A Christmas Delivery #2
It was just past three o'clock, the winter light was already fading, when disaster struck. A wheel of the carriage caught in a deep rut hidden beneath the snow, and with a sickening crack, it broke. No one was injured, but the carriage would go no further.
“We’re still three miles from Millfield, sir,” his driver reported grimly after assessing the damage. “I’ll need to walk to the nearest posting house for help.”
Fitzwilliam gazed up at the darkening sky. “How long?” he asked.
“An hour there and back at least, Colonel, and then they’ll need daylight to make repairs,” the driver explained.
It meant he would be forced to spend the night in whatever accommodation he could find in Millfield. The thought did not please him.
“I will walk ahead while you arrange repairs.”
The driver looked doubtful. “The roads are treacherous. And with your leg…”
“My leg will manage,” Fitzwilliam said curtly, cutting off further protest. “My batman knows where I am headed.”
A few minutes later, he was walking north, his greatcoat pulled tight against the biting wind, all of Blake’s possessions in his pockets. The snow had begun again, light flurries that promised to intensify. His leg throbbed with each step, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on.
The daylight was nearly gone when he reached Millfield, a modest village clustered around a small green.
Lights glowed warmly from small cottage windows, and smoke rose from chimneys into the darkening sky.
He stopped at the village inn -a neat, well-kept establishment called The Hart and Hound- and inquired after Old Mill Road.
“Just past the church, sir,” the innkeeper directed him. “Though if you’re calling on someone there, you might want to wait until morning. Storm’s setting in proper now.”
Fitzwilliam glanced out the window at the thickening snow. “I have come a long way on an urgent matter. My business cannot wait.”
After being assured that this was the only inn in Millfield, he secured accommodation for himself and his men, described the carriage so that the innkeeper could send help, and set out on foot toward Old Mill Lane. He gazed up at the sky. The snow was falling more heavily now.
Number 14 proved to be a small but tidy cottage at the end of the lane. Fitzwilliam hesitated, suddenly aware of his bedraggled appearance and the lateness of the hour. But he had come too far to turn back now.
He rapped firmly on the door.
A moment later, the door opened to reveal a young woman of perhaps twenty-five years. She had soft brown hair pulled back from a face that, while not conventionally beautiful, possessed a quiet dignity. Her simple gray dress marked her as still in mourning.
Recognition flickered in her eyes. “Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
He bowed slightly. “Mrs. Blake. Forgive the intrusion and the hour. I received your letter and came as soon as I could.”
Her surprise was evident. “You came yourself? In this weather? I had only thought you might send the item, if you still had it.”
“May I come in? The journey was somewhat challenging.”
“Oh, of course!” She stepped aside, visibly flustered. “Please, you must be frozen through.”
The cottage’s main room was modest but comfortable, with a fire burning merrily in the grate. A woman who appeared to be several years older than Mrs. Blake sat in a chair by the fire, some mending in her hands. She looked up in surprise at Fitzwilliam's entrance.
“This is my sister, Mrs. Harris,” Mrs. Blake explained. “Mary, this is Colonel Fitzwilliam, Thomas's commanding officer.”
Mrs. Harris nodded respectfully, setting aside her sewing and rising to her feet. “Colonel. What an unexpected honour.”
She took his coat and laid it over the back of the little sofa on the side nearest the fire. Then she quietly slipped out of the room, leaving him and Major Blake’s wife to speak privately.
“James is already abed,” Mrs. Blake said, taking a seat opposite him.
“He has had a cold, and we are trying to get the better of it.” She smiled softly.
“He would have been so excited to meet you. Thomas wrote of your kindness to the officers under your command. He said he had never served under a better officer or a better man.”
Fitzwilliam looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “Your husband was an exceptional officer, Mrs. Blake.”
“Did he . . . did he die well, then?” she asked quietly.
He hesitated, searching for words that would comfort, but at last simply stated the truth. “He died saving lives,” he said finally, “mine among them.”
He did not elaborate, and she did not ask for more. Instead, she said, “I am grateful you have come. But surely you have family waiting for you at Christmas? To travel in this weather-”
“No one is waiting,” he replied, more abruptly than he intended. That was not entirely true, was it? Then, softening his tone, “That is, I have no immediate family of my own.” He acknowledged.
