Christmas Belles, Page 3

  Sir Phineas maintained his smiling posture until Chloe was swallowed by the darkness at the top of the stairs. Only then did he allow the weight of years to settle back upon him, bowing his shoulders down. He returned to the drawing room to make sure fire was banked upon the hearth, all secure.

  He had always reveled in the festival of Christmas as innocently as his daughter had. It was a warm time of year, a time of memories, some bittersweet, but never any just bitter. At least not until this year.

  Perhaps that was because this was the first year he had taken a long look at his life and seen what a failure it had been. He could not say what had sparked off this realization, perhaps suddenly noticing his daughters were all grown up and no provision made for them as he ought to have done.

  He had never done anything right, at least not from a worldly point of view. When he had been placed in the way of a promising government career, he had been rather hopeless, even in the role of an under secretary. Poor Chloe! Always fancying her father had been some great hero. He had uncovered the assassination plot by purest chance. It had been more his clerk's doing than his own. But the king could hardly be expected to knight some fellow of obscure parentage, whose ancestors most likely hailed from the fishmongers at Billingsgate. No, the honors had to go to Phineas, whose one virtue was that he could at least lay claim to being a gentleman.

  Phineas frowned into the fire at the memory. If he had been wise, he would have used his newly acquired title and his position in society to make a wealthy marriage. But at that thought, his lips curved into a soft smile. How could any man who had ever glimpsed the beauty of gentle Maria Longley ever have remained wise? A vicar's daughter, she had been as poor as he, but that hadn't mattered then, that first springtime of being in love.

  The heavens bless her, it still didn't matter. His marriage to Maria was the one part of his life Sir Phineas refused to count as a failure. He had inherited Windhaven shortly after the wedding, the estate already something of a ruin, the holdings burdened by his late uncle's debts. But he and Maria had retired to their new home in Norfolk to raise their brood of bright and beautiful little girls. Despite pinched purse strings, they had been foolishly, deliriously happy.

  That, perhaps, had been his greatest mistake. He should never have retired from government service. He should have sought out some fat sinecure of a position as other ambitious men did. But he had never been able tear himself away from his wife and daughters, from the warmth that was their home. Even after Maria's death, he had convinced himself it was best not to leave, to seek his fortune in the city. The girls had needed him.

  But on this bitter-cold Christmas Eve, he had his doubts. He could not congratulate himself that he had been a wonderful father. What good had he ever done for his daughters? He had seen that Emma was falling in love with a poverty-stricken clergyman and done nothing to stop it. Mr. Henry was such a worthy young man, and Phineas genuinely liked the vicar. But so poor! There could scarce be a poorer living in all of England than that of St. Andrew's.

  Then there was Lucy—so beautiful, so taking with her charming ways. He had indulged her too much, encouraged her small vanities until she had become discontent and restless. And Agnes—he had so delighted in her scholarly turn of mind, just what he would have wished for in a son. So he had taught her Greek and Latin, turned her into a proper little bluestocking, which would only make it more difficult for the poor child to ever acquire a husband.

  But Chloe—what he had done to his little Chloe was the worst of all. So lovely, so sweet, so much the image of his departed wife, it oft brought an ache to his heart. He had stuffed Chloe's head full of fantasy and legends. Even on the verge of leaving her, when he should have admonished her to be more sensible, what must he do but encourage her to keep on dreaming?

  Dreams! What did they accomplish anyway, Sir Phineas thought bitterly as he jabbed the poker at what remained of the glowing ashes of the fire. Only encouraging a man foolish enough to try embarking on a new career at his age, a career he had never had the drive or talent for even as a youth. He could not delude himself. He would not have been able to acquire any position at all but for the intervention of his young relative.

  William Trent, now there was a hero, a man who was a rising star. Before the age of thirty, the captain had become wealthy from prize ships taken, with a myriad of influential friends both in the Admiralty and the present government. Everyone predicted that Trent would be an admiral one day, his name as legend as a Nelson or a Drake.

