скачать книгу бесплатно
From the first, a deckhand out of Savannah, to the latest, a young couple fleeing Mississippi and a brutal owner named Tullidge, she and her network of volunteers provided food, lodging, employment and hope.
She was a woman of great beauty, with the soft accent and leisurely sentences heard in the South of the still new United States. James Grey spoke with a curious accent that placed him not quite in Massachusetts, but not quite in England, either. He had a mariner’s wind-wrinkled face, and the ships he and his partner built were sound and true. That James adored his lovely wife was obvious to all. That the feeling was mutual was equally evident.
Something about the Christmas season seemed to reinforce this tenacious bond even more. Their oldest friends had heard the pleasant story of how they met in a distant Southern city, after years apart. There always seemed to be more to the story than either party let on, but New Englanders were too polite to ask.
Chapter One (#u0127df64-7fd3-5f4e-9620-5c63f7e14f27)
Plymouth, England—October 1st, 1802
‘Captain Grey, please excuse what happened. I found this under a box in my officer’s storeroom.’
Mrs Fillion held out a letter most tattered and mangled. James Grey set down his soup spoon and picked it up. He squinted to make out some sort of return address. Stoic he may be, but he couldn’t help his involuntary intake of breath to see a single word: Winnings.
‘What? How?’ was all he could manage as he held the delicate envelope as though it were a relic from an Etruscan tomb. Mrs Fillion, owner of The Drake, was kind enough to allow her Plymouth hotel to serve as an informal postal and collection station since the beginning of Napoleon’s war. He motioned her to sit down at his solitary table, wishing she didn’t appear so upset.
‘What happened was that I set a box with some poor dead officer’s personal effects on top of the letter, which I was saving for you,’ she said, apologising. ‘Unfortunately, I haven’t seen you in years.’
‘That’s because I’ve operated on the far side of the world for several voyages,’ he said. ‘Don’t let this trouble you.’ He stared at the envelope. ‘Any idea how long it might have been there?’ He found himself almost afraid to open such a fragile document.
He couldn’t help wincing when she said, ‘It’s been there since 1791, because the box I set on top of it had “1792” scribbled on the side.’ She sighed. ‘Eleven years, Captain. I hope it wasn’t something terribly important.’
Likely not. When he never heard from Theodora Winnings after he proposed by way of pen and paper, James Grey, a first lieutenant in 1791, understood a refusal as well as the next man. Since his career seemed to keep him on the far side of the world for much of that decade, he had felt a little foolish for proposing to sweet Teddy Winnings in the first place. Then he dismissed the matter, except when he stood a watch, the perfect time to reflect on so much charm, goodwill and charity in a lovely frame. He stood a lot of watches. Still, Mrs Fillion needed to be jollied.
‘I wouldn’t worry, Mrs Fillion,’ he said. ‘I was a brand new first luff and I proposed to a fetching young thing in Charleston, South Carolina. Did it by letter, so you see how callow I was.’ He laughed, and thought it sounded genuine.
Mrs Fillion smiled, which relieved him. ‘Captain, would you be brave enough to propose in person now, providing the right fetching young thing happens along?’
‘Unlikely. I’m a ripe thirty-seven, and serve in a dangerous profession. Why inflict that on a woman?’
‘You underrate females, Captain,’ Mrs Fillion said.
‘I have long been fortune’s fool.’ He picked up his soup spoon again, giving Mrs Fillion liberty to continue circulating among her other guests.
The dining room was less busy, mainly because of the Treaty of Amiens, which meant most warships were in port, with officers uncomfortable on half pay and scrimping, and crews dumped on shore to starve. War was almost guaranteed to break out again, but until it did, this meant tight times in ports like Plymouth and Portsmouth.
Jem waited until she was engaged in conversation with another officer before picking up the mangled letter. Eleven years was a long time to expect a letter to rule in his favour. Whatever the fervour of the moment, it was long past, whether Teddy’s reply had been yea or nay.
He had already finished reading his newspaper, and there was still soup to be downed. Might as well see what she wrote all those years ago. He slit the letter open carefully, dismayed to see water damage inside.
