The Wedding Ring Quest. Carla KellyЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter Three

      Trust a little boy to find travel by the Royal Mail adventurous. Captain Rennie knew he would have preferred post chaise, but Mrs Pritchert informed him that Nathan longed to ride the mail coach.

      ‘When we’re in the Barbican, he always has his ears on the swivel to listen for the coachman’s blast and eyes in the back of his head to watch the horses,’ Mrs Pritchert explained. ‘And the uniforms! He pined for one when he was five.’

      As if Ross needed an explanation. He used to do that in Dumfries a century ago, when the world was peaceful and he was a little boy. He could barely remember such a time; thank God he had a son to remind him.

      ‘Aye, Nathan, we’ll take the Royal Mail,’ he said, which practically made his boy wriggle with delight.

      Still, it was hard travel for a man wanting nothing but comfort for the first time in more than a decade. Captain Rennie was starting to feel every single one of his thirty-eight hard-lived years when the mail coach pulled into Carlisle on December the sixth. By contrast, Nathan was as bright-eyed as on the morning they set out from Plymouth, with Mrs Pritchert’s tears and blessings.

      ‘That’s how women are,’ Ross had assured his son, as the child watched Plymouth recede in the distance. ‘They cry and fuss and let you go finally.’

      ‘But she’s not really my mother,’ Nathan said, looking around for his handkerchief. ‘I have a cold.’

      Ross was wise enough to overlook his little sniffles. With a pang, he knew his son was close to the kind Mrs Pritchert; he knew no other mother. He put his hand on Nathan’s neck and gave him a little shake. ‘Laddie boy, we’ll be back in Plymouth in a month and she’ll be waiting for you, mark my words.’

      As the miles passed, he had also realised with another pang that he didn’t like to see the ocean disappear from view. He said as much to Nathan, who gave him a look like the one he had given his son when Mrs Pritchert disappeared from view.

      ‘We’ll have a good time,’ Nathan assured him in turn and they were content with each other.

      The first day with Nathan was always tentative. When his son was still a baby, there had been several days of reacquaintance, with lots of shy glances from both of them and maybe sentences started and stopped or half-finished. Now that he was ten, Nathan required only a few hours to remember his father. By the end of the first day’s travel north, he was laughing and telling Ross a year’s worth of school stories, memorising scriptures under duress and watching the harbour with his telescope. When he grew tired, Nathan leaned against Ross’s arm with a sigh of contentment. Or maybe that was his own sigh.

      They had struck a bargain before leaving Plymouth. Nathan might want to travel by the Royal Mail, but, by God, they were going to stop every night in a respectable inn. As much as he loved his sister, Ross wasn’t in so much hurry to get to Dumfries that they needed to travel all night, too. He had taken this route before and knew where the good meals and soft beds were found. But more than that, he had a list this time. Not just a list: the list.

      December the sixth found them in Carlisle, the last stop of any consequence before Scotland. He had given Nathan a map of England and Scotland, because ten years was the right age to begin charting a course. He was not surprised at the look his son gave him when he informed him they were stopping at the Guardian.

      ‘But Da, if we continue tonight, we’ll be in...’

      ‘Dumfries before midnight,’ he finished. ‘This is true.’ He leaned closer to his boy. ‘This also is true: for years, I have been dreaming about Cumberland sausage—an entire four-foot length—and whig bread served with Cumberland rum butter.’

      ‘Four feet of sausage?’ Natham repeated, his eyes wide.

      ‘I will share,’ Ross told him, the soul of generosity. He ruffled his son’s hair. ‘Would you deny a captain such a meal, after weevily ship’s biscuit and thick water?’

      ‘Never, Da.’

      ‘And if we can find sticky toffee pudding...’

      The Royal Mail stopped at the Borderers, and after making sure when the morning coach to Dumfries was due, he directed Nathan down the High Street to the Guardian, home of the best Cumberland sausage he had even eaten.

      If he were to try to explain to Nathan just how badly he wanted this moment, he knew a ten-year-old would never understand. There were times on the tedious blockade, or in the middle of the heaving Pacific, when he had stared into the distance, willing Cumberland sausage to appear. It embarrassed him to think of that weird obsession now, but such it was. He knew he was not alone in longings far removed from war. That was the nature of the beast: to wish yourself away from it.

      They walked down the High Street, before turning on to a side street. For a tiny moment, Ross feared that the Guardian had closed its doors, or no longer served sausage. He smiled to see the venerable building, probably looking the same as when Caesar’s legions had bellied up to the bar, getting courage to attack the Picts.

      He remembered to remove his tall fore-and-aft hat, because the entrance was low. He probably would have removed it anyway, out of reverence for the Cumberland sausage, which he could already smell.

      ‘We would like a room and a parlour for the night,’ he asked the landlord, who looked vaguely familiar. ‘And dinner, of course.’

      Apparently the innkeeper was also impressed to see such splendour, if one could call a boat cloak splendid, in his little lobby. He stared at Ross’s hat on his counter.

      Ross tried to keep his question casual. ‘There is Cumberland sausage cooking, eh?’

      ‘Indeed there is, Admiral.’

      ‘Just captain.’

      Just. Just. No one this far north and inland would ever imagine how hard he had worked to get the title of post captain and the right to wear two epaulettes, instead of just one. Ross’s cynical side took over. One of his fellow captains, dead since the blockade, had remarked once over blackstrap in the wardroom, ‘With two epaulettes, the lads’ll at least slide another cannonball into your coffin so you’ll sink faster.’

      The transaction completed, the innkeeper turned around the register and held out the quill. Ross dipped it, then signed his name.

      He stared closer at the register, noticing the name above his.

      ‘Mary Rennie?’

      A question in his eyes, the landlord looked at the register, too. ‘Oh! Beg pardon, sir. She did mention that a fellow was stopping by later. You’re earlier than I reckoned. You’ll want to share that parlour, I am certain.’ He beamed at Nathan. ‘And this is your little boy?’

      ‘Aye.’

      Perhaps the same last name gave the innkeeper leave to attempt familiarity. ‘I wouldn’t say he favours either of you.’

      ‘Sir, I...’ Ross began, then closed his mouth, because the innkeeper was already intent on getting his guests together.

      ‘You’d probably rather share that bedchamber, too.’

      ‘No, I...’

      The innkeeper was already starting down the hall. Ross looked at his son and shrugged. He knew he had the force of personality and years of command to stop the man short with a single barked expletive—God knows he had terrified lieutenants for