  But it profited Sir Phineas little to dwell upon Trent's capabilities and his own inadequacies. Sighing, he put up the poker and shuffled out of the parlor. He was about to set out upon what was a useless enterprise at his age, the seeking of his fortune; but he had to try. The impossible could be possible. He needed to believe that more than he had ever needed to before.

  Ah, but leaving his little girls, that was going to be the hardest part. He paused by the window in the vast silent front hall to utter a silent prayer, commending his daughters to the care of more skilled hands than his own inept ones.

  When he had finished, a sense of peace settled over him as tranquil as the falling snow. By nature, Sir Phineas was a man framed for optimism. Something was bound to come right. Good fortune was just around the bend, and all he had to do was put himself in its way.

  With the suppression of his nagging doubts, he began to feel the need for sleep, but it was a more mellow feeling of exhaustion. Yet he had one last task to perform before going to bed.

  They had only one groom left at Windhaven these days, and Dan was rather young, not always to be relied upon. Sir Phineas had ridden his sorrel mare rather hard today. He would just check to be certain that the animal had been properly rubbed down and was secure for the night.

  Swirling his cape about his shoulders, Sir Phineas let himself out the kitchen door, which was the closest route to the stable yard. It was snowing hard now, the wind whipping the blinding whiteness into his face, threatening to extinguish the lantern he carried.

  His head tucked down, he made his way forward by dint of following the low-lying hedge that surrounded the garden. The tops of his ears were freezing, but his hearing remained keen enough to catch a faint sound above the whistle of the wind.

  A lowing sound.

  Sir Phineas paused in astonishment until he realized that the foolish dairy cow they kept must have somehow gotten out of her shed again and wandered into the garden.

  Raising one hand to shield his eyes, he peered over the hedge and saw that he was right. He could just make out a bulky brown form, but---

  Sir Phineas's heart did a sudden leap. The animal appeared to have fallen to its knees just as if it were paying homage. No? Phineas placed his numbed fingers against his eyes and rubbed. What he thought was absurd. He had been regaling Chloe with far too many old legends. He was starting to believe them himself.

  Struggling past the hedge, he sought to drive the cow back into her shed. When he reached her side, she was standing upright. Either the beast had floundered in the white drifts and then managed to right herself, or the whole vision had been merely a trick of the blinding snow.

  As he closed the cow back up in her stall, he chuckled to himself, imagining Chloe's reaction when he entertained her with his foolish fancy in the morning.

  But in the bustle of Christmas and the preparations for his imminent departure, the incident passed from Sir Phineas's mind, and he entirely forgot to mention it.

  Chapter One

  December, 1807

  The HMS Gloriana rocked against her moorings in Plymouth Harbor. Pale morning sunlight streamed through the stern windows into the spacious cabin Captain William Trent shared with a twelve-pound cannon. The chamber contained none of the luxuries most wealthy officers deemed necessary. Besides the cannon, the furnishings consisted of no more than a cot dangling from the deck beam, a sea chest, a chair, and the desk bolted to the wall.

  Seated hunched over the desk, C
aptain Trent dipped his quill into the inkwell, trying to finish his report to the Admiralty and his request for the material necessary to refit his ship for sea duty. Shadows from the hanging lantern played across his crop of thick, dark hair and aristocratic features set into lines even more formidable than usual. He was of medium height, and his lean, hard body was as solid-iron as the ship's anchor, more suited for action than desk work. Composing reports was not among Trent's more favored activities, and he already felt a cramp in his hand.

  Even as he scratched his quill across the page, Trent gritted his teeth, knowing that it was an exercise in futility. No matter how eloquent his appeal, he would be lucky to get even half of the ordnance supplies, provisions, and men that he requested.

  When his pen spluttered ink across the page, Trent swore softly, his concentration further ham-pered by the presence of his steward in the cabin. The burly seaman was cheerily going about the task of transferring some of Trent's things from the sea chest to a smaller trunk in preparation for a fortnight's shore leave.

  While he worked, Mr. Samuel Doughty persisted in whistling some tuneless ditty, employing the gap between his front teeth to great advantage. After enduring this for a few moments, Trent flung down his pen and shifted around.

