Chapter Seven

Grandpa’s shirt was a little large, but far superior to blue and white checks. The bedchamber had a mirror over the bureau, and he frowned into it as he fidgeted with a neckcloth, wishing someone could help him with something so simple. Then he remembered numerous fraught moments at sea. Surely he could manage a yard or so of stupid cloth.

The bed sheets and coverlet had been whisked away, making Amos regret that his almost next-door neighbors were obliged to keep cleaning while he had dinner elsewhere. Then again, in the stillness of his grandfather’s house, he had a moment to think.

He remembered a conversation years ago when his father captained the Betty Bright , and they were lolling along in the dog latitude where not a single puff of wind came their way. “Pa, if you could be anywhere but here, what would you be doing?” had been his boyish question.

Pa’s answer was prompt. “Probably sitting in the kitchen at home, watching your stepmother get dinner on the table. Or maybe sitting with her of an evening. She’d be knitting and I would be reading.”

At the time, there off the humid coast of Brazil, Amos had thought that answer perfectly stupid. He was too polite to say that, because he loved his father. Standing in front of the mirror now, he recalled what he did say. “Pa, I thought you’d rather be bartering with traders in the East Indies. I know you like a good barter.”

“I like your stepmother much more,” Pa had replied, amused. “A quiet dinner with her means the world to me.”

After all these years, Amos understood. Too bad those damnable times and tides meant his father lived at sea and died there, too, killed by a fever off Barbados four years ago, when their shipping business was starting to wither and die. Now the seas were Amos’s again, and he wanted to forget it all and sit down to dinner with Madeline Tifton.

“Pa, you were right, in this and in so many other ways,” he told the mirror.

He considered the matter as he walked the mile to Tifton Manor, enjoying the bliss of walking and walking without confining himself to 25 feet in one direction on his quarterdeck, and 25 in another. This was bliss, or would have been, if he could have avoided a dinner which he was already wary of.

There it was, Tifton Manor, an imposing three-story property on a small rise, with a pretty row of trees leading to it. Come spring and the return of leaves and nesting birds, it would be beautiful. A curved driveway graced the front, and there were candles in each of the ground floor windows. The effect was charming and Amos’s natural inclination to optimism rose. Maybe this evening would be one to remember, after all.

He could scarcely have been more right and wrong at the same time.

The butler who opened the front door looked pleasant enough. He handed Amos’s well-worn cloak and lid to another liveried man who must be a footman. “This way, sir,” the butler said and proceeded at a measured pace.

Perhaps the butler moved too fast. When he knocked lightly, then open the door, four sour faces stared back at Amos, which made him want to run back to Ashfield and catch the nearest conveyance to London. You’re braver than that , he told himself, and smiled at all the Gorgons.

“Captain Amos Foster,” the butler announced.

To Amos’s continuing surprise, the expressions changed to something almost human. The young lady and her obvious, if overweight, brother, smiled outright. The other two, likely the parents, smiled as if practicing this display of goodwill.

The butler gestured. “Captain, Mr. and Mrs. Tifton, and Amelia and Cosmo Tifton.”

When Amos still hesitated in the doorway, the butler gave him a push into the room, not a push anyone watching would have noticed, directed as it was to the small of Amos’s back. It got him into the room. The door closed quietly behind him, so he could not leave.

He bowed, which always felt artificial. “I’m delighted to meet you all.”

“Yes, well,” the lady of the house said, which sounded hardly reassuring. “Do be seated, Captain Foster.”

W hat now? Amos asked himself. Everything he knew about these people had come from the innkeeper, Maude and Madeline Tifton, and the solicitor. He was no fool. Since the Tiftons seemed to be looking at him to discourse eloquently, or twirl plates, or dance a jig, perhaps he should attempt an explanation. He cleared his throat and began, certain this could not be as bad as anything he had every faced before, up to and including cannibals in the South Pacific.

“I gather Mr. Clare has informed you of my arrival in Ashfield, in answer to a letter I received in the London Docks.” He would have said more, but some part of his comment had turned them sour again.

If Amos could do anything, he was able to read a room. Let’s see: stickler, snobs. What else? he thought. Ah, the London Docks. Perhaps never before had anyone heard those words in this manor. All he could do was forge ahead.

“Apparently, Walter Ince, in actual fact my step-grandfather, is your father, Mrs. Tifton,” he said. “At least that is what Mr. Clare told me.”

“Yes.”

He needed more than one syllable. Maybe it was time to use that firm jawed, raised eyebrow “captain” look that commanded attention from many a crew of his. “Then, madam, please tell me why I am here. I have no family ties beyond the affection he always showed me.”

He said it nicely, but he knew how to get people’s attention. Mrs. Tifton stirred in her chair, her expression hardened, and then changed to…something. “You are correct. Mr. Ince was my father.”

