1. Blustery Beginnings

1

BLUSTERY BEGINNINGS

December 1815

East Crossings, the Midlands

Leopold Michael Tucker, former captain of the HMS Restless, minded his back against the far wall opposite the entrance of Ye Olde Filthy Pig. Despite the effort it took to see himself stationed there, given the brimming crowd practically bursting through the walls, 'twas the only place a man could relax enough to enjoy a meal—or a pint—in a rackety place like this.

He should know. Before joining the navy, he'd grown up in taverns like this one—only never quite this overrun with seething, boisterous humanity, not for this many hours on end.

Wincing, he took another sip of the ale the barmaid had delivered (along with a flash of bosom) and surveyed the probable purse-to-pound ratio of those lingering this eve, and this close to Christmas.

Ah, The Foul Swine, the officious name of the tavern known to all who frequented it, willingly or not, as The Filthy Pig.

He'd been here before, twice in the last six months, so he wasn't counted a complete outner by the locals. Still, it never paid to be overly complacent in a place of this caliber. Not when inebriation appeared the goal of many on a stormy night howling its way inside through the cracks around the plank windows. The gusts would have stirred the curtains had there been any. As it was, the candle nearest him gutted and left the scent of smoke wafting in front of his face and his corner dimmer than it was before.

His faithful companion snuffled and scooted closer.

Leo knew because he'd pried off one boot and placed the sole of his foot comfortingly against his canine's side. Ever since their last, fast jaunt into the cold, hours ago, Reaver had breathed regularly beneath the table, tucked away from the stray boot or flying beverage. The snuffle vibrated Leo's foot and brought a small smile despite the sour tang lingering on his tongue.

A frigid rush blew against his cheek. Today's icy, storm-drenched hours had turned the place into a dank, if not dreary, crush. Too many tippling, unwashed (unsavory, he feared) bodies of locals jammed in amidst the journey-worn and weary travelers stranded here, just like he was.

Not that he typically liked to be complaintive, but by now—and by design—everyone knew his horse had come up lame. He'd spent the day bemoaning his lack of fortune at the bar: Why couldn't the nag have stumbled tomorrow? Or yesterday? Or even seven miles back? But no, Nelson just had to go and slip on ice 200 yards from this piece of (and he kept this part to himself) broken humanity with its deplorable ale, stale bodies, loud braggarts and pendulous bosoms—the last he knew because of the immodest barmaid.

The one he had less than no interest in. Since the battle that felled both him and many others, his focus had first been healing, and then learning. Finding a way to contribute, to the safety and freedom of England, even if it was no longer as captain of his ship. Women? Pah.

Who had time to pursue such things? Especially when their body showed zero interest as well?

Stay clear of trouble, you sorry lout, and come see us for Christmas , his fellow, also "retired" captain had written. Nathaniel Oliver, his former first mate and long-time friend, knew him well.

Leo never looked for trouble. Didn't have to. It gravitated to him like gnats to a good apple crisp. Had since he was a lad. And reaching forty last month hadn't changed his allure, it seemed. Only the sort of trouble.

Swiping his tongue past his lips, he braved another small swallow. No matter the size of the sip, the ale wasn't getting any better.

"Tastes like piss." The words whispered from him.

Switch to whiskey? once upon a time, one of his mates would have asked.

Something Leo would never hear again.

Sort of like the drunken, bellowed butchering of Christmas carols he'd witnessed the last half hour or more.

Watched. Not heard.

Now being deaf and all.

The coach limped into the sludge-mired yard of the tavern ahead of Susanna's methodical, slower pace. Her lack of speed hampered, no doubt, by her practically frozen hem (rather sludged itself), a few annoying, if minor, aches and pains, and the heavy valise weighing down one arm as much as the last hours threatened to weigh her spirits.

"None of that, now." She didn't even have to whisper the encouragement. No one was close enough to hear.

Her gaze followed the razed coach and skittish horses (except for the injured one that had been put down) being tugged toward the stable. The coach, and its battered and bruised occupants, shouldn't have been here at all, and wouldn't be, except for the teeming deluge the last day and a half that had flooded roads and rerouted her stage more than once. Along with the other passengers, she had been unceremoniously disboarded when the horses lost their footing (hooving?) on a treacherously slick, uneven portion, which ended up delivering the coach into a ditch—and most of its occupants into each other.

