The Danish Woman is my rather belated Valentine’s Day story for 2026. As always it’s free so please share as much as you like.
Regular readers will know that I never forget a character, even if they only appeared briefly in the books or short stories. The hero and heroine of my 2026 love story (as Valentine’s Day has gone) have both been mentioned before. I think most people will remember the lady. The gentleman never actually made an appearance, but he was discussed. I’ve enjoyed finding out what happened to these two when I took my eye off them and I hope you enjoy it too.
Living on the Isle of Man I regularly travel through the Port of Heysham but a few years ago I decided to take the time to explore the area properly. I was very glad I did. Heysham Village is gorgeous and well worth a visit and like the hero of this story I was fascinated by the ancient hogback stone which now resides inside the church of St Peter.
The inn mentioned at Snatchems is the Golden Ball. It still stands on the banks of the river and serves excellent food. These days customers don’t need to worry about being picked up by the press gang. At least, I hope they don’t.
The Danish Woman
Morecambe Bay in winter was a desperately miserable place to be. Captain Charles Stewart RN did not know the area well and had no desire to improve his acquaintance. His one wish was to conclude his business and return to the comfort of his home in London, to await further news of the refit of his ship which was currently undergoing extensive repairs at the naval dockyards in Portsmouth.
It had been three months since Charles had been given command of HMS Bridget, a fast frigate which had been taken from the French off Martinique the previous year. As First Lieutenant of the Wren Charles had led the boarding party during the attack and taken command of the prize crew which sailed her home. The Bridget would be his first post-command and, at the age of twenty-eight, he knew he was fortunate. It took most officers a lot longer.
Charles liked to think that talent and hard work had contributed towards his early promotion but he was not naïve and he knew that family connections had played a significant part. Ties of both blood and marriage to the Earl of Jersey, Lord Castlereagh and the Marquess of Londonderry gave him an advantage over less well-connected officers. Unlike the army there was no promotion by purchase in the Royal Navy but applications to the Admiralty were definitely influenced by family connections. Charles did his best to hide the fact that he was slightly sensitive about it.
His sojourn in the north was the unfortunate result of having too much time on his hands. On the voyage home from Martinique he had contracted a bad bout of fever which had laid him up for more than a month. For a while Charles had worried that illness would prevent him taking up his new command. It had been a relief when the need for refitting and repairs gave him another few months’ recovery time.
He was back on his feet and able to take gentle exercise when he received a summons to the Admiralty. His audience was with Rear-Admiral Vane, his maternal uncle, but the meeting had nothing to do with family matters. After making polite enquiries about Charles’ health and the progress of the Bridget, the Admiral gave his bad news with an apologetic air.
“We need a man to go to Lancashire for a few weeks. There have been some problems with the press gang around the Heysham and Poulton-le-Sands area on the west coast. Generally speaking these things blow over of their own accord but I’m afraid this one has taken a more serious turn. A man died in a scuffle outside a local inn and we need to hold an inquiry. I want you to chair it.”
Charles tried not to show how appalled he was. “Isn’t that rather unusual, sir? I thought these things were generally held here in London, at Greenwich.”
“They usually are. Unfortunately the man who died should never have been pressed in the first place. The lieutenant commanding the impress frigate seems to have exceeded his orders by several leagues and took up a group of obvious landsmen without making careful enquiries. Mr Samuel Beeston was eighteen-years-old and the son of a local landowner. Old Beeston isn’t really much more than a yeoman farmer mind, but his lands are substantial enough for him to be considered a gentleman.”
“Oh Lord,” Charles said with feeling.
“Precisely. Beeston is well-liked in the area and our press gangs are not. After a great deal of discussion it has been decided that the inquiry should be held locally to show that we are being open and frank in our handling of the matter.”
“Are we, sir?”
“Good God, no. The inquiry will hear all the evidence and find that the death of young Beeston was an unfortunate accident which the Navy greatly regrets. Which is true as far as it goes. Lieutenant Crosby will receive a gentle warning about his over-zealous performance of his duty and as soon as the inquiry is over he’ll be quietly shifted onto half-pay where he can do no more damage. Personally I would like to court-martial the imbecile but we can’t do that without stirring up a hornet’s nest about the activities of the press gang all over the country. We’ll move our operations away from Lancashire and over to the east coast for a while and give the inhabitants of Heysham time to forget.”
Charles made a last-ditch attempt. “I don’t have any experience of chairing such an inquiry, sir.”
“All to the good. I’ll make sure that the scope of the thing is set out in tedious detail so there is no room for anything to go wrong. All you’ll need to do is sit and listen to evidence. We’ll send a man from the Judge-Advocate’s department with you and he’ll manage all the procedures. Just nod wisely and read out the verdict and by the time you get back the Bridget will be ready to sail. Where is it they’re sending you?”
“America I believe, sir.”
“Excellent. Good chance of prizes. Not that you’re in need of it, but it looks good on your service record. Right, that’s settled then. Are you free to dine with us later? Your aunt would like to see you before you leave.”
Charles had never been to the Lancashire coast before. He found it an eerie place. Five different rivers drained into Morecambe Bay and much of the surrounding land had been reclaimed for agricultural purposes over the centuries. In addition to farming, the locals lived mainly by fishing and there were rich cockle beds along the shore. There was a scattering of islands out to the west of the bay, some of which were accessible on foot during low tide. Charles was warned by his host not to venture out without a local guide as fast-moving tides and quicksand claimed several lives each year. Charles was able to reassure Sir Lionel Faulkner that he had no intention of taking the risk.
He had not met Sir Lionel before but his uncle had known him for many years and had suggested the arrangement.
“I’ve arranged for a small escort of marines to be placed at your disposal while you’re in the area. You and Dunbar, the advocate, can stay with Faulkner while you’re there. The inquiry will be held in Lancaster but you won’t want to be staying at an inn for weeks. Faulkner’s a good fellow. He’s a bachelor and a scholar – collects old books and whatnot. He won’t trouble you and he keeps a comfortable house.”
The arrangement suited Charles very well. Sir Lionel occupied a big square house built high on the cliffs at the edge of the village of Heysham, overlooking the bay. It dated from the beginning of the previous century and had long windows with glorious views out to sea. Sir Lionel was an excellent host although rather absent, which suited Charles. The cook provided good plain food and Charles dined with Sir Lionel most days but other than that saw little of him. Sir Lionel spent his time in his library working on a history of the county and seemed happy for his guests to come and go as they pleased.
