NaNoWriMo with Labradors appeared in my brain when I was trying to get back to sleep at 3.45am. I often struggle with sleep due to back problems, but I do try not to actually think when I’m awake. Thinking is fatal as I have the kind of brain which, once it’s fired up, sets off a series of ideas like a row of fireworks going off. This is really useful when creating fictional plots but a complete pain in the early hours of the morning. Let’s just say I’m going to be tired today.
Those of you who have grown old waiting for the release of An Indomitable Brigade will know that I’ve been struggling to be productive since the beginning of the pandemic. I was absolutely delighted to finally publish book seven of the Peninsular War Saga and even more pleased at how well it’s been received so far. This has given me a really good push to get on with the next book.
This Bloody Shore is book three in the Manxmanseries and is centred around the Siege of Tarragona in 1811. I started to write this book immediately after the publication of An Unmerciful Incursion in July 2020 and made a good start, but after a while I stalled and simply couldn’t get moving with it. Eventually I decided to set it aside and move back to the 110th in Spain. Hugh and Durrell have waited ever since, fairly patiently for them, until last week when I hauled them off half-pay and back aboard the Iris, setting sail for the Mediterranean.
I realised I’d written a lot more of this book than I thought, which was excellent news. Even better, most of it is very good with the exception of the first two chapters which were utterly superfluous to requirements and probably explain why I struggled with this book first time around. I’ve come up with some new ideas, done some more research, invented a useful new character (with major links to the other series, incidentally) and am ready to go.
That’s when I came up with this mad idea. I’ve never seriously done NaNoWriMo. Partly it’s because I write all the time anyway and have never felt the need to do a particular push like that. Partly it’s because the allocated month is November and that’s not generally the best time for me to be going all out on a novel. I’ve always quite liked the idea of a determined push like that, though, and as I’d really like to get another book out this year, it occurred to me that I could do my very own NaNoWriMo to try to get at least the first draft of this book finished.
For those of you who don’t know, NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month which usually takes place every November. Writers can register on the website and log their daily word count, as well as receiving encouragement and finding writing buddies. It’s a great resource and I suspect an amazing way to get people started. I’ve made a couple of half-hearted attempts at it, but the timing has just never been right for me.
So, my plan is, starting tomorrow, to write between four and five thousand words a day between now and the end of May. That’s probably going to be quite variable, because life will get in the way, but we’ll see how it goes. I’ll post regularly giving my word count and to let you all know how I’m getting on.
My notebook is ready, my laptop is fired up and the desk army and navy are ready to offer support. This book is happening people…
Oscar and Alfie are excited about this new initiative at Writing With Labradors, as long as it doesn’t interfere with walks, playtime and mealtimes.
This Bloody Shore: Book 3 of the Manxman series.
It is 1811.
A desperate struggle takes place on the Eastern coast of Spain. The French are threatening the coastal town of Tarragona and Bonaparte holds out the glittering prize of a Marshal’s baton if General Suchet can capture the town.
Far from Wellington’s theatre of war, the town is held by Spanish forces under the Marquis of Campoverde. Supporting them is a small Royal Navy squadron, including the 74-gun third rater, HMS Iris.
After the frustration and political wrangling of the Walcheren campaign, Captain Hugh Kelly is missing Roseen but is relieved to be back at sea under the command of a man he trusts even though the situation in Tarragona is more complicated than it appears. Lieutenant Alfred Durrell is keen to put his family troubles behind him, but an unexpected encounter in London has left him feeling unsettled.
On shore, two very different men face each other across the walls of Tarragona. Captain Gabriel Bonnet, a scarred cynical veteran discovers a surprising sympathy for one particular victim of war. Captain Bruno Ángel Cortez is a former Spanish Bonapartist but the atrocities he has seen have turned him into an implacable enemy of the French.
Meanwhile in England, Faith Collingwood’s long months of banishment are ended by an event which will change her life forever.
As Suchet’s troops creep ever closer to the walls, the armies, the navy and the townspeople are swept up in a brutal conflict which ends on the bloody shores of Tarragona.
Here comes 2022 at Writing with Labradors, though it’s arriving a little late. Many apologies, and Happy New Year to you all. In many ways, though, the fact that I’m late with my usual New Year’s greeting is in keeping with the whole of the past year. I had such big plans for 2021 and very few of them came to fruition. Mired down in the misery of restrictions, and beset by family difficulties, it’s been a slow year here at Writing with Labradors and at times, I’ve felt like a complete disaster. Still, things are steadily improving and it’s good to look back because it reminds me there have been some highs as well as lows during this year.
#Low. Restrictions didn’t go away. Instead, we had more lockdowns and vaccine passports
#High. Vaccines mostly work.
#Low. My sister became very ill after her vaccine, and I couldn’t go to see her.
#High. She’s slowly improving, and I’ve seen her now.
#Low. Three of the five members of my family had covid at different times despite being vaccinated.
#High. None of them were really ill.
#Low. All my planned research trips were cancelled due to restrictions.
#High. Once I could travel to the UK, I organised my very own writer’s retreat which was absolutely brilliant and improved everything.
#Low. I didn’t manage to publish a book last year, for the first time since I began publishing.
#High. I finished book 7 of the Peninsular War Saga and it’s currently with my editor, so will be out very soon.
#Low. Writing this year has been difficult.
#High. I published my usual three free short stories this year, plus a bonus one in the spring. For Valentine’s Day, we had A Winter in Cadiz, a romance set during Lord Wellington’s brief trip to Cadiz in the winter of 1812-13. My spring story was The Pressed Man, a story of the fourteen-year-old Paul van Daan’s impressment into the Royal Navy. For Halloween, there was an Inescapable Justice, a ghostly tale of bloody mutiny set aboard a Royal Navy frigate. And for Christmas, a favourite Peninsular War Saga character discovers a new responsibility and the merest hint of a future romance, in The Gift.
#Low. I’ve been struggling with chronic pain due to arthritis, and in the current situation, there isn’t a chance of any treatment.
#High. For the first time I have published a short story in an anthology. Hauntings is a collection of ghost stories by writers from the Historical Writers Forum and came out for Halloween last year. (Yes, I did have to come up with two ghost stories in one year. Don’t judge me.) My offering, An Unquiet Dream, is a spooky tale set in an army hospital in Elvas in 1812 and features a regular minor character from the Peninsular War Saga.
#High. I was also asked to be part of an anthology of short stories edited by Tom Williams (author of the Burke novels and the Williamson books) which will be published this year. The story is called The Recruit and is set in Ireland during the 1798 rebellion. (I see my regulars with their ears pricking up there. “Really? Who could that be about?”)
#High. My immediate family are great and doing very well. My son and his girlfriend are settled in their jobs and looking to move out soon. My daughter is in her final year studying history at the University of York and is getting firsts so far.
#High. Alfie. After a long period of Oscar holding the fort alone at Writing with Labradors and doing a splendid job, we welcomed our new baby into the family in May, and despite his well-deserved nickname of the Chaos Demon, he has proved to be a valued and much adored member of staff.
#High. Oscar. Still my baby, and possibly the most well-behaved Labrador in the country.
#High. You see, this is why it’s really good to actually write out a list of highs and lows of the past year. Because I ran out of lows, which pretty much proved that despite everything, my life is good.
There’s one very big low that I’ve not included as part of the list because it would be crass to do so. In August, after several years of watching them struggle and a year of frantic anxiety during Covid restrictions, we finally managed to persuade my in-laws to move to the Isle of Man on a trial basis.
Sadly, it didn’t go as we’d hoped. They’d left it too late, and it was very quickly clear that my mother-in-law’s dementia had got significantly worse, while my father-in-law was very unwell. Malcolm died suddenly on 30th October, of a massive heart attack, and after a difficult period, Irene returned to London to go into a care home near her daughter. The funeral was held just two weeks before Christmas.
I miss Malcolm. He was only here for a few months, but I got very used to him being around. From the earliest days of my relationship with Richard, almost thirty years ago now, Malcolm and I had a special bond. He shared my enthusiasm for history, and years ago, before I’d ever published, he bought me my first biography of Wellington, the Longford one, from a second-hand book shop. He got on well with my parents, although they didn’t meet that often, and he adored his grandchildren. He loved books and music and was interested in current affairs. He also loved technology, especially cars, and when he was younger, he could fix anything. Before I was even married, he took me for a day out to Silverstone, to watch a Formula One Grand Prix, and we had a fabulous time.
Malcolm was kind and funny and was unbelievably proud to have a daughter-in-law who was an author. One of his last acts was to blag a free copy of An Unconventional Officer for a doctor at Nobles Hospital who had been good to him during a recent stay. His favourite spot, when visiting, was my reading corner in my study. He loved the armchair and would sneak in when he got the chance and take an afternoon nap or browse through one of my books while I was working.
Richard and I went to London with a van to collect some of their possessions when we still thought they might make a go of living over here. I rather fell in love with a beautiful collection of wooden boats that Malcolm had in his study and mentioned how much I liked them as we were unpacking. To my surprise and delight, he insisted on giving them to me, to go with my wooden model of the Victory in my study. They look beautiful, and I feel as though there’s a little part of him sharing my workspace still. I’m working on a proper obituary for Malcolm. He had an interesting life, and I’d love to share it with people.
The end of the year was sad, and it wasn’t helped with two family members having covid over Christmas, though neither had anything more than cold symptoms. By New Year’s Eve, both were clear, which meant we could host what is rapidly becoming our traditional young people’s New Year Party. The kids all had a great time and we drank a toast to Malcolm at midnight.
And now it’s 2022 and we’re still struggling to sort out care homes and financial matters for Richard’s mum, which is even harder long distance. I’m trying to look ahead into 2022 and be hopeful, but I think I’m a lot more cautious than I was at the beginning of 2021. I think back then, with the vaccine in the offing, I was naively hopeful that the world would begin to calm down. This year, I’m less sanguine. The wounds left by the past few years are going to take a while to heal but heal they will. History suggests they always do eventually.
I’m hopeful for myself, though. I feel as though I’ve got my enthusiasm back for my writing, and my brain is teeming with ideas. I’m looking forward to Tom’s anthology coming out, and I’m excited for the publication of An Indomitable Brigade. Currently I’m finishing the edits for the rest of the paperbacks, and then I’m returning to This Bloody Shore, which is book three in the Manxmanseries.
At the beginning of last year, I had a long list of things I wanted to achieve during the year. This year, I’m reluctant to come up with a list, and yet looking at this blog post, although I didn’t manage to get the book out, I was very close, and I did manage quite a lot in very difficult circumstances.
So here goes. This year, I’d like to finish the paperback edits once and for all. I’ve got An Indomitable Brigade coming out very soon, and Tom’s anthology, and I’m determined to finish This Bloody Shore by the end of the year. I’ll be writing my usual three free short stories, and I’ve been asked to write another episode from Paul van Daan’s boyhood, which I’d love to do. I also have an invitation to write a story for another anthology which is completely out of my period and out of my comfort zone. It will be a challenge, but I’d quite like to give it a go, so we’ll see if it comes off.
I’d like to travel again. I dream of going to Castro Urdiales or Tarragona or Santander or Gibraltar, but I’m not prepared to book until I’m very confident I won’t be caught up in some last-minute lockdown. This year I suspect I’ll confine my travels to the UK, and possibly Ireland. After the restrictions of the last two years, even that will seem like a blessing.
In the meantime, Happy New Year from all of us at Writing with Labradors. I know all of you will have had your highs and lows this year, and many will be a lot worse than mine. Thank you all so much for your support and enthusiasm and your sheer love of the books, the characters and the history. Let’s hope things improve steadily through 2022.
When I began these posts I wasn’t sure if I was going to continue them all the way through lockdown. I didn’t really have a plan when I started, I was just trying to cheer myself – and any readers – up a bit. It did work to begin with, but after a few days I experienced a bit of a lockdown slump, and that is definitely not something I wanted to share with my poor readers.
I wanted to come back to this though, now that it’s over. We’re back to where we were before as from today, with life returning to normal in our lovely little bubble, apart from closed borders and even more stringent quarantine restrictions for anybody who leaves and wants to return. And the vaccine of course, which is being rolled out gradually, and which we hope one day will allow us to make choices about our own lives again.
At least daily walks with Oscar should get easier. After a few days of experimenting with the best way of walking Oscar in lockdown, I decided that driving to somewhere a bit less busy is a good idea. Usually in the week I just walk him from our front door, but the streets have been much more crowded through lockdown with people getting their daily exercise. Some of the pavements and footpaths are very narrow, and some people are more nervous than others. Add dogs into that mix and it’s just good to find some space. Accordingly my daughter and I have been taking him to the beach or down to St Michael’s Isle where it’s relatively empty and he can run around, swim and jump in puddles without upsetting anybody.
