Chapter Four

Amos housed his crew where Mr. Godbe recommended, then paid and warned them with serious admonition not to embarrass the United States of America. The innkeep where his crew stayed was good enough to direct him to the nearest mail coach depot. The keep had his own brand of British humor, which involved poking fun at Amos’s Yankee accent.

“Yeesh, sor, we turn ye Yanks loose in a strange new world last century ago or so, and whattaya do but start talking funny like,” the man said.

Y ou sound a bit strange, too, was what Amos wanted to retort, but Mama raised him better than that. “We’re still learning English,” was his reply, said with a smile, which seemed to satisfy the man.

Amos did raise his eyebrows when a would-be wit in the pub where the riders waited grabbed a hank of his own hair, took a knife and pretended to scalp himself, all the while dancing in a circle. Small minds. Amos knew the man would turn into a mushy, puking wreck if he actually saw a scalping victim.

He chose to tell himself it was all good-natured ribbing, and not war hatred. After all, the British had burned the capitol in District of Columbia, so who should act out a grievance? Not Captain Amos Foster. Besides, there were more of them than him.

After a longish wait in Aldershot, where another wit wondered what a Yankee could possibly want in Ashfield, the local bone-cracker pulled into said village too late to seek out a solicitor who wasn’t already in nightclothes. The public house was quiet enough, suggesting that Ashfield was a sober place and not prone to good cheer much after eight and a half. A quaff in the pub reminded him how good English ale was, plus it furnished him with the direction of the solicitor. It also gave him more insight––wanted or not––into his Tifton relatives.

“’Tween you and me, them Tiftons is the sort what’d step over a pound to pick up a farthing.” The keep burped. “And sure as the world, they’d circle ‘round to pick up that pound and swat anyone in their way.” He leaned across the bar. “’Course I never said this.”

“I wasn’t listening,” Amos teased back, all the while thinking, No wonder these blokes lost the first revolution. They don’t play cards close to the chest . “I don’t think I am involved with the Tiftons in any way, however,” he added. “This concerns my Grandfather Ince.”

“…whose daughter is a Tifton,” the keep informed him. “P’raps you knew that.”

“I did. I can keep my distance.”

“But will they keep theirs, once they know you’re in Ashfield?” Maybe it was time for another confidence. The innkeeper leaned farther across the bar. “I’m too hard on the Tiftons, I s’pose. You can meet nicer Tiftons on the High Street not far from your grandpapa’s little house.”

“I’m relieved,” Amos said, tired and wanting that bed upstairs. “Pull the other leg.”

“No, really,” the keep insisted. “Maude and her daughter Madeline Tifton live over the circulating library, because that’s all they can afford. Apparently Maude married a Tifton rascal who came to a sad but predictable end.” He shook his head.

“No fears,” Amos said. “I’d better go upstairs now and…”

“Aye, Captain,” the innkeep agreed. “But that little Maddie – she still sweeps in front of your grandpa’s house when it snows. Word is that they shared their meals with him, when those at Tifton Manor ignored him.”

Amos carried that thought upstairs and into bed. He lay in bed a long while, letting the day of travel wash away and wondering about the kindness of a widow and her daughter. He chuckled over the impeccable Tiftons with a rascal in the hedge. Amazing what a person could learn, simply by taking a long pull on ale.

He woke hours later to a light tapping on the door. He had only a slight headache from the night before, but the keep’s little maid curtseyed and handed over a small glass of something black and vile.

“It’s good for what ails ye,” she said, keeping her voice low and confidential. “Master says.”

As a matter of fact, it was. He had drunk worse old water at the end of long voyages, so the potion went down easily. He tackled bacon and eggs downstairs with no hesitation, even though the innkeep looked a little groggy.

“Across the street and down a few doors and you’ll find our solicitor, you will,” Amos was informed.

Snow had fallen, blanketing the street just enough to take away the rough edges of any village a few months into winter. He took a deep breath, always a pleasure after a sea voyage of any length, when the bilge in the hold started to stink.

Papers in hand––something testifying that he was who he said, and not a lunatic––he started for the solicitor’s office until his attention was caught by a little miss sweeping in front of what might be his grandfather’s house. He smiled to see her, remembering an expression he heard on a coastal voyage to Charleston, South Carolina, during drastic times when there was no shipping to Europe because of war, and he scrambled to find work, any work.

In Charleston, he came across a man watching a boy stacking newly cut wood. “Look’ee there. He goes at that like he’s killin’ snakes,” the man said with admiration.

So was… Maude? Madeline? She didn’t waste a movement, but worked with a singleness of purpose like someone, well, killin’ snakes. But goodness gracious, she was a pretty thing.

Amos did what any man would do: He admired her. Maude or Madeline was not tall, but she was energetic. Her curly dark hair was tied back simply, curls bobbing as she put her energy into sweeping away a middling amount of snow not sufficient for a shovel. She wore a cloak, a heavy one, which meant he could arrive at no opinion about her figure.

