Regency Christmas Gifts (2 page)

“
Think of it, Mary A,” he had told
her before the transport bearing the Fifth Northumberland Foot
sailed for Lisbon. “If the late Lord Nelson, son of a vicar like
me, can climb to the top, why not I? I aim to come home a
general.”

He came home a second lieutenant still, dead at
Corunna defending the British army backed up against the ocean by
the French. Her share of his battle glory was a tiny pension to
support her and their daughter, born a month after his death in
Spain.

As she stood in front of Mr. Laidlaw’s modest
row of four houses, she envied the kind old fellow the income of
three of those, and the living in one of them. In her present state
of penury, that income sounded munificent.

If she had once been too proud and notably
lacking in humility, those days were gone.
Let this be a lesson
to you, Mary Ann Poole
, she thought now, and not without some
humor. She was, despite everything, an optimist still.

Mr. Laidlaw had been kind, but he still needed
the pence, which she gave him, after assuring him that she would
return the package to the owner and no doubt receive reimbursement.
Besides, it would never do for her landlord to know how close she
skated to ruin, since he expected three shillings monthly
rent.

As Mary Ann lay in bed that night, Beth
snuggled close, she wondered just how she was going to tell her
child the bad news. Lady Naismith had informed her today that as of
Christmas Eve, her services were no longer required.

When Mary Ann, shocked, had asked why, the
woman had shrugged her shoulders. “My children think I can find a
cheaper secretary,” she said.

“
Will you at least provide me with a
good character?” Mary Ann asked. “I’ve done all that you required,
and done it well.”

The baronet’s widow agreed. She promised to
provide just such a letter at the end of the week.

Happy Christmas to us
, Mary Ann thought,
as she closed her eyes. She tried to remember what it felt like to
have her husband’s arms around her. It was years ago now, and even
the best of memories begins to fade. It saddened her to think that
soon she would have to refer to the miniature of him, proud in his
regimentals, to call to mind the lovely man who had married her and
promised great things, before Mars the God of War worked his own
will.

Mary Ann glanced at the ivory brush and comb
set on her bureau, idly wondering what they might bring if she took
them to a pawn shop. The notion passed quickly, but not as fast as
her conscience wanted. Her father might have been just a clerk in a
cloth factory and not a vicar like her father-in-law, but she had
learned from an early age that stealing was sinful.

Beth stirred and whimpered in her sleep. Mary
Ann kissed her daughter. She thought about the approaching holiday
and had only the smallest wish.
Please, please let S[trangely]
M[orbid] Jenkins pay me back my five pence
.

M
ary Ann couldn’t return the
brush and comb to Mr. Jenkins in Plymouth any sooner than Saturday,
when she had her half-day off. To her relief, the weather was
precisely right—cool but no rain in sight.

Mary Ann bundled the box and its lovely gifts
into a satchel. After a check of Beth’s muffler and coat, they
started off. She would like to have had sandwiches with her
daughter in Plymouth at a tearoom, but if they hoped to take a
hired conveyance home, it was better to eat their bread and butter
before they left.

For December, the day was surprisingly mild.
Careful to remain close to the road’s edge, Mary Ann matched her
steps to Beth’s. As they walked, she reminded her daughter that her
father had been part of the Fifth Foot from Northumberland, and he
was a champion walker.

“
Didn’t Papa ride a horse?” Beth
asked as they swung along.

“
Aye, he did, but he told me in one
letter that he liked to march on foot with his men, too,” she
replied. “He would be proud of us.”

And he would, too
, Mary Ann decided, as
she admired her daughter’s auburn curls, so like her father’s. If
there was some moment in the celestial realms when a heavenly
curtain ever parted, she hoped Bart knew that their child was well
cared for, and that she was doing her best—no matter how paltry it
seemed at times. It wouldn’t be too much to ask that he be allowed
a glimpse of their daughter.

But what did she know of heaven? She hadn’t the
money to have her husband’s body returned to Blyth, Northumberland,
or herself and their infant daughter, for that matter. The vicar,
overworked because of so many burials in a common grave that day,
hadn’t time to answer questions about what happened to a good
soldier after death. She had decided by herself that God was
merciful and surely allowed glimpses below for residents in His
heavenly kingdom. It was serviceable theology and gave her enough
comfort to keep going when times were tough. Lately, they were
always tough.

But she could worry about hard times later.
Today it was enough to be free from that bookroom where she handled
Lady Naismith’s financial affairs, wrote her letters because the
woman could barely compose a sentence, and wished herself
elsewhere. Soon she would be elsewhere, as a matter of fact.
But
I will not think about that today
, she told herself.

Hand in hand, they walked the few miles to
Plymouth, past country houses and long lanes with larger manors at
the end of them. Road traffic increased the nearer they came to
Plymouth, and eventually there were sidewalks.

“
Do you know where Notte Street is,
Mama?” Beth asked, when they reached that lovely height where
Plymouth stretched below, a busy seaport still, even with the war
over.

“
Not a clue, my dear, but we shall
find someone honest-looking and ask.”

Even that could wait. The busy highway turned
into a street and then another, until they were in the bustling
labyrinth called the Barbican, the old city. Beth looked around,
her eyes wide at the sight of buildings three stories high and shop
windows with toys and books and ready-made coats and
hats.

“
That’s it,” Beth said, pointing to
a fur muff. “That is what I would like for Christmas this
year.”

“
You wanted one last year, too, as I
recall,” Mary Ann said. She reached in her reticule and handed her
daughter a small tablet and a pencil. “Better draw it.”