It’s been a joy to have my daughter on our daily walks and I’m going to miss her dreadfully when she goes back to University, which she’s decided to do this weekend. There will be on online teaching of course, and the library is still closed, but now that she can travel, she wants to be back in her student house with her friends, even if they can’t see anybody else. She’s already left home in her head and these weeks of uncertainty and not knowing when she can go back have been miserable. I’ll miss her, but I understand.
Covid rules do odd things to people. I heard a story from somebody I know about being yelled at for not wearing a mask in the street. From the other side of the road. Needless to say there were no rules about wearing masks out on a walk, and there is no way to know if somebody has a good reason for not doing so anyway. It’s extraordinary how this crisis brings out the best in so many people and the worst in others.
I’ve set myself some difficult writing goals for this year, but since I’m unlikely to be interrupted very much by inconvenient holidays or family visits, I’ve decided to go for it. I’m currently four chapters in to book three of the Manxman series, which is called This Bloody Shore and it’s going very well. I struggled this time to decide which book to write next. Technically, it should be the Manxman, as I tend to alternate the two series, but when I finished An Unmerciful Incursion I was so immersed in the world of the 110th that I began book seven straight away. For a few weeks I worked on both, then Hugh and Durrell began to demand my attention and point out that it was their turn.
For the first time in a few years, I’m aiming to get two books out this year. Both of these are already well planned out, and as the subject of book seven is relatively easy to research (although the plotline is difficult) I think I might well manage it. Certainly it will keep me very busy and that’s a good thing. I’m incredibly lucky to have a job that I love so much that I can completely immerse myself in it. I am not convinced that life in 1811 would have been much fun, but writing about it is a wonderful way of removing myself from the current situation.
It’s good to know that we have a measure of freedom again, although I think I’m very aware of how fragile that can be. I really hope that my friends elsewhere in the world can achieve the same thing soon. I miss you all very much.
I miss travel and libraries and seeing my sister. I miss planning research trips and going to conferences. I miss big things like my holidays and I miss silly things like watching football on the TV and seeing real fans at Old Trafford. I miss my daughter being able to come and go from Uni freely, without worrying. I miss new films at the cinema, and shows coming over from the UK at the theatre and being able to look ahead and plan. I think we all miss different things, and I don’t think we should feel guilty about it. Whatever the awfulness in the world, it’s natural and normal to miss things that have been taken away from us. The key is to try to find other things to make us happy.
In the meantime, some lessons from Lockdown with Oscar: the End.
I really hate lockdown
Oscar really loves lockdown. “All my people are here!!!”
Reading the news in lockdown is a form of self-harm
So is talking to people about lockdown, Covid or Brexit
Talking to people about history is great
I’m not good at rules
Or being locked up
Given 7 and 8, probably best not to take to a life of crime
Dogs don’t understand social distancing
I love my study and my own desk with a deep and abiding passion
I’m incredibly lucky
The Isle of Man is pretty good at working together when it has a common aim
Even if the aim is to go out and get blind drunk in the pubs on Saturday night
I’m sort of proud of us
Did I mention I hate lockdown?
The phrases “covidiot” “stay safe” and “new normal” cause actual psychic trauma by now every time I read or hear them
I’m pretty odd though
My family are great and I adore them
My friends, both local and online are also great and keep me sane
So I need them all to stay safe.
Can’t believe I just said that.
I want this to be over for everybody.
“Mum. Mum. What are you going on about, you said this would be a short post and then we’d go out.”
“Just coming, Oscar.”
“Is it true I can play with all my friends again?”
“And their humans won’t be wearing muzzles?”
“That’s right, Oscar.”
“That sounds great to me. Let’s go to Derbyhaven Beach.”
This year’s Christmas story is part of the Historical Fiction Writers’ December Blog Hop and I’ve chosen to return to the Isle of Man, my adopted homeland. Colby Fair: a Manx Christmas story takes place in the winter of 1809-10. For regular readers of both the Peninsular War Saga and the Manxman series, Hugh Kelly and Alfred Durrell have just arrived back in England after the Walcheren campaign and Paul van Daan is in Portugal, rebuilding his battalion after the bloody Talavera campaign.
When we moved to the island in 2002, I fell in love with Manx culture and loved learning about some of the traditional customs and I’m glad to be able to share them with you. As with all my short stories, it’s free, so please share as much as you like.
Colby Fair: a Manx Christmas story
It was frosty on the morning of Colby Fair, an icy wind blowing in from the Irish sea. Lieutenant Thomas Young ofHis Majesty’s Revenue Service was without a ship or any useful occupation and agreed to accompany the officers from the Castletown garrison to the fair on a whim. He quickly regretted it, shivering on his hired horse, wrapped in his worn blue cloak which had seen better days.
Thomas knew the officers had invited him out of kindness and was trying to be grateful. He was billeted with two of them in a cosy inn on the edge of Castletown, while the revenue cutter he commanded underwent essential repairs and Thomas recovered from a shot through the arm received in a deserted bay near Santon when he had been chasing down a fast brig bringing in contraband. His ship, the Bluebird, had hit a rock and his crew had manhandled him ashore and protected him, letting the smugglers get on with their business. Thomas remembered little of the night. His wound was trivial compared to previous hurts and as he recovered he had appreciated the hospitality of the commander of the garrison, Lieutenant-Colonel Steuart, who found him accommodation and included him in the officers’ mess of the four companies of the Royal Manx Fencibles remaining on the island.
“You won’t get much done on your ship until after Twelfth Night, Lieutenant. On Mann we take our celebrations seriously, only essential work will be done.”
“Does that include the smugglers, sir?”
Steuart gave a wry smile. “I wouldn’t know. There isn’t much you can do about it either way, so why not take some time to recover and enjoy our hospitality? We’ve seen very little of you since you were stationed here.”
Thomas agreed, since he had little choice. He had arrived off the coast of the Isle of Mann three months earlier and found it an odd posting. Fresh from the Sussex coast, where the lives of every riding officer and revenue man were constantly at risk, he had been told that the island was a hotbed of smuggling and had come prepared for battle. In three months he had seen his fair share of action and had known some successes, but there had been remarkably little violence. The shot fired on that November evening had seemed random, and there was no attempt to follow it up.
“A warning shot, most like, sir,” his pilot had said reassuringly, as he helped lift Thomas into the borrowed gig to take him to the surgeon. “Unlucky, like.”
Thomas, used to attempted murder on the south coast, had been slightly bewildered. His reception in Castletown confused him still more. The officers of the garrison, about half of whom were Manx, were very friendly and spent a lot of time trying to get him drunk. The inhabitants of the town were distant but civil. No small boys cried insults at him or threw stones from behind walls. For the most part, the people of Mann seemed to see an injured revenue officer as none of their business. It was curious but very peaceful.
Colby Village was some three miles from Castletown and the annual fair was held in a field close to the whitewashed church with its square tower. Already, despite the early hour, stalls and booths were set up and the ground was alive with people. Thomas followed his companions along the village street to a solidly built inn.
“They’ll stable our horses here, and we can order dinner, the food’s good,” Captain Tobin said. He was Manx and spoke with the authority of a local.
“Why are we here so early?” Thomas asked. “They’ve barely set up.”
“To see the procession,” Lieutenant Taylor said. “I came last year, it’s the quaintest thing. I swear half these people are savages, you wouldn’t believe their customs.”
“Thank you, Mr Taylor.”
Taylor flushed. “I didn’t mean you, sir. Or, you know, the better sort. But honestly, it’s a funny place, Young. Not like England.”
“Not so much like Scotland either, although we’ve some odd customs of our own,” Captain Maclay said with a grin. “Come on, the procession will come this way.”
Standing at the edge of the field, Thomas watched them come, around thirty men, the youth of Colby and its environs. The women and children of the village lined the main street, and visitors from around the island stood with them, cheering as the parade approached, two by two, bearing something on a raised bier made of entwined sticks between them. They were singing.
“What in God’s name is that?”
“A dead hen,” Tobin said. “The song is about Catherine’s hen being dead. They’ll parade it around the field, take it to the inn to be cooked and they’ll all get drunk. Tomorrow they’ll bury its head and feet in the fair field.”
“Why?” Thomas asked. He wondered if it was a stupid question.
“God knows. There are various stories, probably dating back centuries. Something about burying their disputes for the new year. Utter rubbish, of course, it’s an excuse to get drunk. But it’s traditional. St Catherine’s Day.”
“I thought this was St Nicholas’ Day.”
“It’s the same day. Welcome to the Isle of Mann, Lieutenant Young.”
As the parade dispersed, the crowd drifted onto the field. Thomas had seen many country fairs as a boy, growing up in the green prosperity of his parents’ Hampshire estate, and this was no different, although it was smaller than he was used to. The main purpose of the fair was to buy and sell livestock and farm and dairy produce, and on the eastern edge of the field, farmers paraded their stock and bartering was already underway.
There were stalls selling hams and cheeses and all kinds of preserves, and thrifty Manx housewives studied the wares, questioned the prices in scornful tones and ignored their children who chased each other between stalls and booths, shrieking loudly. It seemed as though every tradesman in Mann had set up shop in St Catherine’s field. There were stalls selling saddles and clothing and lengths of good, locally woven cloth. One stall displayed lace goods and Thomas paused, studying a pretty lace collar and cuffs.
“For your sweetheart, Young?”
“For my mother. I’ve sent her nothing for the season and I should.” Thomas took out his purse then tucked the small parcel into his pocket. They passed stalls selling gingerbread and sweets, a rope maker and a knife grinder and a carpenter mending broken chairs. In one corner were several herbalists and travelling doctors, shouting out miracle cures for warts, fevers and nervous disorders.
Finally there were the side shows; casting dice for prizes, climbing a slippery pole to ring a bell and a fortune teller draped in gaudy scarves reading palms for pennies. Tobin, Maclay and Taylor crowded around the striped tent, laughing, and the woman, who was young and attractive, predicted glory in battle, promotion to general and marriage to wealthy and beautiful wives.
“If only,” Maclay said, still laughing as they crossed the field to an area where several tents had been set up selling food and drink. “By the time I can afford to marry, I’ll be too old to care.”
Tobin, who was already married with a young son and another on the way, looked over at Thomas. “No wish to hear your fortune, Young?”
“Not really,” Thomas said, trying to sound lighthearted. “I wonder what she said to Mr Taylor, he went very red. Was that a prediction or a promise?”
They laughed, surprised, Thomas thought, at a joke from a man considered very serious. Thomas knew that he was so, although he had not always been, but the kindness of the colonel and the cheerful friendliness of these young men, none of whom had ever seen a battle, made him determined to make an effort to seem grateful.
An ox and a pig were roasting on spits, the smell making Thomas hungry although he had broken his fast early with fresh bread and Manx honey. The meat was not ready but they bought pies and pasties at a booth, warming their hands on crumbling pastry and hot spiced meat, while joining the crowd surrounding a group of mummers. All were men, dressed in a variety of white draperies, with their faces painted. The play was bewildering, and it must have showed on Thomas’ face, because Tobin laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
“The plot is very simple. St Denis fights St George and kills him, and he is then killed by St Patrick. That crazy looking fella in the hat is the doctor who brings them all back to life. In a moment he is going to ask for his fee for this miracle, and the audience will drop their contributions in the hat, and then there will be a sword dance, during which it’s surprising they all aren’t killed over again. It’s a traditional mummers play, they’re called the White Boys. This is more of a rehearsal for them, the real day for mumming is the Saturday before Christmas day, there are several troupes of them and they’ll perform all around Douglas, Peel and Castletown. The Governor always invites them into Castle Rushen for a show and provides them with food and ale afterwards.”
Thomas was grateful for the explanation, although he was not sure how much it helped, but the sword fight was genuinely funny. The mummers wielded their wooden weapons in a choreographed dance for approximately a minute and then quickly degenerated into a fierce mock battle. The young men leaped around each other, hacking at their friends and there was the occasional yell when a wooden blade bruised an arm or cracked a knuckle while the fiddler accompanying the dance played faster and faster. A crack on the head of one of the combatants brought the battle to an abrupt halt and the mummers led their battered member away to the comfort of the ale tent followed by the cheers and whoops of the crowd.
“I need a drink after that,” Tobin said. “My hands are freezing, standing around. Come on, I see old Crellin has set up his tent by the churchyard again.”
“Crellin?” Thomas enquired.
“Josiah Crellin, MHK. Owns the Top House over at Malew, we passed it on the way.”
