| |
Lucy felt frustrated when the carriage at last got underway the next morning. The drink she’d ordered for Meg had made her groggy, and she didn’t wake until much later than Lucy would have liked.
The gentlemen moved slowly as well, and by the time they’d all loaded their luggage and eaten breakfast, the hour was nearly ten.
Captain Stewart and Mr. Owens rode inside the carriage with Lucy. The two men had been much more amiable toward one another after their shared experience the evening before. They shared a new respect, evident in their friendly banter through breakfast.
Meg had chosen to ride with Mr. Matthews and sat up on the driver’s bench beside him, wearing her new fur-lined gloves. The two had seemed happy this morning, and Lucy was glad that no tension remained.
She settled back onto the carriage seat beside Captain Stewart and pulled the blanket onto her lap, careful not to wrinkle her skirts. She was disappointed that her best dress was dirtied in the search for Mr. Matthews last evening, but her father would not think any less of her if she wore another. She felt tired and nervous and so anxious all at the same time. How pleased he would be when she arrived this afternoon. She looked up through the window and saw the sky was clear. Hopefully it remained so, and they would enjoy dry roads and a quick journey.
Resting her head back against the bench, she closed her eyes, imagining Christmas with her father, and the familiar thrill moved through her. How surprised he would be to see her. They would attend church services in the morning, and of course arrangements would be made to include her fellow travelers in their Christmas dinner. But once the others had all gone home, she and her father would tell stories and look through the Christmas album with a blanket on their laps and watch the fire burn low, just as they used to. She tucked back her heels, feeling the lump of the Christmas album in her bag beneath her bench. She had updated it this morning as she waited in the dining room for the others.
“Mr. Owens,” Captain Stewart said. “I must thank you again for your assistance last night with Matthews. If not for your intuition—I don’t believe my friend would be here with us today.”
“Any soldier would ha’ done the same,” the older man replied. “Fine young man, that one. Reminds me of myself once upon a time.”
“I’m grateful for your words and your understanding,” Captain Stewart said. “They gave him hope.”
Lucy listened with her eyes closed. She didn’t want to interrupt the conversation or make the men feel as if they needed to include her in it.
“Taken him under your wing, haven’t ya, sir?” Mr. Owens said. “How is it that a captain with hundreds in his command has such an interest in this one private?”
“He saved my life,” Captain Stewart said simply, in the same tone he’d used the night before.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
Captain Stewart didn’t answer right away, and Lucy got the impression he was checking to see if she were sleeping. She kept her eyes closed, breathing steadily. She knew he wouldn’t tell the story if he knew she was listening. A prickle of resentment tightened her skin. He was protecting her, but she wished he understood that she was not as fragile as he believed.
“I haven’t told anyone,” Captain Stewart said at last. “Not since making my report that day to my commander.”
“’S good for you to talk about it,” Mr. Owens said. “Most men want to forget completely. But the wars changed us, made us who we are now, and pushing the memories away just leads to confusion later. Best to face it and see it for what it is.”
“That is very wise,” Captain Stewart said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it put that way before, but I believe you’re right. If only it weren’t so blasted difficult.”
“Aye, it can be that,” Mr. Owens said. “Matthews told me the pair of you fought at Albuera. ’S that where it happened?”
“No, it was before that,” the captain said.
Lucy strained her ears to hear his low voice over the noise of the carriage wheels and the horses’ hooves.
“It wasn’t during a battle,” Captain Stewart continued. “Private Matthews and I were part of a reconnaissance team, reconnoitering in the Sierra Morena mountains.” He puffed out a heavy breath. “We were ambushed by a band of French deserters. When they saw they’d captured an officer—”
“They meant to make an example of you,” Mr. Owens finished.
The captain was quiet for a moment, and Lucy was tempted to peek, but she didn’t dare risk it.
“They held my men at gunpoint and forced me to kneel.” Captain Stewart’s voice was raspy.
Lucy’s heart was pounding, and she was certain the men could hear it. She fought to keep her breathing steady.
“Matthews broke away from his captor and somehow dodged a musket shot. He tackled the man whose sword swung for my neck. It glanced off my shoulder, but I walked away with just a scar.”
“Brave lad,” Mr. Owens said.