There was little for Charles to do during the initial stages of the inquiry. Mr Dunbar from the judge-advocate’s department spent his time riding about the district interviewing witnesses and writing extensive case notes, but Charles was not needed during this part of the inquiry. It occurred to him, confined to the house during a week of driving rain and high winds, that he could very well have stayed in London for another couple of weeks.
During the second week the weather improved and Charles took the opportunity to explore the area mounted on a placid grey gelding belonging to his host. The winter days were short and it was very cold but it remained dry and the exercise was good for him. He was beginning to shake off the effects of his illness and, despite the grey skies and broad flat countryside, he was starting to enjoy himself. It was true that he was missing the London Season but after weeks of fever and wretched sickness Charles thought that winter rides, sea air, good food and early nights might be better for him than trying to attend three parties in one evening.
There was also the advantage that he could avoid the attempts of his aunts to find him a wife. Charles had lost both his parents to a smallpox epidemic five years earlier. He still missed them but he had four aunts – two on each side of the family – who took an active interest in his marriage prospects. Although he was sorry not to be seeing those of his friends who happened to be in Town this January, he did not miss the endless parade of eligible girls produced by his Aunts Augusta, Selina, Mary and Juliana every time he was in London.
He had been in Lancashire for eight days before he really saw the sun. Going down to breakfast he found his host and Mr Dunbar already at the table. The sky was a brilliant blue and winter sunlight bathed the dining room. Charles sat down and accepted coffee and rolls.
“A beautiful day,” he said enthusiastically.
“It’s freezing out there,” Dunbar said. “I have to ride over to Bolton-le-Sands this morning to speak to a fisherman who claims three of his crew were illegally pressed last year. It’s going to be a cold ride out on the coast road.”
“Is it possible to illegally press fishermen?” Charles said doubtfully.
“At the moment every seaman who has ever joined the navy along this coast is going to claim illegal impressment, even if they volunteered,” Dunbar said gloomily. “They’re hoping for some kind of compensation.”
“They’ll be lucky,” Charles said, reaching for a slice of ham. “I don’t think I’ve ever known a case of illegal impressment to be upheld.”
“It happens quite often up to the point where the men are sworn in,” Dunbar said. “If they can prove their case they’re simply released. Once they’re aboard and away it’s very unusual. I’ve only ever heard of one case where an officer was prosecuted for it mind, and that was years ago. Long before my time. Can’t remember the name of the captain but I read about the case when I was in training. He’d repeatedly ignored evidence that he’d picked up a gentleman’s son and the boy was underage as well. There was quite a scandal at the time, I think.”
“But you’re not expecting anything of the kind from a fishing crew from Bolton-le-Sands I take it?”
“God, no. Still, I have to show willing. That’s rather the point of this whole exercise; the Navy wants to show the good people of Lancashire that its impress service isn’t allowed to do whatever it likes. Although of course it often does.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“Better not, Captain. It’s your job to look impartial at the inquiry next month. Thanks for offering though.”
After breakfast, encouraged by the sunlight, Charles decided to walk down through the village and then up to the ruins of St Patrick’s Chapel on the clifftops. Dunbar had been right about how cold it was but Charles was well wrapped up in his heavy winter cloak and he found the walk exhilarating.
He paused at the gates of St Peter’s, the ancient sandstone church in the village. So far, he had not accompanied his host to a service and he thought a little guiltily that he should do so. The gate was not fully closed and Charles pushed it open and went into the churchyard.
He was surprised to hear children’s voices floating on the still air. He saw them at once, a boy and a girl, both very young, playing by the stone wall which overlooked the sea.
They seemed to be unaccompanied which worried Charles. He had no experience of children but he thought these two could not be much more than four or five. They had found a collection of round pebbles, perhaps from one of the beaches, and were setting them out along the rough pathway. Charles hesitated then went forward.
The boy saw him first and jumped to his feet. His sister remained fixated on the stones until her brother grasped her arm and pulled her up. Charles stopped a safe distance away.
“Good morning,” he said.
To his amusement, the boy executed a little bow. “Good morning, sir.”
His voice was high and clear and he spoke in accents which did not suggest he was one of the village children. Charles looked around in search of a nursemaid or governess.
“Surely you’re not alone up here?” he asked.
“Mama is inside the church,” the girl said. “Who are you?”
Charles supposed that she had the right to ask given that he had approached them. He bowed in turn.
“Captain Charles Stewart at your service, miss. I’m staying with Sir Lionel Faulkner. Forgive me, I was wondering how you came to be out alone. But if your mother is close by…”
“We are not to leave the churchyard,” the boy said. “She said we could play here.”
“It’s because she doesn’t like us to see her cry,” the girl said.
Charles froze and looked over towards the little church. He had intended to go inside to look around but the children’s remarks made him hesitate. He guessed that whoever the woman was, she had been visiting a grave and he did not like to intrude.
“I see,” he said politely. “Well I am sure she won’t want a stranger to see her cry either so I’ll make my visit another time. Thank you for telling me, children.”
“I’m Annalise,” the girl said. “I’m four. My brother is five and his name is Paul. He remembers my father better than I do.”
Charles felt a little shock even though he was not surprised. He wondered what illness had robbed this little family of its father. Given the ages of the children he had probably been a young man.
“I am sorry to hear that, Miss Annalise,” he said gravely. “Is he buried in the churchyard here?”
“We don’t know where he’s buried,” the boy said. “But there’s a stone in the church. You should come and see it: it’s splendid. It has two flags carved on it and a sword as well. This way. Mama won’t mind; she’ll have finished crying by now.”
He took Charles by the hand and towed him towards the church door. Charles was so surprised that he went along, although he suspected that the grieving widow would be wishing him to the devil. The wooden door creaked a little as the boy pushed it open and Charles stepped inside.
“Mama, this is a captain and he wants to see Papa’s stone,” Paul said in ringing tones. “I told him about it.”
Charles stopped inside the door, forgetting his embarrassment at the unexpected beauty of the little church. The walls were of mellow local stone with exposed wooden beams above. There was a lower chancel and a small side chapel. Several stained glass windows made dappled, colourful patterns on the paved floor. There was also an octagonal sandstone font which looked very old to Charles’ untrained eye. A number of ancient grave slabs and memorials adorned the walls, probably commemorating previous rectors.
It took a moment before he saw the woman, as she was standing in one of the dimmest corners of the church. She was not dressed in full mourning but wore a soft, mauve gown under a dove-grey cloak with matching bonnet. Charles could not see her face clearly but he gained the impression that she was quite young.
“Mama, show him Papa’s stone,” the boy said again.
She moved forward and Charles went to meet her, gently disentangling himself from the child. They met in the centre of the nave and he bowed awkwardly.
