Chapter Nine
I t would have been a simple matter to drift off to sleep, holding his son.
John rubbed his eyes as he sat up carefully beside his slumbering boy.
The sad child he had parted from so reluctantly had much to say, telling his Papa that Miss Fontaine liked to sew on buttons and walk.
‘Papa, we have been everywhere ,’ Allan assured him as he cuddled close.
‘I imagine you have,’ John told him, even as he smiled inside at his memories of the Caribbean, the Kingdom of Sicily, the cold Baltic Sea with its equally reserved inhabitants, and the exuberance of Africa. Everywhere, son? Little do you know .
‘It’s a nice room,’ Allan said, ‘but I liked Missy’s room, too. That’s what I call Miss Fontaine.’
‘What, you slept in there?’ he asked, then considered the matter. Probably the last thing Anna wanted to do was sleep here in Will’s room, with memories of a brother, dead and gone.
‘Mrs Moore found a cot,’ Allan explained simply. ‘And Missy held my hand when I cried.’
John put his hands over his eyes, collecting himself. He knew Anna was waiting downstairs, and from her air of composed distraction, he knew it wasn’t good news.
Still, how much time did he have with this lovely child ?
‘Do you like it here?’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Allan said, then laughed. ‘Missy also told me she likes to cuddle.’ Allan touched his face. ‘Papa, she is softer than you are.’
‘I imagine she is.’ John had noticed that Miss Fontaine was not all angles and planes. His face warmed to think of the careful way he had patted the pillow in his quarters aboard the Swallow , shaping it just so… Nothing for Allan to know about.
His boy yawned, cuddled, relaxed all over, and slept.
John lay there, amused at himself for pretending that his life was this simple—a father putting his son to bed, then going downstairs to read the paper, or to tease a wife as she tried to darn socks, or even putting his head in her lap, and see where that led.
Nice for some—not for him. Napoleon had dictated otherwise.
Up you get , he told himself. Face the bad news .
He watched Anna from the door of the sitting room, admiring her as she sat so still.
Maybe she was thinking of Will, who never could say enough kind things about her.
Will said once that he doubted any human could remain in a state of turmoil, just being around his sister.
‘Annie has mastered the art of being still.’
There it was before him. Miss Fontaine, you would be the perfect wife in our world gone mad , he thought.
He quickly assured himself that idea was a bolt out of the blue and impossible.
But because war waited for him impatiently, tapping its skeletal toes, he had to find someone to care for his son. Perhaps Anna had a suggestion.
She looked up. John knew he had never seen such beautiful eyes anywhere. The single men in Plymouth must be remarkably stupid , he thought, then mentally swatted those thoughts away.
‘Captain, we have a problem.’
At least she didn’t say, you have a problem. An optimistic man could take heart at that quiet comment, but he was a realist.
‘Give me the news, Miss Fontaine. You can’t keep Allan with you. Is that it?’
She blinked in surprise. ‘What are you saying? Don’t be absurd.’
He hadn’t expected that. ‘You mean, you want to continue with this responsibility?’ Another stare, or maybe it was a glare. ‘Well… I…he must be a burden… The circumstances…’ Shut up, John , he told himself.
In a moment she was on her feet, hands on hips. She spoke most distinctly. ‘Let us come to a proper understanding, Captain Beattie. I gave you my word that I would watch over Allan. I never break my word. Let me tell you what has happened.’
She sat down. He was smart enough to sit beside her and keep his mouth closed.
Her irritation left her quickly, replaced by worry. ‘Captain, it’s a most unfortunate thing, blown entirely out of proportion.’ She raised her hands in frustration. ‘It’s my neighbours.’
That was the cork out of the bottle. Mincing no words, she told of someone named Mrs Dalton totally misunderstanding a simple early-morning hug on the front step, and spreading the news to the rest of her neighbours.
The whole thing was so ridiculous that his first instinct was to laugh.
A look at Anna, close to tears, stopped him from being a complete idiot.
‘You mean…oh, you couldn’t possibly mean… Mrs. Dalton thinks you and I are involved in a…a…clandestine affair?’ he managed to choke out.
‘Plainly put, sir, she saw you coming out of my house in the early morning, and assumed… Well, you can imagine.’
He could. ‘Miss Fontaine, I am so sorry. Surely we can explain…’
‘I’ve tried. She won’t even open her door to me. And the other neighbours…’ She shuddered. ‘They turn away when I see them.’ She stood and paced the length of the room, stopping in front of him. ‘What’s worse is she also tattled to the curate, and he paid me a visit, too.’
‘The curate ?’
‘He inflicted himself on our parish several months ago. Our old vicar, a most sensible man, is not doing well, and Reverend Maddy is a substitute,’ she told him, her irritation evident in her whole demeanour.
John leaned back. ‘Now you will tell me that he didn’t believe a word of your explanation, preferring to assume the worst.’
‘Obviously I don’t have to tell you that.’ She sank down on the sofa beside him. ‘I ordered him out of my house.’
It all sounded so trivial to him, so easily explained, and so far removed from his usual occupation that he still wanted to laugh, and tell her the whole thing would blow over. He took her hand instead.
‘Miss Fontaine, as I already mentioned, I must leave tomorrow afternoon. I have no opportunity to make other arrangements for my son.’
The mention of Allan seemed to settle her, which he found touching beyond belief. If she had opened the door weeks ago on a hissing snake and invited it inside, she would have been better off than she was now, with her neighbours disapproving, and a self-righteous curate ready to pounce.
‘I know I am taxing you to the limit. Dare I hope that my boy may remain here?’
‘Certainly he may,’ she said promptly. ‘I like Allan.’ She turned to face him, giving him an up-close view of a pretty face with freckles on her nose. He hadn’t noticed them before; then again, he hadn’t been so close except for that pernicious embrace.
‘Captain Beattie, I’ve managed to live for twenty-nine years calling no attention to myself. I’ve done nothing wrong. Could you speak with the curate?’
‘Consider it done,’ he said. ‘I still must leave by tomorrow’s tide. I may be gone a month or more. Miss Fontaine, my life is not my own, but I will speak to the curate.’
‘Early church is at eight o’ clock.’
‘We will go and I will talk to him afterwards.’ He shouldn’t have, but he gave her a little nudge, something he might do to Allan. ‘It will work out.’
To say that his sleep that night was sweet and deep would be a gross exaggeration, beyond the fact that Allan was a little furnace and he was warm. He slept finally, hopeful that a man of God would understand.