Regency Christmas Gifts (7 page)

Back in Haven on Carmoody Street, Mr. Laidlaw
shook his hand once and shook it again. Mrs. Poole invited him in,
which was a fortunate thing, because he wasn’t going to leave
without a few more minutes of conversation.

Beth set the cake box on the table and just
stared at it a moment, before yawning.

“
Young lady, you are going to bed,”
her mother said.

Beth made a face.

“
I mean it.”

He watched them both, enjoying the loveliness
of the moment, even though it was prosaic in the extreme and
probably what went on all over the world, even though he had missed
it, he and many men like him.
I was cheated
, he
thought.

He stared out the window in the sitting room
while the ladies of the house went into the bedchamber. He heard
muffled laughter, and then a gasp and more laughter, and knew right
down to the soles of his feet that he had indeed been fleeced out
of much of life’s sweetness, courtesy of Napoleon. If he called it
unfair, he would sound like a child, but unfair it was.

“
Mr. Jenkins?”

“
Yes?”

“
Beth insists that she say goodnight
to you.” She gestured and he followed her into the bedchamber,
which a quick look around told him that she shared with her
daughter. A glance toward the unoccupied side of the bed showed him
a miniature sitting on the night table of a man in regimentals.
That and a child were all that remained of a marriage cut short. He
congratulated himself that he had never taken such a serious step
in wartime, then felt like a fool, because he obviously lacked Lt.
and Mrs. Poole’s courage.

He stood there and smiled down at Beth,
decorous in a nightgown that looked like it had been cut down from
one of her mother’s, and a nightcap tied under her chin. Now
what?

“
There is a ritual,” Mrs. Poole
said. “We have already been on our knees praying for poor George
and our country. We thanked the Lord for whatever is to come, and
prayed for strength to withstand it. Have a seat. She just wants to
tell you goodnight.”

Charmed, he sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Goodnight, Beth. Thank you for coming to dinner,” he
said.

To his surprise, she sat up and hugged him,
then patted his cheek. “Mama always does that to me,” she
whispered, then lay down again. “Goodnight. I hope your sister
doesn’t scold you because you ate too much.” She yawned. “I think
it is fun to eat too much.”

He got up, knowing in his heart that his
Christmas probably couldn’t get much better than this. Mrs. Poole
kissed her daughter again then joined him in the sitting room after
she closed the door.

What was he there for? His mind—his analytical,
careful, scientific mind—felt mushy. He put it down to far too much
dripping pudding and cake. Ah, that was it. Might as well lower the
boom on his continued meddling in her affairs. He sat at the table
and she sat across from him.

“
I paid a visit to St. Clement’s
School today,” he said, and continued when he saw her questioning
look. “It’s a charity school in Plymouth, run by Trinity House.” He
thought her questioning look would continue and it did. “Trinity
House is a sort of red-haired stepchild,” he began, which made her
smile. “It’s an entity governed by a three-hundred-year-old royal
charter and some thirty Elder Brothers, as they are called. They
oversee lighthouses and harbor and channel buoys, and license
navigators. I am licensed through Trinity House, as are some
captains—not enough, in my opinion.”

He waved his hand. “That’s neither here nor
there. Trinity House also runs a school in Plymouth and another in
Portsmouth for the children of seaman killed in the line of
duty.”

“
That’s well and good but—” Mrs.
Poole began.

“
The school in Plymouth has an
extraordinary teacher of mathematics,” he said. “I want Beth
enrolled there.”

He watched Mrs. Poole’s face and saw a longing
so huge that if let loose could fill a coronation room. “She’s
bright, isn’t she?” she asked, but it was more of a
statement.

“
So bright,” he agreed. “Before you
came home this afternoon, I started her on the rudiments of algebra
and she had no trouble following me.” He laughed, because the
atmosphere was charged with Mrs. Poole’s interest. “She is either a
prodigy, or a miniature lady.”

