Chapter Ten

It took all his paltry powers of persuasion that evening to convince Maude and Madeline Tifton to let him escort them to a meeting they dreaded to attend.

The circulating library was long closed, but he returned there and banged on the door until Miss Cuthbert, wearing a sour expression, opened the door. When she saw who it was, her irritation changed to worry.

Amos apologized and explained. She hurried upstairs. In a few minutes, Madeline came down, her hair around her shoulders, her robe carefully cinched. He knew he was unlikely to ever see a more lovely woman, even if his searches for cargo took him around the world.

He saw the worry in her eyes, but he saw something else, a certain strength he had not noticed earlier that day, as if she had made a personal decision that included no one but herself. Odd, that, because even as he felt some relief, he also felt his heart sink.

There was no point in mincing words, not that he was ever good at it. “Mr. Clare told me at the inn that you and your mother are also requested to be in attendance at tomorrow’s reading of my grandfather’s will.”

Madeline took a deep breath. “We will be there, but why?”

“There is no guarantee what Loisa Tifton will do,” he cautioned.

“There never has been,” Madeline replied. Her agitation showed when she twisted the long hair by her ear into a curlicue, but her hand did not shake. “Every year when Mama must abase herself for 25 pounds, I am certain it will be the last time. I suppose we’ll find out after Christmas.”

Should he? Why not? “Mr. Clare wanted to cushion me against the idea that the house might be going to you and your mother, and not to me. I assured him that was a wonderful idea.”

“That is so kind of you, but with 25 pounds a year, if we’re still fortunate, we cannot maintain it.”

How could her eyes look so kind, when everything pointed to ruin? The lessons I could learn from you, dear woman , he thought.

There wasn’t any more reason for him to stay. “Let us walk over together tomorrow.”

“Let’s. Goodnight, Captain Foster.”

He watched the gentle sway of her hips as she walked upstairs, sad beyond belief because she called him Captain Foster, and not Amos. She was already steeling herself for his inevitable departure. Hadn’t he said over and over how eager he was the return to London, his ship, and his life? Gad, what an idiot he was.

After thanking Miss Cuthbert for her forbearance, he let himself out. He knew sleep was impossible. He reached for Grandpa Ince’s box of letters, finally nodding off in the chair after the clock chimed four. In consequence, his backed ached when he woke up.

He rubbed his eyes and put the letters back in the box. All that remained was a final letter to read. Madeline had numbered them meticulously, perhaps mindful that someday the mysterious “Dear Amos” might appear. He had, and done little good for her. He toyed again with the idea of asking if she would be amenable to correspondence. If Grandpa did will him the house, he would sell it and give Madeline the profit.

“That’s the best you can do?” he asked the supremely unhappy face in the mirror. “I’m surprised you can hire a crew to walk across the street with you, much less sail an ocean.”

Smile and put on a happy face, he ordered himself as he opened the door to the circulating library and two worried faces looked back at him: Maude Tifton and Miss Cuthbert.

Amos Foster knew right then that if he lived to be an old, dribbling, doddering antique, Madeline’s serenity would be something he wanted to carve as figurehead on every ship he built and sailed. How do you do it ? he asked himself. She was the only calm presence in the room.

Leaving for the solicitor’s was a trial. Maude burst into tears, which meant her daughter spent a moment with her arms tight around her. He heard, “Mama, we always have a home here. There isn’t anything your sister-in-law can do to us.”

“Then why this summons, daughter?”

“Maybe she wants to gloat about her good fortune, should Mr. Ince’s house come her way. Be brave.”

“How do you do it?” he asked simply.

“Amos Foster, how on earth did you survive a ship sunk in a hurricane, two other ships rendered unseaworthy, and a war?”

It was easy enough to tell the truth. “Simple, dear heart,” he began. (He couldn’t help a little unholy glee when she rosied up at that.) “I drank too much rum, gnawed my fingernails off, suffered through spells of diarrhea, and those were the pleasant things.”

He hoped she would laugh, and she did, a laugh that he wanted to hear again and again until he died. Yes, he would ask if he could write to her. But she hadn’t answered his question. “I’ve bared all my indignities, Miss Tifton, and it was ugly, you will agree. Confess to me how you stay so calm.”

She must have given the matter some recent thought. As pretty as she looked, he could tell her eyes were tired, too. Maybe she had stayed up all night. “I decided yesterday that no matter what happens, every day has twenty-four hours and there is always another sunrise to try again.”

“Touché, Miss Tifton,” he said, humbled as never before. I used to feel that way , he thought. When did I change? Can I get that back?

He crooked out his arms. “Ladies, let’s go. This can’t take long.”

A pretty lady on either side of him, Amos admired the Christmas wreaths on many doors. “Do you have any amazing Yuletide traditions that we uncouth Americans haven’t reckoned on?” he asked, hoping to put Mrs. Tifton at ease. He could feel her trembling.

