Carla Kelly – Regency Christmas Wishes: Captain Grey's Christmas Proposal / Her Christmas Temptation / Awakening His Sleeping Beauty (страница 8)
‘Enough for passage to Boston, like you?’ Hollinsworth said with a wink.
Do you know something about me? Jem thought, startled again. ‘That seems a little high. If you are reasonable, I will be generous.’
Hollinsworth slapped the table between them and the dust rose in clouds. Jem sneezed again. ‘Oops! I can be reasonable.’
He named a small sum, which confirmed Jem’s suspicions that Osgood N. Hollinsworth was a right jolly fellow, and liked to tease even potential clients. ‘That will be fine,’ he said, and took the few coins from the change purse in his coat.
A sheet of paper and pencil stub seemed to materialize from thin air while Jem was blinking his eyes from the dust.
‘What do you wish me to write?’ the publisher said. ‘Maybe something like, ‘Where are you...insert name? Captain James Grey wants to know. Inquire at the Times and Tides on Bay Street.’ Insert name?’
‘Theodora Winnings,’ Jem said and tucked away his handkerchief. ‘Could you run it in big letters?’
‘I can and will,’ Hollinsworth said promptly. ‘There isn’t much news this week, beyond a warning from the mayor about hogs running loose, and a notice about two escaped slaves.’
‘That will do,’ Jem said as he rose, eager to leave this dusty shop before he sneezed again. ‘Now to breakfast.’
‘And I to work,’ Hollinsworth said. ‘The broadside will be distributed tomorrow. You might wish to walk around Savannah and admire what happens when a town is laid out in an orderly fashion. It’s quite unlike your port of Plymouth.’
‘How do you know where I...’
Hollinsworth shrugged, and looked at Jem with that same piercing but kind glance. ‘A lucky guess, Captain Grey. The ham, biscuits and gravy next door are superb, and you might discover an affinity for hominy grits. Good day to you.’
Osgood N. Hollinsworth had been correct about the ham, biscuits and gravy. Nearly in pain from over-indulgence, Jem pushed himself away from the table and paid his bill of fare.
Over the next few days, he realised Hollinsworth had also been right about Savannah, a pretty river town laid out in leafy squares. He came to admire the deep porches and understood their necessity. Summers here were probably blistering hot and drenched with humidity. In the deep shadows of the verandas he saw overhead fans, probably set in motion by the children of slaves doing what they were ordered to do. He couldn’t help wondering if Teddy had ever been ordered to fan folks too.
But it was almost Christmas, so the fans remained motionless. He walked, admired the buildings, and breathed deep of magnolia wreaths on many a door of home and business alike. It was far cry from his memories of Boston at Christmas, with wreaths of holly and bayberry, hardy enough to withstand the aching cold. The heady fragrance of magnolia blossoms seemed to reach out to the boardwalk and grab him unaware.
He watched the faces of the city’s workers, wondering if he would recognise Teddy Winnings if he saw her. Would she recognise him? A man who stares day after day into a shaving mirror can probably be forgiven if he thinks he has not changed much. For one thing, Jem knew he looked healthier than the pale, shaking malaria-ridden specimen Teddy had tended. He had put on sufficient weight and heft to give himself more of an air of command. Eleven years had done that, too.
His own curly hair was scarcely visible under his hat, mainly because his habits kept it short. He was a man grown, tested and experienced, not a lieutenant just beginning to understand mortality, and think about dangers ahead. Age could do that; so did war.
When the broadside came out the day after he bought his ad, Jem had been suitably impressed with Hollinsworth’s effort. The twenty-word plea ran across the bottom of the single page in bold letters impossible to miss. Would anyone read it was the question.
In his anxiety to find Teddy without knowing how to do so, he began a little daily commentary to the Almighty, that unknown personage he had been addressing as Sir for years. He acknowledged the absurdity of it, but found himself comforted.
