Chapter Three
Andrew spent the rest of the evening observing the Drake’s perpetual whist game. The other officers knew who he was and what he had endured. The whispers went around, but they were too kind—or too involved in whist—to question him, which suited him.
Back in his room, he put the letter in his nearly empty duffel bag. It was a small thing, something easily overlooked. He had meant to give it to Mrs Fillion to mail to the sailing master’s widow, because there was no time for even a short trip of consolation to Endicott.
‘Are you still there, Mary?’ he asked out loud. ‘I earnestly hope so.’
He lay wide awake for the longest time, remembering the battle in Aboukir Bay, falling masts, decks splintered at close range and the fearful explosion of the French L’Orient, close enough for his Leander to feel the sudden heat.
He knew Aboukir Bay had been his first mention in the Naval Chronicle, because his captain cited his courage under the guns of Spartiate and Tonnant, and the death of Master Hale, well-known in the fleet.
He barely slept, and woke to bad weather, which went from bad to worse during breakfast, rain becoming sleet, then snow and icy roads. It may have matched his mood, thinking of the undelivered letter, but he was impatient to be off.
To his chagrin, not even the mail coach moved from Plymouth until mid-morning. Before he left the Drake, Mrs Fillion handed Andrew two slices of bread and meat, delivered with apology in her eyes. He ate the sandwich before he was halfway down the road, unable to resist food.
He made himself comfortable in the mail coach, seated in a corner with his borrowed boat cloak to keep him warm. He regarded his companion travellers with interest, mainly because one stood out.
She was a lovely English beauty, the quiet kind. Her hair, brown with red highlights, was pulled back into a bun low on her neck. She glanced at him once or twice, out of blue English eyes the hue of his own.
He knew from Mediterranean experience that women of Italy and Spain powdered themselves to get that delicate blush. This lady needed no embellishment. He admired her, happy to know that England still produced the fairest flowers.
Seated close to her and leaning against her arm was a little chap. The two of them made a pretty picture, clearly mother and son. So much for his wandering thoughts.
Or not. The next person to board was a younger woman cut from the same cloth as the first beauty.
He noticed the baby bulge that even a cloak couldn’t hide.
When she touched the little boy’s head, Andy noticed a gold band.
He laughed to himself, surmising now that this was a mother and son, and Pretty Lady perhaps an older sister.
The last person to board plumped herself down beside him. She wore a winter hat that had seen a few years, like its owner. She wedged a large basket with eggs and bread between them.
No one said anything. He knew he had no leave to brazen up a conversation with women as ordinary as himself, but who appeared well-mannered. It would be a silent trip, and a short one. Endicott was eleven miles away.
So he thought, except that the journey became an ordeal, thanks to the weather. In the space of an hour, he learned how ill-prepared he was, how utterly useless.
They made adequate time, until the road turned icy.
The coachman slowed down immediately. The same could not be said for a post-chaise, whose outrider, coated with ice, tried to pass the mail coach.
The result was two of the post horses down and the chaise spinning around and blocking the whole road.
From the look of his front leg, one horse would never rise again.
The other flailed and kicked, striking the horse behind him, which took exception and bit the animal.
Hysterical shrieks inside the chaise made Andy wince.
The mail coach couldn’t move forward, plain and simple. It couldn’t turn around, as other vehicles piled up behind. The post rider did the necessary thing. He took out a pistol.
Pretty Lady across from him closed her book, her face a study in concern. ‘Bess, Papa would have a fit if he knew what was going on,’ she said. ‘Cover Ben’s eyes and ears.’
Bess obeyed, then turned her face into her sister’s shoulder, which told Andy worlds about both women, because he knew what command looked like. Pretty Lady stared at her lap as the post rider fired.
Egg Lady, seated next to him, shook her head. ‘Now there’s a bloke without a job.’
To his surprise, Pretty Lady acknowledged him. ‘Sir, you do not see this sort of thing at sea.’
‘Not horses,’ he replied, pleased she didn’t mind conversation with a stranger. ‘Not even mermaids,’ he added, which made her smile.
The other horse thrashed about, but the road was too icy to attempt raising the animal. It kicked slower and slower, resigned to its own fate, as other wagons and vehicles piled up behind the mail coach, with the post-chaise blocking the entire road in both directions.
Hours passed as carters and drivers milled about, then retreated to their own vehicles to wait.
The sisters whispered among themselves, Egg Lady slept and Andrew shivered.
Worse yet, Andy felt his still-shrunken stomach growling.
He possessed no warmth or strength to deal with this, except he knew that he had to.
Something worse happened, something unexpected.
His ordinarily rational mind, used to hardship, suddenly yanked him back to that hated prison, where he recalled one awful night.
The most sadistic of their keepers left a plate of roast beef and buttered bread outside the grate where prison food was usually shoved in.
They saw and smelled the food, but could not reach it.
The memory became reality again, rendering Andy nearly helpless.
It became too much. His remembered trauma landed him back in prison. A wooden door in his mind swung shut, as it had two years ago. To his horror, he began to weep. ‘I’m sorry,’ he gasped between bouts of tears.
