Chapter Four
Rosie Harte waited until the navy man slept.
There was no denying the exhaustion on his face.
Working in Plymouth, with occasional ventures beyond the ledgers and clerks of Gooding’s Maritime Naval Stores, had acquainted her with navy men of firm expression, tight lips and abundant wrinkles, especially around their eyes.
This man seated across from her had the same look, except he was entirely depleted.
‘Such men have stories to tell,’ she whispered to Bess.
Her little sister could be a tease. ‘Rosie, Mr Gooding probably did you a favour, keeping you safe inside from navy men and their yarns!’
‘Aye,’ Rosie replied with both feeling and affection. ‘You might be right.’ She sighed. ‘This one sounds genuine. Prison? Imagine.’
She returned to her book, determined not to worry, as the coachman picked his careful way along a route travelled faster in better weather. She knew Papa would be waiting for her in Endicott, whether the roads were passable or not. That was Papa.
She thought about the comforts of home. Aunt Dorothea Hudgens would have a hot meal ready, accompanied with her good-natured scolding about how her precious niece was living in a dangerous town with sailors on the lookout for vulnerable females.
I am not a vulnerable female, Rosie thought.
Still, it pleased her to know that someone loved her enough to worry.
She looked at the navy man, wondering if anyone in his life worried about him. She decided no, not if his destination was an inn at Christmastime.
Her thoughts took her home. Aunt Dorothea, widowed and childless, had cared for Papa and her nieces as long as Rosie could remember. When Papa stewed over whether his oldest child should leave his prosperous farm for God-help-us Plymouth, Aunt Hudgens calmly assured him that ladies had brains, too.
Rosie had used her brains for eight years.
She was single, and possessed of a modest income.
Lately, though, something had entered her heart, turned around a few times like a dog before the hearth and made itself at home.
That vague ‘something’ reminded her every time she saw Bess so happy with her husband and child, and another on the way.
At twenty-seven, Rosie knew she didn’t want domestic life to pass her by.
Eight years earlier, she had no qualms about taking a position as clerk at Gooding’s Maritime Naval Stores in Plymouth, even though such ambition in a woman was rare.
She smiled at the memory. Dear Vicar Ewing of St. Timothy’s had been her teacher in his school for parish children unburdened by tutors and wealthy parents.
It had been the vicar who cajoled his sister’s husband, John Gooding, to take on his numbers-minded student in his business.
The job came with a comfortable room on the upper floor above the store.
She never expected to be paid as well as the men, even if her skills equalled theirs. That was how the world worked.
There were other considerations. Aunt Dorothea was not getting one minute younger.
Rosie knew her aunt had maintained her own house in Endicott, even though she lived at the farm.
She hadn’t begrudged caring for two motherless girls and keeping her brother’s house.
Perhaps Rosie could relieve her dear aunt of the toil and let her return home.
Rosie knew she could keep house, if no suitor showed up. She was already a spinster.
Rosie looked up from her contemplation of her gloves. She could barely see the sailing master as dusk approached. Rosie couldn’t recall a time when she had missed even one meal. Does one catch up on food, after years as a prisoner? she asked herself. Unlikely.
‘Think,’ he muttered. Nothing more.
Surprised, she watched him, aware she had no idea how men managed their lives on fighting ships, her nation’s defenders.
She thought of salt beef, yards of canvas and buckets of smelly tar that she carefully balanced with precision in Mr Gooding’s ledgers.
Her navy had been reduced to numbers in a ledger, and here was a navy man mumbling in his sleep, ‘Think.’
She smiled when Bess snuggled close, much as Ben kept company with the sleeping man. She felt her sister surrender to sleep, leaving Rosie to worry about the icy road and the patient horses trained to bit and harness in all weather.
Rosie glanced at the sleeping Egg Lady. Now it was her job to oversee everyone’s safe arrival at Endicott, since only she was awake.