A nd? And? He wanted to say. Is Hampshire rationing words? “Catherine is your sister then? She married my father, David Foster. You are my Aunt Loisa.”

Ooh. He felt the back of his neck curdling. “I am Mrs. Tifton to you,” she replied. He heard the icicles hanging off the sentence. “My mother always regretted sending Catherine to stay with friends in London, who had ties with America we were unaware of.” He could tell she had the obvious question. “We knew my sister had several children, but she never mentioned one named Amos.”

Ah, that was it. “I am not related to an Ince or a Tifton. Betty Mason, my father’s first wife and my mother, died shortly after I was born. He met your sister Catherine in London, as you have said. Let me add that she is still alive, living in Groton, Connecticut, and a wonderful stepmother. She has always let me call her Mama.”

“Then you and I are not related,” Mrs. Tifton replied. He heard distinct relief in her voice.

“No, we are not,” he said, and felt distinct gratitude.

She wasn’t done. “Does my sister ever speak of me?”

Amos decided he wasn’t done, either. “Mrs. Tifton, in all my life, I do not believe she ever received a letter from you , her older sister, although I know she sent a few. She’s a kind, forgiving lady and I owe her a great deal.” Could Mrs. Tifton stand this ? “She loves me as one of her own.”

“But you are not.”

Ouch. “My late father took good care of your sister,” he said cheerfully, which earned him a stare that could have cut through iron. “If I could apologize for the recent war, I would. This matter of a will should take no time at all and I will be on my way.”

Mr. and Mrs. Tifton exchanges glances. “You have no plans to, er, contest anything that should be contained in it?” Mrs. Tifton asked.

So that was it. Amos gave a mental sight of relief and relaxed. “Heavens, no! When I arrived at London Docks”––Ha, he admitted saying that again just to watch ol’ Loisa cringe – “I had no idea there would be a letter for me from Grandpa Ince. It must be a small matter. Perhaps it’s ownership of the house on the High Street.” He couldn’t resist then. “I doubt he had many possessions. It’s a small house.”

What happened next made him open his eyes wide and wonder if he could edge toward the door. Mrs. Tifton turned to her husband, who appeared to have perfected a semi-cringe when she looked at him. “There! I told you, Peter! This is what happens when an otherwise sensible man like my father dirties his hands with common trade!”

“Yes, Loisa,” came Mr. Tifton’s quiet reply. “Certainly you were right, Loisa.”

“Someone had to hold the line,” she said in triumph. “To make matters worse, husband, your own brother ruined himself with drink and tried to foist his widow and daughter on us, but I held the line there, too!”

“Yes, my dear.”

This next barb came low, but he knew he was supposed to hear it. “And now we have to deal with an, an American ! I am not even related to him!”

Amos stared in amazement as Mr. and Tifton engaged in a venomous, low-voiced conversation, and their children looked stony-eyed at each other, as if this was a too-common event. What a miserable bunch , Amos thought. This matter of an estate can’t be settled too soon .

He debated between staying and finding a way closer to the door. The son––Cosmo?––gave him a desperate look as if he wanted to escape, too. It was hard to tell about the scrawny daughter.

Amos decided to chance it, and why not? He had stood up to the French in Polynesia, and some Chinese merchants ready to steal his cargo in Indonesia. This squabble embarrassed him, and made him sad at the same time. Life had taught him when to abandon ship. He stood up slowly and edged toward the door, the combatants seemingly unaware of his escape. The closer he came, the wider the door opened.

Two more steps and he was safe in the corridor. The butler closed the door on the sitting room and ushered him quickly toward the entrance.

“It seemed a little loud. I was about to announce dinner, but thought you might prefer a rescue,” the butler said, handing him his cloak and hat.

“What sort of place is this?” Amos whispered. “And what is your name? I like to know who my rescuers are.”

“Livingston. It’s an unhappy place, sir.”

“I don’t doubt it, Mr. Livingston.”

“Livingston,” the butler said. “Just Livingston.”

“No, Mr. Livingston,” Amos said firmly. “Pardon me, but you look of an age to perhaps know my stepmother, Catherine Ince Foster.”

Livingston opened the door and ushered Amos out, closing the door on the two of them. “Your mother was a sweet lady, and so jolly. We as live belowstairs were happy for her when she eloped with your father to Gretna Green and followed him to America. Mrs. Tifton never spoke of her.”

“Eloped, did they?” Amos asked, diverted by this notion. “She never would talk about it! I’ll have to tease her when I see her in a few months.”

“She still lives?”

“Yes, although my father is gone now. She is in Connecticut.”

“Do tell her hello from those of us belowstairs.”

“I will.” He started down the front steps. “Now I am running away like a coward. This matter with the solicitor had better be a paltry one quickly over and done.” He laughed. “It’s a good thing the crew of the Betty Bright can’t see me.”

“Wise of you to flee,” Livingston said. “Goodnight.”