what they called it, but word gets about in close quarters.’
His expression became serious, almost wistful. ‘D’ye know, when Mr Barraclough started to talk about the counting house and his little life, I was reminded all over again what a large stage I have been playing on. Would I change places with him? Sometimes.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘During this leave of mine, I must accustom myself to life among people who have never worked for Napoleon, as I did.’
She looked at him, startled, then understood what he meant. ‘The grand wizard of Europe?’
‘Aye, lass. Puppermaster, grand wizard, what you will. The Admiralty pays my salary, but Napoleon employs me. We all dance to his tune.’
So did I, Mary reminded herself, unwilling to say it out loud. She hadn’t thought of Lieutenant Reginald MacDowell in five years at least, but for just a moment, she was seventeen again and in love.
‘You, too?’ he asked.
You surprise me, she thought, wondering at his ability to delve deep without appearing to. She nodded, too shy to say more. No reason for this man soon to leave her life, once they said goodnight, to know how her heart broke when the lieutenant informed her of his need to marry a lady with money. Rather than yielding to bitterness, she had pined in sorrow, then suffered in more silence when she learned of his death at Salamanca two years later. By then, Lieutenant MacDowell had his own widow and a son who would never know him. Funny that she had never thought to blame Bonaparte.
‘It appears Boney has meddled in all our lives.’
Captain Rennie said it softly. Mary opened her mouth to tell him about Reginald, then closed it, choosing not to become as pathetic as Malcolm Barraclough. She decided he looked a little disappointed and wondered how many midshipmen and lieutenants he had counselled through the years. The captain had been kind to take an interest, but the hour was late and the Cumberland sausage had well and truly adhered to the serving platter.
‘How did he meddle in your life, Mary? Call me nosy—I want to know.’
‘I nearly became engaged to a lieutenant in the light artillery, until he decided he needed a wife with an income of her own,’ she said. ‘I gather that uniforms are expensive.’
‘Cad,’ he said. ‘And?’
‘He found someone else rather quickly, so I do not think he was truly invested in me,’ she said, finding it less difficult to talk about than she would have thought. ‘Perhaps it was for the best.’
‘I trust he died on some battlefield,’ Ross told her. ‘Serve him right.’
‘Actually, he did, but he left a wife and infant. Don’t be so flippant, Captain.’ She hadn’t meant for that to come out with real force, but it did. Maybe she had cared more than she knew. Maybe she should have talked about Lieutenant MacDowell to another human being and not kept it all inside her.
‘I am sorry,’ he replied. ‘Callous of me. No one is unscathed, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Captain, I think...’ she began, then stopped, wanting to change the subject. She was silent a moment, and the enormity of Mr Barraclough’s parting words sank in. ‘Dear me, York.’
* * *
Ross hadn’t known his cousin long, but her sudden frown told him the obvious: this little lady bent on finding a ring in a fruitcake had probably never ventured any farther south than Carlisle. And for God’s sake, had someone bullied her into traipsing around for fruitcake? She was a lady alone on the Royal Mail. He smiled inside. At the mercy of bores like Malcolm Barraclough? The smile left. And maybe a sea captain? Did she have enough money? Was he ever going to feel free of responsibility that had descended like a sodden mantle around his shoulders when he strode his first quarterdeck? Perhaps not. Perhaps he didn’t want that peculiar sense of stewardship to vanish now.
‘Cousin Mary, it appears you have to go to York. Could you use some company?’
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