“Member of the House of Keys. Tynwald, our Parliament.”
“Oh. Oh, yes.” Thomas felt rather foolish. He had temporarily forgotten that this was anything other than a winter fair in a typical English country district, but he knew better than to say so. “Why does Mr Crellin have a tent?”
“Hospitality. He does it every year, his servants provide spiced wine and fruit punch for the gentry who attend the fair. You were here last year, weren’t you Taylor?”
“Yes, sir. Very pleasant afternoon.”
The tent was large and surprisingly warm, with several small braziers providing both heat and a means of warming the big vats of wine and hot punch. Wooden trestles were set up and a dozen servants distributed drinks, while their master stood with his family to greet his guests. Crellingave the impression of being an intelligent active man in his sixties, accompanied by his son and daughter-in-law, who was heavily pregnant. Colonel Smelt, the lieutenant-governor and Lieutenant-Colonel Steuart had joined his party and Thomas was amused to see a manservant stationed at both entrances to the tent to ensure that only the better class of people were admitted.
“Lieutenant Young, I’m glad you could join us,” Steuart said. “Have you met our kind host? Mr Crellin, this is Lieutenant Young of the Revenue cutter Bluebird. You’ll have heard of the incident, I’m sure.”
Crellin offered his hand. Thomas took it, aware that he was holding his breath. He saw the older man’s brown eyes widen in shock and then look away. Thomas tried not to flinch. In the five years since Trafalgar, he had tried to get used to that first shocked reaction when strangers saw the ruin of his face, but it still hurt.
Crellin recovered quickly and shook his hand warmly. “Welcome, Lieutenant Young. A cold day, aye, and you’ll be in need of a drink. Spiced wine or hot fruit punch, sir?”
Equipped with wine, Thomas made awkward conversation for a while then moved to join the other officers. Tobin was talking to some friends, while Taylor and Maclay surveyed the room.
“I didn’t expect so many people,” Thomas said.
“Aye, it’s always the way over here, there’s not much to do. The same people, at the same receptions and dinners. It gets tedious, and since society is so narrow, everybody knows all the gossip. The advantage, though, is that we’re very popular with the young ladies. They like a man in a red coat, and a new face as well.”
Taylor broke off, blushing scarlet as he realised what he had said. Thomas felt sorry for him and at the same time exasperated at having to rescue him. “Well my coat’s the wrong colour and my face is likely to scare them off,” he said, as lightly as he could.
“Sorry, old man. So sorry.”
“It’s all right, I’m used to it. Tell me about some of the people.”
Thomas listened for a while, smiling at some of the more scurrilous stories and trying to ignore covert looks and some open stares. The scar had faded from a scarlet horror to white, but it could not be ignored. The splinter of wood, blown apart by French cannon, had driven into his jaw and travelled upwards to his temple, breaking his cheekbone on the way. It had remained lodged there as he lay in agony waiting for his turn on the surgeon’s bloody table, and when it was gone, his face was bisected, cobbled together with rough stitches. Infection came and went, but the wound touched neither his eye or his mouth. From the right side, Thomas was the same as he had always been, a face of distinction and even some beauty, crowned with bright chestnut hair and well-shaped green eyes with lashes a woman might have envied. From the left, he was a monster and when possible he avoided society so that he did not have to see its reaction.
“That’s old Quayle. Two sons, one’s gone into the law, the other’s learning the business. The daughter went off to London to seek her fortune and did very nicely for herself, some East India merchant, I fancy. She was back here last Christmas showing off the London gowns and diamonds. I danced with her a couple of times. Very pretty.”
Tobin had joined them. “Did you know Crellin has a daughter?”
“No. Where, I’ve never seen her?” Taylor said.
Tobin grinned. “Now that really was a scandal,” he said. “She was a wild one, Roseen Crellin. Set tongues wagging all over the island and then ran away to sea and married a Manx navy captain. He wasn’t from the gentry, but they’ll forgive him because he’s made a fortune in prize money.”
“Who’s that?” Taylor asked, looking across the tent.
Thomas had noticed the girl earlier. She stood beside an older couple, probably her grandparents, and she had been staring very openly at Thomas, making no attempt to hide the fact. Thomas had been trying to ignore it, but now he looked back, hoping she would be embarrassed and look away. To his surprise, she gave him a warm smile instead.
She was probably around twenty, very tall and well-proportioned with shining brown hair curled around a vivid face with well-defined cheekbones and beautiful green eyes. She was dressed very stylishly in a dark green velvet gown, topped with a black cape trimmed with white fur.Thomas looked at Tobin enquiringly.
“Aalin Kennaugh,” the captain said obligingly. “Those are her grandparents, they raised her after her parents died. Very wealthy, he was anEast India merchant, retired now. They’ve property in Liverpool and Bristol and a fortune in stocks, I’m told. There was a proposed match with some wealthy plantation owner, Mrs Kennaugh spent some time in London trying to bring it off, but the lady is having none of it. She’s turned down a few local gentlemen in the past few years. She’ll inherit a fortune when the old man dies, so she can afford to be choosy. She’s also the worst flirt on the island.” Tobin smiled at Thomas. “Our young ladies aren’t raised quite as strictly as you’ll be used to, Lieutenant. There are rules, of course, but on a small island, the chances are that the lass you’re dancing with was a childhood playmate so it’s hard to be formal.”
“It seems the young lady agrees,” Taylor said, smirking. Miss Kennaugh was making her way around the tent towards them. Tobin bowed slightly and accepted the hand she held out to him.
“Miss Kennaugh, how are you?”
“Very well, Captain Tobin. How are you? Is your brother well?”
“Yes, I had a letter from him a few days ago, he is with the Mediterranean fleet.”
“I hope he is warmer than I am, then. Why do we do this every year, I wonder, when we have houses with walls, ceilings and fires? Next year, I shall refuse. I have seen St Catherine’s hen massacred all my life, it is enough. Does it not seem barbaric to you, Lieutenant Young?”
Thomas was startled. She was regarding him steadily from eyes which were close in colour to his own. There was no sign of discomfort as her gaze rested on his marred face, but he supposed her open stares had given her plenty of opportunity to get used to it.
“I see no introductions are necessary,” Tobin said dryly. “Nevertheless, I shall make them. Miss Kennaugh, this is Captain Maclay and Lieutenant Taylor from the Royal Manx Fencibles, and Lieutenant Young from the Revenue service. Gentlemen, Miss Kennaugh.”
Thomas bowed. Taylor said enthusiastically:
“Capital to meet you, Miss Kennaugh. I’ve been here a while but I’ve not had the pleasure.”
“No, I’ve been away,” the girl said. “My grandmother took me to London to see the sights. At least that was her stated intention, but truthfully, it was to try to persuade me to accept a marriage I did not want. I have no idea why she thought the location would make a difference, but I think she knows my mind now. I heard about your cutter being wrecked, Lieutenant. Were you not shot, as well?”
Her tone was faintly mocking. Thomas looked back without smiling. One of the advantages of having no expectation of attracting a pretty girl was that he felt no need to impress. “Yes,” he said evenly. “A minor wound only, I think it was probably a warning shot gone astray. I have had far worse, as you have observed.”
Thomas sensed the shock of his companions and he supposed he had been rude, but then so had she, and he had no reason to care. The girl did not seem to react at all, but he saw a slight flush mount to her pale cheeks. Nobody spoke for an agonising moment and Thomas wondered if he should apologise for the sake of his companions. He saw her lift her chin and stand a little more upright.
“I’m surprised they hit you, Lieutenant, it’s clear you’re not afraid to return fire. My grandfather has expressed a wish to meet you. Should you object?”
Thomas felt his face redden. “I…no. No, of course not.”
She nodded and bowed to the other three men, all of whom seemed stunned into silence. Thomas stepped forward and she did not move but looked at him pointedly. Thomas flushed again and offered his arm. The girl accepted as regally as a duchess.
Halfway around the tent, she said:
“At least you can blush.”
“Only on one half of my face.”
Aalin Kennaugh raised furious eyes to meet his. “Generally, Englishmen have better manners than the Manx. You are an exception, sir.”
“I’m sorry. I thought, by the way you were staring at me earlier, and your reference to my recent misfortunes, that we had decided to dispense with the pleasantries.”
They had reached the elderly couple. Thomas had not been sure that the request for an introduction was genuine, but as he bowed, the old man’s face lit up into a particularly sweet smile.
“It is Lieutenant Young, is it not?”
“Lieutenant, allow me to introduce you to my wife. My dear, this is the young man that Colonel Smelt spoke of at dinner last week.”
Mrs Kennaugh was pink cheeked and round faced and made Thomas ache suddenly for his home and his family. He bowed over her hand and wished he could take back everything he had said to her granddaughter. “Lieutenant Young, I am delighted,” she said. “The lieutenant-governor was telling us of your misfortunes. And – forgive me for referring to it – your previous fine service. You may not know that we lost both our son and our grandson at Trafalgar. He was captain of the Tulip and his son served as midshipman.”
Shock froze Thomas for a moment. He knew that he needed to say something, but all he could think about was his appalling rudeness to a girl who had lost so much. He turned and looked at her. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, no, that’s awful. I’m so sorry, ma’am. Sir. And Miss Kennaugh, you must think me the world’s worst boor. I’m over-sensitive, sometimes, but there was no excuse…”
“No, you were right,” the girl said unexpectedly. “I was staring. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. I have no idea exactly how my father and brother died, it was pure vulgar curiosity.”
Thomas felt rather as though he had been punched in the stomach. “I’m sorry,” he said again, helplessly.
Mrs Kennaugh came to his rescue. “A misunderstanding, I’m sure. You could not have known and Aalin has a very unruly tongue and speaks her mind. Forgive me, sir, you may have made other arrangements, but we were wondering if you would care to spend Christmas with us at our house just outside Douglas. I know the officers will take care ofyou, but you will be so much more comfortable in a home and we would like to offer hospitality to a navy man.”
Something about the warmth of her tone drew a smile from Thomas. He did not smile very often, it twisted the scar on the side of his face into a bizarre crescent. “I’m not really a navy man any more, ma’am. With such a long convalescence I was put on half-pay, and have remained there ever since. It was the revenue service or the impress service and I didn’t like the idea of that.”
“I imagine not. My son used to tell me that impressment was essential to keep the navy functioning and ready to defend our shores, but it’s very hard on families whose sons and husbands and fathers are snatched away. I do not blame you for preferring to chase smugglers, Lieutenant. Do join us.”
Thomas was smiling, he could not stop himself. “I am so grateful for your kindness, but you cannot wish for a stranger in the house, especially one making himself unpopular on the island by interfering in the smuggling trade.”
“That is exactly what we wish for, Lieutenant,” Kennaugh said breezily. “You’ve no duties at present, I’m told the Bluebird won’t be fit to sail until January. Pack up your things and I’ll send the carriage for you tomorrow. It’ll be good for Aalin to have a young person around the house for a while.”
Thomas glanced nervously at the girl. She was looking at him with clinical interest. “How old are you, Lieutenant?” she enquired.
“None of your business, Miss,” her grandfather growled affectionately. Thomas was beginning to realise that Miss Kennaugh’s elderly relatives indulged her beyond permission but he understood why. Having lost so much must have drawn the three closer.
“I will attempt to make up for my horrible rudeness by answering frankly, Miss Kennaugh. I’m twenty five.”
Unexpectedly the pert line of Aalin Kennaugh’s mouth softened into a genuine smile. “Oh no, I thought you must be older,” she said. “You’ve done so much. I’m twenty. I was fifteen that year. It was horrible, and must have been so for you too. Please accept. I cannot promise to behave all the time, because I don’t know how, but I will promise not to be beastly to you again. You don’t deserve it.”
Thomas melted. “Then I’ll accept with pleasure,” he said gravely. “Thank you.”
Aalin Kennaugh spent the twenty-four hours before the arrival of Lieutenant Thomas Young in a flutter of nervous anticipation which infuriated her. A young woman of decided opinions and independent spirit, she had reached the age of twenty without ever feeling the slightest interest in the various young men that her grandparents threw in her way. Most of them were boys she had grown up with, and Aalin already knew that she wanted more than a steady Manx businessman or landowner as her partner in life. She was young for marriage, but along with her grandmother, whom she adored, Aalin accepted her limitations and realised that it would not hurt to plan ahead.
