came stealthily up behind him—a sailor, moving quietly toward the railing on tiptoe. He was not as tall as Tom but so powerfully built that the heavy seabag resting on his shoulder seemed a lightweight triviality. His approach was soundless, but some instinct made Tom whirl about. He gave a snorting laugh. “You didn’t think you could sneak up behind me with success, did you, you whopstraw, with me waiting to see you off?”

The stocky sailor lowered his seabag to the deck and shrugged. “Tho’t I’d give it one last try.” He grinned at Tom with unabashed admiration. “I guess no press-man’ll take
you
unawares.”

Tom’s answering grin soon died as the two men stared at each other in silent realization that it might be for the last time. “So you’ve packed, eh, Daniel? Ready at last?” He forced a smile. “It’s goodbye, then.”

Daniel pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through his shock of curly red hair. “It’s the only thing I regret about leavin’, y’ know … sayin’ goodbye to ye, Tommy lad.” His soft brown eyes, usually gleaming with good cheer, now looked watery, as if the fellow was holding back tears. He thrust out his hand for a last farewell.

Tom ignored the hand and threw his arms about his friend in a warm embrace. “No need for the dismals, Daniel,” he said softly, patting his friend’s back with affection. “Where did you say Betsy is? Twyford, isn’t it? That’s less than a dozen miles north of here. We’ll see each other from time to time.”

“No, we won’t,” Daniel muttered, breaking out of the embrace and turning away his face. “Betsy an’ me’ll be movin’ to God-knows-where, an’ ye’ll get yerself a berth with the John Company, an’ we’ll lose track—”

“Stow the gab,” Tom ordered with an attempt at a laugh. “We can keep in touch if we try. There are letters …”

“I ain’t much good at writin’.”

“Then Betsy can do it for you. I’ve seen her letters … your wife writes a fine hand.”

Daniel sighed and put on his cap. “Aye, I suppose so.” He lifted his seabag to his shoulder and gave his friend a pathetic mockery of a grin. “Be seein’ ye, then, eh? We’ll let ye know where we’ll be settlin’.”

Tom nodded, finding himself suddenly too choked to speak. They walked together slowly toward the gangplank. “Are you sure you won’t sign on again? Just one more voyage?” he asked at last.

“What’s the use of it? Betsy’s heart’d break fer sure. It’s different fer you, Tommy. You haven’t a wife t’ cling to yer knees, sobbin’ her eyes out every time ye make fer the door. Besides, one more voyage an’ ye’ll have yer master’s papers. Why, next time I hear of ye, ye’ll be mate on a John Company ship.”

“Not very likely. East India Company berths are saved for rich men’s sons, not for the vicar’s daughter’s bastard.”

“You can try, can’t ye? Ol’ Aaron swears he heared that a mate on a company ship can pile up a couple o’ thousand quid on a single voyage!”

Tom shook his head dubiously. “Two
thousand
? What gammon! Don’t put your trust in those dreamers’ yarns. Besides, if I get to captain a ship like this tub we’re on, it’ll be good enough for me.”

“Aye, if that’s the sort of life ye want.”

“It is.” Tom threw his friend a worried look. “But what about you? What will you do now, do you think?”

“I dunno. I’ll find somethin’. I’ll
have
to, y’ know—what with Betsy makin’ me a father by spring.”

“Aye, you lucky bag-pudding,” Tom chuckled. “A
father
! Before you know it, there’ll be a strapping, red-headed whelp sitting astride your shoulder instead of that seabag. It’s a sight I’d give a yellow-boy to see.”

Daniel’s face clouded over. “Per’aps ye will,” he muttered without much conviction. “Per’aps you will.”

Tom felt a wave of depression spread over him. Daniel was probably right. They were about to set off on widely diverging paths, and the likelihood of ever meeting again was slim. And even if they did, the close camaraderie of the past months would have long since evaporated into the unreality of nostalgic memory.

Daniel stuck out his hand again, and Tom gripped it tightly. They held on for a long while, and then, by some manner of wordless communication, let go at the same moment. The redheaded man turned abruptly away and marched purposefully down the gangplank. Tom watched him from his place on the railing, feeling bereft.
A sailor’s life is always leavetaking
, he told himself glumly as he watched his friend trudge stolidly across the wharf. Just before Daniel was completely swallowed up by the shadows, Tom saw him pause, turn and give one last wave of farewell.

Tom waved back, his throat tingling with unexpected emotion. He grunted in self-disgust, annoyed at this indulgence in sentiment. If there was one requirement for a ship’s master, it was hardness—hardness of body and of feeling. If he was ever to become a master, he’d better learn to behave like one. He’d be—

“Tom!
Tom! Press-gang
!” came a shout from the shadows. Tom felt the blood drain from his face. “Good God!
Daniel!
”

He could hear, above the noisy slap of the water against the side of the ship, the sounds of a violent
scuffle in the dark of the dock. His heart began to hammer in his chest, for he knew that the worst had happened. An attack by a press-gang was a merchant seaman’s direst fear. He glanced about him desperately for some sort of weapon. Snatching up a belaying pin, he vaulted over the railing onto the gangplank and dashed down.

The sounds from the shadows became louder and more alarming as he tore across the wharf and neared the shadowy part of the dock beyond. “No, no, don’t use the cutlass,” he heard a voice bark. “He’s a good, stalwart specimen. I don’t want him spoiled.”

Tom raced round a mound of crates and gasped at the sight that met his eyes. Daniel was struggling like a wild stallion against the tugs and blows of half-a-dozen ruffians armed with cutlasses and cudgels. Standing apart, his arms folded over his chest, was a King’s officer watching the proceedings with dispassionate interest. Tom would have liked to land him a proper facer, but the six bruisers had to be tackled first. He threw himself headlong into the melee. “All right, Daniel,” he shouted, “let’s give it to ’em!”

There was no answer from the beleaguered Daniel, but he struggled against his attackers with renewed energy. Tom swung the belaying pin about in violent desperation, striking one press-man on the shoulder hard enough to make him squeal and drop his hold on Daniel’s arm. Turning quickly about, he swung the pin at the head of another attacker and heard a very satisfactory crack of the skull as the fellow slumped to the ground.