Chapter Six

Luke Wainwright had never been inclined to fire workers in anger. After all, people could make mistakes they regretted immediately, and never repeat the offense, if given another chance. When letting go of hired help, he was happy to leave that distasteful task to Mr. Magleby, the controlling half of Magleby the cook tried to babble an explanation; the governess was too far gone to do anything except drop her head lower to the table. They were history inside of an hour, after he retrieved all their keys and paid them off, which was more than most employers would have done.

Face set in firm lines, he walked in the rain to his father-in-law’s house and laid the matter before him. He minced no words over his own neglect, and asked him and his mother-in-law who joined them, to locate a housekeeper who would manage the house and him. He ate dinner in the kitchen with the Maglebys, where all of them felt at home, and discussed the business of ships.

Buttered rum in the kitchen was next – Mrs. Magleby was a dab hand at such things – followed by a hearty goodnight. Roger Magleby hung onto his hand a little longer. “What’s your plan, lad?” he asked.

“After I find my house organized and safe, I might invite my aunt in Liddiard to come with Sally and stay. There’s ample room, and she’s not getting a minute younger.”

“It is a good plan.” Magleby gave his shoulder a pat. “But what about you?”

“I’ll do well enough,” Luke said, offering nothing else.

The rain had stopped. He walked home, at peace with himself. He trusted his mother-in-law. Soon there would be a martinet of a housekeeper to manage his domestic affairs. Sally would be happier under a better regime. He thought of Mary Cooper, then reminded himself that she seemed good at making her own plans.

He thought of Mary Cooper again when the sun came up. It was that luxurious time of day when he woke up early, and had a moment to think whatever he wanted, before the business of the day started doing a little dance off stage. He decided he would like to get to know Mary better. Maybe Aunt Luella would leave her in charge of the shop – it appeared that Mary already ran it – and he could drop in every now and then to visit. He could use the pretext that he wanted to check in to see that all was well with Aunt Luella’s funds in Mallard’s counting house. He could ask her to dinner. He could possibly court her. There might be time for all of that. Anything was possible, before breakfast and the business of the day. Afterwards, never. What was he thinking, anyway?

At work, he picked up where he left off, spending long hours aboard the current frigate in the dry dock. He noted that the frame was solid and true, while chaos ruled and nothing appeared to be going as planned. This was typical and he knew it. He stepped around piles of rope and wood stacked in locations where it would turn from lumber into a quarterdeck. He sniffed the tar cooking, which meant that the lower decks were on schedule.

A short sail across the bay – the chop was up, signifying the beginning of winter – took him to a battered frigate, snugged tight to a temporary dock and waiting her turn for the W&M brand of surgery. In a sharp encounter with a Spanish ship of similar build and guns, the Spaniards had fought well. Better cannon work from the British gunners eventually sent the Spanish ship aground off the Canaries, but it meant a long limp home for the HMS Peregrine.

Luke knew he would find the sailing master and the second luff aboard, men with families, yes, but only a short walk into the Barbican for the lieutenant, and a post chaise in two weeks to Scotland for the sailing master. As he walked the deck with them, he took notes of work done, work to be done, and work to re-do. He ate supper with them ashore at a grogshop rejoicing in the dubious name of Neptune’s Nipples, which, amazingly, turned out fine food and occasional back-alley mayhem. But that was Devonport.

He came home to a cold, empty house. He nearly laid a fire so he could at least warm up enough water to fill a bottle and keep his feet toasty. He decided it was too late. He kept his stockings on and found another blanket.

As he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, he thought about Christmas, mainly because Mrs. Magleby said two nights ago that it might be hard to find a housekeeper at this time of year. “What time?” he had asked innocently.

“Christmas, you heathen,” she joked, with her usual good humor. “Seems like the parties start earlier and earlier.”

“It’s barely November,” he reminded her. His mother-in-law shrugged.

At least he was smiling when he finally fell asleep, thinking of Mary again. Why was that?

His fortunes turned in mid-November, when the postman delivered the usual mail to the W&M office, usual in that there were bills to pay, and Royal Navy edicts – so he called them – more-than-suggesting that two more battered frigates were coming his way. He would find room for them somewhere and hire more laborers. God knows they needed that new drydock.

The sweetest moment was a letter from his daughter, or so the left-hand corner of the envelope announced. The first thing to extricate from Sally’s envelope – well made, to suggest more skilled hands at work – was a pencil sketch of his Aunt Luella, looking less forbidding than usual, and even of pleasant demeanor, dare he suggest lurking good humor? He could almost see Mary Cooper telling her a funny story and sketching like mad to capture Aunt Luella in a good mood.

Aunt Luella had included a note, complaining about constant headaches and low appetite, but stating in the next paragraph that all was well. She had set Sally to the task of needlework, which was not received with much joy from his daughter. (Luke smiled at that.) Then this: “Sally has challenged Mary to draw a ship for you. When Mary protested and said she needed at least a ship’s model to work from, Sally brought out that silly wooden ship you gave me in jest once, announcing that it was for use in a bathing tub only.”

What came the next day to his Plymouth house was a combination housekeeper and cook, a woman of fierce expression and determination in her eyes, sent by his mother-in-law. “Caldwell is my name,” she announced to Luke when he came home that night, reeking of fried fish from the pub. She sniffed the air around him with some dissatisfaction. “I’ll feed you plain food that won’t mess with yer innards as much as fried fish.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” he said hastily, already half afraid of her.

“I’ll have two maids here as soon as possible.” She sniffed the air again. “Your house reeks. The maids will change that.”

The maids descended upon his house two days later, proving as formidable as the housekeeper, who happened to be their aunt. “They’re good girls, they are,” Mrs. Caldwell said. “From Norfolk same as me. Nieces.”