Escape. He had done it once before. He tried to leave the coach. Instead, he dropped to his knees and fainted.
He came around quickly enough. Egg Lady held him tight, right there on the floor of the coach. ‘What has the war done to you?’ she murmured, as Pretty Lady wiped his forehead. Good God, how could he be sweating? But he was.
‘Food. Anything,’ Andy managed to say. ‘I’ve been a prisoner of the French. It’s hard…can’t explain…so hungry.’
‘No need to explain,’ Egg Lady said. She handed him half a loaf of bread. ‘An egg,’ Andrew urged, ‘please,’ appalled that he sounded like a beggar and not a sailing master, respected by captain and crew.
She dug a little well in the loaf, cracked in two raw eggs, and held it to his mouth. He swallowed the eggs and chewed on the bread until he felt rational again.
He sat back, still in Egg Lady’s embrace, and spoke to Pretty Lady. ‘I spent the last two years imprisoned in Spain, courtesy of the French,’ he said quietly. ‘Cold. No food. I thought I was done with that ordeal, but it came back now. Forgive me.’
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ Pretty Lady said, her eyes kind. To Andy’s both relief and humiliation, she took charge. ‘I will see what we can do. Stay here, Ben,’ she told the boy. ‘Bess, stay inside. We can’t have you falling.’
Andrew heard her talking to the coachman, who stuck his head in and explained their situation.
‘Air’s warming a tad, sir. All it takes is a little degree or two.
No snow now. We’ll be moving eventually.
’ He shook his head at the post-chaise stalled in front of them. ‘Poor horses. I treat mine better.’
Egg Lady tried to straighten up. ‘Ooh, I’m not used to this. Old bones.’
‘Let me help you.’
Pretty Lady was stronger than Andy would have thought. She helped him to his seat first, then guided Egg Lady back to her place. She calmly took charge.
She seemed to understand Andrew’s embarrassment. ‘I’m certain your trials outweigh any of ours. I can do this.’
He saw only concern on her face. ‘I am Sailing Master Andrew Hadfield. I should have stayed in hospital.’ That sounded stupid, but his well was dry.
‘I’m Rose Harte. This is my sister, Bess Wilkins, and her Ben. Let me help you.’
‘I’m so ashamed.’
‘No worries, sir.’
Andy wanted the bottom to drop out of the mail coach, and the road to open and swallow him whole. Instead, he listened as the sisters conferred.
Bess whispered to her son, who seated himself next to Andy. ‘Now, sir,’ Bess said, ‘I am going to wrap your cloak around you both. Ben is chilly. You can keep each other warm.’
Andy’s arm went around Ben, who smiled at him and snuggled close. ‘There you are.’ She looked at her sister, standing in the coach door. ‘What now, Rosie?’
‘I have an idea.’
She was gone only a few minutes. When she returned, her cheeks were even rosier. If he hadn’t felt so useless, Andy knew he could have enjoyed the moment. Rosie, she was.
‘Here’s what I did, sir,’ she said to him.
‘The post rider has removed both horses. He still has two, of course. I petitioned our coachman to ask the post riders with the chaise if they can take you to Endicott with them. Since this is a mail coach, our driver must make two stops before we get there. The chaise will go straight through, even with only two horses.’
He wanted to tell them he could manage, except that he knew he couldn’t. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘So kind.’
The wait continued. Ben was a warm little furnace, as Bess predicted.
Andy’s eyes were closing when the mail coachman opened the door a crack.
‘Sir, that post-chaise is free now. I will ask the occupants if you can accompany them as far as Endicott, where there is a good inn.’ He brightened.
‘I’ll tell ’um you are a sailor what kept blokes like us safe from the Frogs. We’ll see.’
In minutes, their coachman returned, angry.
‘The post rider agreed, but his passengers won’t hear of it.
“A sailor might murder us for our money,” that wretched woman said!
’ A muscle in his jaw worked. ‘They’ll be gone in a few minutes, and good riddance.
We will get sorted out soon. I’m sorry, sir. It’s a slow ride for you, after all.’
His glum expression nearly broke Andrew’s heart. ‘I am sorry you had to ask.’ He looked at the goodness around him. ‘I’ll manage. I’ve had some food.’
In minutes, Ben snuggled close and returned to sleep, giving off marvelous warmth. Egg Lady cracked two more eggs into a cup, stirred vigorously and gave it to Andy. Nothing ever tasted better.
He had closed his eyes when the coachman called down from his perch. ‘We’re next in line!’
The sisters whispered together. ‘Sir, my husband will meet us at Endicott. We’ll try to get you to… Where?’ Bess asked.
‘The local inn,’ Andrew told her. ‘I am trying to locate the widow of a sailing master who died at the Battle of the Nile.’
‘Your world is so far away from ours, and certainly more consequential,’ Pretty Lady told him. ‘We owe you a debt for keeping us safe from Napoleon.’
I owe you a debt for kindness, he thought. I had forgotten how kindness felt.