It was not that she was unattractive. Aalin approved the natural curl of her dark brown hair and the wide, well spaced green eyes. Her skin, which had struggled with hideous spots for several years had miraculously cleared about a week after her nineteenth birthday, with no explanation, and she had excellent posture and was a graceful dancer. In terms of accomplishments, she was very well-read, could sing better than any of her contemporaries and was a talented artist. She had a good seat on a horse and light hands and knew how to sew although she seldom bothered, since she could think of nothing more boring. She had all the essential attributes that a gentleman might require in a wife. It was simply that she was so tall and built on far more generous lines than any of the other girls.
When she was younger, Aalin had shed tears over it. Her older cousin, a waif-like creature now married to a Douglas advocate, was three years older than her, and her aunt had sent bundles of clothing over to Aalin regularly through childhood. Aalin had opened the parcels and tried to struggle into the tiny garments until she wept, and eventually her grandmother had put a stop to the process, telling her aunt firmly to stop sending them. Aalin was a head taller than Emma, with curved hips and an impressive bosom, even at the age of fourteen. Dressmakers, arriving to measure for the garments necessary for Aalin’s introduction into society would pause, and study her, and then sigh.
“The young lady is so tall. And so…so womanly.”
Aalin had heard the word ‘fat’ behind the remarks and had cried herself to sleep. The floating muslins of girlhood had made her feel enormous, the white and pale blue and pinks of the debutante had never suited her and none of her grandmother’s soothing words had helped.
London had changed that. One evening spent in the company of Mr David Claybourne had convinced her that she would never wish to marry him, but the city itself had intrigued her. On the one hand, she had hated the crowds and the noise and the sense of never being able to find a moment of solitude. On the other hand, she realised that among so many people, she could become invisible and the experience had been amazingly liberating.
Accompanied by the companion hired by her grandmother, she had explored the city, wandered through the parks and visited libraries and art galleries and museums. She had sat for a portrait, and been gratified at the artist’s blatant admiration. She had been attended by dressmakers, far more experienced and sophisticated than her island could produce and had begun to realise that there was far more to beauty and fashion than a slender figure and an air of innocence. And she had realised, with passionate gratitude, that the proposed marriage had simply been her shrewd and kindly grandmother’s excuse to show her a different world.
Returning home after months away was confusing. Aalin loved being back among her own people and relished silent walks over the hills with her dogs and long fire lit evenings with her grandparents. On the other hand, she found local society parochial and often boring. She was stifled by the small concerns of the Manx gentry and wanted to scream as they picked over every scandal and item of gossip repeatedly. She had grown up and had no idea what to do about it.
Lieutenant Thomas Young was a very welcome distraction. Flirtation was a skill Aalin had learned during her time away and she had been surprised to find that she was good at it and enjoyed it. She no longer felt at a disadvantage among her more dainty fellow debutantes, and she found that the definite colours and well cut clothing she had learned to wear in London made her stand out. Marriage was a different prospect to flirting but Aalin had taken a long look at Thomas Young’s perfect profile across the tent and wanted to know more about him. The scar had been a shock, but his defensive rudeness had not upset her. She understood, better than Mr Young could know, how easy it was for self-consciousness to spill over into bad manners.
On the day of his arrival, Aalin found herself hanging back. They dined that afternoon, and she was content, for once, to listen, as her grandparents gently questioned him and drew out the story she was dying to know. He was, as Aalin had supposed, of good family, a third son, with the estate and lands going to his eldest brother. The second brother had chosen the army and had died on the brutal field of Talavera. Thomas had chosen the navy over the church and had passed his lieutenant’s exam before the bloody battle at Trafalgar had brought glory to England, robbed them of Nelson and left Thomas Young scarred, angry and defensive, trapped in a posting he hated with no prospect of returning to the navy. Without influence or patronage, a young and newly qualified lieutenant might wait a long time once he was placed on half-pay. He had chosen not to return home to rely on the support of his parents and his brother and Aalin strongly approved of his quiet independence.
December proved bright and sunny, although cold, and as her grandparents’ activities were limited, it was left to Aalin to entertain their guest through the daytime. The revenue man had hired a horse from the Castletown inn, but Aalin cast it a scornful glance and produced her own second mount, a tall grey gelding with a sweet temperament. She enjoyed watching Thomas make friends with Diamond and as they clattered out of the yard, she silently approved his seat on the horse. Thomas was several inches taller than Aalin and a good fit for the horse, and she could see he was enjoying himself.
“You approve, Lieutenant?”
Thomas glanced over at her. “Yes, thank you. He’s beautiful.”
“My father bought him in Ireland the year before he died, he was intended for my brother. He’s tall for me, Ruby here is a better fit, but I could never get rid of him and he’s so well-mannered. Far more so than I am.”
“Your manners have been impeccable since I arrived, Miss Kennaugh.”
“So have yours. We got off to a poor start, but I’m proud of us since.”
To her delight, he laughed aloud. “It would be impossible to be rude to your grandparents,” he said. “Where are we going?”
“To Douglas. I’m sure you’ve been there already, but I thought we could ride up to Douglas Head and along the coastal path, the weather is so fine. It’s a beautiful view from up there.”
“It’s a beautiful island. I realise I’ve only seen it from the perspective of the best beaches to land run goods so far. I’ve been surprised at how welcoming the people have been. Not just your grandparents, but generally. In Sussex, I’m a pariah, they hate the revenue and excisemen. I can’t even get served in some of the inns. Which is probably just as well, since I’d be drinking run brandy.”
It was a long sentence, for this reserved young man, and a way in, and Aalin seized it. “Would you tell me more about your work? I know a little about the trade of course, since I live in the middle of it, but only from the Manx perspective. I’m interested.”
Thomas shot her a surprised look, but complied readily. Once he began to talk, he was a good storyteller, and she was fascinated by his tales of the smuggling trade in Sussex, of dark nights and sudden conflict, of intimidation and violence and even murder. It bore no resemblance to the casual acceptance of the trade in Mann and she told him so, although she was careful only to refer to stories thirty years in the past that her grandfather had told her, and she knew by his quiet amusement that he realised it. It set the tone for the following week, and by St Thomas’ Eve, as they rode out to watch the men cutting the huge peat turf which would burn through Christmas and bring good luck into the house, Aalin was on very comfortable terms with their guest and she knew that her grandmother was watching with great interest.
“I am told that you intend to take our guest to church on Christmas Eve for the carval singing,” she said to Aalin, as they sat together writing letters one morning. “I hope he doesn’t find it too tedious.”
“He will find it enormously tedious after the third song,” Aalin said composedly. “But I was telling him about the custom and he was interested. I have told him he should remain close to the back door and leave when he wants to. I’ll be able to see him from the gallery and will slip out to join him.”
“Or you could throw a dried pea at him to attract his attention,” Mrs Kennaugh said placidly.
Aalin blushed scarlet and kept her head bent over the letter she was failing to write. The Christmas Eve service ended with local maidens throwing dried peas down from the gallery at their bachelor acquaintances, and it was an accepted way for a girl to express her interest in a man. The scene usually degenerated quickly into chaos and the parish clerk, whose job it was to oversee the carval singing, would clear the church with the congregation, their religious duty done, making their way to the local public house to continue the festivities.
“I shall do nothing of the kind,” Aalin said firmly. “We shall leave before it becomes disorderly. Anyway, I don’t suppose he knows what that is supposed to mean.”
“He may have found somebody to tell him,” Mrs Kennaugh said.
Aalin looked up. “Grandmother, are you trying to tell me something?”
“I think I am trying to ask you something, child. You are spending a great deal of time with this young man.”
“You told me that you wanted me to entertain him. I am never alone with him. If we ride, my groom follows us. If we walk or drive, I take my maid. It is perfectly…”
“Aalin, I am not scolding you, you have done nothing wrong. It is just that I am beginning to wonder if there is more to this than taking care of a guest. You like him, don’t you?”
Aalin could feel herself blushing. “Do you not like him?”
Mrs Kennaugh smiled. “I like him very much. We invited him, as you know, in memory of your father and your brother. At this time of year, it seemed right to offer hospitality to a Trafalgar veteran, especially one who has suffered so much. Since then, I have got to know him a little, and I find him a most estimable young man. It is a shame he is so very conscious of his scar, since I think it stops him smiling as much as he ought.”
“One can hardly blame him when you see the way people stare. It infuriates me. Did you see Mrs Quayle at dinner last night? She stared at him, as though he was some kind of side show at St Catherine’s Fair, I wanted to slap her. To make it worse, she did not listen properly to his conversation, she was so busy staring at his scar. It was so obvious. No wonder he dislikes going into society if it is full of such ill-mannered fools.”
“I see he has a champion in you.”
Aalin sighed. “Don’t matchmake, Grandmama, it’s a repulsive habit.”
“I have certainly proved a failure at it so far,” Mrs Kennaugh agreed.
“Lieutenant Young is not going to propose marriage to me,” Aalin said firmly. She realised that it would be better to have this conversation and dispose of any false hopes. “He dreams of returning to the navy some day. Besides, he is ridiculously scrupulous and does not believe that a man should offer marriage when he cannot support a wife.”
“Has he told you that?”
“Yes. We have talked of marriage in general, as people do. I wish there was a way he could return to the navy, he misses it desperately, although he tries very hard to make the best of his current work. I think he must have made a very good and conscientious officer.”
“I’m sure he did,” her grandmother said gently. “But you would not wish to be married to a navy officer, would you, Aalin?”
Aalin realised that she was close to tears, and she knew that her grandmother would see it. She looked up, blinking hard, and managed a smile. “Ma’am, if it was a man I cared about, I would not refuse because of his profession,” she said. “But it can not be. He is not…he does not…will you excuse me?”
She did not hear her grandmother’s response as she sought the safety of her bedchamber. Lying full length on her bed, Aalin fought against her tears, knowing that she was being silly. It was not sensible to pine over a man who clearly saw her in the light of a cousin or a sister, and not wise to spend too much time dwelling on the joy of every crooked smile or the flutter she felt every time he took her arm, or lifted her from her horse. She was determined just to enjoy this Christmas then let him go with the memory of friendship and no embarrassment. It had been a mistake to let Grandmama see how she felt, but it was more important to ensure that Thomas had no idea. He would be kind, but it would be painfully awkward, and Aalin had no intention of giving him a moment’s discomfort. It was not his fault that she had developed these feelings and she would manage them herself.
Christmas Eve dawned crisp and dry, but by the afternoon a sharp wind was rising and dark clouds obscured the sun. No rain had fallen by the time they set out for church, but Aalin was fairly sure it would fall before Christmas day. The church was barely half full, mostly with people of the more respectable sort. There were few of the local gentry present, they would go to church the following morning while their servants prepared Christmas dinner, but Mr and Mrs Kennaugh had elected to come. The service was short, dwelling on the story of the nativity and the celebration of Christ’s birth.
When the final prayer was said, the parson gathered together his sermon and prepared to leave. He was followed out by the gentry. Aalin joined them, flashing a reassuring smile to Thomas, who was stationed by the back door of the church, looking nervous. She mounted the stairs to the wooden gallery as sounds of laughter and chatter suddenly filled the church, and the aisle was filled with young men and women. The girls climbed to the gallery and the men filled the pews. There were a number of older men, regular singers at the Oiel Verree service. Mr Corlett, the parish clerk, took up his station just inside the communion rail. Aalin had attended this service many times and wondered what her English guest made of it. Most of the congregation carried a lighted candle. The girls decorated their candles with red ribbons and rosettes. Aalin lit her own candle from one of the others and stood by the door, enjoying the brilliance of the lighted church and the feeling of community.
The carvels began. Most were written in Manx and one or two in English. There were one or two traditional carols but most were written by previous parishioners. Few of them were about the nativity and the themes were usually grim and dark, dwelling more on sin and the prospect of eternal damnation than the hope of Christ’s birth. Sometimes men sang together, sometimes alone. They carried lighted tapers, and could sing until the taper burned down, when they made way for the next singer.
Halfway through the fourth carvel, some of the girls were becoming restless, and one or two had begun to throw the hard, dried peas down into the men below. Voices hushed them. The song being sung was an old one, known locally as Bad Women, and spoke of the sinful nature of some of womankind, with Biblical references. It was never popular with the girls, and Aalin thought dispassionately that the clerk might have done better to leave that one to the end.
Peering over into the body of the church, Aalin almost laughed aloud. The singer of Bad Women, the blacksmith from Lonan, had chosen to sing the carvel in English, and it was the first that Thomas would have understood. The revenue man was staring at the singer as though he could not believe his ears. Aalin leaned on the wooden balcony and watched appreciatively.
“Here, missus, throw this at him.”