  "Mr. Doughty!" he snapped.

  "Cap'n?" The steward's head popped up from behind the sea chest, his bristling side-whiskers giving him the appearance of a startled walrus.

  Trent merely frowned, fixing the steward with his steely gaze. His eyes were the hue of the sea at its coldest, a wintery gray. It took Doughty a moment of soul-searching to realize the nature of his offense.

  "Oh! The whistling again. Sorry, Cap'n, I do try hard to remember. That is, aye, aye, Cap'n. I won't do it again."

  When Trent arched his brow, Doughty took another pause for reflection before brightening. "That is, I won't be doing it again, sir," he said with a gap-toothed grin.

  "Thank you, Mr. Doughty." Trent turned back to his desk in time to hide a smile. Doughty's grin was as infectious as the man was incorrigible. Over a year under Trent's command had been insufficient to teach the rogue the proper way to address his captain.

  A captured smuggler, Doughty had chosen the king's service over the king's noose. He had arrived on Trent's ship in irons, pale, emaciated, but full of so much impudence, no amount of time beneath the lash could have cured him of it.

  Trent had tried patience instead, striking off the man's chains, treating him like a human being again. And Trent's forbearance had been rewarded. Doughty proved the best steward he had ever had, as handy at darning a uniform as any housewife, able to miraculously manage hot meals for his captain even during the worst of storms. Now if only Trent could break the fellow of his infernal habit of whistling .

  For the moment, at least, silence was restored. Trent turned back to his writing, but he had not progressed much further when Doughty cleared his throat with a series of loud harrumphs, trying to gain Trent's attention.

  "What is it now, Mr. Doughty?" He put down his quill.

  "Beggin' yer pardon, Cap'n. Don't mean to be disturbin' ye again, sir. But I was wishful to know: Be this the uniform ye want me to be packin' for yer weddin' day?"

  Trent cast a cursory glance over the garment Doughty held aloft, Trent's best blue jacket, gold epaulets glittering on the shoulders and buttons gleaming down the front.

  "No, Mr. Doughty. I won't be wearing any uniform. Pack my dark gray frock coat."

  Doughty's look of dismay was almost comical. "Fer yer weddin', Cap'n?"

  "I take it that does not meet with your approval?"

  "No, sir! Er, that is, I suppose it be not my place to say anything."

  "That seldom prevents you from saying it. And what is wrong with my gray coat, pray?"

  Doughty hemmed and hawed. "'Tis just when a gent stands up with a lady, 'specially for the purposes of matrimony, well, he needs to spread his feathers a bit, kind'a like the way a peacock does for his peahen."

  Trent's lips twitched with amusement, but he replied gravely enough, "I fear my peahen is too sensible to be impressed by my naval plumage."

  "Nay, don't you believe it, sir. All ladies be set aflutter by a man in uniform. I don't fancy Miss Emma Waverly could be that much different from the lot o' females."

  "I don't recall ever mentioning the lady's name, Mr. Doughty. Have you been reading my correspondence?"

  "No, sir!" Doughty's eyes widened, the very picture of wounded innocence. "'Tis just when mail is left lying about, it's hard sometimes not to notice a name, and I always can tell a lady's handwritin'. I be somethin' of an expert on the ladies, Cap'n."

  "So you have informed me upon several occasions, Mr. Doughty."

  The steward puffed out his chest. "Yes, sir, I came close to tying the knot meself several times, but the fathers of the young ladies were never quite fast enough to catch up with me. That 'minds me of another reason to wear yer uniform, sir. It might go a long way to impress and soften yer future papa-in-law."

  "That is not something I need to worry about. Miss Waverly's father is—" Trent broke off, suddenly no longer finding anything amusing about the conversation.

  "Carry on, Mr. Doughty," he said sharply. "I should like to see my packing finished sometime this year."

  "Ay, aye, Cap'n." The big man looked puzzled by his captain's sudden reversion to coldness. But Trent was not about to offer any further explanation.

