the note and her eyes opened wider. She read it through again out loud, thinking she might comprehend better what Captain Rennie had wrought.
‘“The Lords of the Admiralty wish to inform Miss Mary Rennie that Captain Ross Rennie, post, requests and requires her permission to serve as an escort during times of war, and all trips into enemy territory—York,”’ she read, shaking her head in amazement. She laughed out loud to read smaller printed words in parenthesis. “Aye, we are at peace now, but I know my employer pretty well and do not trust him to stay on that little island so close to France.” You would know,’ she murmured.
The note was close-written, but easy to read. Perhaps the economy of space came because he was used to writing in a ship’s log. She scanned the remaining paragraph, gasped at his impertinence, laughed at its conclusion, then reread it, touched.
‘“Because the Royal Mail is reliable, but uncomfortable, and Captain Rennie likes to travel in comfort when he can—which hasn’t been often in the past twelve years—he has already engaged a post chaise for the journey to York,”’ she read, amazed at his effrontery, which Aunt Martha probably would have called it. Mary wasn’t so sure. ‘“Besides, he is determined to stop at Skowcroft for excellent dessert and the mail coach would not oblige him. Cousin Mary, do not disappoint this peg-leg warrior of the Royal Navy.”’
‘So you will stoop to the sympathy card, sir?’ She laughed out loud and read the postscript. ‘“He also knows of some excellent shepherd’s pie in York proper.”’
Mary stood still for a long moment, tapping her finger against the note. She read it again, wondering about a man who had already engaged a post chaise to take her to York, because he knew she felt nervous about travelling alone. She couldn’t think of a time when anyone had been so generous to her on such short notice.
A reminder of the timid Mr Barraclough made up her mind. ‘I will do it, Captain Rennie,’ she said out loud. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
There they stood in the corridor, father and son, both looking at her with a hopeful air. She burst out laughing.
‘Oh, you two! What can I do but accept your kind offer?’ she told them.
‘Wise of you, since we weren’t going to take no for an answer,’ the captain said. ‘Would you be willing to break your fast with us in the commons room?’
She was, sitting down to another excellent sausage, considerably shorter than four feet, eggs and coffee. If she had felt shy, the emotion didn’t last long, not with Nathan needing a little attention tucking his napkin under his chin and then a better alignment of the buttons on his shirt when he finished. Perhaps he had dressed in the dark; possibly fathers didn’t notice such details of dress.
* * *
When Nathan was tidy and the dishes withdrawn, the captain pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket. He spread it on the table. ‘I have here a list of inns along our route,’ he told her. ‘Through the years, this sheet has graced the wardroom table on occasion, as I solicited information about good food in all corners of Britain.’
She looked at the list, seeing different handwriting. ‘This is what passes for entertainment on a frigate at war?’
‘Aye, miss, especially on the far side of the world, when we are drifting along in the doldrums and it’s hotter than Dutch love.’
Mary blushed. ‘Really, Cousin.’
Ross Rennie looked not a bit dismayed. ‘I confess to a salty tongue. You’ll get used to it.’ His expression turned nostalgic. ‘When you’re down to bad beef, weevily bread and thick water, and the wine has run out, a list like this is surprisingly comforting.’
He jabbed a line. ‘Look you here. If we leave now, we’ll be in Skowcroft for luncheon, and that is where...’ He stopped and looked at the barely legible line. He ran his finger gently across the words now. ‘I had a midshipman, name of Everett from Skowcroft, who swore by the lemon-curd pudding at the Begging Hound.’
‘I trust he has been back to enjoy it,’ Mary said.
‘Alas, no. He died in the Pacific. He was but fifteen.’ The captain leaned back, his eyes troubled now. ‘I...I suppose I want to have a dish of pudding for Dale Everett.’
She took the list from the table and scanned it. ‘Brown bread with quince jelly? I do like quince jelly.’
‘My former purser told me about a public house in Ovenshine.’ He shook his head. ‘A true scoundrel he was.’ He correctly interpreted her expression and took the list from her. ‘Here now, blood pudding in Wamsley, according to a pharmacist’s mate who lives in Wamsley as we speak. They’re not all dead, Mary, or rascals.’
Could it be that you need this little side trip to York even more than I do? she thought. The idea beguiled her far more than the prospect of fruitcake.
‘Isn’t your sister going to wonder where you are?’ she asked, making one more attempt to call the man to reason.
‘I sent her a letter before the sun was up, telling her we had to go to York on business.’ He grinned, and it threw years off his weather-thrashed face. ‘Hopefully, she will never ask what the business is. When do you need to report back to Edinburgh?’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