It was enough to see her. She waved to passersby who obviously knew her. Some stopped to chat, even though she continued her task. She paused briefly for a youngish man, good looking and handsome, who stopped and raised his hat to her. Amos felt an irrational jealousy at the man’s attention, then reminded himself that he was being an idiot. Maude or Madeline could like whomever she chose.

How did news travel so fast in Ashfield? When he raised his hand to knock on the solicitor’s door, it opened. Amos wondered if somehow between dusk and dawn, the innkeeper had spread the word of someone new in the village, bound for the solicitor’s.

“Come in, come in, lad,” Mr. Clare said. “Seat yourself.”

Amos did as he directed. “I am…”

“I already know. Our innkeep loves a good story, and he knew I wanted a chin wag with you.” The solicitor scratched his head. “Come to think of it, that conversation may have come up earlier.”

“Somehow a brief mention traveled all the way back to Mr. Godbe at the West Indies Dock in London,” Amos said, amused. “Rumors travel fast, eh?”

“Lord bless me, that was it,” the solicitor said, with no embarrassment.

“He’s right, sir. I found your three-year-old letter waiting for me at the dock and here I am. Pleased to meet you, sir.” Amos laughed. “Thank you for your patience.”

“I’m a patient man, sir. I have a son at sea. I know better than to expect timely communication. And then there was this little war….What do you think historians in the future will call it?”

“I doubt it will be anything too creative, considering all that Europe has been through, thanks to Napoleon,” Amos replied, enjoying this man. “I’d like to call it Here Endeth the Lesson. We two nations, old and new, will hopefully discover we have more in common than otherwise.”

“We will.” Mr. Clare ran a finger around his spotless neckcloth.

Amos felt only a little shabby in his well-worn navy blues. He crossed his legs, pleased that at least he had set his shoes out into the hallway last night and they were well-polished. Now to begin?

“Here I am, sir,” Amon said again. “I have promise of a full cargo, and will stand out to sea in hopefully two weeks. Let me first state that I only really knew my step-grandfather through a lengthy correspondence that began when I was a lad. My father encouraged me to correspond, because he said it was gentlemanly and I might learn something.”

“Did you?” Mr. Clare asked with a big smile.

That surprised Amos. He hadn’t expected such a question from someone he didn’t know, who had business to discuss. He thought about it. “I learned to write a letter, and wish I could have known Grandfather Ince. All I had were letters.”

“He was a quiet man who kept to himself.” Mr. Clare tapped the sole letter on his desk. “Your grandfather brought this to my office about a week before he died, three years ago.” He turned it over and held it up so Amos could read, This is to be opened when Captain Foster is finally allowed into this country . “He was quite adamant that it was for you.”

“Can’t imagine why, really,” Amos said. “I doubt he was prosperous. Maybe he has a book for me. He knew I liked to read.”

“Captain, he also gave me a letter with the direction of your shipping agent at the West Indies Dock, which, obviously, was finally delivered to you a few days ago.”

“Indeed it was.”

“Well, sir, open the envelope. I own to some curiosity.”

Mr. Clare handed Amos a letter opener. He slit the top and pulled out another envelope with more writing on it. Amos angled it on the solicitor’s desk so they could both read it. This is my last will and testament. I would like my daughter and her family present, as well as her husband’s Tifton relatives, at its reading .

Mr. Clare leaned back in his chair, “This is singular, indeed. Captain, gossip and speculation make their rounds in small towns. Word has it that the Tiftons of Tifton Manor made a point years ago not to have anything to do with Mr. Peter Tifton’s brother, who was a rascal. His widow and Madeline live here.”

H ah, so Madeline is the pretty daughter, not Maude, Amos thought. Not that it mattered. He meant it when he said two weeks was all the time he could spare for England. Perhaps he could at least meet Madeline. “So the keep informed me. Over the library, he said.”

“The very place.” The solicitor allowed himself a smile. “Ashfield is full of, um, information.”

“What’s the proper thing to do here, sir?” Amos asked. “I don’t know any of these people. Could you…would you send a note to …to Tifton Manor, is it? You know, explain the situation?”

“Such a missive will be in their hands by luncheon,” Mr. Clare said. “I can do the same thing for Maude Tifton, although I know she and Maddie are afraid of the other Tiftons. They might choose to have nothing to do with this.” He grew conspiratorial then, much like the innkeep across the High Street. “Word has it that after her spendthrift rascal of a husband died of the drink, Mrs. Maude Tifton came her with her little daughter, asking for help, and was turned away.”

H ow cruel , Amos thought. He tried to imagine his own mother or stepmother doing such a thing, and couldn’t. “No wonder they might be reluctant to participate in whatever this is,” he said, and tapped the will, securely bound with a cord.

“This will give Ashfield something to gossip about for a while,” Mr. Clare said. “So will you.” He opened his desk drawer and took out a key with a note attached. “Here is the last part of this intriguing task of mine. Go on, take it. The notes says this key opens that little house at Number Fourteen. It’s yours for the moment. Move in, lad, even if it’s only for a couple of weeks.”