Several days passed. In the print shop where no one ever came, Mr Hollinsworth displayed in the window what he insisted was still the last broadside he intended to publish in Savannah. Jem watched for the small stack to diminish as readers put down their pennies, but it remained the same height, to his discomfort. This was no way to find Theodora Winnings, and so he told Mr Hollinsworth, who took his sharp comments in stride.
‘I’ve distributed my broadsides in the squares, too,’ the little man said serenely. ‘Be patient.’
Jem honestly tried to be patient, going so far as to sit in the back of Christ Church in Johnson Square, the oldest of the squares, according to a shoeshine boy who gave his boots a lick and a promise each day. A choir rehearsed in Christ Church in the evenings, preparing for Christmas services, or so he gathered from their repertory. After supper in the Marlborough Dining Room, he walked the short distance to Johnson Square to listen.
He sat there long enough each night to be greeted eventually by the singers, then asked to join them. He demurred at first, well-acquainted with his own voice. In their polite Southern way, which was beginning to nestle comfortably under his skin, they asked each night until he agreed. By the middle of the second week in Savannah, he attended choir practice three nights a week.
By the end of that week, he also knew his feeble and puny enterprise had failed. How much longer could he stay in this beguiling place remained open to doubt. He had the means to stay for months, but not the inclination. A strange homing instinct was drawing him north toward Massachusetts. He wanted nothing more than to walk those familiar streets and think about his life’s direction, something he hadn’t questioned in years, but which now loomed large in his agile brain.
He owned to traitorous feelings, if such they were. Why was a respected post captain in the Royal Navy even for the tiniest moment considering a more permanent connection with the United States? He should know better, but he liked it here and America was compelling him to stay. It’s complicated, he thought, as he listened to Christmas music, walked the streets and squares of a beguiling little city, and wondered about himself as much as he wondered about Teddy Winnings.
The day came when he knew it was pointless to remain any longer in Savannah. He sat on the side of his bed and silently informed ‘Sir’ in his now-daily commentary that it was time to move on.
I certainly bear you no ill will, sir, he thought or prayed. He never could decide which it was. It was a long-odds chance. I know how busy you are at this season, when I suspect many people who pray more than I do want things. I wish it had worked out. Thanks for listening...if you did.
The day was warm and sunny, much as the day before, and probably as the day after would be. He took his time sauntering to the wharf, breathing in the familiar odour of tarred rope and maritime paint. He waited his turn at the coastal shipping office, aware of his difference among these soft-spoken, slow-moving, congenial folk.
He inquired about a passage north and was informed that he could leave this afternoon on the Charleston coaster, or hang around until the end of the week for a larger vessel being loaded now with cotton and contracted for a Baltimore destination. He decided upon Baltimore. He could take a coach or private conveyance north from there to Boston.
Dissatisfied, unhappy, he walked around that day, stayed awake at night staring at the ceiling.
Tired of his own company and wishing he had cared enough to bathe and shave, he stood on the veranda of the Arundel in the morning, looked toward the print shop and saw her.
Certain he was mistaken, Jem squinted his eyes shut and rubbed the lids. Almost afraid to look, he opened them, and knew the woman across the street, standing there with a broadside in her hand, was Theodora Winnings.
He remained where he was, rooted to the spot, certain she would disappear if he took one step closer. She wore a drab dress, unlike the pretty muslins he remembered. Her hair was invisible under a blue bandanna wrapped around and knotted high on her forehead. He had seen this head covering on slaves in Charleston and Savannah. She was slimmer than he remembered, which told him all he needed to know about her hard life. Holding his breath, he looked down and saw bare feet.
‘Good God, Teddy,’ he whispered, then addressed his silent partner. ‘Sir, why didn’t anyone take care of her?’
It was my job, he told himself. He walked toward the woman he knew he still loved, no matter her circumstances, her race, her current matrimonial status, her anything.
‘Theodora,’ he said, when he was halfway across the street.
The woman had been staring down at the broadside, and then looking at the dilapidated print shop, as if wondering what she was doing there.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Teddy. He cleared his throat and spoke louder. ‘Theodora Winnings.’