“He was a leader,” Captain Stewart said. “Even though his rank was low. He’d have made an excellent officer. Men listened to him, trusted him. The man freed me and our entire team without any of us receiving more than a few scrapes.”
Mr. Owens started to tell about his experiences fighting in America, but Lucy didn’t listen. She couldn’t get the image of Captain Stewart kneeling while a blade swung toward him. Her hands shook. These men had seen terrible things, experienced horrors. If only she could think of something to bring joy to their lives. She thought again of the Christmas dinner with her father and promised herself she would make it special for all of her friends. They deserved it.
***
It was late in the afternoon when Lucy saw a road sign for the town of Stanley. She had never heard of the place.
“Stanley.” She pointed out the window. “Surely that is near London.”
Captain Stewart glanced at the sign. He grimaced. “I’m sorry, Miss Breckenridge. It will be dark within the hour and we’ve still fifteen miles to go.” He shook his head. “We won’t make it to London tonight.”
“Sorry ’bout that, miss,” Mr. Owens said.
Lucy tried to swallow her disappointment as they stopped at a coaching inn. They had come so far and were only a few hours away. So close. She put on a smile. At least she would see her father tomorrow on Christmas Day.
She and Captain Stewart went inside with Meg while the other men tended to the horses. While he made arrangements for their lodgings, the women spoke to the wife of the inn’s owner, Mrs. Whitaker. The woman was plump and cheerful with graying hair beneath her mobcap. She seemed to be a motherly sort of person, and Lucy liked her immediately.
“Oh, how lovely to have guests at Christmas,” Mrs. Whitaker said. When she smiled, wrinkles fanned out from the edges of her eyes. She settled them near the hearth and brought mugs of hot wassail. She chatted for a moment, telling them about the inn and asking about their journey. “I do hope you are hungry this evening,” she told them. “I always prepare a lovely meal on Christmas Eve. We’ve a few folks in town who come for supper every year.”
Lucy smiled. She thanked the woman for her hospitality. An idea was forming, and she thought about it as she drank her wassail, considering the details and what it would take to make it happen.
A few moments later, Captain Stewart joined them, carrying a mug of his own. He sat at the table and took a drink. “I can’t remember the last time I had wassail,” he said. “It’s surprising how something as simple as a drink can bring back so many memories.”
“Isn’t it?” Meg asked. “The smell of sugarplums reminds me of visiting my grandmother,” she said, looking toward a bowl of the delicacies on the inn’s counter.
“Mr. Whitaker told me there’s to be a nativity play this evening at the church in the next town,” Captain Stewart said. “Shall we attend? The event will be a nice addition to your book, Miss Breckenridge.”
Lucy’s excitement grew, and she gave a cheeky smile. “If you don’t mind, I have a different plan for tonight.”
***
That evening, Lucy came into the private dining room just as Mrs. Whitaker was putting the finishing touches on the decorations.
“Oh, it is simply splendid.” She clapped her hands together as she took in the trailing ivy over the tablecloth and the bouquets of holly. Mrs. Whitaker had even decorated the mantel of the small fireplace with ribbons and garlands and hung a pine wreath on the chimney stones. It had turned out better than Lucy had imagined.
“Just ring when you’re ready for dinner to be served.” Mrs. Whitaker wiped her hands on her apron, pointing to the bellpull in the corner with her chin. “And I do hope you have a lovely celebration, dear.”
Lucy thanked the woman as she left. She studied the table settings. Instead of the fine china or porcelain, Mrs. Whitaker had set the table with the inn’s sturdy pewter. The dishes had been polished to a shine, and there was even a sprig of holly and berries tucked into the napkin rings. It all looked perfect.
The others arrived a few moments later, and Lucy greeted them each at the door, inviting them to sit. She took her place at the head of the table, standing behind her chair, and motioned for the gentleman to remain seated.
“I am so glad to have you all here tonight.” Lucy moved her gaze over each of the four faces, smiling at her friends. “Every year, I’ve attended holiday celebrations as a guest, but this year, I am hosting the first of what I hope to be an annual Christmas party.”