“My apologies for disturbing you, ma’am. I’m a visitor to the area and was coming to see the church when I met your children outside. Your son was keen for me to see his father’s memorial and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’ll leave you in peace.”
“Captain, if you do not view the memorial stone there will be no peace, trust me.” She looked past him at the waiting children. “I will show the gentleman, Paul. Wait outside for me. I will not be long and then we shall walk up to the old chapel.”
The boy gave a sunny smile, grabbed his sister’s hand and disappeared outside, closing the door with exaggerated care. Charles surveyed the woman and bowed again.
“Captain Charles Stewart, ma’am, of the Royal Navy. I’m staying with Sir Lionel Faulkner.”
“Ah, the inquiry into the press gang. How interesting.”
She appeared younger than he had expected, hardly old enough to have two children, and she was very attractive. Charles was intrigued by her accent. She was clearly not English although she spoke it perfectly. He wondered if she might be German.
“I don’t seem to have much to do at the moment, ma’am, which is why I’m here making a nuisance of myself in a country church.”
She gave a broad smile. “You are not a nuisance, though I suspect my children may have been. They do not meet many new people here and they are very sociable. Also you are an officer which will always interest Paul.”
Charles was beginning to wonder. “I see. Was your husband a navy man, ma’am?”
“Army,” she said and turned, gesturing for him to follow her. “He is not buried here of course. He died at Salamanca the year before last and was buried somewhere out there. My father-in-law was still alive then and had this splendid memorial placed here.”
Charles studied the white marble stone. It was very fine, with crossed flags draped over a cannon. Lying beside the gun, as though dropped there, was a sword. The symbolism was clear and Charles, who had seen friends and crewmen die in battle, felt a little shiver run through him. He read the wording underneath. It was the usual flowery tribute of courage, duty and devotion to family. The dates told him that Captain John Kent had been twenty-six when he died. The girl standing beside him had been a widow for around eighteen months. He turned to look at her.
“I’m so sorry Mrs Kent.”
“Thank you. I miss him greatly, although it gets a little easier with time.”
“Was this church… I mean, I presume you live locally?”
“Yes, I currently reside up at Stokely Hall.”
“Is that the rather beautiful house with the exposed beams? I’ve ridden past it.”
She smiled. “Yes, it has been in the family for two hundred years.”
“But you’re not local, I collect. I’m trying to guess your accent.”
“I am from Denmark. A little village on the coast to the north of Copenhagen.”
Charles found himself wondering about that. As a younger officer he had served during the brief campaign in Denmark during 1807 and, given the age of the children, the timing would be right. He managed not to ask and he was certainly not going to mention that he had taken part in the bombardment of Copenhagen which had flattened half the city.
She had turned and was walking towards the door. “How long are you staying in the area, Captain Stewart?”
“Until after the inquiry: about another three weeks. After that I return to my ship, sailing for American waters.”
He opened the door and held it for her. Outside in the winter sunlight he could see her more clearly and had to remind himself not to stare. She was lovely, with dark-brown hair, blue eyes and fair skin. He found that he could not blame Captain John Kent for finding himself a Danish bride during that short, miserable campaign, though he wondered again how old she must have been. She did not look as though she could be much more than twenty-three or four now.
“Have you seen St Patrick’s Chapel, sir?”
Charles realised that he must have been standing like a fool. “Oh… the ruins on the cliff? Not close up, though I’ve ridden past.”
“Are you on foot today? We are going to walk up there. The children love it. You could accompany us if you wish for a guide.”
He felt his heart give a little skip. Mocking himself silently he bowed.
“If it would not be an imposition, ma’am, I would like that very much.”
***
It had been a long time since Christa Kent had walked in the company of a young officer, or any gentleman at all. The way was fairly steep, though the children raced ahead making light work of it. The naval officer paced steadily beside her. Once or twice he reached out a hand to steady her when the rough path became slippery.
Christa allowed him to do so, though she did not really need his help. She wore stout boots and had walked this path many times before. Still it was pleasant and reminded her of all the times she had walked beside her husband. Jack had always treated her as though she was a delicate creature in need of constant care and protection. Christa knew she was not, but she had enjoyed it anyway.
St Patrick’s Chapel stood on the headland above St Peter’s Church and was built from the same sandstone. Most of the structure had long gone but the south wall, the east gable wall and the eastern section of the north wall still stood and there were low ruins of several other walls which contrived to give a good idea of the original building.
The children raced ahead and Christa allowed them to go. They had lived all their lives on this wild shore and knew what they should and should not do. She watched as Captain Stewart explored the ruins then made his way over to a curious set of holes cut into the rock nearby.
“What on earth are these?”
“It is believed that they are tombs. There are six here and another two over there. You should talk to Sir Lionel as he is an expert on such things. He once told me that these are probably from the eleventh century and that those holes at the top would have held the base of a wooden cross.”
“They’re fascinating. I’ve never seen anything like them before.”
“Nor have I. We have many ancient sites in Denmark but when I was a girl I had no interest in such things. All I wanted was to marry and leave. Sometimes now I wish I had listened to my father more and not brought him such sadness, but I was young and very silly.”
He turned to study her. He was a tall, dark man with a rather serious face. Christa wondered suddenly if his sallow complexion spoke of recent illness.
“How old were you… no, I’m sorry. That was impertinent.”
She smiled. “I gave you the opportunity to ask. I do not mind. I was sixteen when I married Jack and I have never been back to Denmark. War makes such things difficult.”
“I’m sorry. Did you meet him during the campaign of 1807? I was there, though aboard a frigate.”
“Yes. I thought he was wonderful. I wanted adventure. He wanted… me, I suppose. His Commanding Officer was furious about our marriage but he forgave me later. He was always good to me. He is Paul’s Godfather.”
“Do you have any other family here?” Stewart asked, falling into step beside her as she followed the children over the springy grass along the cliff-top. “It’s very beautiful, but a lonely spot for a young widow with two children.”
“It was my home with Jack. I am happy to remain here for as long as I am able.”
Steward shot her a curious glance. “Surely this is your home now?”
Christa hesitated, realising that she had said more than she intended. She had so little social interaction these days that sometimes she forgot the rules. Glancing at Stewart she saw nothing but respectful interest and decided that she did not care. This man would drift out of her life after today. It hardly mattered what she said to him.
“When Jack was killed his father was still alive. He had not always approved of me but we grew closer with time. Mr Kent believed that I had persuaded Jack to marry me because I wanted to get away from home.” She gave a little smile. “Looking back, he was probably right. But we were very happy together and I grew to love him so much. It is cruel sometimes that one barely realises how fortunate one is until everything changes.”
“When did your father-in-law die?”
