Regency Christmas Gifts (6 page)

Now what? She had no money to allow her to look
for a new position at leisure, no cushion from disaster. She closed
her eyes against what she knew was coming. Boxing Day would be
followed by a typical working day, only she would have no work.
There would be nothing to do but knock on the vicar’s door, pour
out her troubles, and steel herself for entry into the Plymouth
workhouse, she and Beth, who both deserved better.

Better instead to think about Thomas Jenkins,
and remember the real pleasure of listening to the lilting voice
that marked him as a son of Wales. She admired his confidence,
earned in a hard school, no doubt. She liked the ease with which he
teased his sister and their casual relationship. His attention to
her darling daughter’s love of numbers warmed her maternal
heart.

Funny that she should even remember the way he
smelled, a combination of good honest soap and bay rum, a man’s
odor, something she realized she missed. She even liked the casual
way he was dressed, in ordinary trousers and without a neckcloth.
More than likely he had not expected visitors when Beth knocked on
his door.

Those were externals. She had no explanation
for the way she felt in his presence—a combination of relief,
because he seemed to be so in control of things, and the barely
remembered pleasure of being in the same room with a man she
instinctively liked.

She knew Thomas Jenkins was just an ordinary
fellow, retired and not much liking it. He obviously wasn’t worried
about his next meal or eviction, or any of those terrors that kept
her awake at night. She could have envied and hated him, but all
she wanted was to see him again.

That was it, plain and simple. She wanted to
drift into Thomas Jenkins’s generous orbit once more, even though
the odds of that happening were less than remote. She had returned
his package, he had paid her for the postage, and each had resumed
his and her own spheres. End of story.

Beth liked her to make up bedtime tales.
Through the years, her stories had been of princes and princesses,
and the occasional dragon or villain. Maybe in a few years, if the
workhouse didn’t separate them, she could tell her daughter of a
man with dark hair getting a bit gray around the edges, and dark
eyes, and wrinkles around those eyes that probably came from sun,
rain, and wind, and the stress of grave national emergency, for all
she knew. She couldn’t tell such a bedtime story now. Something
told her she would cry, an emotion she gave up years ago, because
it solved nothing.

She had sat too long woolgathering, and now it
was snowing, a rarity this close to the coast. She watched the big
flakes settle on her dark cloak and admired their intricacy. Maybe
she and Beth could go outside after their bread and milk and study
the snowflakes.

She hurried down Carmoody Lane and stopped in
surprise to see smoke coming from her chimney. “Beth, you know
better than to start a fire,” she said out loud. “It isn’t that
cold yet.” She hurried inside her house and stopped in open-mouthed
amazement. There was Thomas Jenkins sitting at the table, book open
on the table, drawing an angle with a compass while Beth
watched.

They looked over at her with uniformly guilty
expressions. “I’ll get you some more paper,” Mr. Jenkins said,
while Beth chimed in with, “He wanted some warmth and said he would
get us more coal.”

Mary Ann wanted to clap her hands at the
pleasure of seeing the sailing master again. She had wished for
years and not one wish had come true. Yet here he was. She took off
her cloak and bonnet and stuffed her mismatched gloves in her
reticule.

“
I didn’t expect to see you again,
Mr. Jenkins,” she said, which was no way to greet the man, but she
hadn’t had a lot of practice.

“
Here I am anyway,” he said simply,
and she had to swallow down tears at such an unvarnished comment.
Here he was. For just a little while, she could forget her fears
because she was back in his orbit again.

Oh dear, it was time for dinner, and she had
nothing beyond their usual bread and milk. She opened her mouth to
apologize for the paltriness she was about to inflict on him, when
he spoke first.

“
I delivered the package to Mrs.
Myrna
Poole,” he said, emphasizing the Myrna. “I took a
moment before Beth returned from school to visit with Mr. Laidlaw
next door. I have invited him for dinner in my favorite restaurant
in Plymouth—it’s not so far—and I extend the invitation to you two
ladies, as well. Do say aye.”