Aalin turned, startled, and a thin faced elf of a girl was laughing back at her, holding out several dried peas. The temptation was irresistible. Aalin took aim. The first pea missed, bouncing off the wood of the back pew but the second struck Thomas squarely on the top of his head. He looked up, startled, and caught her eye. Aalin jerked her head towards the door and saw, to her secret delight, a broad smile in response. It happened so seldom. Aalin smiled at the elf girl and returned the remainder of the peas then slipped down the stairs and joined Thomas outside in the cold dark night.
As Aalin had suspected, it was raining. The wind was gusting fiercely, threatening Aalin’s riding hat. They stood in the church porch, listening to the growing hilarity within.
“What on earth was he singing about?”
“Sinful women,” Aalin said. “It’s traditional.”
“Come to church tomorrow, you’ll hear pretty carols about the birth of Jesus. Carval singing concentrates on the darker side of God.”
“I would never have guessed it.”
“Mind, the clerk is going to wish he’d not permitted that one so early in the evening, it’s stirred up some of the sinful women in the gallery, he’s going to get a dried pea in the eye if he’s not careful. This is not pleasant. I knew it was going to rain, we should have asked my grandparents to send the carriage back for us.” Aalin glanced at her companion. “We could take refuge at the parsonage and send Orry back to get it.”
“I’ll be guided by you, Miss Kennaugh. If I was alone, I’d make the ride, it’s not that far, but for a lady…”
“I’m Manx, Lieutenant, we’re used to a bit of rain and wind.” Aalin surveyed the weather thoughtfully. “We could ride back along the coastal path, which would save us ten minutes or more. I’d rather avoid the parsonage, it will be full of very worthy people clicking their tongues over the shocking conduct of the young people at the carvel singing. Shall we?”
“By all means. What are you doing?”
“Saving my hat,” Aalin said. As the groom led the horses forward, she removed her riding hat and tied it by its strings to her saddle. “It will be wet but will probably dry out. If I try to ride with it, it’ll end up in the Irish Sea.”
“You’ll get soaked.”
“That hat is not going to keep me dry,” Aalin said as they set their horses into the wind. Glancing sideways she saw that he was smiling, the second time in one evening. It felt like an achievement.
“You are the most practical-minded female I have ever encountered, Miss Kennaugh.”
“Thank you,” Aalin said, somewhat miserably.
To her surprise, he picked up her tone. “I’m sorry, that was meant as a compliment. I’ve spent little time in society these past years and almost none in the company of a pretty girl, but I like your common sense. It is reassuring to know that the possession of a lovely face doesn’t automatically make a girl an idiot. I had wondered until I met you.”
Aalin did not reply. She could not, and was glad of a sudden huge gust of wind which made it necessary to pay attention to her horse. Thomas had said it in such matter-of-fact tones, there was no hint of flirtation or flattery and he could have no idea how much it meant to her. She had been complimented before, on her graceful dancing and excellent sense of style. She had been called, by various hopeful gentlemen with an eye on her fortune, such epithets as magnificent, queenly and glorious and had been referred to as an Amazon. She had never once been called either pretty or lovely and she had told herself that it did not matter. She discovered that it did.
“Have I offended you?” Thomas said, sounding anxious.
“No, of course not. Thank you. I was just surprised.”
“I can understand that, I’m not very good at giving compliments where they’re due. Or at all, really. My older brother Kit inherited all the charm in the family, Edward and I were always rather envious.”
“Was it Kit who died?”
“Yes. Earlier this year.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise it was so recent.”
“He’s buried in Spain, which is hard for my mother, I think. They held a memorial service in the parish church, but…what was that?”
Aalin had heard it too. Thomas reined in, listening. The path ran fairly close to the cliff edge, and they could hear the sound of the sea, waves crashing onto the rocks below. At first, Aalin thought that she had imagined the noise, that it had just been the howling of the wind between the rocks, but then it came again and this time it was unmistakably human voices, not coming back from the direction of the church, but from below the cliff edge.
“Is there a beach down there?” Thomas demanded.
“No. There’s a small cove about half a mile on, you can reach it through a little glen. Down from here, there’s only rocks.”
It was hard to see his face through the dark and rain, but Aalin could sense him thinking quickly. “You, what’s your name? Orry, isn’t it? Come and take my horse. Move them back from the cliff edge, along with Miss Kennaugh, I don’t want them spooked.”
He dismounted and Orry took the horses. Aalin watched as Thomas moved forward. She longed to join him but knew that in this weather, she should not leave the groom to manage three nervous animals alone. She watched, her heart beating faster, as Thomas reached the edge and then lowered himself to the wet grass. He lay full length peering down into the darkness for no more than a minute, then he scrambled to his feet and ran back to them, squinting through the rain, which was little more than a drizzle now.
“It’s a boat, it’s hit the rocks.”
“It’s still afloat, I think they’re trying to row to the beach, but I doubt they’ll make it the state of her, she’s lost the mast and she’s listing badly. Orry, you’ll need to ride for help. Back to the church, it’s closest. I hope to God they’re still singing Manx dirges and haven’t got to the public house yet or they’ll be of no use. Take Miss Kennaugh with you and leave her at the parsonage.”
“Where are you going?” Aalin said.
“Down the glen to the beach. The wind will push them that way. If they can stay afloat long enough to round the rocks, they might make it ashore. If they’re in the water, they’ll need help.”
“You can’t go alone.”
“You’re not coming.”
“I’ll go back to get help. Orry can…”
“No, I’m not having you ride alone along this path in this weather. If your horse stumbles…”
“You don’t know where you’re going,” Aalin said furiously. “Use some of the common sense you claim to value so highly and stop being a hero. Two people should go to the beach.”
Thomas hesitated, then nodded. “Come with me, then,” he said. “Get going, Orry.”
They watched the groom ride off, then Thomas mounted his horse. “Show me,” he said, and Aalin, appreciating his brisk acceptance of the situation, led the way towards Caly Glen.
The glen was short and steep, not ideal for horses in the darkness, although the advantage was that it was somewhat sheltered from the wind. There were a few trees clinging to the steep sides, but mostly the hills were covered with tangled undergrowth, a narrow slippery track winding its way down to a stony beach. The rain had eased, which made visibility a little better, and Thomas concentrated on getting Diamond safely to the bottom, following Aalin. Ruby, her tall mare, was sure-footed in the darkness and they paused on the rocky shore. The sea was a dark boiling mass, capped with white foam, and huge waves crashed onto the beach, sending up spray which could make them no wetter. At some point during the speedy descent, Thomas realised he had lost his hat.
“There’s somebody on the beach,” Aalin said.
Thomas saw it too, dark figures outlined against the waves, speaking in urgent tones. They had two closed lanterns which bobbed furiously in the wind as they held them up, peering out into the waves. Thomas urged his horse forward and the strangers turned to face him. Both were men, wrapped up in dark coats with woollen fishermen’s hats pulled low over their heads and he could see little of them apart from their faces, one young, one old and lined.
“Any sign of them?” Thomas asked, dismounting.
“Out there.” The younger man’s voice was anguished. “They were rounding the head and hit a rock. She’s broken up, sir.”
Thomas could hear them now, the cries of men in the water, and he felt sick with horror. It was the fear of every seagoing man, to find himself clinging to a flimsy piece of wreckage in a dark, angry sea with no hope of rescue. He guessed all these Manxmen were strong swimmers but it would not matter out there tonight.
“Where’ve you come from?”
“Cottage up on the cliff there,” the older man said. “On our way back from church and heard the noise. Sent my lad running for rope, but we’ve no way to use it, they’re too far to throw it.”
Thomas heard the lie and understood. He was not sure if the two men had been on the beach waiting to guide the boat in with the lights or if they had run down as the storm worsened, but he was certain they had been expecting the craft and knew who manned her and what she carried. Christmas Eve in a rising storm was no time to put to sea, but a good time to evade detection with all law-abiding folk either in church or at home, celebrating the season with family and friends. Thomas guessed they knew who he was. Even without his uniform, the island was too small for any smuggler not to know about the red-headed, scarred revenue officer currently on shore leave. But he had not noticed the rope and it galvanised him into sudden action.
“How many aboard?”
“Don’t know, sir,” the older man said. “Like I said…”
“What’s your name?”
“Kinvig, sir. Illiam Kinvig, that’s my boy Jemmy.”
“Right, Mr Kinvig, I don’t give a single damn what cargo that boat carries or what you know about it, I’m here to save lives tonight. You give me a straight answer or you’ll be going head first into that water, and it looks bloody cold. How many?”
“Six, sir,” Jemmy said instantly. “It’s Colin Shimmin’s boat, two of his lads, Adam Joughin, Juan Kermode and my brother Eedin.”
“Good lad. Give me that rope.”
Thomas turned to Aalin. The wind had torn her hair loose from its pins and it blew in wild curls around her face, the big green eyes looking steadily at him. He wondered if she knew what he was about to ask her.
“Miss Kennaugh, it’s your decision. I can ride out with Diamond, and I can probably reach them. If we tie the rope to him, Kinvig and his boy can help pull us back in. He’s a strong horse, I think he’ll make it. But he might not.”
Aalin’s face was white in the lantern light and her expression pulled at his heartstrings, but she did not hesitate. “You might not make it either, Thomas, and I find that worries me far more. Do it.”
There was no time for more and Thomas could not, in any case, say any of the things he badly wanted to say to this girl, who had walkedinto his life and made him painfully aware of all the things he did not have. Even in this desperate moment, he felt simple happiness that she had used his first name. Thomas reached for her hand, encased in soaked riding gloves, and kissed it.
“I will buy you the finest pair of gloves this island can produce as a New Year’s gift,” he said, and she smiled through tears.
“See that you are here to keep that promise, Mr Young.”
Diamond reared up as Thomas urged him into the raging sea. Waves thundered around them, pushing the horse back, and Thomas held on with an iron grip, forcing his mount forward. He had developed a good relationship with the horse these past weeks and now, when it mattered, Diamond steadied and held and then began to make his way forward into the sea. Thomas felt the moment that the horse was out of his depth, but he kept moving forward, swimming strongly. Thomas reached behind to check that the rope was secure although he had tied it himself.
Then they were among the wreckage and he heard a cry close by. There were two men, clinging to a wooden board, and he could see that they were both quite young. Thomas manoeuvred Diamond around then reached out a hand.
“Let go,” he yelled, his voice a scream to be heard over the sound of the storm. “One at a time. Hold on to the saddle. One each side.”
It took some time to move the two terrified boys over to the horse. One of them struggled to let go of the plank, his face a mask of fear in the darkness, but it was done finally, and Thomas urged Diamond back to shore. It was harder going, the tide pulling seawards, but Diamond was very strong and knew he was heading for safety, and Kinvig and Jemmy hauled on the rope, helping the horse. His hooves found sand and he trudged through the turbulent waves. In the shallows, Kinvig and Jem splashed towards them, lifting the survivors away from Diamond and up onto the shore.
“Where’s the lantern, I can’t see,” Thomas yelled.
“Here.” Aalin was beside him on Ruby, the oil lamp swinging in the wind, the faint light picking up shapes in the swirling gunmetal waves. Several pieces of wood floated quite close to the shore, and what looked like a barrel was bouncing further out.
“Shine it over towards the rocks, Aalin, I can’t see…”
“Fella coming in. Swimming. He’s caught in the tide.”
Aalin lifted the lantern and Thomas saw immediately, the desperate strokes that were making no progress. The tide was not impossible to surmount, but this man was exhausted. He was not that far out, and Thomas urged Diamond forward into the waves. He could feel the pull of the water as the horse struck out strongly, but they reached the swimmer quickly, a burly young man and quick-witted for all his exhaustion. He clung to Thomas’ stirrup and Thomas turned the horse and towed him in. The man kept his feet in the shallows and staggered up the beach into the waiting embrace of Kinvig and Jemmy.
“Eedin. Ah, lad, thank God.”
“Any sign of the others?” Thomas asked.
Eedin Kinvig turned, his startled eyes, taking in Thomas’ uniform and clearly understanding. “We lost Joughin when we hit the rocks,” he said. “He went under, we tried to find him. He’s gone sir. Colin is hanging on for his life to the mast. You might see him.”
Thomas took the lantern and raised it. He could feel Diamond beginning to tremble under him and he was shivering himself. He scanned the waves and then saw it, a faint movement, which might have been a waving arm. For a moment, Thomas knew a sense of sheer misery at the thought of going back into the freezing grey water. He leaned forward and patted Diamond’s neck.
“Reckon we can do it once more, boy?”
The horse baulked as he felt the cold water churning around his legs and for a moment, Thomas thought he had asked too much. Then Diamond steadied and moved forward, striking out strongly towards the faint shape in the distance. The light of one of the lanterns glimmered over the water and Thomas knew that Aalin was holding it high, guiding him towards Colin Shimmin. Diamond swam slowly and Thomas could feel his exhaustion. Whatever happened now, he could not push the horse to do this again.