“
I’ve wondered,” Mrs. Poole said,
sounding wistful now. “I would give the earth to see her enrolled
in such a place.”

“
St. Clement’s takes girl, too,” he
assured her. “The obvious obstacle is—”

“
Bart was in the army,” she
finished. Her brows drew together, and he sensed a change in her,
not altogether in his favor. “Why tell me this? Why tease me with
something that cannot happen?” She sat back, and took her gaze from
his face to her feet. “I am sorry. That was rude of me, but I’m so
tired.”

He could tell she was tired, her exhaustion
more mental than physical. He wanted to pull her close and transfer
some of his heart to her heart, but that would just frighten her
into throwing him out.

“
I intend to make it happen,” he
said, in his best sailing-master voice. “Don’t ask me how, because
you would most certainly not approve.” There. He would let her
wonder. He didn’t think she would believe in her wildest
imagination that he was planning to put down a sum of money that
would demand the Elder Brothers’ attention. Mrs. Poole had been
reared in her own hard school, one that did not hold out much hope
anymore.

She said nothing for a long time, but at least
she looked him in the eyes again, her own eyes so pretty and brown
and deeper than wells. “I won’t ask. I am almost unemployed and
there is rent due on New Year’s Day that I have no way to
pay ….”

Her voice trailed off, then grew firm again, as
he saw the fight in her. “Do your best, sir,” she said.

“
I will.” He took a deep breath. “On
a far lighter note, Mrs. P, would you be my guest at a noisy,
stuffy, overcrowded dull party on Christmas Eve?”

Ah, relief
. She laughed. “You make that
endlessly appealing and easy to turn down, Mr. Jenkins.”

“
I thought so! Every year, the
harbormaster throws such a party. I always attend out of
obligation. I forgot to add overcooked food and monumental small
talk. Would you care to accompany me?”

She surprised him, as she had been surprising
him throughout their acquaintance. “I honestly wish I could, Mr. J!
However, I don’t have a dress fit for even a dull party, so I must
decline.”

He relaxed, admiring her … her
what
he couldn’t say. What a woman. “So you are telling me that if you
did have such a dress, you would go with me?”

“
Certainly! We could talk to each
other and not be bored. I have a prior engagement on Christmas Eve,
however. Beth and I are going caroling.”

“
You will have more fun than I
will,” he replied, pleased that she would have come. He stood up.
“I have kept that poor post rider in the cold for too long. Good
night, Mrs. P. Hang it all, Mary Ann.”

She laughed at that and did not correct him.
She followed him to the door, a far-too-short distance to suit him.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

An honest question deserved an honest answer.
“Mary Ann, a day or two before you knocked on my door, I complained
to my sister that I was bored. She told me to do something about
it.”

“
That seems reasonable, Thomas,” she
replied.

“
I am not bored now, because I
intend to make things better for you.” Might as well unload the
whole thing on her, since it wasn’t of much consequence to someone
with far more troubles than he had. “After I have succeeded, and I
will, I will go to the Navy Board in London and grovel and whine
until they give me another ship.”

Her face fell, which he found unaccountable,
but it was late and he knew she was worn out. He was tired, too,
and his stomach was starting to object to ill usage. Better to
leave right now. He patted her shoulder in lieu of a bow and showed
himself out.

He told the post rider to direct the chaise to
the posting house instead of Notte Street, knowing that a walk
would do his insides good. He strolled along in the cold darkness,
thinking of other walks like this up from the harbor. He thought of
all the times he consciously tried to correct his sailor’s roll and
walk with his legs closer together like a landlubber. He had walked
that way for months now, but he knew how easily he could readjust
to a pitching deck.

Someone bumped his shoulder in the dark and he
stepped back, not looking for trouble, but ready for it. The bump
was followed by a shoulder slap and then a grin minus two or three
teeth. The man was short and Thomas knew him.