“I suppose not,” Madeline replied. “Our door-to-door Christmas carolers probably sound no better or worse than yours across the Atlantic. Many people steam a Christmas pudding here, and I suppose you do, too.”

He nodded. “Mama wouldn’t miss it. Is yours ready?”

“Sort of,” she said, her eyes merry. “Since there are only two of us and we’re not noted gluttons, we save money by drawing a picture of a Christmas pudding.”

Lovely, kind, gallant. He leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “Madeline, would you think me uncouth and rude if I asked to correspond with you? Think of the practice you have had with my grandpa.”

She whispered back. “I will enjoy that.”

Up ahead, the Tifton coach was pulling up to Mr. Clare’s modest office. They waited until Mr. and Mrs. Tifton were ushered inside by the solicitor.

They went in next, Maude hanging back until she took several deep breaths at her daughter’s suggestion. Mother and daughter’s heads were close together, but Amos heard their exchange. “I usually only see her when I go to the manor for my twenty-five pounds,” Maude whispered. “This will make twice this year.”

“I can go in your place, Mama,” Madeline said. “I should have offered to do that before. In fact, consider it done.”

In silence, they removed their cloaks. He saw them as they were, two little people who had been dealt a wicked hand years ago, but who did not break under it, reminding Amos all over again that his trials were no better or worse than anyone else’s. He had known ship captains who had lost less than Foster Shipping, but who had turned into broken hulks. He had seen other men receive mercy somehow, who then turned on those lower down the ladder of life and extracted their pound of quivering flesh.

He vowed to read his Bible more often, mainly because he was forgetting the lessons found there. And here it was, nearly a Christmas he had forgotten. The unjust practices foisted on powerless women were of great concern to Him whose birth the world was poised to celebrate. There would always be a reckoning, whether in this life or the next. Madeline’s greatest gift to Amos Foster was her example of courage in the face of adversity. He would never forget her.

Mr. Clare cleared his throat to get their attention. He looked around at the small gathering. “I will dispense with preliminaries,” he said. “You know me. I know you. This letter and accompanying will is dated June 26, 1812, a week after the war between our countries began.”

Using a wicked-looking letter opener, the solicitor sliced the packet in front of him. He slit through twine, and broke open Grandpa Ince’s seal that Amos was already familiar with, having opened many of those himself in that period before all mail stopped and war began. In silence, Mr. Clare spread out the document and began to read to himself. His eyes widened and he sucked in his breath, which made Loisa Tifton lean forward, triumph all over her face. “See there, Peter, you worried for nothing,” she said softly.

Mr. Clare gave her a sharp look, until he started to smile. He shook his head and finished reading the closely written page. His smile grew wider.

Amos twined his fingers through Madeline’s. He squeezed and she squeezed back. “Better breathe, Amos,” she whispered. “You’re turning red.”

He took a breath. “Yes, ma’am, thank you, ma’am,” he teased.

“Read it, man,” Peter Tifton demanded.

“With pleasure,” the solicitor said firmly. “I hope all of you are ready for this.”

“Certainly,” Loisa Tifton said sweetly, but with an edge of malice. “I know my dearest father would not torment us as you are doing.”

D earest father, my ass , Amos thought. You never once set foot in the house that is probably yours now .

Or was it? Mr. Clare puffed his cheeks and blew out a column of air, as he seemed to calm his own nerves. “Mr. Ince was a bit of an eccentric,” he began. “I know there were many of the landed gentry in our shire, and his own, who washed their hands of him when he sold his land and invested in canal stock. Yes, that was it.” He glanced at the Tiftons, husband and wife. “I always had the feeling he was hounded from the district by censure from people who felt he brought shame to their social sphere.”

“Papa did make it difficult for us,” Loisa Tifton said. She dabbed at dry eyes.

“Be that as it may. Your father moved north to a small house in Yorkshire near Leeds. Bless my soul if he didn’t do a little digging, himself. He was a man of great enthusiasm.”

“Canals! We have enough of those already!” Mrs. Tifton declared. “I told you he was a fool, Peter. When I think of the land he sold and the money he lost, I am appalled.”

Mr. Clare held up his hand in a placating gesture. “Now, now.” He looked her in the eye, quelling her commentary. “ Au contraire , madam. According to this will, Walter Ince made a fortune by investing in more canals well-suited for commerce.”

Amos had to admit that Mrs. Tifton recovered in spectacular fashion. “Dear, dear, father,” she cooed, even as her face turned an alarming red. She dabbed at her eyes again, but with more energy. “I didn’t want him to soil his hands with trade, and embarrass himself. I was thinking of him. How much….what did…”

“This is where it gets interesting.” Mr. Clare looked at Amos. “Here is what he wrote, ‘”In appreciation for years of charming letters beginning as an eleven-year-old boy and then a growing lad turned to the commerce of the sea, and then a master and captain in his own right, my step-grandson Amos Foster did me a signal honor with his letters. I wanted to do something fitting for a man who probably will have his own trials in coming years, if this war is a long as the revolutionary one. I do not have a crystal ball. I have no idea when this war, now begun, will end. When it does, Amos Carter will find the sum of …”

Mr. Clare paused dramatically. Amos wondered how it was that the solicitor avoided a life on the wicked stage. “’…of twenty thousand pounds sterling.’”