Shimmin was there, barely conscious, half lying across the broken wooden mast. Thomas tried hard to get him to cling to the saddle, but the older man was too exhausted, and Thomas suspected that if he managed it, he would let go halfway and go under. Desperation lent him strength, and Thomas hauled him up until he was face down over the saddle bow. He concentrated, on the way back, on keeping Shimmin’s head out of the water and thanked God for the rope and the strong arms pulling him in, since he could feel that the horse was spent. As they splashed through the shallows, Thomas could feel Diamond’s legs wobbling and as hands reached up to take Shimmin, he slid from the saddle and put both arms around the horse’s wet, smooth neck.
“All right. It’s all right, boy. No more. You’ve done enough.”
Thomas turned. He realised they were no longer alone on the shore. Other men were coming down the beach, some with blankets and flasks, and the survivors were being wrapped up warmly and given brandy. Thomas recognised the parson, Mr Gawne.
“Lieutenant Young, well done, sir. Four lives saved, thanks to your bravery.”
“Two lost,” Thomas said, bitterly. He was scanning the dark sea, but he could see no sign of life, only a few dark shapes as the wreckage of the boat and her cargo were tossed about on the stormy sea. The wind was beginning to die down finally and it had stopped raining, but Thomas was soaked to his underclothes and shivering. A man he did not know came forward with a rough blanket and draped it awkwardly around Thomas’ shoulders and Thomas nodded his thanks, almost too tired to speak. He looked over at Aalin. She was standing with Diamond, whispering to him, kissing his nose. Somebody had provided a blanket for her as well. She looked as wet as he was, her soaked hair falling in mad curls down her back. Thomas stood watching her and then she looked around and saw him, and smiled.
“You did it,” she said. “You were so brave. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“You know my name,” Thomas said. “You cannot go back now.”
“Oh. I didn’t think you had noticed.”
“It was my favourite part of the evening,” Thomas said gravely, and loved the splutter of laughter she gave.
“Then you should call me Aalin. Although I don’t know what my grandmother will say about it.”
“We’ll ask her, shall we?” Thomas said. Aalin looked at him uncertainly, and Thomas smiled, not caring what it did to his scar. “We should get this lad back, he’s exhausted.”
“Orry has gone for the carriage, it will be here at any moment. He’ll walk Diamond back. Here, have some of the parson’s brandy. I have told him I don’t think he’ll see us in church tomorrow, but I think he will forgive us.”
“Christmas,” Thomas said. “I’d totally forgotten.”
Aalin was looking around the beach. “These people won’t forget, Thomas,” she said. “And neither shall I.”
Aalin slept late, exhausted, and on waking, went first to the stables. She was surprised to find Thomas already there, fussing Diamond in his stall. Aalin stood watching him for a moment. He was neat and trim again, the red hair tied back. At some point during the previous night he had acquired a cut across his temple and both his hands were covered in scratches and tears, the nails broken and black. Thomas turned and saw her and smiled broadly and Aalin’s heart melted, remembering when he had not smiled at all.
“I thought you’d sleep later,” he said.
“I thought the same of you. He seems well.”
“He’ll be fine, no lasting damage, although he should be rested for a few days. I was just about to go in to breakfast, but there’s something I wanted to show you first.”
He took her hand and led her through the stables, past the stalls and out into the yard. Two of the men were carrying a small barrel and a box towards the kitchen door. One of them grinned at their approach.
“Morning, miss. Unexpected delivery, this morning.”
“What is it?”
“Tea, miss. And good French brandy. There was a note nailed to the box. Seems it’s a gift for the lieutenant from an unknown admirer.”
“Oh.” Aalin glanced at Thomas in some trepidation and saw that he was laughing.
“That’s the first time I’ve knowingly been in receipt of smuggled goods. I am gifting it to your grandparents in gratitude for their hospitality. The parson was here earlier, and brought news that was a better gift to me than illicit brandy. It seems we only lost one man.”
“For reasons I shall not examine, half the village was on the beach at dawn to see what had washed up on the incoming tide. They heard cries and scrambled down the tail of rocks to find Juan Kermode lying across a boulder with a cracked head and a broken leg. I don’t know how he didn’t freeze to death in the night but he’s alive and he’s home.”
“Oh that’s such good news,” Aalin said. “Thank heavens for the greed of the smuggling trade or he might never have been found.”
The house was decorated for Christmas with boughs of greenery from around the estate. Holly, ivy and other evergreens were interspersed with ribbons and candles. Guests had been invited for Christmas dinner. After all, Aalin and Thomas accompanied her grandparents to church and Aalin was pleased by the unmistakable warmth of the welcome given to Thomas, who seemed to have made the step from outsider to valued neighbour overnight. They returned to dinner and ate goose and duck and Twelfth Cake until Aalin was not sure that she could move. After the meal, they played blind man’s buff, hunt the slipper and charades and Aalin spent the day in a daze of happiness that she could not explain. Outwardly little had changed, but every time Thomas said her name, he smiled at her and Aalin’s heart beat faster. In the dark of the evening, carol singers came and they stood in the big square hallway joining in with the old carols. Aalin could feel Thomas’ shoulder against hers. She felt him stir, and then to her astonishment, his fingers curled around hers. Aalin did not speak. All her hard won London sophistication had deserted her and she felt girlish and vulnerable and very much out of her depth.
On St Stephen’s Day, the wren boys toured the villages, parading the dead wren at the end of a decorated pole, beating a drum and singing the Hunting of the Wren song outside the great houses in return for food and small gifts. Thomas stood on the front steps of the house beside Aalin watching the proceedings, as the servants cheered the group of young men and joined in the song.
“I would hate to be any kind of bird during your Manx Christmas celebrations,” he said in Aalin’s ear, and she looked up at him, surprised into bubbling laughter. “Am I to expect any other kind of dead bird before Twelfth Night?”
“Only from the kitchens, Thomas, and I notice you’ve no objection to those.”
“Not in the least, I’ve not been fed this well for years. Which reminds me, since I collect there are guests again for dinner. Do you have time to walk with me before we need to change?”
Aalin felt her heart beat faster. “Of course. Where do you wish to go? I’ll ring for my maid.”
“Do you think it would be very shocking to ask you to dispense with her today? I thought we could walk up to the old church, it’s not far.”
“St Adamnan’s? Yes, of course. I’ll get my cloak and change my shoes.”
It was not far up to the partially ruined church, but the walk was fairly steep. The weather had changed again and St Stephen’s Day brought brilliant blue skies and a light breeze. It was cold, but the exercise warmed Aalin and by the time Thomas opened the gate into the small, tangled churchyard with its broken stones and Celtic crosses, she could feel her cheeks flushed with exertion.
“How long has this been unused?” Thomas asked, as they explored the churchyard and peered into the musty interior of the remaining part of the church.
“As long as I can remember. They’re building a new church although it’s taking them forever, which is why we travel back to Douglas for most services. This one isn’t really used. I hope they don’t allow it to fall wholly into ruin, though, it’s so pretty, especially in summer.”
“It’s cold today,” Thomas said. She heard laughter in his voice, and turned to find him studying her, smiling. “I was just thinking that I would very much like to spend some time with you when we’re not at risk of freezing to death.”
“I don’t feel cold after that walk,” Aalin said. “Are you warm enough in that light jacket, though? Your uniform…”
“Every stitch I had on me that night is ruined beyond repair,” Thomas said. “I am reduced to civilian clothing.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I can buy new clothing. In fact, I probably should, I look like a pauper. Which I’m not, entirely, although as a younger son, I’m not wealthy. The estate goes to my brother, of course, but there are some bonds and investments left to me by my grandfather which bring in a small income. There will also be a little family money from my mother.”
Aalin knew that she was blushing bright red and she hoped he would think it was from the walk in the cold air. “What…why are you telling me this, Thomas?”
Thomas walked forward, taking her hand in his. “Aalin, you must know what I want to say. I spent Christmas Day wrestling with the knotty problem of whether I should speak to your grandfather first. I probably should have, but to tell you the truth I am not sure what your answer is going to be, so I thought I would find out first.”
Aalin’s eyes opened very wide. “Thomas, are you proposing to me?”
“I’m trying to. I don’t seem to have quite reached the sticking point yet. You look astonished. Didn’t you realise?”
“No. I had no idea,” Aalin said honestly.
“I must be even worse at this than I thought,” Thomas said. He raised her hand to his lips and suddenly seemed to notice that she wore no gloves. “Where are your gloves? Do not tell me you ruined your only pair?”
“No. Only I could not find them and I was hurrying.”
Thomas made an exasperated sound, released her hand and began to strip off his own gloves. “Your hands are freezing. Here, put these on. Honestly, Aalin…”
“Thomas!” Aalin said furiously. “You cannot stop halfway through a proposal to scold me about my gloves, it is too bad.”
Thomas stopped, staring at her. Unexpectedly, he dropped the gloves, reached out and took her into his arms. Aalin froze in a moment of appalled awkwardness. She felt his lips brush hers very gently and she could feel that he was smiling.
“I love you, Aalin Kennaugh. Don’t look so panicked, I’m not going to carry you into the undergrowth, it’s far too cold. I would like to kiss you though. May I?”
Aalin looked up. Suddenly she felt very sure. Reaching up, she touched her lips very gently to the line of his scar and felt him shiver a little in her arms. “Yes,” she said.
“Was that to the kiss or my proposal?”
“You haven’t asked me, Thomas.”
“Oh. No. The gloves.”
“Yes, the gloves. Which neither of us are now wearing. Should you object if I called you Tommy? I rather like it.”
“Marry me, love, and you can call me anything.”
“Then, yes, Tommy Young. To both.”
Twelfth Night was a celebration both of the season and of the engagement, and Thomas realised he had not danced, or laughed like this, since that moment of agony below decks four years earlier had changed his life. He and Aalin drifted through the remainder of the season wrapped up in their own happiness. They spent Oie Houney, or New Year’s Eve, dancing at a neighbour’s house. It was the beginning of the season of Sauin, marking the formal start of winter and for the Manx farming community, rents were due, new leases began and the livestock was brought in for the winter. Thomas listened to Aalin explaining the various customs of the season, his eyes on her vivid, laughing face.
“You are not listening to me, Tommy.”
“I am. Is there an examination at the end of it?”
“If there is, you will fail.”
“I have never failed an examination. I did very well in the lieutenants’ examination.”
“What was I saying?”
“It involved ashes in the fireplace and something about a cake. Some kind of divination, I think? But no dead birds this time, which is a relief. Have I passed?”
“No. But you may kiss me anyway.”
Thomas wrote to his family, and waited without impatience for their reply. He had no doubt of their approval. His mother had cried many tears over her youngest son’s withdrawal from the world and would welcome the girl who had helped him to find his way back. In the meantime, after lengthy discussions with Aalin, he wrote his resignation from the revenue service. He would remain on half-pay, and accepted without resentment that he brought far less to the marriage than his wife. Thomas did not expect their happiness to depend on how wealthy either of them might be, and it was clear that Aalin and her grandparents cared nothing at all.
They had been discussing spring wedding plans over breakfast when the maid brought in the post. There were two letters for Thomas, one the expected happy response from his mother and the other, to his surprise, bearing an Admiralty seal. Thomas broke it open and read the rather long letter in growing astonishment. Getting to the end, he sat thinking about it for a moment then read it again, to be sure that he had not misunderstood. When he had done, he looked up into the wide green eyes of his betrothed. They were fixed on him anxiously and Thomas realised that she knew exactly what the letter contained.
“It’s an offer of a posting,” Thomas said. “It appears that I have been recommended for the position of second lieutenant aboard HMSIris, a 74 gun third rater currently under refit in Chatham.” He met Aalin’s worried gaze. “But this isn’t news to you, is it, love of my life?”
Mrs Kennaugh rose stiffly. “You will want to discuss this privately, my children, so I will leave you.”
“No,” Thomas said quickly. “No, ma’am, please stay. Since I know very well that it must have been you and Mr Kennaugh who arranged this for me.”
“We arranged nothing,” Mrs Kennaugh said firmly. “I was asked by an old friend, what your situation was with the navy. You have met Mr Crellin many times. I explained to him, and I believe he wrote to his son-in-law.”
“Captain Hugh Kelly is married to his daughter?”
“Yes. They returned to England at the end of last year after that dreadful Walcheren business. I met Captain Kelly several times when he was last home, and of course I’ve known Roseen since she was a child. A dreadful tomboy, but a very good girl.”