While Beth sketched the fur muff, Mary Ann
wandered next door to a lending library and bookstore. There it was
in the window: a copy of
Emma
, out only a year, cozied up
next to
Guy Mannering,
and the scandalous
Glenarvon
,
by Lady Caroline Lamb, who dampened her petticoats to make them
cling and carried on a torrid romance with Lord Byron. Mary Ann had
learned a lot by listening to Lady Naismith’s low-brow
daughters.

“
Mama? Is it to be a book for you
this Christmas?” Beth asked. She held out her drawing of the muff,
which Mary Ann tucked into her reticule.

“
I believe so, dearest.” Mary Ann
pointed to
Emma
. “That one. I should find employment in a
bookstore. I could read a book overnight and return it the next
day, no one the wiser.”

They laughed together at such nonsense. Mary
Ann drew the book cover and added it to Beth’s sketch in her
reticule.

For good measure, Beth drew a pair of kid
gloves, dyed a gorgeous lavender, declaring, “I will give these to
you, Mama,” which meant that Mary Ann had to draw a darling chip
straw bonnet for Beth.

They exchanged glances, and Mary Ann was glad
for the package that went astray, so they could have a half-day
like this in Plymouth.
We need to do this more
, she thought,
which yanked her back to earth and the reality that in a week she
would be unemployed, with empty hours on her hands.

But now it was time to smile and hold out her
hand for Beth, so they could cross the busy road and find 34 Notte
Street.

And there it was, a pastel-blue house, part of
a row of houses but nothing like their modest dwelling in Haven.
These were two-story symphonies in stone, probably built to mimic
Bath’s Crescent Row. Each bore a different pastel shade, with
shallow steps leading up to a door under an equally stylish
cornice.

“
My stars,” Mary Ann said. “Perhaps
the S.M. stands for Stunningly Magnificent.” Her reward was a
giggle from Beth.

They had found the house, but the issue became
which entrance to use. Beside the front steps ran a wrought-iron
fence, behind which were more steps leading down to the servant
entrance.

“
We’re not servants or staff, but we
certainly weren’t invited and aren’t expected,” Mary Ann said,
eyeing the distance to the front door and a brass knocker.
What
do I feel like today?
she asked herself.
A secretary in Lady
Naismith’s house, or a widow touring Plymouth with her
daughter?

She decided she felt like a tourist. Maybe, on
that short trip from the street to the front door, she could
pretend it was her house. Those few seconds of dreaming would be
enough, even if the footman who answered the door shooed them
downstairs.

Her hand in Beth’s, Mary Ann took her time
mounting the steps. Beth wanted to use the knocker, so Mary Ann let
her.

An older woman opened the door. She was neat as
a pin, with a serviceable apron about her middle. Perhaps
Stunningly Magnificent Thomas Jenkins employed a housekeeper rather
than a butler or footman.
Never mind
, Mary Ann decided. He
was evidently wealthy and could be eccentric if he
chose.

“
I am Mrs. Poole, and this is my
daughter, Elizabeth,” Mary Ann said. She held out the opened
package. “This was delivered to our address in Haven, but I’m not
that
Mrs. Poole.”

She remembered to dip a small curtsey, hoping
the housekeeper would invite them in for a glimpse of grandeur
within, although it certainly wasn’t necessary. She did want that
five pence.

She could see that the woman was mulling over
exactly that: whether to just take the package and thank them for
their honesty or usher them inside. As it turned out, Beth decided
the issue.

“
I like your house,” she told the
woman, who started to smile.

“
Between you and me, you’d get tired
of dusting it,” the woman said.

“
I wouldn’t mind,” Beth said, then
shyness took over. She turned her face into Mary Ann’s
skirts.

Another moment, and the door opened wider.
“Come inside then,” the woman said. “Your mama can talk to Master
Jenkins while I find a biscuit or two. Would you please wait in the
sitting room while I rummage about for Master Jenkins?”

“
Master Jenkins. Master of what? I
believe this day just became an adventure, Mary Ann thought. She
smiled and let the kind woman usher them in. We’ve been lean on
adventures lately. What can it hurt?

T
homas looked up when Suzie
knocked on the bookroom door.
You’ve rescued me
, he thought,
as he told her to come in.
Give me geometry any day, but don’t
give me counting house statements
.

Not that he couldn’t figure them out; far from
it. What he wanted more than anything was to be back on deck again,
at sea. Sitting behind a desk was anathema and he wanted no more of
it.

“
I don’t like retirement,” he said
to his sister, before she could get a word out. “Please tell me
something interesting that doesn’t involve counting house
statements.”

“
There is a quite pretty lady and
her daughter in the sitting room wishing to speak to you,” she
said. “Is that interesting enough?”

“
Anyone you know?” he asked, getting
up. He put his hands up to straighten his neckcloth, them
remembered not bothering to put one on this morning.
I am going
to rack and ruin
, he thought. “I don’t look like much of a
gentleman,” he said.

“
You never were one, except by
virtue of the Navy Board,” she replied cheerfully. “Who needs a
gentleman anyway? Don’t let it go to your head, but I always
thought you handsome enough for general purposes.”

“
You flatter me, Sis,” he told her.
“I think.”

“
Only a little,” she teased back.
“And now I believe I will see if Mrs. Williams has some tea and
biscuits.”

“
That kind of a visit?” he asked, as
he started down the hall with her.

Outside the sitting room door, she said, “They
look genteel, if a little shabby.” She gave him a push. “Go find
out.”

His sister was quite right on both counts. A
lovely lady rose gracefully to her feet when he opened the sitting
room door. What hair he could see under her dark bonnet looked
blond. He thought her eyes were brown. She wore a cloak as
serviceable-looking as her hat. He smiled inwardly to see
mismatched gloves, which made him feel slightly less self conscious
about his neckcloth that was missing in action.

“
I am Mrs. Poole,” she said, and
dipped a curtsy. “This is my daughter Elizabeth.”