Before she could respond, the door from the kitchen opened, but instead of Mrs. Harris, a small boy in a nightshirt appeared, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
“Mamma?” he said, then stopped, staring wide-eyed at Fitzwilliam.
“James,” Mrs. Blake said, rising quickly. “You should be asleep.”
“I heard voices.” The boy continued to stare at Fitzwilliam, particularly at his red officer's coat which he had not removed. “Are you an officer like my Papa?”
Fitzwilliam found himself unexpectedly moved by the child's direct gaze. He had his father's eyes -clear and direct, though softened with the innocence of youth.
“Yes,” he answered. “I served with your father.”
The boy took a step forward, all sleepiness gone. “Did you fight at Waterloo? Mama says that is where Father fought the French.”
“James,” his mother said gently.
But Fitzwilliam raised his hand. “It is quite all right.” He met the boy’s eager gaze. “Yes, I was at Waterloo. Your father and I fought side by side.”
James's eyes grew even wider. “Was he brave? Mama says he was very brave.”
“The bravest man I knew,” Fitzwilliam replied, and he meant it. “He saved my life that day.”
The boy seemed to consider this, his small face serious. “I do not remember him very well,” he admitted in a small voice, “only a little.”
Fitzwilliam felt something twist inside him -pity, yes, but also a strange kinship with this fatherless child.
He glanced at Mrs. Blake and motioned at his greatcoat.
She smiled and nodded. Fitzwilliam reached into one of the cavernous pockets and withdrew the wooden box.
“Your father wanted you to have this,” he said, extending it to the boy.
“He made it himself while we awaited our orders, thinking of you all the while.”
James approached cautiously, then took the box with reverent hands. He glanced at his mother, who nodded encouragement, before carefully lifting the lid.
His gasp of delight as he removed the wooden horse was genuine, his face transformed by joy. “Mama, look. A horse just like Papa’s!”
Mrs. Blake's eyes filled with tears as she nodded. “Just like his,” she agreed, her voice barely steady.
James turned the toy in his hands, examining every detail with the solemn attention only children can give to treasured objects. “And he made it just for me?”
“Just for you,” Fitzwilliam confirmed. “He spoke of you often, and showed everyone the miniatures he carried of you and your mother.”
At that moment, Mrs. Harris returned with a tea tray and gasped to find her nephew out of bed. “James! What are you doing out of bed?”
“Look what Papa sent me!” The boy held up the horse proudly.
Mrs. Harris's expression softened as she set down the tray. “It is beautiful, love. But now you must return to bed and let your mother and Colonel Fitzwilliam have their tea in peace.”
James clutched the horse to his chest. “Can I take it with me?”
“Of course,” his mother said. “But your aunt is right. Back to bed now.”
The boy nodded, but before turning to go, he looked up at Fitzwilliam with earnest eyes. “Thank you for bringing my horse, sir.”
Fitzwilliam was deeply, unexpectedly touched. “You are very welcome, James.”
After the boy had been escorted back to bed by his aunt, Mrs. Blake poured tea with hands that trembled slightly. “I cannot thank you enough, Colonel. You have given him something precious beyond measure.”
“I should have sent it months ago,” he admitted. “The fault is entirely mine.”
She shook her head. “You were wounded, recovering. And from the letters the other wives received I understand the battle was terrible beyond imagination.”
“Yes,” he said simply, accepting the cup she offered.
They sat in silence for a moment, the only sounds the crackling of the fire and the wind howling outside.
“His last words were of you and James,” Fitzwilliam said abruptly, the memory clear despite the months that had passed.
“He said, 'Tell them I love them.' I should have written to you immediately with his words.” He reached into his pocket again and produced the letters.
“I have something for you as well: another failure for which I must apologize.”
Mrs. Blake was silent, tears flowing freely down her face as she took the letters and pressed them to her chest. But when she finally spoke, her voice was steady.
“It is not a failure, not at all. You have delivered his words to me now, precisely when I am at last ready to hear them.
And you have brought James the certainty of his father's love for Christmas. There is nothing to forgive and everything to be grateful for.”
The clock on the mantel chimed six-thirty, startling them both with the realization of how much time had passed.
“You must stay the night,” Mrs. Blake said, rising. “The storm has worsened, and the inn is likely full of travelers stranded by the weather.”
“I have secured rooms at the Hart and Hound,” he assured her. “And I would not impose further on your hospitality.”