“Are you angry, Tommy?”
Thomas could hear the anxiety in Aalin’s voice and he thought about it and decided that he was not angry at all. “No,” he said. “Although I wish you had asked me first.”
“I thought you might refuse because of me,” Aalin said, and she sounded close to tears. Thomas wanted to laugh and stopped himself. Then he changed his mind and gave a broad smile. When he had first begun to smile again, it had felt strange, as though his facial muscles had forgotten how, but he was getting used to it.
“I am going to refuse because of you,” he said. “In a month’s time, I am going to get up in that church and swear before God that I’ll take care of you. It’s a vow I intend to take very seriously. I don’t think leaving you to wait for letters and dread bad news is the best way of doing that.”
“I’m so afraid you’ll come to regret it, love. If you feel that your duty…”
“Hang my duty. Sorry, ma’am. But honestly, my duty took half my face away and Kit’s duty cost him his life. I think my country has had good value out of my family’s sense of duty.” Thomas looked over at Mr Kennaugh who had not spoken. “When we’re married, I’ll be your heir. I should be here, getting to know the land and your people. I should be learning from you what I need to know, not wasting my life on a man o’war doing a job that a dozen other men could do as well. I’ve resigned from the revenue service, sir, and I intend to resign my commission in the navy.”
Aalin was crying. Thomas got up and took her into his arms. “I thought you wanted it so badly,” she said.
“I had nothing else. I have now.”
“I think my granddaughter has made a very good choice,” Mr Kennaugh said. “I’ll speak to Mr Crellin…”
“No, sir. With your permission, I’d like to write to him myself. I’ll send in my papers and I’ll write to Captain Kelly, to thank him for offering me the chance. It was a good opportunity, I’ve heard of Kelly, he’s very well thought of. And I’ve a friend who is in a similar situation to me. Captain Kelly will have a lot of officers interested in this posting, but Alex is a good man, he deserves a chance. It’s worth a shot.”
Mr and Mrs Kennaugh removed themselves tactfully and Thomas was left alone with Aalin. She had stopped crying and they sat quietly for a while, his arms about her. Eventually, she stirred.
“I should go and wash my face, I am supposed to have a fitting at the dressmaker and she’ll think I’m regretting my choice if I turn up like this.”
Thomas kissed her soundly and when she had gone, he took Diamond from the stables and rode out, as he did most days, taking the coast road towards Kion Droghead. He reined in at the narrow path down through the glen and then on impulse, turned Diamond down towards the shore. Today the beach was quiet and the sea still and calm, reflecting bright sparks from the spring sunlight. Thomas dismounted and led the horse down to the edge of the surf.
“Bit calmer today, sir.”
Thomas turned, startled. “Mr Kinvig. Yes, I was just thinking that.”
The old fisherman strolled down to join him, puffing on a strong smelling pipe. “I hear you won’t be putting on that revenue coat again, then, sir.”
“Didn’t suit you anyway, that. How ’bout the navy?”
Thomas wanted to laugh aloud. He was trying to imagine having this conversation on an English beach with a chance met fisherman. “I’m resigning my commission. Plenty to do on the land here.”
“That’s good, then, no call for a nice lad like you to be running around wi’ them excise fellas. She’s a good lass and you’ll fit in here.”
“And you’ll have no need to shoot me again,” Thomas said placidly. The old man gave a cackle of laughter.
“Oh bless you, sir, that weren’t me, I got no call to be firing off shots at a revenue man.”
“No, but you know who did.”
“Accident, sir, plain and simple.”
“I hope my new neighbours won’t hold it against me that I took up a few cargoes last year.”
Kinvig grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “Got a fair few past you as well, beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
“I’ll just bet you did, you unprincipled old rogue. Best take care, the next man they send might not be so casual about his duties.”
“We’ll be careful, sir. It’s not that much these days, not like the old days, before the revocation. Just a few local lads trying to make a bit extra to put food on the table. Nothing to worry about. Should mention, though, keep an eye out in the barn, there’ll be a couple of barrels wi’ your name on, and a bale of silk. Just in time for your wedding.”
“You paid your debt, Mr Kinvig.”
The fisherman puffed on his pipe and withdrew it again. “No, sir. Three lads, I had. Lost one a few years back, impress service picked him up out fishing and he died of some shipboard fever. Thought I was about to lose another. That debt stands.”
Thomas made no reply and Kinvig seemed to need none. They stood watching the tiny waves running in on the sand for a few minutes and then Kinvig turned and lifted his cap with an awkward bobbing bow. Thomas watched him head up the glen towards his cottage and then mounted Diamond, patted his smooth neck, and turned the horse back up the path towards the main road and home.
I’ve very much enjoyed returning to the Isle of Man for this year’s Christmas story and it was fun to research some of the old Manx traditions. I’d like to express my appreciation to Culture Vannin’s excellent online resources for helping with this and suggest you have a look at their site if you’d like to know more. I find Hall Caine’s nineteenth century novels set in the Isle of Man very hard to read, but his account of carvel singing in She’s all the World to Me is genuinely worth it and I have him to thank for the idea of interrupting the service with a shipwreck.
Some of the locations in the story are real such as St Adamnan’s Church and the village of Kion Droghead, which was the old name for Onchan. To make my story work, I’ve taken a few liberties with the exact location of the parish church and the fictional Caly Glen and beach, although I had Groudle Beach in mind for the wreck.
As always, I’ve dropped in the odd reference to my regular characters from the books. For readers of my latest, This Blighted Expedition, I had every intention of allowing my scarred revenue man to join Captain Hugh Kelly and First Lieutenant Alfred Durrell aboard the Iris in the next book, but he surprised me at the end and flatly refused to go. I was quite pleased, so many of my heroes have an unbending sense of duty it was quite refreshing to find one who was prepared to put his girl first. As for his elder brother, it was indeed Captain Kit Young who served under Major Paul van Daan in the 110th and died at Talavera in An Unconventional Officer.
I’d like to wish all my readers a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from Writing with Labradors. Thank you so much for your support. To keep in touch, you can subscribe to the website and follow me on Twitter, Facebook or Medium, I’d love to hear from you.
There are some great posts in the December Blog Hop and I really recommend you keep an eye out for more. This is the full list. Tomorrow’s post will be from the fabulous Samantha Wilcoxson
Peel Town was ten miles from the Crellins’ Malew home and they set off early with one of Hugh’s grooms riding at a discreet distance behind. The weather was cooler and cloudy but the rain held off and they arrived by mid-morning. Hugh left the groom to stable the horses at the inn which was right on the quay and led Roseen along the busy seafront.
Peel Town was on the west coast of the island, a thriving and busy little town situated on the tidal estuary of the River Neb sheltered to the north by the rocky St. Patrick’s Isle and to the west by Peel Hill. The grey stone of Peel Castle out on the island was less well preserved than Castle Rushen although there were signs of building and activity, with scaffolding erected in places around the walls. The ongoing war with France had given a new incentive to coastal towns around the British Isles to improve their defences, and Roseen remembered the work being done on the little fort down on St Michael’s Isle.
Peel was primarily a port, its main industries fishing and ship building and the quayside was thronged with people in a way that she only saw on market days in the quieter streets of Castletown. Over the centuries the town had grown up on the right bank of the river facing Peel Castle on St Patrick’s Isle. It was a rabbit warren of tiny cobbled streets of sandstone and brick houses running from inland down to the busy heart of the town by the sea. The oldest houses tended to be close to the quay with newer and more elegant buildings further back.
As always, the usual smells of the sea, wood fires and tar from the ship works were overlaid in Peel Town by the smoky odour of herring smokers. Many of the small cottagers smoked their own kippers but there were one or two commercial enterprises now, smoking larger quantities of fish and exporting them to England. Hugh led Roseen along the quay. Several people hailed him and he responded cheerfully, leading Roseen to assume that Captain Kelly had spent some time here during his months back on the island. About halfway along, a white painted Manx cottage with several large sheds attached bore a painted sign announcing Shimmin’s Smokery. Hugh rapped on the door to the house and it was opened after a moment by a very young maid in apron and cap.
“Is Mr Shimmin in?” Hugh asked, and a voice from within hailed him with cheerful vulgarity.
“Bloody hell, is that the Kelly boy again trying to cadge a free breakfast? Every damned time he comes to town he’s on my doorstep…”
“Watch your mouth, you miserly old coot, I’ve a lady with me!” Hugh shouted, and a man emerged from a dark passage. He was probably sixty, fat and red faced, dressed in the fashion of a previous age with pale breeches and a waistcoat and coat straining across his ample stomach.
“Well how could I have expected any sensible female to be seen out in your company?” he demanded cheerfully. “Ma’am, my apologies. James Shimmin, at your service.”
Roseen offered him her hand and he bowed over it gravely with old-fashioned courtesy, then straightened and looked enquiringly at Hugh who grinned.
“I’m guessing you’ve not met Miss Crellin, James, she’s the daughter of my business partner Mr Josiah Crellin of the Top House, Malew. Miss Crellin, this fat old goat is Mr James Shimmin, proprietor of Shimmin Smokeries. He smokes the best kippers on the island, which of course means the best in the world, and he was a friend of my father’s. He’s also completely right, I am indeed here for a free breakfast. How are you, James?”
“All the better for the sight of a pretty girl. Come through into the dining parlour, Miss Crellin. Sally, get some food on. The new bread, mind, we’ve guests. And fry up some of the smoked bacon, I want Captain Kelly’s opinion on it. Where’s my wife?”
“Out back, sir, with the chickens.”
“Call her in, will you?”
They ate in a small, dark parlour which had probably once been the main room of the cottage before it had been extended to display Mr Shimmin’s increasing prosperity. There were two front sash windows and a big open kitchen hearth. A selection of prints adorned the walls and a big dark oak table was quickly set with traditional pottery plates and cups.
Mrs Shimmin was some years younger than her husband, a comfortable motherly Manx woman who made Roseen feel very welcome. They chatted about local concerns; the coming harvest and the unexpectedly fine summer weather and the fishing prospects. Roseen knew many of the local fishing families through her brother.
The food was excellent and plentiful, the rich smoked fish and bacon supplemented with home baked soda bread and fresh milk from the Shimmins’ smallholding. The two men drank mild ale and talked a little of the war and of Hugh’s probable recall to duty soon.
“You not tempted to come out, fella?” Shimmin asked, studying Hugh. “It’s not like you’ve not done your duty. How many years is it?”
“Almost fifteen,” Hugh said. “I was twenty two when I had my first commission. Don’t think I’ve not considered it, James, especially now that I’ve a place of my own to come home to.”
“I heard there’d be no shortage of officers ready to take your place,” Shimmin said.
“That’s true enough, but they’re not all that good at it. Better than the army, mind, half of them have paid for their promotions and they’ve no idea what they’re doing. But still – the navy’s been very good to me. Not the right time to drop them in the brine.”
“You don’t think he’s beat then?”
“I think he’ll take a while to come back from Trafalgar. He lost his navy there, whether he admits it or not.”
“And we lost Lord Nelson,” Shimmin said. “A great pity.”
Hugh grinned. “Nelson was a great commander,” he said. “But between you and me, there are others I’d rather serve under. He was a bit of a twat, to be honest. Sorry, ma’am, forgot there were ladies present.”
Roseen had begun to laugh. “Captain, I cannot believe you just said that about England’s hero! You will be keel-hauled!”
“I’m careful where I say it, but I’m not the only one. I’m friendly with John Quilliam who was his first lieutenant at Trafalgar and although he’d nothing but good to say of the man’s talent and leadership, he didn’t like him much. Bit of a peacock. But the men loved him and it’s sad he’s gone.”
“So can Bonaparte rebuild his navy?” Roseen asked. The grey eyes studied her thoughtfully.
“He can, and he’ll make the attempt. But if he wants to damage British trade through a blockade he’ll need to do so quickly before we rebuild the European coalitions. The powers-that-be are more worried that he’ll steal a fleet from somebody else.”
“No, Trafalgar finished Spain. But both Denmark and Portugal have a fleet. Both are currently neutral – more or less. Portugal, I’d say, would favour an English alliance over a French, if they get the choice. Denmark, I’m not so sure. They’re not fond of our navy.” Hugh set down his napkin and smiled. “And I’m talking war on a day of pleasure. Forgive me, Miss Crellin.”
“It is particularly irritating when you treat me as though I were a child, Captain, unable to understand the least thing about the war, or politics, or trade, or anything else,” Roseen said in measured tones. “Has our brief acquaintance given you the impression that I am intellectually less capable of understanding such matters than your male friends?”