The others clapped, and Lucy felt a warm glow inside at their encouragement. “I cannot imagine a finer group to celebrate with.” She swallowed. “Each of you has sacrificed to come on this journey. You’ve put aside your own holiday plans to give me a special Christmas with my father. And I must tell you all how grateful I am. You have all become dear to me over the past days . . .” Her voice grew raspy, and she cleared her throat against the emotion clogging it. She reminded herself this was a celebration. “Since I have never celebrated Christmas at home, I have no traditions of my own. And I would like to start one tonight.”
The others watched her expectantly, and she smiled, secretly thrilled with her idea, and prayed they all enjoyed it as much as she hoped they would.
“After our meal, I want each of you to share a holiday tradition with our company—whether it is a game you love to play or a story your aunt tells each year, whatever is important to you—and we will make it part of our celebration. The tradition I am sharing is a delicious Christmas Eve dinner with friends. I do hope you enjoy it.”
She stepped back, giving a tug on the bellpull. “Without further ado . . . let us eat.”
The company applauded the speech.
Lucy blushed. She returned to the table and sat in her seat, lifting her pewter goblet into the air. “Happy Christmas to you, my friends.”
The others raised their goblets, repeating the Christmas wish, and the door opened, letting in the servers with their meal.
Dinner was every bit as delicious as Mrs. Whitaker had led them to believe. The servers brought course after course of chestnut soup, roast partridge, meat pies, potatoes and vegetables in a rich butter sauce, pastries, and finally, they finished with an exquisite figgy pudding. The conversation was pleasant and her friends cheerful as they shared memories of Christmases past. Lucy paid particular attention to the stories, noting things she could incorporate into her future celebrations.
Once they’d eaten their fill and the last dish was taken away, the party dispersed to give everyone a chance to prepare for their contribution. Lucy sat back, her stomach full and her heart happy. She could not wait to see what her friends came up with.
The first to return was Mr. Owens. He carried a large bundle hidden beneath a towel, and when he entered the room, he stashed it away in a corner, then hung a tea kettle on a hook above the fire in the hearth.
Lucy’s brows rose, but he just gave an enigmatic smile and took his seat at the table.
The others brought items as well, each keeping them hidden away and looking excited at the prospect of the secrets that would be revealed.
Once they had all returned to their seats, Mr. Owens stood. “Suppose I might as well go first,” he said, “’fore my pot boils over.” He brought the bundle from the corner and removed the towel to reveal a large silver bowl.
“Rum punch has become a bit o’ a tradition during the holidays.” As he spoke, he took the items out of the bowl and set them on the table. A lemon, some kitchen implements and mugs, a jar of what appeared to be sugar, and two liquor bottles.
“Don’t have a story to go with it. Just like the stuff,” Mr. Owens said. He dumped sugar into the bowl and used the towel to remove the teakettle from the fire, pouring hot water over the sugar. He sliced the rind off the lemon with deft fingers, tossing it into the bowl, and strained the lemon juice from the pulp. “And I make a fine batch, if I do say so myself.” Popping the corks from the bottles, he poured brandy and rum, stirring it all together until he was satisfied. He dipped a mug into the punch and took a sip, letting out a sigh and smiling. “That’s the ticket.” He ladled punch into the other mugs and passed them around the table.
Lucy took a sip of the sweet drink. “It’s delicious.”
Captain Stewart drank deeply and raised his mug. “Hear! Hear!”
The others joined him, drinking and toasting Mr. Owens, his health, and his rum punch. Even Mr. Matthews made a toast. And nobody gave a second glance when Mr. Owens refilled his mug for a third time.
“A fine presentation,” Meg said. “And now who will go next?”
“Would you like to, Meg?” Lucy asked.
The red-haired young lady’s face lit up, her eyes bright with excitement. She brought out her bundle from beneath her chair.
“I come from a family with lots o’ children,” she said, setting a metal platter on the table. “Our tradition is to play games together on Christmas Eve.” She set a bag of flour beside the platter. “This is my favorite one.”
She poured the flour onto the platter slowly, making a high peak in the center.
“Bullet pudding,” Captain Stewart said. “I’ve not played since I was a child.”
Mr. Matthews smiled.
Lucy was delighted.
The men pulled the chairs away from the table to allow the group to stand in a cluster around the platter.
