met, or re-met, after years apart. They thought it wise to tell it before those same children reached maturity and no longer set much store by St Nicholas. Later, if more adult scepticism took over—well, that was their worry.
It was Christmas story to tell around the fireplace, drinking Papa’s wassail and gorging on Mama’s pecans nestled in cream and caramelized sugar she called pralines. None of the children’s New Bedford friends ate pralines at Christmas, even though many of them had seafaring fathers who travelled the world.
None of their friends had a mother like Mrs Grey, or for that matter, a father like James Grey. If their parents’ origins were shrouded in mystery, everyone in New Bedford appreciated the solidity of Russell and Grey Shipworks, whose yards employed many craftsmen at good wages. More quietly whispered about was the boundless charity of Mrs Grey, who assisted slaves to freedom in Canada, or helped free men and women of colour find work in New England.
From the first, a deckhand out of Savannah, to the latest, a young couple fleeing Mississippi and a brutal owner named Tullidge, she and her network of volunteers provided food, lodging, employment and hope.
She was a woman of great beauty, with the soft accent and leisurely sentences heard in the South of the still new United States. James Grey spoke with a curious accent that placed him not quite in Massachusetts, but not quite in England, either. He had a mariner’s wind-wrinkled face, and the ships he and his partner built were sound and true. That James adored his lovely wife was obvious to all. That the feeling was mutual was equally evident.
Something about the Christmas season seemed to reinforce this tenacious bond even more. Their oldest friends had heard the pleasant story of how they met in a distant Southern city, after years apart. There always seemed to be more to the story than either party let on, but New Englanders were too polite to ask.
Plymouth, England—October 1st, 1802
‘Captain Grey, please excuse what happened. I found this under a box in my officer’s storeroom.’
Mrs Fillion held out a letter most tattered and mangled. James Grey set down his soup spoon and picked it up. He squinted to make out some sort of return address. Stoic he may be, but he couldn’t help his involuntary intake of breath to see a single word: Winnings.
‘What? How?’ was all he could manage as he held the delicate envelope as though it were a relic from an Etruscan tomb. Mrs Fillion, owner of The Drake, was kind enough to allow her Plymouth hotel to serve as an informal postal and collection station since the beginning of Napoleon’s war. He motioned her to sit down at his solitary table, wishing she didn’t appear so upset.
‘What happened was that I set a box with some poor dead officer’s personal effects on top of the letter, which I was saving for you,’ she said, apologising. ‘Unfortunately, I haven’t seen you in years.’
‘That’s because I’ve operated on the far side of the world for several voyages,’ he said. ‘Don’t let this trouble you.’ He stared at the envelope. ‘Any idea how long it might have been there?’ He found himself almost afraid to open such a fragile document.
He couldn’t help wincing when she said, ‘It’s been there since 1791, because the box I set on top of it had “1792” scribbled on the side.’ She sighed. ‘Eleven years, Captain. I hope it wasn’t something terribly important.’
Likely not. When he never heard from Theodora Winnings after he proposed by way of pen and paper, James Grey, a first lieutenant in 1791, understood a refusal as well as the next man. Since his career seemed to keep him on the far side of the world for much of that decade, he had felt a little foolish for proposing to sweet Teddy Winnings in the first place. Then he dismissed the matter, except when he stood a watch, the perfect time to reflect on so much charm, goodwill and charity in a lovely frame. He stood a lot of watches. Still, Mrs Fillion needed to be jollied.
‘I wouldn’t worry, Mrs Fillion,’ he said. ‘I was a brand new first luff and I proposed to a fetching young thing in Charleston, South Carolina. Did it by letter, so you see how callow I was.’ He laughed, and thought it sounded genuine.
Mrs Fillion smiled, which relieved him. ‘Captain, would you be brave enough to propose in person now, providing the right fetching young thing happens along?’
‘Unlikely. I’m a ripe thirty-seven, and serve in a dangerous profession. Why inflict that on a woman?’
‘You underrate females, Captain,’ Mrs Fillion said.
‘I have long been fortune’s fool.’ He picked up his soup spoon again, giving Mrs Fillion liberty to continue circulating among her other guests.
The dining room was less busy, mainly because of the Treaty of Amiens, which meant most warships were in port, with officers uncomfortable on half pay and scrimping, and crews dumped on shore to starve. War was almost guaranteed to break out again, but until it did, this meant tight times in ports like Plymouth and Portsmouth.
Jem waited until she was engaged in conversation with another officer before picking up the mangled letter. Eleven years was a long time to expect a letter to rule in his favour. Whatever the fervour of the moment, it was long past, whether Teddy’s reply had been yea or nay.
He had already finished reading his newspaper, and there was still soup to be downed. Might as well see what she wrote all those years ago. He slit the letter open carefully, dismayed to see water damage inside.
‘Yes!’ The word leaped out at him. My God, Jem thought, she loved me. The rest of the letter was mainly blotched and illegible. He stared hard, and fancied he made out the phrases, ‘...but you need to know...’ and then farther down the ruined page, ‘I should have...’ The box Mrs Fillion set on top of Teddy’s letter must have been damp. He could decipher nothing else.
His soup forgotten, Jem leaned back in his chair, staring out the window where autumn rain slid down the panes. His first glimpse of Theodora Winnings was through a fever haze, as though he gazed up at her from the bottom of a pond. That was his second relapse from malaria. Since the frigate Bold was peacefully moored in Charleston Harbour, the post surgeon had taken him ashore and left him to the tender mercy of the Sisters of Charity.
He had recalled nothing of the first week except the stink of his sweat and his desire to die. Toward the end of that week, he vaguely remembered a visit from his captain, who announced the Bold was sailing to Jamaica, but would return in two months, hoping to find him alive. At the time, he had preferred death. Even in his addled state, Jem knew that was nothing to tell his commander.
By the second week, he could get out of bed for a call of nature, if someone clutched him close around the waist. The Sisters of Charity were tough women who manhandled him so efficiently that any embarrassment quickly vanished.
By the third week, life’s appeal returned, especially when Miss Theodora Winnings sat beside his bed to wipe his forehead and read to him. He was still too wasted to pay attention to the words, but he enjoyed the slow molasses sound of Miss Winnings’ Southern diction.
By the next week, he spoke in coherent sentences and silently admired the loveliness of her ivory skin, dark hair and eyes and full lips, not to mention a bountiful bosom.
‘Captain, your soup must be cold. Would you like more?’
‘Oh,