“
Rob Beazer, you’re too old to be
out so late,” he said, and shook the much shorter man’s
hand.

“
Thomas Jenkins, you’re too
careful
to be out so late,” the little man
declared.

They walked together now, Thomas shortening his
gait to match that of one of the kindest victuallers in contract to
the Royal Navy. Rob Beazer had been the subject of appreciative
ward room chats on days in the doldrums, when the food in kegs was
going bad—at least, food
not
furnished by Beazer and Son,
Victuallers. Officer and seaman alike generally wondered how
someone so pleasant could avoid being cheated by subcontractors,
hard-nosed scoundrels to a man. No one ever arrived at any answer,
but Beazer had even been toasted aboard grateful ships, or so the
rumor went around the fleet.

“
You’re out late,” Thomas said
again. “Did Mrs. Beazer toss you over for a younger
sailor?”

“
Nothing like that,” Beazer assured
Thomas. “My clerk quit—oh, why quibble? I sacked the drunkard—and
I’ve been pulling the long hours.” He poked Thomas in the chest.
“The navy still keeps me busy, laddie.”

Trust a man aged at least seventy to call a
forty-three-year-old a laddie, Thomas thought. “Where away your
latest contract?”

“
Australia, a frigate shepherding
four prisoner transports. Jailbirds have to eat, even though Boney
is gone to his own island prison.”

“
Can’t your son take over the
late-night entries?” Thomas asked, concerned for the man’s
health.

Beazer took off his watch cap. “Dead these four
months from something I can’t spell or pronounce. Meggie is so low
and sad.”

“
I am sorry to hear this,” Thomas
said, thinking of all the reams and reams of lading bills from
Beazer and Son that he had initialed through the years, before
having his crew sling the tonnage into the hold so he could balance
the burden. “I truly am, Rob.”

“
I know ye are, lad. Man might be
inclined to evil as the sparks fly upward, but sometimes the good
ones go, too.” Another gusty sigh. “I need a clerk.”

Thomas stood still on the sidewalk, his breath
coming quicker. He took the old man gently by the shoulders. “Rob
Beazer, how much do you trust me?”

If the elderly gent was surprised, he didn’t
show it. “More than most men.”

“
I can solve your clerk
problem.”

“
When?”

“
Day after Christmas. It’s a bit
unorthodox, but I can do it. You’ll never have a
regret.”

Rob Beazer regarded him with that shrewd look
Thomas remembered from countless visits to the victualling
warehouse. He rubbed his chin and never took his eyes from
Thomas’s. “No Catholics or Irish? No drunkards?” he
asked.

“
No. I’ll bring her and her daughter
around on Christmas Day,” Thomas said.

The old man slapped his cap back on his head.
“What game are you playing, laddie?”

“
No game. I am in dead
earnest.”

They continued looking at each other. Beazer
finally nodded. “I can tell ye are.”

Thomas knew the matter hung on a thin wire.
“Just give her a chance,” he said softly. “The same way the navy
gave me a chance, and the same way, for all I know, the victualler
did who took you in years ago as a common laborer.”

“
Aye, then, lad. Make it Christmas
Day. My warehouse.”

M
ary Ann’s last day of work
for Lady Naismith frightened her less than she thought it would.
She expected no extra Christmas token, not on this last day when
the stingy woman counted out coins into Mary Ann’s palm as though
they were crown jewels.

She had to write her own letter of character,
so she larded on all the skills she possessed, not just a modest
few. Even Beth would have told her this was no time to hide her
candle under anyone’s bushel. She needed employment, and
soon.

Lady Naismith barely glanced at the letter,
which confirmed Mary Ann’s belief that the woman was almost
illiterate. Her signature, cramped and crabbed, would indicate such
was the case.

Mary Ann put the coins in her reticule, afraid
to look at them for fear they would shrink if scrutinized. She put
on her cloak, nodded to Lady Naismith, and went to the
door.