  Bending over the desk once more, he retrieved his quill, but the pen remained idle between his fingers, the words on the report before him no more than a meaningless jumble of ink strokes. Doughty's idle chatter had triggered off unfortunate reflections that Trent found less than pleasant.

  Try to impress Miss Waverly's father, his future papa-in-law, Doughty had counseled him. Would to God he had such a concern, Trent thought bitterly. But one didn't need to worry about currying the good opinion of a man encased in a shroud, full fathoms deep off the coast of Portugal.

  Trent's frown deepened, and the sounds of the ship creaking and the thud of footsteps above him on the Gloriana's quarterdeck slowly faded. Relentlessly, Trent's memories carried him back to the time nearly two years ago when he had captained another vessel, the frigate Corolla.

  Trent had but to close his eyes and he could almost feel the Corolla's deck trembling beneath him, hear the roar of the cannon fire from the Spanish man-of-war that brought the Corolla's masthead crashing down.

  Outmanned and outgunned, Trent had sought desperately to save his ship. His hand clasped his blood-soaked shoulder, where a musket ball had lodged. While acrid smoke stung his eyes, he had barked out a series of sharp commands, trying to restore order. The deck around him had erupted into a chaos of tangled rigging and splintered wood, screams of wounded and dying men. To add to the disaster, one of the Corolla's cannons had broken free and now careened across the desk, a ton and a half of lethal, crushing iron.

  It was in the midst of this hell that Trent had glimpsed Sir Phineas Waverly struggling to maintain his balance on a deck slickened with blood, striving to reach the side of a fallen cabin boy. Battling his own fatigue and pain as well as the enemy ship, Trent had been enraged to see the old man flout his orders to remain in the hold with the other diplomats.

  "Sir Phineas!" Trent had bellowed. "Get below."

  But as the cabin boy lolled back lifelessly, the elderly knight straightened and actually seemed to be heading toward Trent.

  "Get back!" Trent called, his shout less in anger than in warning this time. But even his quarter-deck roar could not rise above the thunder of another broadside from the Spanish ship. Trent was never sure if the old man had even heard him.

  A brisk knocking at his door brought Trent forcibly back from the beleaguered Corolla, back to the present and the calm of the Gloriana's cabin. Trent shook off his memories, calling out a command to enter.

  The sentry who stood posted outside came in to announce, "Begging your pardon, sir, but there is a Mr. Charl
es Lathrop requesting permission to come on board."

  "Granted," Trent said. "Have Mr. Lathrop escorted to my cabin at once."

  With a smart salute, the sentry exited to pass on the order. Trent gestured to his steward, who was just folding several of Trent's cravats into the trunk.

  "You can finish the packing later, Mr. Doughty, after I have done meeting with Mr. Lathrop. Right now, I want you to go topside and inform Lieutenant Bennington that I want a word with him before I am piped ashore."

  "Aye, aye, Cap'n." Doughty was quick to agree but not so quick to act. He was still shuffling about the cabin when the door was opened by the sentry, returning to usher in the Honorable Charles Lathrop.

  Trent allowed himself few luxuries, and that included friends. But despite himself, he had developed a close acquaintanceship with Charles Lathrop, whom Trent had known from the days of his boyhood.

  As he rose to his feet, Trent felt a stirring of pleasure at the sight of the friend he had not seen for nigh on a year. A pleasant-featured man, Lathrop wore a coat with a single modest cape fashioned after the manner of a country gentleman.

  Sweeping off his high-crowned beaver hat, he had to stoop slightly when entering the cabin to avoid banging his head of wavy brown hair against the deck beam. Spying Trent, Lathrop grinned, coming smartly to attention with a mock salute.

  "Permission to come on board, sir."

  "You already have it, Lathrop. Or else my watch would have long since peppered your wherry with shot." Smiling, Trent stepped forward, extending his hand.

  Lathrop was the sort of exuberant fellow who would have embraced him, but he knew Trent well enough not to attempt such a thing. Instead, Lathrop contented himself with a hearty handclasp.