She saw, with satisfaction, that she had genuinely shocked him. James Shimmin gave a snort of laughter.
“That’s told you, Captain Kelly! You should hold on to this one, she’d be good for you!”
“Thank you, I will bear that in mind,” Hugh said faintly. “Miss Crellin, my apologies. It isn’t your intelligence that I question, it is your interest in matters military. It is not generally considered a subject for ladies at the gatherings I’m used to attending.”
“Then they must be very dull. What are the ladies allowed to speak of beyond their needlework and the latest gossip, I wonder? Is there a manual? You must provide me with a copy so that I do not make any further faux pas.”
Hugh started to laugh. “You are the worst termagant I have ever come across! Feel free to continue making me feel bad for the rest of the day if you want. Should I ask if you want to come and look at this yacht with me? I shall try not to offend you again.”
Roseen blushed slightly. “I’m sorry. I should not have…”
“No, please do.” Hugh rose and held out his hand. “It’s a shock, but you’re very good for me. I keep telling you how hopeless I am socially, it’s time I learned.”
“I am not the best person to teach you, Captain, I don’t have the reputation of knowing how to behave properly myself. Mrs Shimmin, thank you for a wonderful meal, it is so good of you. I hope you are not annoyed by our squabbling, we do not seem to be able to help it.”
Outside the clouds had darkened and Hugh studied them thoughtfully. “I’m not so keen on this weather, I should probably have brought the carriage. I hope it holds off.”
“If it doesn’t, I’m not going to drown, Captain. I’m Manx. Rain isn’t new to me.”
He laughed aloud. “And I’m coddling you again, aren’t I? All right, lass, no more of it. Come and tell me what you think of this yacht, then. She’s not new and she’s been badly neglected but she has beautiful lines and I think with some work she’ll be a gem.”
The yacht was moored at the far end of the quay; the boy waiting to show them around was an underfed lad of eighteen or so, presumably not the owner. Roseen climbed the ladder onto the battered wooden deck without difficulty and stood looking around her in some delight.
She could see immediately the appeal of the old boat. Despite her neglected appearance she was a graceful vessel, 25 feet in length, schooner rigged and built some forty years earlier. While Hugh asked a series of intelligent questions of the boy and inspected woodwork and masts, Roseen climbed below into the cabin area and stood looking around thoughtfully. After some time he joined her.
“She’s in poor condition but with time and money spent she’ll be lovely again.”
“Who owns her?”
“The owner is a man called Callow, an advocate in Douglas. She was his father’s but he’s not a sailor himself. Recently inherited and he’s selling off everything he has no use for.” Hugh’s voice was quiet. “She’s priced too low, I don’t think he knows anything about sailing or yachts, I want to snap her up before somebody tells him he’s got this wrong. There’s also a small boatyard with some storage. I’ll take that off him at the same time and Isaac can find me a man who can take on the restoration.”
Roseen turned to look at him thoughtfully. “Has this man had a good look around that boatyard?” she asked.
“No idea. Why?”
“I’d get it checked thoroughly once you’ve signed the contract. Wouldn’t want any surprises if the excisemen come calling.”
Hugh froze, studying her in some surprise. Then he looked around again and caught his breath. “This cabin’s too small.”
“By three or four feet against the outside, I’d say.”
“There’s not that much smuggling done here these days, I’m told.”
“There was forty years ago, before the Duke of Atholl sold out to the English. One of the Manxman’s favourite pastimes, for all they blamed it on the English and the Irish.”
Hugh looked around him again. Now that she had pointed it out, the disproportion was obvious. He glanced again at Roseen and said:
“Is that how your father got his start in trade, Roseen?”
She laughed, obviously unabashed. “If it is, Captain, he’s hardly likely to tell you about it. The reversion to the English crown put a stop to that, and it’s all before your time and mine. Do you object to being in business with a former smuggler?”
“I’d struggle more with a former slaver. I’ve boarded one or two slave ships in my time, the images stay with you.”
The girl shivered with real revulsion. “How horrible. There are men living here who have done very well out of slaving. The Gellings, up Ramsey way for one, and I’m told that old Orry Gelling is hoping to find new ways around the law.”
“Well he’ll find himself in trouble then. The government is serious about this, once the navy isn’t spending all its time chasing the French we’ll be policing it very thoroughly and I don’t know any officers who like slavers. But as for smugglers, it’s in the past. I don’t like the fact that it still goes on; the French wars have been kept afloat at times by gold and information from English and Irish smugglers. But your father is well beyond that point, lass. I’m dying to find out what’s behind that panelling and I will certainly warn Isaac that he’s to rip that storage apart to make sure there’s nothing embarrassing left behind. But I’m going to make an offer on this lady, she’s gorgeous. Have you seen enough?”
She nodded and he helped her up, thanking their guide and promising that his man of business would be in touch over a possible offer. Business over with, they strolled up into town, past the solid tower of St Peter’s Church and through the market square. Roseen paused to look in several shop windows but Hugh was faintly amused to see that her interest was purely practical. She passed the silk merchant and milliner without a glance but paused to look thoughtfully at a carpenter and furniture maker.
“Did you get your new bed frame, Captain?”
“Yes, I ordered it from a carpenter in Douglas, he made it especially. I’m tall.”
Roseen looked round at him with a quick smile. “Is that a problem aboard ship?”
“It won’t be aboard my new ship, I’ve ordered a much longer bunk specially made for me. The joys of being captain.”
“No more squashed toes,” Roseen said, moving on. “Do you mind if we stop at the herbalist – we’re in need of a few things for the kitchen at home, the one here is better than the one in Castletown.”
“I’m at your disposal, Miss Crellin.”
The girl turned her head to look up at him. “I can never work out when I am to be Roseen and when I am Miss Crellin.”
“Nor can I. It’s why I get it wrong so often. Do you mind?”
She shook her head firmly. “No, I like it. Miss Crellin sounds like some dreadfully missish female that I should have very little time for.”
“I need to be formal with you in public, lass. There are rules; even I know that.”
She laughed aloud. “So do I although I cannot always remember what they are.”
“My name is Hugh.”
She looked horrified which made him laugh. “Captain, I must not. People would genuinely be shocked.”
“All right. Just for your information, I will not be shocked and you may call me by my given name any time you wish. I’ll leave you to choose your moment. The herbalist is along here if I remember right.”
They wandered through the square, stopping at one or two stalls. Surprisingly for a town of its size, Peel Town had no regular weekly market although several times a year it held a cattle fair and traders set up their stands to take advantage of the extra custom. But there were usually a few farmers bringing produce in for sale and setting up informal market stalls and the square by St Peter’s had always been known as the market place although Hugh was not sure that it was officially called so.
Their shopping done they wandered back down through the town. A number of people called greetings to Hugh and several of the gentry recognised Roseen and bowed, their eyes alight with curiosity at her escort. Hugh glanced at his companion and wondered if she was aware that island society was rife with gossip about his interest in Josiah Crellin’s daughter.
Hugh had asked Isaac Moore what he knew about Roseen Crellin. Moore had made some discreet enquiries and had reported that she had the reputation of being something of a hoyden and as she had freely admitted to him, had not been seen much in local society until recently when her aunt and her father had clearly decided that it was time to rein her in and get her ready for a suitable marriage. Her reputation meant that she was not as sought after as one might have expected, given both her prospects and her lovely face but there were rumours that one or two local gentlemen were waiting to see if Miss Crellin managed to settle down and behave well enough for them to consider her a respectable bride.
Their hesitation might well give Hugh the advantage he needed. He was not overly modest about his own value in the island marriage market. Mann was not crowded with prosperous unmarried gentlemen with a distinguished naval career and money in the bank and it had been made very clear to Hugh during these past months that Roseen Crellin was not his only option. A few months ago he would have been ready to look around him and weigh up the merits of several girls who had shown themselves very willing but he admitted ruefully that he was no longer even remotely interested in the fair charms of Miss Quayle or the frosty elegance of Miss Amy Corlett. Setting aside her excellent dowry and the advantages of an alliance with her father’s business, Roseen Crellin with her dusky curls and quick smile, was a girl he found immensely attractive in her own right and he was fairly sure it was a shared attraction.
She was probably not the easiest woman he could have chosen for a bride, and a few months ago her outspokenness and unconventional outlook might have given him pause. Now that he was coming to know her, he realised that he liked her better for her refusal to conform. Life with Roseen Crellin might occasionally be difficult but it was never likely to be dull. She would gain social confidence with age and encouragement but Hugh admitted that he found her occasional awkwardness endearing and he liked her hardiness and her lack of pretension.
Arriving back on the quay they wandered along looking at the boats and talking about fishing. She was surprisingly knowledgable, presumably from the times she had gone out with her brother. He felt a strong desire to see her aboard his ship, to give her the tour and answer her questions about what he did and how he lived his life. It occurred to him suddenly that if she agreed to an early marriage, he could take her with him to Yarmouth when he went to overlook the final stages of the refit.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
“No, not at all. Why?”
“I was wondering if you’d be willing to walk up the hill before dinner. I love the view from up there and I’m curious about the building work.”
Roseen laughed. “Thomas Corrin’s folly? Yes, half the island is talking about that one. His wife is buried up there and it’s said he’s building a tower in her memory.”
“Just after Christmas, in childbirth. Very sad, they’re saying he’s gone a little mad with grief. But I like the walk.”
“Good. Let’s leave the parcels at the inn.”
It was a steep climb up the hill on the west side of the Neb, the paths narrow but well worn. By now he was used to her agility and although he glanced at her occasionally to make sure that she was not struggling, he did not offer help although when they finally reached the building site at the top of the further hill he reached for her hand and she gave it to him. They walked forward, studying the piles of stone and the scaffolding. Three or four builders were working steadily and another, possibly the foreman, was standing nearby watching, alongside another man in his thirties dressed in dark clothing and a black beaver hat. The two men turned at the approach of Hugh and Roseen and Roseen bowed.
“Mr Corrin, how are you?”
“Miss Crellin. I’m well enough thank you.” Thomas Corrin turned his sad dark eyes onto Hugh and studied him. Then he smiled. “And if I’m not mistaken, I know this fine gentleman. Although you’ve grown a bit since I last remember you, Hugh.”
“It’s good to see you, Tom. You’re a bit taller yourself since we were at the Clothworkers together.”
“Unlike Moore who’s hardly grown an inch,” Corrin said with a grin. “I’d heard you were back and I understand you’ve taken over the old Cretney estate. I should have called, fella, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I heard about Alice, lad. I’m so sorry, I know how you felt about her.”
Corrin nodded and turned to look back at the partly built tower. “They think I’m mad, the good people of Peel Town. Building this up here. She loved this place. She’s buried up here, you know. Just over there. Didn’t want her in that bloody churchyard; it’s full of people I’ve no time for. Up here…I feel closer to her, somehow. Like me, she was never one for the established church.”
“Tom, I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but if you’ve the money to spare and it gives you comfort you can build a tower in her memory on every bloody hill on this island as far as I’m concerned. She was a lovely lass, I remember her running around with us when we were children, and you must miss her like hell.”
Corrin smiled. “You’ve not changed,” he said. “I’m glad you’ve decided to settle back home, boy, too many of our good men leave and don’t come back. You married?”
“Not yet,” Hugh said briefly and he saw his childhood friend’s bright dark eyes shift to Roseen. Corrin grinned.
“Aye, well you’ve time. You going back to the navy?”
“Yes, until this war is over. They’ve need of experienced captains. I’ve a ship refitting over in Yarmouth but I thought I’d take time to come home and settle my affairs here for a few months. If I make it through the war, I’ll come home for good.”
“No yearning for the high life in England then?”
“I’ve had the high life in England,” Hugh said. “Travelled a fair bit of the world. But this is home, always will be.”
Corrin glanced at Roseen again. “You’ll be in need of a good Manx lass then,” he said cheerfully and Hugh saw the girl colour slightly. He shook his head.
“Don’t be an arse, yessir, you’re putting my lass to the blush. We’ve nothing settled yet, there’s time.”
“Well don’t waste it, boy, she’s too pretty to wait around for the likes of you to make up your mind. You’d best get yourselves down, it’s mizzling already but we’re in for a downpour. It’s been good to see you, Hughie.”
“You too. Now we’ve met, get yourself over to me next week – come Tuesday afternoon and you can dine with me and Ise and we’ll get drunk and toast your lass, who’s much missed and his upcoming wedding.”
“He finally going to marry Voirry? About time, I’m surprised she’s waited. I’ll be there, Hugh, if only to laugh at you as a respectable landowner. Miss Crellin, it’s been a pleasure.”