“Six months after Jack. He was already unwell but I think it hastened his end. I nursed him. He spoke very affectionately to me during those days and mentioned changing his will. He died before doing so.”
She saw the Captain’s eyes darken a little. “What did that mean for you? And your children?”
“For the children, nothing. The house and estate will go to Paul when he is of age. There will be a dowry for Annalise. But I am not their guardian. That passed to Mr Frederick Kent, my husband’s cousin. He is a solicitor who lives in London and has always disapproved of me. I think he would have liked to take the children from me, only he is unmarried and would not have the least idea what to do with them. But he has control of the estate and the money.”
“Did your husband leave you nothing?” Stewart said. He sounded appalled.
“It was not at that time his to leave. But he made a will which requested that the allowance his father paid to him be continued to me. It is not a great deal but I am allowed to continue living in the house.”
“What of the children? Are you expected to support them?”
“Essential household expenses are paid from the estate but I have to apply to Mr Kent for anything else. New clothing for the children, a pony for Paul… I feel like a beggar. I’m sorry, I am sharing far too much with a complete stranger. I do not talk to many people you see.”
“Do you have anyone living with you? A female companion?”
“No. I have no friends here and I could not afford a paid companion. One day Mr Kent wishes Paul to be sent away to school and I shall then ask for a governess for Annalise. I don’t want him to go but I have no say in the matter.”
Stewart shook his head sombrely. “I’m sorry; that’s shocking. Did you not make friends here while your husband was alive?”
Christa shrugged. She was surprised at herself but she realised that she was tired of being brave. The opportunity to confide was irresistible.
“Not really. I had many friends in the regiment but since I came back here… It is an isolated place and they don’t take well to strangers. Locally, they simply call me the Danish woman.”
At the end of their walk she watched him go, his long-legged stride making easy work of the path back to the village. They had talked of other things after her uncomfortable revelations: of his naval service and Jack’s army career, of London and Copenhagen and the progress of the long war. He was easy to talk to – too easy perhaps – but as Christa followed the children back up the track towards the house she decided she did not regret her indiscretions. Just for once it had been good to speak the truth.
Stokely Hall was an old manor house dating to the seventeenth century, which had been updated several times over the years. It was too big for a young widow with two children who did not entertain. Sometimes, sitting with her sewing during the long winter evenings, Christa daydreamed about what she would do if she had guardianship of her children and the estate. She thought that she would have found a tenant for the house and rented somewhere smaller and more manageable for herself and the children, perhaps in a small town where they might make friends. She had enjoyed living in Melton Mowbray when the regiment had been in barracks there.
Christa had suggested something of the kind to Mr Frederick Kent once the terms of her father in law’s will became clear. Kent regarded her as though she had attempted some kind of fraud.
“Utterly unsuitable,” he snapped. “My cousin’s children should be raised in his ancestral home. In time the boy will go away to school of course and we must give some thought to a proper English education for the girl. The terms of my uncle’s will were very generous to you. You will continue to receive an allowance until the boy reaches his majority when it will be up to him whether it may continue. You may also continue to reside at Stokely Hall. Most females in your position would consider that enough.”
Christa had noticed that Kent never referred to the children by name. They were always the Boy and the Girl. She was suddenly furious about it. She was also furious at being referred to as ‘a female’, as though six years of marriage counted for nothing.
“You mean most widows. That is my position, Mr Kent. A widow. I was married to your cousin for almost six years. I ask only what is best for my children. And for some respect.”
Kent’s face looked pinched and angry. “Just so, madam. Presumably that is why my uncle was so generous. Of course, should you remarry the terms of that will would no longer apply.”
Christa thought it was clear that he hoped she would do so, probably to a wholly unsuitable man. She said nothing more, being unwilling to argue with a man she so cordially disliked. She could not really imagine being married again. She had grown to love Jack very much during the years of their marriage.
At the same time, she resented the isolation of her life. At not quite twenty-three she was too young to be shut away in this big, old house in the country. She missed the liveliness of regimental life. She missed music and dancing and flirting. She missed conversation with an ache of loneliness.
When the children were asleep, she settled herself in the parlour to write to her father. Most of the reception rooms were kept under holland covers. Mr Kent was strict about the number of servants employed at the hall. Christa did not really mind. She was not in a position to entertain and she had no wish to sit in solitary splendour in the enormous drawing room or dining room.
All the same, it was a little depressing to pass through rooms shrouded in linen covers. Christa thought that the house was like herself: closed down and silent with none of the colour or gaiety that it deserved. It was no life for such a lovely old place and no life for her or her children. Christa remembered Jack, who had been so sociable and so lively, and blinked back tears. He would have been furious to see her brought to this.
***
She had not expected to see the young naval officer again but she encountered him only three days later in the village of Poulton-le-Sands. She had just emerged victorious from an argument with the butcher over the quality of the meat in his last delivery when she saw Captain Stewart coming out of the hardware shop opposite.
He saw her immediately and crossed the street, stopping before her with a bow.
“Mrs Kent, what a pleasant surprise. How are you?”
“Very well, as you see.” Christa realised she was smiling broadly. It was such a refreshing change to see a welcoming face in the village where the best she generally encountered was civility. “Are you doing your shopping, Captain?”
“I’m doing Sir Lionel’s shopping. I offered to make myself useful since I really don’t have anything to do until next week when, thank goodness, they have finally set a date for the inquiry. Sir Lionel was very put out this morning with a delivery of ink which resembled nothing so much as a pot of sludge. He will return it of course but, in the meantime, he was about to run out. The housekeeper informed me that you can buy anything in Felton’s, though it would be more expensive. She was right as well.”
The Captain shot a fond look at the shop and Christa could not help laughing aloud. His expression reminded her so much of Jack.
“Now that you have discovered Felton’s, I predict that you will be a frequent visitor,” she said. “All the men love this shop. I do not understand it. There are so many things on the shelves or hanging from the ceilings that I do not know how anybody ever finds anything in there. But Jack went inside every time he came to Poulton when he was at home. Always he came out with things he did not need and had not intended to buy.”
A guilty expression flashed across the serious face and then unexpectedly, Stewart began to laugh.
“Did he? He has all my sympathy. That place is like a cave full of treasures. In addition to the ink I am now in possession of a new snuff box for my first officer, some blotting paper, and a bolt for Sir Lionel’s tool shed which I intend to fit this afternoon to stop it from blowing open every windy night and keeping half the household awake.”
Christa threw up her hands. “You see? It is like a magic spell. But it only works on men.”
“Are the children not with you today?”