‘Yes!’ The word leaped out at him. My God, Jem thought, she loved me. The rest of the letter was mainly blotched and illegible. He stared hard, and fancied he made out the phrases, ‘...but you need to know...’ and then farther down the ruined page, ‘I should have...’ The box Mrs Fillion set on top of Teddy’s letter must have been damp. He could decipher nothing else.
His soup forgotten, Jem leaned back in his chair, staring out the window where autumn rain slid down the panes. His first glimpse of Theodora Winnings was through a fever haze, as though he gazed up at her from the bottom of a pond. That was his second relapse from malaria. Since the frigate Bold was peacefully moored in Charleston Harbour, the post surgeon had taken him ashore and left him to the tender mercy of the Sisters of Charity.
He had recalled nothing of the first week except the stink of his sweat and his desire to die. Toward the end of that week, he vaguely remembered a visit from his captain, who announced the Bold was sailing to Jamaica, but would return in two months, hoping to find him alive. At the time, he had preferred death. Even in his addled state, Jem knew that was nothing to tell his commander.
By the second week, he could get out of bed for a call of nature, if someone clutched him close around the waist. The Sisters of Charity were tough women who manhandled him so efficiently that any embarrassment quickly vanished.
By the third week, life’s appeal returned, especially when Miss Theodora Winnings sat beside his bed to wipe his forehead and read to him. He was still too wasted to pay attention to the words, but he enjoyed the slow molasses sound of Miss Winnings’ Southern diction.
By the next week, he spoke in coherent sentences and silently admired the loveliness of her ivory skin, dark hair and eyes and full lips, not to mention a bountiful bosom.
‘Captain, your soup must be cold. Would you like more?’
‘Oh, no. I’m done.’ He looked down at the letter with its nine legible words. ‘Mrs Fillion, she said yes eleven years ago.’
He shouldn’t have told her, she who set the box on his letter in the first place. He knew Mrs Fillion had been through much, with children of her own at sea, and bad news when her lodgers died in the service of king and country. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
‘Look here, ma’am, don’t weep on my account,’ he added hastily. ‘As it turned out, once the Bold picked me up and revictualled, we left the Carolinas and never returned. I was a foolish lieutenant. Our paths were destined never to cross again.’
Mrs Fillion wasn’t buying it. ‘Love doesn’t work like that,’ she argued. She dabbed angrily at her tears. ‘If you had known her answer, you would have found a way.’
‘Poppycock and humbug, Mrs Fillion,’ he stated firmly.
He misjudged the redoubtable owner of the Drake. ‘Listen to me, Captain Grey,’ she demanded.
Unused to being dressed down, he listened.
‘I think you should go to the United States,’ she said, lowering her voice so the other Navy men couldn’t hear. ‘Find Miss Winnings.’
‘What is the point, madam?’ he said, exasperated, more with himself than with her.
‘She said aye eleven years ago,’ Mrs Fillion replied.
He knew he was wearing his most sceptical expression, but she touched his sleeve, her hand gentle on his arm. ‘Have a little faith, Captain.’
He had to laugh. ‘Madam, I am as profane a captain as you will find in the fleet, as are most of my associates. We rely on time and tides, not faith.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ She looked around the room. ‘I doubt there is a captain or lieutenant in here who doesn’t rely on faith, too, say what you will.’
What could he add to that? He wasn’t up to a theological argument with a hardworking woman he had long admired. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he muttered, then leaned over and gave Mrs Fillion a whacking great kiss on her cheek. For both their sakes, he chose not to continue the narrative. He could pretend he had reassured her, and she was kind enough to think so, too. That was how polite society worked.
He knew it would be wise to leave the dining room then, and spare Mrs Fillion from more discomfort. He looked in the card room, not surprised to see the perpetual whist game about to get underway. He couldn’t remember who had named it that, but during wartime, there was always someone in port to make up a whist table. Some of the officers preferred backgammon, and there was a table for that, too.
Lieutenant Chardon, his parents French emigrés, was looking for a partner to sit in the empty chair opposite him. The other two partners, good whist players, were already seated.
‘Captain Grey, would you partner me?’ the luff asked.
