Chapter Twelve
Rosie Harte knew she was a careful woman, discreet and cautious because she had been raised that way by a careful aunt and a discerning father.
Her love of numbers had translated into modest but steady employment as a clerk in a nautical supply firm.
She lived quietly and carefully in Plymouth, a town full of Royal Navy men, residing in the home of her employer.
She was careful with her money, giving her savings to Papa for safekeeping. Women could not bank.
Sitting beside a sleeping man, his arm loose around her, told her worlds about herself, because she knew she wanted more from life than a job and a nest egg, two things few women possessed, and might envy.
For many months, she had felt the urge for more, as she heard from friends her age who were now wives and mothers. Through her employer, she met officers and men of business, sharing tea with one, and good books with others. It was pleasant and gratifying, but little else. Her heart wasn’t engaged.
Not until she had helped Andrew Hadfield through a terrible time on the mail coach, held his hand during nightmares as his mind relived prison and starvation, and now served as his pillow in the back of a gig, had she truly understood love between man and woman.
She breathed in the brine of his cloak and the odour that seemed to be his alone—Papa smelled like grain—and knew she wanted him, not as a casual acquaintance, but as husband, lover and father of her children.
And yet, and yet. He was in momentary expectation of a letter that would send him back to sea in this age of constant war. She knew she should forget him. He had made no declaration to her. There might be some tears on her part, but he would eventually be forgotten.
Easy to say, impossible to believe. She wanted to cling to him and tell him that he was the only man she would ever want, need or nurture. Other friends laughed when she shyly asked how they knew that the man they married was the one. ‘Silly Rosie, you’ll know when it happens.’
That was never good enough for someone of her logical mind.
How did one know? she wanted to ask, but knew they would only laugh all the more.
Now she knew, which only made matters worse.
She loved a man engaged in a dangerous occupation who would be gone for weeks, months, years at a time.
Every rumour of every fleet action at sea would set her life on edge.
How did the wives of seamen survive such uncertainty?
She had no idea if she was equal to such a life.
She had come home to celebrate Christmas, with carolling and gifts, wassail and pleasant evenings with friends, all because of the birth of God’s child in Bethlehem.
She knew her Bible. Babies were born all the time, but Christ was a special baby, born to save the world.
That was what vicars and priests taught their parishioners.
Sadly, war, kings beheaded and Napoleon conquering Europe had soured more cynical souls than hers, until even the ageless tale of a royal baby born to save them all seemed faintly ridiculous.
These were trying times. How could anyone believe anything?
She looked at the man leaning against her, vulnerable at this moment, but trusting her enough to lay aside his caution and sleep.
He had been masterful in the workhouse, championing a helpless woman.
Now he rested in her arms as peaceful as a child, all because he trusted her.
Maybe he even loved her. Would there even be time to find out?
She doubted it supremely. All the same, he slept, and she rested her head against his.
Maybe that was enough, in these hard times, even if it didn’t feel like Christmas.
Andrew slept through most of the ride home, convincing Rosie as nothing else could, how draining had been his ordeal in prison.
He heard nothing of the conversation going on in the driver’s seat of the gig between two people getting to know each other.
Amused now, Rosie listened as Mrs Hale explained to her father how she had been unable to survive on Sailing Master Hale’s pension.
‘Sir, my husband was an excellent man, but he had no card sense and loved to gamble,’ Mary Hale said. She lowered her voice, perhaps so Andrew Hadfield could not hear, but Rosie learned about prize money, and how quickly her husband ran through it, when in port.
When her father asked the rescued lady what her future plans might include, Mrs Hale proudly declared that she was an excellent cook. Maybe someone needed a cook. True, there was Matilda to raise, but her granddaughter was eight, and old enough to be useful.
‘Hire her, Fred,’ she heard from the man beside her, who must have been listening with his eyes closed. He spoke softly, only to her. ‘I have no leave to intrude upon your family business, but it’s a grand idea.’
He whispered this, his lips practically against her ear, which caused all manner of upset and confusion in her body. And she was supposed to think?
‘I also have a question for you, Rosie,’ he asked, as her father helped Mrs Hale from the gig, in their farmyard.
Ask me to marry you, she thought, even as she knew that was irrational. ‘Ask away,’ she said hopefully.