Amos had no plans to faint, but he did see little sparkles of light jostling each other across his vision, then skipping around.

Madeline took his arm. “Breathe, Amos,” she said, but not in a whisper this time. “In and out, in and out.”

“This is impossible. He is not even his grandson,” Mrs. Tifton said. “My dear, dear sister Catherine had the raising of him!” She tried to snatch the papers on Mr. Clare’s desk, which he now held close to his chest.

“Be seated, madam,” he said. “I will continue with this sentence. Let me see… ‘twenty thousand pounds sterling currently residing in the Bank of England. It is to be used at least partially to increase and maintain his fleet, no matter how or when this war ends. I trust him with his decisions.’” The solicitor’s eyes softened. “’This is in grateful thanks for hours of wonderful letters from a grandson who let me know I had not been forgotten by my family.’”

“What a kind man,” Madeline said. “Amos, you’ll have all the ships you want.”

Amos doubted he could even speak, but he managed. “I wish I could have met him.” Tears gathered in his eyes. Madeline pressed her handkerchief into his palm.

“This cannot be!” Mrs. Tifton shouted again. “It cannot be legal.”

“It is legal,” Mr. Clare said. “Mr. Ince was entitled to leave his fortune wherever he wanted.” He read ahead. “There is more to come.” He looked at Madeline this time, the very act of which made Mrs. Tifton set up a howl. She stamped her feet like a child, and glared at Madeline, who leaned away from the woman. Amos put his arm around her protectively.

“’Maddie, dear Madeline,’” Mr. Clare began. He pointed to the document. “That’s how he addresses you.” He looked at Maude Tifton, his expression equally kind. “’Madam, this is to both of you, but he specifies Madeline.’”

“He should,” Mrs. Maude said. “She took him meals and read to him, and still sweeps the snow from before his house. She wrote his last few letters as he dictated them to her, when his handwriting failed.”

“You raised an excellent child, madam, and you did it with no help or resources from anyone.” Mr. Clare said. He accompanied this with a measured glance at Loisa Tifton. “Deep breath now: ‘To Madeline Tifton and her mother Maude, I bequeath the sum of 5,000 pounds. Used judiciously, this should provide a tidy sum to live on.’” He read on and chuckled. “Wouldn’t you know it? He added, ’Maddie, beware of fortune hunters, won’t you?’ And this: ‘You may also have deed to my house at Number Fourteen High Street.’”

Madeline put her hand to her heart, then turned her lovely eyes on Amos. “Mr. Ince was so easy to care about. I, too, wish you could have met him.”

“I learned a lot reading his letters last night,” he said, knowing this wasn’t the place or the time, but not sure when or if that would ever come. “He mentioned you many times. Hey now, don’t you cry.”

“I’m not crying,” she said. He returned her handkerchief, which she accepted gratefully, adding her tears to his, which did something to his heart. Gad, but he was a soft touch.

“That is it,” Mr. Clare said. “He is allocating me the sum of two hundred pounds per annum to continue overseeing this will and testament, which I am legally qualified to do.” He slid a pasteboard business card toward Amos. “When you go to London in a few days, you are to visit this man. He will guide you through the process of acquiring your legacy. Maddie, I can manage yours here, if you so choose.”

“I do,” she said softly. “I have a request right now. From my share, could I give the sum of 500 pounds to Miss Cuthbert? She has charged us so little through the years, and I want to share some of this.” She laughed. “Knowing her, she will probably use some of it on more copies of Jane Austen.”

“It can and will be done.” He pointed to the document again. “There is still the sum of 10,000 pounds set aside for future investments, and they will be handled by that same man you will see in London, Captain Foster. It’s early days, and who knows if this modern scheme will someday overtake canals in popularity: Mr. Ince wanted to invest in railroads. He states that if anything should come of that––and who knows?––the sum will be divided between you and Madeline and Maude.”

“Fair to me,” Amos said. “And you, ladies?”

The ladies nodded. Loisa Tifton set up another howl and stamping of her feet, while her husband looked on in alarm, and then casually moved his chair farther away from hers. “But I am his loving daughter!”

I n what galaxy would that ever be true? Amos thought.

Mr. Clare looked down at the page again. “He did write something to you, Mrs. Tifton. I will not read it beyond saying that he quotes Shakespeare’s tragedy, King Lear .” He looked her in the eye. “Something about a thankless child and a serpent’s tooth. The Bard did have a way with a phrase. Good day to you all.”