Jem considered their chances of taking sufficient tricks from the proficient pair looking at him with similar calculation. He knew the state of Chardon’s purse—his parents dead now, and Auguste Chardon living from hand to mouth, thanks to the Treaty of Amiens. Jem knew they could defeat their opponents, who were post captains like himself, with ample prize money to see them through the irritation of peacetime. Chardon needed a big win to support his habit of eating and sleeping under a roof.
‘I’d be delighted,’ Jem said, and sat down.
‘Our Yankee captain,’ one of the opposing captains said, and not with any real friendship.
Jem shrugged it off as he always did. There were worse things to be called. Hadn’t his older friend Captain Benjamin Hallowell, also a Massachusetts Yankee, managed to become one of Sir Horatio Nelson’s storied Band of Brothers after the Battle of the Nile?
‘Aye, sir,’ he said, broadening his relatively unnoticeable American accent.
Jem motioned for Lieutenant Chardon to shuffle the deck.Ninety minutes later, he had the satisfaction of watching the captains fork over a substantial sum to Chardon. A note to Mrs Fillion had brought sandwiches and beer to their table. Jem wasn’t hungry, but he suspected Chardon was. How nice to see him eat and play at the same time.
After the captains left, grumbling, Chardon tried to divide the money. Jem shook his head. When the lieutenant started to protest, Jem put up his hand.
‘I have been where you are now,’ he said simply. ‘This discussion is over, Lieutenant Chardon.’
And it was; that was the beauty of outranking a lieutenant. He invited Chardon to join him down the street at a fearsome pit of a café serving amazing sausages swaddled in thick bread. He ate one to Chardon’s three, bid him goodnight and returned to the Drake, before the lieutenant, not so poor now, could go in anonymity and without embarrassment to his meagre lodgings. In due time if Chardon survived, once war resumed, he would have his own prize money earning further income in Carter and Brustein’s counting house.
‘You may prefer me not to say this, Captain Grey,’ Chardon told him as they parted company. ‘You are a man of honour.’
Jem Grey returned the little bow and made his way back to warm and comfortable quarters at the Drake. He could unbutton his trousers, kick off his shoes, lie down on a bed that did not sway with the current, and contemplate his next step, now that he knew Theodora Winnings had loved him eleven years ago.
Chapter Two (#u0127df64-7fd3-5f4e-9620-5c63f7e14f27)
After a beastly night worrying how long Teddy Winnings had waited for him to reply to her letter, James scraped away at the whiskers on his face, slouched downstairs to the dining room, and settled for a coffee and a roll, which didn’t please Mrs Fillion.
‘I really hope you’re not still troubled over that unfortunate letter,’ she said as she poured him a cup. ‘I worried enough for both of us.’
‘No, no,’ he lied, then repented because he knew Mrs Fillion was intelligent. ‘Aye, I did worry some.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
He looked around the dining room, wishing there were someone seated who had more courage dealing with Mrs Fillion. He saw none, and he knew most of the room’s occupants. Men could be such cowards.
‘I don’t know,’ he said frankly.
Honesty appeared to be the best policy with Mrs Fillion. She declined further comment, to his relief passed on to her next customer, coffee pot in hand.
He had a headful of things to do, but lying awake nearly all night had pushed one agenda directly to the top of his mind’s disorderly heap. His jaw ached. A man feeling as low as he did could only take the next step, which he did. He drew his boat cloak tight around him and walked to Stonehouse Naval Hospital.
Unwilling to face the nosy clerks in Admin, Jem walked directly to Building Two, where an orderly met him at the door.
‘Where away, captain?’ the man asked, in proper navy fashion.
‘Surgeon Owen Brackett,’ he said. ‘Tell him James Grey would like a word, if it’s convenient.’
The orderly touched his forehead and gestured to a sitting room. It must not have been convenient for Owen, because Jem sat there for at least thirty minutes. Still in a dark mood, he read through the obituaries in the Naval Chronicle, remembering the time he was listed there when his frigate had been declared missing after a typhoon in the Pacific. When the Nautilus finally made port in Plymouth a year later, there had been surprised looks from the harbourmaster. He smiled at the memory.
‘Jem, what brings you here?’ he heard from the doorway.
If Jem had thought he looked tired when he stared into his shaving mirror this morning, he was a bright ray of sunshine compared to Owen Brackett.