“No, they have their lessons. We do not have a governess at present so I teach them myself. But they also have some lessons from Mr Archibald the parson. He is preparing Paul to go to school when he is a little older but he is kind enough to teach Annalise as well. She is very young but she works hard because she wishes to do everything her brother does.”
“It’s going to be hard for her when he goes to school.”
“It will be hard for me also. But it will not be for three years. They will not take them any younger.”
“That’s still too young in my opinion.”
Without intending it, they had fallen into step together, strolling along the High Street. Christa shot him a sideways glance.
“Do you think the same about the very young boys they accept into the Navy?” she asked, greatly daring.
He looked surprised. Then he grinned.
“I am bound to say yes, ma’am, given that I was once one of them. I was Navy mad but it was still too young. I realise that now.”
“Why did you… no, I am sorry. I am too curious.”
“Don’t you rather feel as though we’ve already moved beyond mere politeness?” he asked, surprising her again. “I was the younger son. We’re expected to earn our living. I chose the Royal Navy over the army because I loved the sea. My older brother died when I’d been at sea for two years. It was a stupid accident: a cut that became infected. My parents wanted me to come home but by then… home seemed very small and very confining. I wanted adventure.”
“Oh I understand that so much,” Christa said fervently.
“Do you? I never really thought of girls looking for adventure.”
“That is because you have no idea how dull it can be as a clergyman’s daughter in a tiny Danish fishing village. When the British army came everybody was horrified. I was happy. There were handsome young officers in red coats and all I could think about was a way out.”
She wondered if she would shock him. Instead he smiled.
“That’s very honest.”
“I was very fortunate. Some of those handsome officers might have taken advantage of my naivety then abandoned me. Jack asked me to marry him. We barely knew one another but I was so grateful. He introduced me into a whole new world. He was an honourable man and so good. No wonder I fell in love with him.”
There was a long silence. Eventually he said:
“I think that’s possibly the most genuinely romantic story I’ve ever heard.”
She stared at him in amazement. “Even though I admitted that I did not feel that way at the start?”
“That’s why it’s so lovely. To start off on such rocky ground and then to find what you two had… I’m envious.”
“You are not married then? Oh no, I am sorry. That was so tactless.”
To her relief he was laughing. “I’m not. I am avoiding it because… oh for many reasons. My aunts are furious. Have I mentioned my aunts? I have an entire pack of them and they spend their lives hounding me about matrimony. Every time I show my face in London I am paraded as a good catch. I suppose I am. I’m not wealthy but I’m very comfortably off and I could easily support a wife and family. But I just… I don’t want to marry a girl I hardly know then sail off not knowing when I’ll see her again. Mrs Kent, why on earth am I telling you all this?”
They had reached the edge of the village with nowhere else to go apart from the open road and it was in the wrong direction for Christa. She laughed and towed him around so that they faced the village again.
“Unless we are walking to Scotland sir, we must go back. It is probably my fault. I confessed all kinds of unsuitable things to you when we last met. And also today. You are a man I find easy to talk to. When does this inquiry begin?”
“On Tuesday.”
“And how long will it take?”
He pulled a face. “I’ve honestly no idea. A week, perhaps. The Navy is keen to hear local opinion, given what happened. At the very least I think the inhabitants of this part of the coast may get a break from the activities of the press gang.”
“Knowing how much misery they cause I think that alone will be worth it,” Christa said soberly.
***
With an eye to local opinion, the inquiry had been opened to the public. It was held in Lancaster Castle and, settling himself at the head of the court, Charles observed that seating had been arranged for the upper members of local society with an interest in the case, while benches and standing room allowed the lower classes access providing they behaved. Bailiffs stood ready to evict anybody who spoke out of turn.
On the first day the room was crowded. Witnesses were sworn in, procedures explained and the scope of the inquiry was read aloud in such excruciatingly tedious detail that by the third day, when the real work of the inquiry began, most of the casual onlookers had grown bored and departed.
Charles had no interest in the spectators until he noticed a serene figure in dark-blue seated beside a woman who was probably her maid. He could not imagine why Christa Kent had any interest in a Royal Navy inquiry into possible misbehaviour by a press gang but the fact that she was there immediately distracted him from the proceedings. It was so bad on the first day that he seriously considered sending her a note asking her to stay away. He already knew what the Admiralty expected of him but he still felt obliged to listen to the evidence properly and for reasons he did not care to explore, the presence of Captain Kent’s attractive young widow made it difficult for him to concentrate.
He looked for her afterwards as the spectators were leaving but must have missed her. At the end of the second day however, he found her in the castle grounds in conversation with the parson and his curate, both of whom had attended the proceedings. Charles joined them and Christa made the introductions. The Reverend Archibald was a round-faced gentleman with thinning hair and a pleasant manner.
The curate was probably in his twenties and had little to say. Watching him, Charles decided that Mr Cresswell had a decided interest in Mrs Kent. He did not think it was reciprocated, or even noticed. It amused Charles. He also realised, with a little start of surprise, that he was pleased by her indifference. The thought gave him pause. In due course, the little group broke up to go their separate ways. Charles promised Mr Archibald that he would attend service on Sunday and the Vicar offered a tour of the church and churchyard in return.
“You will probably not have seen our hogback,” he said genially. “It is quite unusual. We are very proud of it. My wife hopes you will join us for tea at the vicarage afterwards. You also Mrs Kent, if you are free. Mary will be happy to entertain the children.”
Charles accepted with pleasure. The two clerical gentlemen disappeared in search of their carriage and Charles realised he had no idea how Christa Kent had got here.
“May I escort you to your… horse?” he guessed. “I know you’re an intrepid walker but you cannot have walked all the way from Heysham to Lancaster.”
She laughed. “Nonsense, it is no more than five miles. I didn’t though. My poor maid loathes walking, which is why I usually leave her at home. I came in the gig. I no longer keep a riding horse, though Mr Kent has agreed that he will provide a pony next year so that Paul may learn to ride. But there is one elderly horse who can pull the gig.”
Charles was beginning to recognise that deliberately neutral tone of voice.
“Do you miss riding?” he asked as they passed through an ancient stone archway and turned left towards the Bell Inn.
“So much. My mare had to be sold. I couldn’t afford to keep her. I’ve been able to keep the small gig though, for shopping. Old Bertie, who pulls it, should really be put out to pasture now but I don’t use it any more than I have to. I wanted to come to the inquiry, though I won’t make him do the journey every day.”
Charles heard a little catch in her voice as she spoke of her horse. He was shocked at how viciously he wanted to punch Mr Frederick Kent. He kept his voice deliberately light.