“
Aye,” she said with no hesitation,
which made the wrinkles around his eyes deepen.

“
Good! I’ve been leading people
about for so many years that I probably would have hauled you along
anyway, if you had told me nay.” He turned to Beth. “We had better
clear the table and give your mother a chance to freshen herself
before we drag her away.”

Mary Ann took the suggestion and went into the
bedchamber she shared with Beth. She washed her face in the
blessedly cold water she poured from her pitcher, happy to tamp
down her high color and warmth.
Did I wish for this
? she
asked herself, and marveled.

A glance into her dressing closet assured her
that nothing new had materialized since this morning. She had
another dress, but it was scorched on the side and she hadn’t yet
figured out how to hide the narrow burn streak. Her two other
dresses were fit for their own burn pile. She found a lace collar
that she smoothed out with her fingers. The brooch she used to pin
it had been traded to an apothecary for medicine when Beth had the
croup last year. She found an ordinary straight pin to tack it
together.

The image in her mirror looked back at her with
anxious eyes, but at least the straight pin didn’t show. She looked
every one of her thirty-two years, but she had no more remedy for
that than for the scorch on her other good dress. Hopefully, the
restaurant wouldn’t be too grand.

She returned to the other room and let the
sailing master put her cloak around her. He rested his hands on her
shoulders for the briefest moment, and she could have died with
delight from the simple pleasure that gave her. Beth was ready, her
eyes lively. Mr. Jenkins sent her next door to alert Mr. Laidlaw
that the excursion was about to begin.

Mr. Jenkins handed over her bonnet. “Mrs.
Poole, the Myrna one, told me that Lady Naismith was letting go
several of her workers, including you,” he said, with no
preamble.

She nodded, embarrassed. “I only learned last
week, and haven’t had time to look for another position. Please
don’t mention anything to Beth.”

“
What are the odds of finding work?”
he asked.

“
Not good, Mr. Jenkins,” she said,
determined to be as calm as he was, even though ruin stared her in
the face. “I could easily do bookkeeping, too, but most employers
would rather hire men. Now that the war has ended, there are many
men looking for work.” She returned his gaze with all the serenity
she could summon on short notice. “I’d rather just enjoy dinner
tonight, sir, and not worry about something I have little control
over.”

“
Bravo, Mrs. Poole,” he said and
held the door open for her. He handed her into the waiting post
chaise, and kept her hand in his longer than he needed to. He gave
it a gentle squeeze and released her to help Beth into the
carriage, and then Mr. Laidlaw. He seated them opposite her, then
nodded to the post rider and closed the door.

Beth broke the silence with, “I like traveling
this way,” which led Mr. Jenkins to tell her about riding in
rickshaws in China and Siam.

“
Have you been
everywhere
?”
Beth asked, after he told them about traveling by gondola in
Venice.

“
I believe I have,” he
replied.

“
What is your favorite place?” Mary
Ann asked. The post chaise was a tight fit for four, but she did
not mind the pressure of Mr. Jenkins’ shoulder against hers. Quite
the contrary.

“
I was going to say ‘the sea,’ but
do you know, I am enjoying this chaise right now,” he
said.

“
That’s no answer,” Beth
chided.

“
Now, Beth,” Mary Ann
admonished.

“
It probably isn’t,” Mr. Jenkins
agreed. “Ask me another day.” He shifted slightly. “Mr. Laidlaw
assured me this afternoon that he likes the little village in Kent
where he was raised. What about you, Mrs. Poole?”

She felt her face grow warm again from such a
prosaic question. She couldn’t help leaning against Mr. Jenkins’s
arm as she tried to remember when she had last imagined any place
but where bad luck had anchored her. She shook her head, close to
tears—she who had resolved never to cry again.

“
I’ll ask you another day, Mrs.
Poole,” he said.