So she thought. Rosie turned her attention to the sailing master, whose eyes were open now. She wondered if he could take some gentle humour. Why not? She would surely never see him again.
‘See here, sir,’ she whispered. ‘It is my watch. You are at perfect leisure to sleep.’
He chuckled. Weary, threadbare and taxed to the limit, at least he could laugh. It was forward of her to quiz a stranger. He could reply or ignore her.
‘That is usually my occupation,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘I spent two years watching over a skinny bunch of tars in prison. Duty dies hard.’
‘Or not at all,’ she replied. He didn’t seem like someone who engaged in small talk.
He sighed. ‘And so I think things through.’
He sounded weary. It was brazen of her, but she reached across the small space separating them and touched his ragged cloak. ‘Truly, it’s my turn. Sleep.’
He did. She sat there, comfortable in Bess’s warmth, Bess a trusting little sister through trying times, and now a treasured wife to a good man. Bess dear, I could envy you, if I didn’t love you, she thought.
So Rosie Harte watched over them. Not far from Endicott, she felt the road ice up again, with corresponding caution from horses and coachman, who watched over them all, and the Royal Mail in its padlocked box.
Their stops at small villages were quickly accomplished.
Finally, through swirling snow, Rosie saw Endicott.
She wondered if Mr Coachman would blow on his yard of tin in this silent world.
He did, because his horses were tired and there were fresh ones waiting for the harness and the continuing trip taking them through other slumbering villages toward Exeter.
Everyone woke up by degrees, sailing master first, then Egg Lady, Bess and Ben.
‘Mama, will Papa be here for us?’
‘Aye, son,’ Bess said. She nudged Rosie. ‘Sis, you’re a fine pillow.’
The coach swayed as the driver left his perch. He opened the door. ‘Endicott, thank the Lord.’ He held out his gloved hand for Egg Lady. ‘Is someone here for you, goodwife?’
She pointed to an elderly gent picking his way across the frozen ground. Rosie saw her father next, getting down from the familiar gig, with her brother-in-law right behind him in his larger vehicle.
The sailing master waited for his turn to leave the coach. Rosie thought he might object to a hand down from the coachman, but he didn’t. ‘Still not too steady, sir?’
‘Alas, no, Mr Coachman. Is there an inn?’
‘Full up,’ said the ostler cheerfully, as he reached for the lead horses’ harnesses. ‘Roads are bad in all directions. You know inns and Christmas, sir.’
‘Is there somewhere I can wait?’
Poor man, you are so weary, Rosie thought.
Bess and Ben had already been handed into her husband’s gig.
Papa held out his hand to her. She looked at the sailing master, who leaned against the mail coach, eyes closed.
The navy officers in Plymouth always appeared in control and decisive.
This one was tired, he was sick, he was human and he appeared not to know what to do.
Her heart went out to him, and she did something unexpected, against her usually cautious nature. ‘Papa, may we help this man? He’s a Royal Navy master of some sort who escaped from a Spanish prison. May he stay with us tonight?’
She took Papa’s hand and tugged him toward the coach, where the ostler was harnessing the new team. The sailing master opened his eyes at their approach and tried to brace himself in what she was certain was his usual military way. He failed utterly.
Please, Papa, please, she thought.
He didn’t fail her, even as Rosie wondered why this mattered so much to her. ‘Ho, lad, you’re coming with us,’ Papa stated firmly. ‘Nothing is open in Endicott, and you look like someone who bit off more than he can chew.’
She held her breath. Master Hadfield could easily say no, and do…what? She took his arm, silently begging him not to resist. ‘Papa, we’re kidnapping this stubborn man and taking him home.’
Papa took his other arm. ‘Sir, I never argue with my daughter when she is resolved.’
The sailing master did not resist. In fact, he surprised her, perhaps as much as she had surprised herself.
‘Lead on. I’ve been captured before. Believe me, this is more pleasant. Aye, lead on.’