“I should think you would die of boredom. I may do so myself. Look, I’m not sure how you would feel about this. And I’d need to ask Sir Lionel. But he keeps several riding horses in his stables, mainly for the use of his nephew and niece when they come to stay. Those animals have nothing to do but eat themselves silly at this time of year. Sir Lionel rarely rides in the winter: he admits it. If he would allow me to borrow the mare, would you ride with me?”
“Oh I could not. Such an imposition.”
“It wouldn’t be. You’ve proved an excellent guide on foot but there are one or two places I’d like to see which are further away. Particularly the inn where the press gang tried to snatch young Beeston and his friends. Where he died. It’s on the river somewhere.”
“At Snatchems,” Christa said. She seemed to notice his expression and smiled. “I know. When I first came here my English was not so good. I did not understand at all.”
“Is it really called that?”
“Not on any map but it is what the local people call that stretch of the River Lune. The inn is called the Golden Ball and they tell stories of smuggling as well as the press gang.”
“Will you be my guide ma’am?”
She hesitated for a long time. “If Sir Lionel does not object,” she said finally.
***
The tea party at the vicarage was a great success. Christa thought that it was a measure of how isolated she had become that even such limited social contact made her happy. She thought nostalgically of the early days of her marriage. She had loved regimental life. The 110th had been stationed in barracks for a while with a brief stint in Ireland. There had been dinners and dances and Lieutenant Kent had been keen to show off his pretty young wife. She had never been happier.
When Jack had gone to Portugal, Christa could not go with him as she had the children but she had remained in Melton Mowbray in their rented house. There were many other regimental wives living locally, some of whom had children. She was never lonely.
After Jack’s death she had given up the house and come here to his childhood home where his father was already very ill. Broken with grief, she had nursed her father-in-law in his final weeks and grieved all over again at his death. It had never really occurred to her that her life and that of her children would go on to be controlled by a man she hardly knew, who clearly disliked and disapproved of her.
If it had not been for Paul and Annalise, Christa thought she would probably have told Cousin Frederick exactly what he could do with his allowance and tried to find a way to return to Denmark, to her father, though the war would have made that difficult. As it was the children must come first. She tried to make the best of her changed life for their sake but the arrival of Charles Stewart had made her realise how lonely she really was. She dreaded his departure.
Mrs Archibald, the vicar’s plump cheerful wife was very kind and seemed a little embarrassed.
“I feel rather guilty at how I’ve neglected you, my dear,” she said as they followed the gentlemen out into the churchyard to inspect the hogback. “I know I called once or twice when you were first here but since then… I think we all believed that you would go back home. Or perhaps take up residence in London. But it seems as if you intend to remain here.”
Christa wanted badly to tell her that she had no choice, but she did not. Her surprising confidences to Captain Stewart had probably been brought about by the knowledge that he had no relationship to any of these people and would soon be gone. She could not bare her soul to the vicar’s wife.
“Until the war ends it would be difficult to visit Denmark, ma’am. Though one day I would like my children to see where their mother was born. Until then, this is my home.”
“Well, we must see what we can do to make you known to more of your neighbours,” Mrs Archibald said. “We generally invite a few people to dinner once a month or so and now that your mourning period is fully over there can be no reason why you should not join us. If you would not object that is?”
“Thank you, I would like that,” Christa said.
They had reached the hogback which was set at the back of the churchyard. Captain Stewart stood looking at it in apparent bewilderment.
“What on earth is that? It looks very old.”
“It is ancient,” the vicar said rather proudly. “I do not know exactly when it was discovered; it was here when I took over the living. The locals say it was found up at the site of the ruined chapel and moved down here. Feel free to study it closely, Captain. The carvings are fascinating.”
Stewart seemed to agree. The hogback was a curved piece of sandstone around six feet in length, carved on all sides with a variety of figures. The Captain crouched down to examine them. There were both animal and human figures, some of them looking like creatures from mythology while others seemed to depict real animals.
Christa had seen the stone many times but Stewart’s fascination caught her interest and she moved forward to study it again. Her companion was running his fingers over the stone.
“This looks like a snake. And is this meant to be a dog?”
“If it is, it’s not like any dog I ever saw,” Christa said. “Look at this group here. This animal has antlers.”
“I think it’s a stag. I think this is meant to be a group of hunters. This is extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like it. I wonder how old it is.”
“Around this side is what looks like two birds. Possibly this is a tree.”
“Is it a gravestone of some kind?” Stewart wondered.
“If it is he must have been a man of some importance,” the vicar said.
The Captain lingered for several minutes after the rest of the party had returned to the house. Christa waited inside the church door for him, amused by his absorption in the old stone. He caught up with her with a quick smile.
“I’m sorry. You must be cold. I can’t get over that thing but I’ll come back on my own another time.”
“Are you interested in history?”
He gave a slightly sheepish grin. “According to my late mother I bored the whole family on the subject from early boyhood. It’s one of the reasons I’ve enjoyed my stay with Sir Lionel so much. It’s rare to meet a fellow enthusiast. He’s been lending me some of his books.”
He stopped and Christa had the impression that he was reining himself in with an effort. She wanted to tell him that she did not mind. She had never really given much thought to matters historic before but she had discovered that she was happy to listen to Charles Stewart talk on any topic he chose. It was slightly embarrassing.
***
The dry weather continued for the following week. The inquiry ground to an inconclusive standstill on Wednesday and Captain Stewart called an adjournment until the following week when he might choose to recall several witnesses after considering their testimony. After that, he would be ready to write his final report for the Admiralty.
It gave him time to arrange his proposed expedition to the curiously-named Snatchems on the banks of the River Lune. To Christa’s surprised delight Sir Lionel seemed perfectly happy to lend his mare, so Captain Stewart and Christa rode out on a crisp winter morning. They talked for a while of the inquiry.
“What will happen once you have submitted your report?” Christa asked.
“I have no idea. Presumably they’ll present the findings to some Parliamentary committee or other and it will sink without trace. They’ll have to make a report to the local authorities up here – at least I hope they do. I’m going to be honest to you since I can’t be honest to anybody else. I think the impress service in this region has been poorly run, ineffectual and lazy about whom it took up. I hope they heave that Lieutenant out on his ear. Sadly that won’t be my decision. Poor Samuel Beeston’s death will be put down to an unfortunate accident. I think it was an unlawful killing. If one of my crew did what that press agent did aboard my ship I’d have him up for murder.”
Christa gave a little shiver. He seemed to notice it because he reached over and touched her hand, bringing his horse close in.
“I’m sorry. I’m going to stop talking about it. I’m not spoiling our first ride with horror stories. What do you make of Rose Red?”