Order reigned supreme the next day: ne’er-do-well rugs taken outside for a good thrashing, floors cleaned, some curtains washed and others waiting their turn, and walls wiped down. In the entry hall, there was mail on a table that positively luxuriated after the application of furniture wax.

He looked around in appreciation, wondering why in the world he had suffered the indignities of his recently fired domestics. A person, let’s say for argument’s sake as tidy as, well, Mary Cooper, would see this order and be sufficiently impressed.

Thinking of her returned his attention to the table with mail. He could have let out a most improper yell in this impeccable house to see M. Cooper in the return address, but he refrained himself. He set down his briefcase right there and could have sunk to the floor in delight to see a letter opener right on the table, waiting for him. He resisted the urge to go outside for a good look at the fa?ade of his house. Did he go into the wrong house by mistake? No. Same house, but under new management.

It proved to be a small note – too small, in his opinion, but no one asked – accompanying a wrapped sheet stiffened with pasteboard. Be careful what you ask for. All is well here. Mary Cooper . That was it. He opened the pasteboard took one look, and laughed.

M y, but you are a clever lass, he thought, as he held up her drawing, larger than some of the others. The little wooden ship he had given Aunt Luella years ago when he was of more jovial mind, was half-sailing, half-sinking in a bathing tub, with someone’s bare knees drawn up, the spectator. He peered closer, and smiled to see a very small captain saluting on the deck as the toy ship appeared to sink as a bar of soap floated by.

It was hilarious and spontaneous and exactly the antidote he needed to drive away a headache caused by fourteen hours of hammering, sawing, and nautical swearing. He turned it over, hoping for more somehow, and was rewarded with three inked-in camels and the notation: “An early Christmas present, Mr. Wainwright. We are doing well. MC.”

He didn’t think the drawn-up knees were Sally’s, which led to impish thoughts. He tacked up the droll cartoon next to his shaving mirror and slept peacefully for the first time in many weeks.

Everything changed a week later with another note, this one delivered by express while he ate breakfast. That kind of express always alarmed him. This one did more than that.

He recognized Mary Cooper’s distinct handwriting, as unique as she was, but the news, oh, the news. Terrible tidings, Mr. Wainwright , he read. Your aunt has died in her sleep. She had been complaining of headaches, and even the physician was baffled. His only remedy was to bleed her. Oh goodness. Please come to the funeral and take Sally to Plymouth. I have made arrangements here. The funeral is the day after tomorrow. Mary Cooper .

He sat back, stunned. “I must go to Liddiard now,” he said to his housekeeper. He handed her the note.

She read it. He saw the sympathy in her eyes. “Was she ill?”

He gathered together his jumbled thoughts, thinking of Aunt Luella’s complaints through the years about her heart, or her liver and lungs, or that pain in her back.

“She complained about everything,” he said, and looked at the note again. “And nothing. I suppose I never knew what to believe.” He managed a smile. “I know she enjoyed these last few months, what with the rejuvenated shop, and Sally in her care.” And Mary , he wanted to add, but didn’t.

“You’ll be leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes, certainly. I have to fetch my daughter, and see what else needs to be done. My aunt had no other relatives.”

He decided to walk to Devonport that morning, his eyes down at his shoes mainly, thinking of everything he had to do, wondering what he could postpone at the drydocks for a few days. He looked up now and then to see wreaths on many doors, as Christmas approached. He noted that last night when he returned home, late as usual, the lamplighters even tipped their hats and wished him Happy Christmas. A cynic might think they were extra cheerful because they wanted tips from the patrons on each block. Luke thought otherwise. Who didn’t enjoy the respite that was Christmas? He had hoped to celebrate it this year, but now…

He should have hurried, but he slowed down, remembering Aunt Luella’s querulous summons that had introduced him to Mary Cooper, then more recently, Sally’s happy note about walking outside in Liddiard with Gargantua, “...because he is fat and needs the exercise. Papa, cats don’t like to walk outside if it isn’t their idea. That’s what Mary says. I think she is right.”

What would he do now? Sally would return to Plymouth, of course, but what about Mary? He stopped. What about Mary? he thought. He stood there in misery, watching a young couple hurry in the rain, his arm around her waist, her head close to his. They were laughing and he envied them, at the same time thinking that in another day he could be seeing Sally, and Mary.

He took the matter of a few days off to his father-in-law, who shook his head. “Lad, don’t you recall? Biddle and Bancroft will be here tomorrow for the presentation on building another drydock. Did you forget? We’ve been preparing those numbers for months. You have to be here.” He gave Luke a friendly pat. “You never even mentioned your aunt until a month or so ago. And look at your note. Mary said she would make the arrangements. She can send Sally back to us after the funeral. You’ve told me several times how dependable Mary is.”

“Aye, but…”

“You’re needed here more, Luke,” Mr. Magleby said, his voice firm, his mind made up. “Everyone will understand.” He patted his jaw tenderly. “And suppose my tooth takes a turn for the worst and I have to summon that officious man with a dental key?” He shuddered.

E veryone will understand except me , Luke thought in misery of his own, minus a toothache. And Sally. And Mary . “Sir, I am pretty sure Mary and Sally need me. Give me a day or two.”

“Look, lad, she said she would make arrangements! There’s a war on and we need that third drydock. We need it now! I tell you, everyone will understand.”

N o one will understand, Luke told himself. He walked home in the dark and cold that night, thinking of all the nights ahead that would be dark and cold. He stopped on the corner, stared at his house, and allowed himself another thought, one that came out of nowhere, unless he had been hiding it from himself. Between war and work, he was tired. Maybe he had given up.

M ary could have made this a home .