“Mrs. Whitaker didn’t have a bullet,” Meg said, taking a marble from the bag on her wrist and holding it up between two fingers. “But she found this.” She set the marble on the top of the flour mountain, then picked up a butter knife, offering it to the group. “Who will go first?”
“Oldest takes the first turn,” Mr. Owens said. He set his mug on the table and took the knife. “’Twas my family’s rule.” He sliced it through the flour, then handed it to Lucy.
Captain Stewart cut into the white mountain, making a small avalanche of flour slide down one side, but the marble did not move. He gave the knife to Matthews.
He cut closer to the center, but the marble stayed atop the flour peak.
Meg had a turn, then they passed the knife around again.
When Mr. Matthews slid the knife into the flour, the marble rolled, sinking down and disappearing into the white mound.
Meg clapped her hands, and Lucy giggled. They all watched expectantly. Would he do it?
Mr. Matthews did not hesitate. He plunged his face into the flour, using his mouth to search for the marble. Flour went everywhere, and the sight of the man rooting through the white mess made Lucy laugh so hard that her sides hurt. Meg pressed her hands to her mouth, shaking with laughter.
“Don’t inhale, lad,” Mr. Owens said between guffaws.
Captain Stewart let out a hearty chuckle.
When Mr. Matthews finally raised his head and spit out the marble into his hand, they all laughed again. Flour covered his face and dusted his hair. He snorted, blasting a cloud of flour into the air, and Meg had to sit to contain her giggles.
Mr. Owens raised his mug. “Huzzah!”
Captain Stewart offered his handkerchief, and Mr. Matthews grinned as he brushed off his face and shook the white powder from his hair.
“That was excellent, Miss Riley,” Captain Stewart said in a breathless voice. “I’ve not laughed so hard since . . . Well, it has been a long time.” He patted Mr. Matthews’s chest, making another white cloud and causing Mr. Matthews to cough.
Meg wiped her eyes and brushed the flour from Mr. Matthews’s shoulders when he sat back into his chair. She smiled at him, her eyes shining. “That was very diverting,” she said.
He smiled back, flour creasing in the lines around his mouth.
“You were very sporting, Mr. Matthews,” Lucy said. “So you may choose who goes next.”
The man looked at Captain Stewart, then back at Lucy. “I’ll go next, if I may,” he spoke in a quiet voice.
The captain nodded.
“Of course,” Lucy said.
Mr. Matthews cleared his throat, looking nervous. He took the bundle from beneath his chair. “My mum always read to us the Christmas story.” When he unwrapped the towel, he held a Bible. “I hope none of you object?”
“That’s a lovely idea,” Meg said.
Captain Stewart nodded, his eyes looking thoughtful. “My ma did the same.”
Mr. Matthews turned the pages until he found what he was looking for. He took a breath, glanced at the others, and then began to read.
The words were familiar, but tonight the story felt particularly poignant to Lucy. Perhaps it was knowing the struggles of the man who read them. Or maybe it was the affection she felt toward her friends sharing this special night. Whatever the reason, hearing the story of Mary and Joseph and their baby born in a stable touched her heart, and she dabbed at her eyes.
When Mr. Matthews finished the account and closed the book, a reverent silence settled in the room.
Captain Stewart stood after a moment, moving quietly to the corner near the hearth and unwrapping the bundle he’d put there. He took out an old guitar, bringing it back to his chair and sitting with it on his lap. He plucked the strings and turned the knobs to tune it.
“Would ha’ taken you for a bagpipe player,” Mr. Owens said.
Captain Stewart gave a good-natured smile. “I dragged this instrument all over the continent over the past years,” he said. “Music’s the one thing that remained constant on Christmas.” He glanced at his friend, raising his brows and smirking. “Matthews may have hoped I’d left it in France.”
“The songs kept up morale, Captain,” Mr. Matthews said. “Don’t know what we’d have done on those cold nights otherwise.”
Captain Stewart strummed the strings, and the hushed room seemed to grow more still. He settled into a tune, playing the familiar melody of a Christmas carol, and started to sing.
Lucy leaned forward as the low tone of his voice filled the room. The captain sang beautifully, the melody sounding effortless and strong as his fingers moved over the strings. Meg clasped her hands together in front of her chest, and Mr. Owens nodded his head. Mr. Matthews watched with a contented smile.