B
ecause he knew anything
grander than the dining room of the Drake would upset Mrs. Poole,
the Drake it was. Mrs. Fillion had already turned over the
evening’s work to her son, but she had taught him well. David
Fillion assured Thomas that there was still a private parlor left
and led them to it.

“
The other two are full of Christmas
revelers,” he said as he handed around the menus. “I already have a
case of the shudders that might just last until Twelfth
Night.”

Mrs. Poole smiled at that, so Thomas knew her
equanimity had been restored. She sat next to him, looking so
lovely that he could only marvel at her composure.

No one had any idea what they wanted, so Thomas
ordered beef roast and dripping pudding all around, with bread and
cheese. He nodded to Mr. Laidlaw. “This excellent fellow showed me
your picture of roast beef, Mrs. Poole.”

By gadfreys she had a fine smile. She clasped
her hands on the table and gave the old man the full effect of it.
Thomas saw the affection in her glance and wondered what such a
smile aimed at him would do to his ability to function.

“
You’re the best landlord, Mr.
Laidlaw,” she told him.

And then,
mercy
, she turned that smile
on him. “And you sir, are a kind friend,” she told him. He could
have wriggled like a puppy from the pleasure, but he was
forty-three and knew better.

Dinner was an unalloyed delight. He thought of
all the roast beef and dripping pudding he had eaten through the
years in this dining room without overmuch thought, and found
himself looking at the tender beef before him through Beth’s
eyes.

“
Mama, have we ever had
anything
like this before?” she had asked her mother after
the first bite.

“
If we have, I don’t remember it,”
Mrs. Poole replied, which told him more than he ever wanted to know
about their meals.

Thomas lightened whatever embarrassment she may
have been feeling at such a question by regaling his guests with
stories of weevils at sea, and water so thick and long in the kegs
that it nearly quivered like pudding. As his guests ate, then ate
more when he summoned David Fillion to keep the food coming, Thomas
told them stories of rice and mysterious concoctions in the Far
East, a memorable dinner of pasta and tomatoes in Naples, and
homely corn pudding in South Carolina, washed down with something
called apple jack that left him with a two-day headache.

Dessert was cake, which made Beth clap her
hands in wonder, and Mrs. Poole mouth
I love cake
as she
turned her unmatched smile on him again.

“
I am too full to eat this,” she
told him, and touched her little waist, but she ate it anyway,
closing her eyes with each forkful she downed. She ate slower and
slower, as if wanting to savor each bite and hold it in memory.
Finally, she could eat no more. She shook her head with obvious
regret.

A whispered conversation with David Fillion
when Thomas went to the front of the house to pay the bill meant
that he could present the rest of the cake in a pasteboard box to
Beth. She took it with a curtsy, handed it to Mr. Laidlaw, then
threw herself into his arms.

“
This is going to be
such
a
Christmas because we will have cake,” she whispered in his ear.
“Mr. Jenkins, thank you.”

And then she was a well-mannered child again,
and it was her mother’s turn to struggle, which gave Thomas a
little unholy glee. He could do his own struggling later in the
quiet of his home.

Mr. Laidlaw assured him that he could easily
escort the ladies home in the post chaise, so he would not have to
make another round trip, but Thomas wouldn’t hear of it.

“
My sister will just scold me for
eating too much, if I come home now,” he said as he loosened the
top buttons on his trousers. “Excuse this, but I’m in
pain.”

Beth laughed and waved the pasteboard box under
his nose, which made her mother giggle like a school
girl.

They were all so easy to laugh with that he
wished he could have signaled to the post rider to slow down so he
could savor the moment in much the same way as Mrs. Poole had
slowed down to enjoy her cake. He snagged an errant thought out of
the cold night air and wondered if this was what it felt like to
have a family. If it was, he wondered how
any
man, soldier
or sailor, could tear himself away to go to something as stupid and
time-consuming as war.