“She’s beautiful,” Christa said, running her hand down the smooth neck of the pretty russet coloured mare. “It’s such a joy to be on horseback again, even if it is only for today. Thank you for arranging it, Captain.”
“It’s for my benefit as well. Sir Lionel is delighted to have found somebody other than his groom to exercise her. If you get on well today I suspect you may find he’ll ask you to do it again. You made a good impression on him earlier, I could tell. He may take pride in his image as a crusty old bachelor but I noticed it doesn’t stop him appreciating a pretty woman. Shall we try a canter? This country is perfect for it.”
They rode through the frosty morning, turning along the river bank until they reached the white painted inn which overlooked the broad flat waters of the Lune. Christa remained on horseback as he dismounted, tied up his horse and went to examine the rough area of scrub and stunted trees where Samuel Beeston and three friends had tried to evade the men of the press gang who waylaid them as they left the inn.
To Christa’s surprise he asked her to accompany him inside. Seated at a wooden table she drank local cider and listened as he talked to the landlord and his wife. He had already taken their evidence in the courtroom but here they spoke more freely.
Christa took no part in the conversation but listened to him skilfully drawing them out. She realised that he would not be able to use everything he learned today in any report to the Admiralty and wondered why it was so important to him to find out what really happened that evening.
On their return ride she asked him. He seemed to consider for a while.
“I think it’s my Navy training. Accuracy is important. Sometimes it isn’t possible to deliver a perfect result, whether it’s a court martial, a skirmish with the French or a botched raid by an incompetent press gang. I know my duty here. But I owe it to Samuel Beeston and his family to at least recognise the truth.”
“I think that is very admirable, Captain.”
“If not much help to the family. Thank you for acting as guide today. Look, I’m going to reconvene the inquiry on Thursday and wind up proceedings on Friday. After that I’ll need to go back to London. I realise I’m going to miss this. Do you think you could find time to ride with me again tomorrow? Not as my guide. Just for your companionship.”
“Yes,” Christa said without hesitation. She wondered if she should qualify it in some way then decided that if he did not need to, neither did she. “I am going to miss this as well.”
The weather was kind and they rode together for three bright sunny days, exploring the surrounding countryside. They ate bread and cheese in a wayside inn where they were not known and on the second afternoon Christa invited him into the house to take nursery tea with the children. Paul and Annalise were delighted with their visitor and Christa thought that she had never seen them so well-mannered at the table.
On the third day he rode into the stable yard with her, having agreed to lead the mare back to Sir Lionel’s stable. It had begun to rain over the last half-hour and they were both wet and a little subdued.
The Captain dismounted and lifted her down from her horse. Christa hesitated. She wanted to invite him into the house but she suspected that he would decline, wanting to get the horses back into their own stable so that they could be rubbed down and fed.
“I hope I’m going to see you again before I have to leave.”
“I was intending to go to the final day of the inquiry. If you do not mind.”
“I’m delighted, though it promises to be a singularly unsatisfying conclusion. I had originally intended to set off the following day, but I think I’m going to delay it until Monday. Mrs Archbald has invited me to dine on Sunday and they’ve been so kind. I’d like to go.”
“She has invited me as well.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. All the same it may be difficult to find the opportunity to speak to you alone so I…”
“So it is true,” a voice boomed. “I could not believe what I had been told, yet here I find you. Brazenly and publicly disgracing my cousin’s memory without a thought for the effect your conduct might have on my wards. How dare you, madam.”
Christa spun around, shocked. A stocky gentleman of around forty had emerged from the front door of the hall. He stood at the top of the steps, keeping out of the rain.
“Mr Kent,” she said, and was horrified to realise that her voice was shaking. “What… how do you come to be here? You gave me no warning.”
“That was my intention, madam. Once I was informed of your appalling conduct I felt it my duty to find out the truth for myself. Little did I imagine that on the very day of my arrival I would catch you in the act of…”
“Of riding a horse in a public place,” Captain Stewart finished in crisp tones. “Now that is shocking, ma’am. I’m surprised he’s not brought a Bow Street Runner up from Town to effect an arrest. Why don’t we go inside out of the rain? There’s nothing worse than brangling in a downpour, although you often can’t avoid it aboard a frigate. There’s not much space below decks.”
He took Christa’s arm gently. She knew he must be able to feel how badly she was shaking and hoped he would put it down to cold rather than fear. She was afraid, not for herself, but for her children, should this austere, judgemental man take them away from her.
Kent looked momentarily shocked but rallied quickly. “I agree that my cousin’s widow, if that is what I must call her, should come inside to answer for her conduct if she may. You, sir, will not set foot inside this house.”
“Well I’m going to. If my company is that unpleasant to you I suggest you remove yourself. And if you make any more remarks of that nature to this lady I’ll be happy to help you on your way with a swift kick to the seat of your trousers.”
Christa turned to stare at Stewart in astonishment. He gave her a reassuring smile.
“I need to see to the horses,” he said quietly, ignoring Kent’s splutter of fury. “Go inside, go to your room and get changed. You’ll catch your death like that. I’ll join you in your parlour. Don’t look so worried. To be honest I’m glad he’s here. I was intending to pay him a visit when I was back in London. This will save me some time.”
Christa had no idea what he meant, but his calm manner was reassuring. She arrived in the parlour to find both men present. Kent was standing before a newly lit fire in the traditional stance of the man of the house. Captain Stewart was seated in an armchair with one booted foot crossed over the other. He had acquired a glass of wine. As she entered he rose, led her to the sofa then went to the sideboard to pour a glass for her.
“Are you sure you won’t have one, Kent? It’s a cold day out.”
“I have no wish to drink in such company.”
“Good. Here you are, Mrs Kent. It will warm you up. Are the children all right?”
“Yes. Nurse is giving them their tea. Paul is rather upset though. He tells me that Cousin Frederick has told him that he is taking him to London tomorrow and he has no wish to go.”
“He isn’t going anywhere. I’ve only had time to make the most cursory enquiries by letter so far but I can tell you that, without authorisation from a court, he has no right to take your children. As a matter of interest, did you ever see your father-in-law’s will personally, Mrs Kent?”
Christa was so shocked that she could not speak immediately. Kent made a noise like an enraged pig.
“Do you dare to insinuate that I am not the legal guardian? Do you know who I am?”
“I’ve only the vaguest notion of who you are, Kent, although I know what you are. On the other hand, it’s clear to me that you don’t have the least idea who I am. Since I can’t stay for long I will give you a brief summary. It may help you to make an informed decision. Sit down.”
“I will not sit down.”
“Well go and stand somewhere else then. You’re blocking the heat from the fire and your cousin is shivering.”