Captain Stewart was an accomplished musician, his voice strong and deep. Seeing how surely he played and how confidently he sang, Lucy could imagine how his music had soothed worried and frightened men. She hoped her father had taken comfort from the captain’s music when he’d been lonely.
Captain Stewart’s eyes met hers, and she realized she was leaning forward, lips parted as she stared. She sat up, feeling foolish.
He winked, but the signal wasn’t impudent. Rather, she understood it as a friendly token. The silly gesture was the captain’s way of acknowledging her and sending a message that was only meant for Lucy to see. Her cheeks grew hot, a reaction she was coming to both expect and resent, as it revealed more than she wanted the others to know.
Captain Stewart finished his song and began a new one, “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen.” The tune was livelier, and he played with more joviality, bringing a cheerful feeling to the group. After a few lines, Mr. Matthews joined in, his voice blending nicely with Captain Stewart’s.
Seeing the captain’s encouraging nod, Lucy and Meg sang as well.
Mr. Owens seemed contented to listen with eyes closed, his finger waving as if conducting the music.
The company moved from song to song, some cheerful and others reverent. Meg and Mr. Matthews sang a duet to “I Saw Three Ships,” and even Mr. Owens joined in when Captain Stewart played “Here We Come A-Wassailing.”
The night grew late, and once the singing was over, the party came to an end. Lucy stood beside the dining room door, bidding each guest a warm farewell as they departed for their rooms.
Meg embraced Lucy. “Miss, tonight was wonderful. Thank you.”
Mr. Matthews held her hand and thanked her in his soft voice.
The pair left together, walking arm in arm.
Captain Stewart returned the chairs to the table, pushing them back into place.
Mr. Owens came to the door with the large punch bowl and a mug. “Best party I ever attended, Miss Breckenridge,” he said. “Happy Christmas to you.”
Lucy turned back toward the table, thinking she should clean up the flour instead of leaving the mess for Mrs. Whitaker.
Captain Stewart stood in front of her. His eyes had the same soft look they’d held at the dance in Quentlin Ferry, and seeing it made Lucy’s stomach flip over itself again, like it had forgotten how to stay still.
“Did you enjoy the party, Captain?” she asked, wanting to dispel the silence.
“More than I can say.”
“I did as well,” she said. “I am so pleased with how everything turned out. Your music was just the thing. Thank you.”
Captain Stewart pursed his lips, pulling them to the side and tapping his chin, looking thoughtful. “You know, there is one Christmas tradition we forgot—one I am particularly fond of.”
“Oh?” Lucy said, wishing he’d told her earlier. “What is that?”
He took her arms, pulling her to a spot beneath the doorway, and then he looked upward.
Lucy followed his gaze. A kissing bough made of mistletoe hung on a red ribbon from the doorframe. How had she not seen it earlier? Her skin flushed hot, and her heartbeat raced.
Captain Stewart watched her, studying her face as his hand slipped beneath her ear and behind her neck. His thumb brushed her jaw. The other hand moved around behind her waist, pulling her closer.
Lucy touched her fingers to his arms, hesitating to rest her hands fully against him. Her insides shook.
The captain’s chin tilted toward her, his eyes looking hopeful, and Lucy’s nervousness stilled. She wanted this, and that realization didn’t frighten her. It made her brave.
When she moved her hands to his shoulders, his arms tightened around her, pulling her against him. Lucy closed her eyes, rising up on her toes, and then his lips were on hers, warm and gentle, his curls brushing over her fingers.
He held her tightly, his lips tasting like punch and his whiskers scratching her cheek, and she let herself be swept away.
In just a moment, it was over. He stepped back, and her arms dropped. She felt the loss of his heat immediately.
Captain Stewart took both of her hands, studying her face. Although his smile held the slightest tease, his eyes were earnest. “I’m glad we did not neglect that tradition.”
“As am I.” Lucy tried to smile in return, but she did not recover as quickly as she pretended. Her knees were weak, her lips tingled, and she ached to be held again in his embrace.
Once the table was cleaned and the borrowed items returned to Mrs. Whitaker, Captain Stewart walked with her back to her bedchamber. He kissed her again before he bid her good night, and Lucy’s worries about waiting a few more hours before arriving in London flew from her head completely.