‘Is this how people spend Christmas?’
She could titter and tease, but that wasn’t her.
‘Master Hadfield, I have never seen a Christmas like this one,’ she assured him.
‘There should be hunts for holly and ivy to make a wreath, and carolling with St. Timothy’s none-too-good choir, presents, and roast duck.
That is a bare minimum, and we have done none of it. ’
He helped her from the gig and found himself in the embrace of Mary Hale and shy Matilda.
‘Christmas should include a timely rescue of two ladies in distress,’ he added, which made them all laugh.
‘What a nice tradition. Mary Hale, when I think what I owe your husband,’ he added, then couldn’t continue.
‘Whatever you think you owe,’ she said softly, ‘I mark it paid in full for your kindness to Matilda and me today.’ She turned to Fred Harte. ‘All of you… I had begun to doubt that there was any goodness in the world.’
‘There’s a lot, and more,’ Papa said. He kissed Rosie’s hand with a loud smack. ‘Let’s see what sort of surprise we can give to my sister, Dotty, eh, Rosie?’
Aunt Dorothea stood close to her brother as he introduced Mrs Hale and Matilda Madigan, who let go of Mary’s dress, clearly sensing this was a better place than the one they had quitted so unceremoniously.
Papa was in charge and in his element. ‘Dotty, please take these lovely ladies upstairs to that pretty room with the rose wallpaper.’
‘Nothing that fancy,’ Mary Hale said in mild protest.
‘You’re our guests,’ Dorothea said simply. ‘Come, my dears. Rosie can get dinner on the table.’
Yes, keep me busy, Rosie thought, as she set down the bewildered kitten, smoothed its fur, then quickly produced a saucer of milk. The gentle lapping soothed her heart. I don’t want to think about sailing masters.
Dinner was a delight. Matilda ate quickly, clearly unfamiliar with such abundance.
Mary Hale took her time, savouring each bite.
When she looked around for more crisped potatoes, Rosie filled her plate.
She glanced at Andrew, who watched his mentor’s widow, tenderness in his eyes.
Since Rosie sat beside him, it was a simple matter to pat his hand.
Papa was not a man to waste words or opportunity. Dinner over, he rested his elbows on the table, focusing his full attention on his sister. ‘Dotty, give me your opinion. I know it’s sudden, but when I think of all the years…’
His sister looked up from her own thoughtful contemplation of Mary Hale, who buttered a slice of bread for Matilda. ‘What do you have in mind, brother?’ Dorothea asked, her eyes drawn back to the defenseless pair.
‘Provided Mrs Hale agrees, I believe I will send you home to Chandler Street, and hire Mrs Hale to be cook and housekeeper here.’
Mary gasped, her eyes wide and worried. She looked from brother to sister. Her shoulders that had started to relax, tensed once more. As if by some unvoiced warning, she reached for Matilda.
Rosie held her breath, watching the two women.
To her unspeakable delight, Dorothea stood up, walked around the table and placed her hands on the widow’s shoulders.
‘I think it is a lovely idea, Fred,’ she told her brother.
‘Mrs Hale, please accept. For years I have happily and willingly lived here to help those I love.’ She looked into a distance Rosie knew, because she had shared it.
‘I have a lovely house. I want to be there again. You and Matilda will be comfortable here, with no worries. Please say aye.’
Mrs Hale turned her attention to Andrew. ‘Master Hadfield, what say you? I know you feel responsible for us.’
‘I am. Say aye, Mary. You will never regret it. I must admit this thought had crossed my mind, too.’ He looked at her father. ‘Eh, Fred?’
‘Aye, then,’ the widow said promptly. ‘Matilda, we have a home.’ She cried, but Rosie knew joyful tears.
‘Done and done then,’ the farmer said. ‘Dotty, Christmas is nearly upon us. If you will spend the next few days showing Mrs Hale her duties, you will be in your own home—’ he paused, and Rosie almost saw the passage of years in his eyes ‘—after this Christmas.’
‘Dear, dear brother,’ Aunt Dorothea murmured. ‘I do need this Christmas here.’
Rosie knew Papa had his maudlin limits. ‘Bess, Peter and little Ben a farm over would murder me in my sleep if I turned you out sooner, Dotty. Imagine the lumps of coal in my stocking!’