Take care to mind your safety at all times.

Susanna Oliver Mitchell would have snorted at that reminder—the refrain oft repeated by Sarah these last months, ever since Susanna became widowed at the ripe age of four and twenty.

The more worldly-wise Sarah had become Susanna's sister-in-law through marriage when Sarah's younger sister married Susanna's older brother. But after three daughters and thirteen years of marriage, Ellen had died nearly two years ago. Since then, and even before—when her health had declined and Susanna had given care and comfort where she could to her three nieces and the waning El—Sarah had taken Susanna under her wing.

To wit, with Sarah's own sister no longer hale and hearty, long letters and sisterly advice had come, welcomingly, Susanna's way. If it had been years too late to prevent Susanna's folly of a marriage and the calamities that came after? Well, 'twould not stop her appreciation for every piece of shared advice, no matter how she wasn't quite listening at the moment.

Mind your safety and never find yourself alone at night.

She would've laughed at the reminder—if she'd had the energy.

It seemed as the wind whipping her frame increased, the determined plod of her frozen feet did the opposite, their steady pace decreasing until it was all she could do to keep moving forward and not allow herself to be blown back the way she'd come. The other beleaguered travelers battling the wind buffeting them from all sides these last two miles had now overtaken her straggling form. Mind your safety…

Bother that. No one imperiled Susanna's safety. Not any longer, now that her husband wasn't around.

But the two-day adventure ( reckless adventure, per Sarah) that should have seen Susanna safely delivered to her brother and his new wife's abode well ahead of Christmas Day had now become a two-and-a-half-day disaster, if one listened to the other passengers, and she still had yet a full day's travel remaining. For herself? She was simply tired and cold on this last of a long stretch, anticipating a warm meal and hopefully an available room to change out of these wretchedly sogging garments—assuming anything in her bag still remained dry.

With a loud whinny, the last of the horses and the dilapidated coach they dragged, disappeared inside the long stable/carriage house located a couple dozen yards from the inn's entrance.

Nightfall approached, or perhaps had already arrived—thick grey, roiling clouds had obscured the sun all day—but the low hum of visitors drifting out into the yard welcomed, as did the candles burning from the one- and two-story windows.

Her nose was numb. Eyes stung from the wind. Her bonnet sagged precariously, only kept from escaping by the ribbons tight across her neck. Her slippers were ruined and her belly hungered.

Yet she had not felt this free in years. This alive.

Adventure was hers this holiday and she was ripe to claim it. (Despite warnings and crushed coaches.)

The length of her steps increased. Christmas beckoned, mere days away, and after years of suffer?—

Nay. She'd promised herself, when she'd seen Mr. Mitchell's casket lowered into the ground early this past fall, that she would suffer no more.

Rejoice, she would! In her freedom. In the season. In the?—

As she reached the tavern inn, she squinted past the ice pellets blowing beneath her bonnet, attempting to make out the swinging overhead sign, the paint faded in places…

A black-and-white pig, and a grey duck? No… A goose? Chicken? The letters above and below more gone than not, but… Yes!

The Foul Swine

Inn for nothing foul best spoil her holiday adventure.

Enough tragedy, some of it brought upon herself, most of it compliments of Mr. Mitchell, had already blighted enough of her not-quite-young-anymore life.

Take care and mind her safety?

Bah. Time for a little reckless enjoyment.

A few exciting hours before she climbed the lowered steps of another coach come morning that would deliver her to her destination. Time enough to mind her safety, her reputation and the guilt she still harbored well after that.

The squalling nibbler fighting against its mama's efforts to soothe. The grumblers whining and wallowing over the inn's crowded conditions. The clank and clump of tankards, toasting each other when full or landing back upon the table once empty.

All things he "heard" with his eyes, not his ears as his lips and tongue battled down another swallow of pathetic ale. As his toes curled in their thick socks against the warm, furred body beneath the table.

But Leo had a suitable imagination (a wildly exuberant one, his mama would have claimed when he was a lad). So at times such as these, when surrounded by more people than any sane man might wish, he didn't miss having working wattles as much as one might think.

But later tonight? When he bedded down in the stable next to his horse for a handful of hours before dawn? Then, Leo knew from nightly, irksome experience, once he was by himself, the silence would fair scream at him, keeping him awake. Apart.

Alone.