All my life I’ve noticed that the Christmas season is a time when people everywhere seem to become a little better, perform kindly deeds, think of others more and act upon good promptings. It’s almost as though Christmas gives us permission—as if we needed it—to bring out our better natures and the better natures of those around us.

We become more susceptible to the possibility that glad tidings of great joy can become a reality. Maybe we’re more willing to believe in impossible things because at Christmas all things feel possible.

In that vein, I bring you the whimsical tale of a post captain in the Royal Navy—a careful man swept into an adventure made possible by the receipt of a years-old letter that went astray. The Peace of Amiens (1802–1803) becomes a window of opportunity that takes him from Plymouth, England, to Savannah, Georgia, in the new country of the United States—a place he remembers well from his childhood and has never quite forgotten.

There’s a touch of magic, too…or maybe it’s more than magic. Maybe it’s the grace that can shower down upon us all if we’re willing to let the spirit of Christmas and St Nicholas step in and make things right.

Reader, whatever your faith or creed, I invite you to consider the possibilities of this season of wonder.

Carla Kelly

Prologue

This wasn’t a story shared widely. After some thought and a few laughs, New Bedford shipbuilder James Grey and his wife, Theodora, decided to tell their little ones this odd Christmas tale of how they’d 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.

Chapter One

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.

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