‘I thought this damned peace treaty would turn you into a man of leisure,’ he said to Owen as they shook hands.
‘Hardly. Why is it you deep-water sailors have so many ear infections?’ Owen asked.
‘Too many watches on deck in storms,’ Jem replied promptly. ‘If you don’t have time...’
‘I do. What’s the matter?’
Everything, Jem thought. A proposal of marriage I tendered was accepted eleven years ago but I never saw it. ‘My jaw aches,’ he said instead.
Owen gestured for him to come down the hall to his office. ‘Have a seat and tip your head back,’ the surgeon said. With skilled fingers, he probed, asked a few questions with his hand still in Jem’s mouth, and nodded at Jem’s strangled replies.
‘Tense jaw is all. You’ve been gritting your teeth for years,’ he pronounced. ‘It’s a common complaint in the navy.’
‘Surely not,’ Jem said. ‘I don’t grit my teeth.’
‘Probably every time you sail into battle,’ Owen countered.
Jem opened his mouth for more denial, then closed it. The surgeon was probably right. ‘What’s the cure?’
‘Peace. Maybe a wife,’ Owen replied with a smile. He consulted his timepiece. ‘There is a shepherd’s pie cooling below deck in the galley. Join me for luncheon? The ale is surprisingly good here.’
They walked downstairs together, the surgeon talking about gonorrhoea with an orderly who stopped him on the stairs with a question. It was more information than Jem wanted or needed, but he couldn’t interrupt a friend with no spare time, peace or war. Good thing Owen already had a patient wife.
Owen was right about the shepherd’s pie, which had the odd facility of both filling his stomach and loosening his tongue, although that could have been the fault of the ale. A fast eater from years of necessity, he decided to ask Owen’s advice about the letter, while the surgeon served himself another helping.
‘Here I am, the proud possessor of a letter in which a young woman I love, or at least loved, accepted my proposal,’ he concluded. ‘I’m curious to know how she has fared through the years.’
‘You say she is pretty.’
‘Quite, but that’s not the half of it. She was so kind to me.’
Even now Jem clearly remembered the loveliness of Teddy Winnings’ creamy complexion, and the deep pools of compassion in her eyes at first, followed a few weeks later by lively interest when he was coherent and—he hoped—charming. Young he may have been, but he was a gentleman. He had known he was enjoying the company of a young lady properly raised, and behaved himself.
‘Her father ran Winnings Mercantile and Victuallers, a few doors down from the hospital and convent,’ he told Owen Brackett. ‘It was a substantial business, and I imagine she had plenty of young men interested in her.’
‘She’s likely long-married,’ Owen said.
‘Aye.’ He hesitated to say more so Owen filled in.
‘But you’re going to cross the Atlantic and find out, aren’t you?’ the surgeon asked.
There it was, laid out before him, the very thing Jem wanted to do. Owen knew.
‘Better see a tailor right away and get yourself a civilian wardrobe,’ Owen said as he stood up and held out his hand.
Jem shook his hand. ‘Don’t tell anyone. I’m ashore on half pay, but I’m not certain Admiralty House would be happy.’
‘Why not?’ Owen asked as they headed to the main floor again. ‘We’re at peace, and that unpleasantness with the colonies is long over.’ He took a good look at Jem. ‘You want to go back, don’t you, and not just for Miss Winnings.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘I don’t know what I want,’ Jem replied frankly. ‘I liked living in Massachusetts Colony, but when you’re ten years old and your parents pull all the strings...’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t say anything.’
‘I’ll be as silent as an abbey of Trappist monks,’ Owen assured him. ‘Bon voyage, friend. Let me know at what longitude your jaw ache ends.’
James took himself to his tailor in the Barbican, who opened his ledger to Jem’s previous measurements and congratulated him on maintaining an enviable trimness.
‘It’s easy enough to do in southern latitudes, when you sweat off every ounce of fat,’ Jem said.
Of nightshirts and smallclothes he had an adequate amount. Shoes, too. He assured his tailor that three suits of clothes would suffice, and he could use his navy boat cloak. He reconsidered. As much as he loved the thing, one look would give him away immediately as a member of the Royal Navy, which was perhaps not so wise. He could store his Navy uniforms with Mrs Fillion.