Christa watched in something like awe as the Captain advanced towards the fireplace. To her horror he stooped to pick up the poker. Kent skipped quickly out of reach. Stewart smiled slightly, knelt and stirred the fire, adding more wood. He rose, turned and looked at Kent.
“Allow me to introduce myself formally. Captain Charles Stewart, RN, recently appointed to command the frigate HMS Bridget. On my father’s side I’m second cousin to Lord Castlereagh, the foreign secretary. He is my Godfather. On my mother’s side I’m equally closely related to the Childs’ banking family. In fact I’m a very minor shareholder. You’ll probably be aware that the majority shareholder is the Countess of Jersey. I learned a while ago that my family connections are not necessarily the way to get what I want but I’m fairly sure that you’ll understand that I am going to have no trouble finding my way through the intricacies of the Court of Chancery. Or the money to pay the barrister.”
Kent found his voice. It came out as a squeak.
“My cousin’s children are not Wards in Chancery.”
“They soon will be if I manage to find any evidence of shady legal dealings on your part. And I think I might.”
“Why?” Christa said, finally able to speak. “Charles, what makes you think there might be something wrong?”
“I don’t know much about the army, Christa. But quite by accident I happen to know that the Colonel-in-Chief of the 110th, who also happens to be a major-general serving under Wellington, takes a very unusual attitude to his duties. He personally employs a very reputable firm of London solicitors to act as advisors to his officers about their legal affairs and he insists that they all make proper wills. He must be completely eccentric, but that’s his business. My cousin Claude mentioned it to me when I made my own will after my father died. He approved my farsightedness and told me a few tales of disaster about fellows who had not made proper provision for their families. He also told me about the 110th. Apparently it’s an army joke that no officer of the 110th dies intestate unless it’s because his commanding officer has beaten him to death for being a feckless idiot. Since that didn’t happen to Captain Kent I’m assuming he followed orders. Did you see either of those wills, Christa?”
“No. I was told about them by an attorney. I think he must have been from the same law practice as…”
She tailed off and looked at Kent. He looked very pale.
“Well, we’ll see. With your permission I’d like to instruct my cousin Claude on your behalf. He’s well respected and will represent your interests. May I have your permission to tell him to write to you?”
“Yes,” Christa said. She could feel tears in her eyes and realised that she had not felt this well-protected since Jack had died. “Oh yes.”
Kent gathered himself. “Regardless of your family connections, sir, what possible right do you have to speak on behalf of this lady?” he ground out.
Charles Stewart did not look at him. He was smiling at Christa.
“That’s a conversation which is probably going to have to wait a while,” he said. “I have to get this damned inquiry off my hands first and I need to get back to London. I’ll get Claude to write to you. And I’ll write to you myself. Will you reply?”
“Yes,” Christa said. It seemed to be the only thing she could say at present but it seemed to be enough.
Stewart finished his wine and turned to Kent.
“I need to go, which means you need to leave as well. You’re not staying the night here, partly because Mrs Kent lives alone and you’re unmarried so it would be improper. Mostly because you’ll try to bully her and then I’ll end up punching you. Out. I’ll point you in the direction of the nearest inn. Or perhaps you can find accommodation at the vicarage. I expect the Curate will be happy to help, given that he was your informant.”
“How can you possibly know that?” Kent demanded.
“Because I’m not an idiot and who else would care? Christa, I will see you before I leave, I promise.”
“You will see me tomorrow at the inquiry,” Christa said. Suddenly her courage had returned. “Also on the following day and at dinner at the Rectory on Sunday. Ride safely. It’s raining very heavily.”
He smiled, took her hand and kissed it. “I’ll see you tomorrow then. Good afternoon. Kent, let’s see what they’ve done with your hat and coat shall we?”
***
London was damp, cold and infernally crowded. To his amusement, Charles found himself regretting the windy open spaces of the Lancashire coast, although he was not convinced that it was the sea air and bird life that he was missing.
After weeks of being mostly free to manage his own time and activities he was suddenly caught up in a series of meetings and social events. The Admiralty demanded notes, annotations and explanations with regard to his report of the inquiry. His uncle demanded a detailed account of what had really happened in the sad case of Mr Samuel Beeston and the Snatchems press gang on the banks of the River Lune. His aunts, all four of them, appeared from all directions demanding his attendance at balls, receptions and the wedding of a distant cousin that Charles could barely remember. Relations, in the number he had, were the very devil when a man was in a hurry.
He was in more of a hurry than he had intended, given the unexpected result of his visit to Lancashire. Between business and social activities and several frantic visits to Portsmouth to deal with last minute decisions about the refit of his ship, Charles found time to meet with his cousin Claude Fane. He would have liked to have been more involved with Claude’s subsequent enquiries but he did not have time.
He returned from a third journey to Portsmouth in the early evening, arriving at his London house on Upper Wimpole Street cold, tired and hungry. His butler had barely taken his cloak and hat when there was a knock at the door. The butler apologised and went to open it, his face ready to express disapproval at anybody making an unscheduled call at such an unsuitable hour. Charles went through to the study where there was a fire and a decanter of wine set out.
The butler reappeared. “A letter, Captain. I would not have troubled you until tomorrow but the messenger said it was urgent. From Mr Fane, I believe.”
“My cousin Claude?”
“Yes, sir.”
Charles took the note and read it quickly. He stood up, his exhaustion forgotten.
“I’m going out, Morrison.”
“You have barely come in, Captain.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I’m going round to Mr Fane’s rooms in Palmer Street. He has some news for me. Give my apologies to Mrs Clarke; I won’t need supper. Mr Fane has offered to feed me. Will you send the boy for a hackney?”
“Very good, Captain.”
Morrison’s tone informed Charles that he did not consider it good at all. He had inherited the butler from his parents, along with the house and most of the staff. The older servants had a tendency to treat him as though he was still a midshipman but Charles was old enough now not to resent it. He appreciated their loyalty.
Mr Claude Fane, a cheerful man in his mid-thirties, was unmarried and lived in rooms above his thriving law practice in Palmer Street. He greeted his cousin affectionately, informed him that he looked half-dead and should stop racing around all over England, then provided a chair by the fireside and an excellent claret.
“I’ve sent out for supper from Hogan’s. They do an excellent pork chop and my cook only comes in daily so can’t provide supper at short notice. I’m glad to see you, Charles. You’re a difficult man to catch for more than five minutes these days.”
Charles gave a rather weary smile. “To be honest I’m looking forward to being at sea. It will give me a rest.”
“When do you expect to depart?”
“Another four weeks, I think. My orders are to join the squadron in Long Island Sound.”
“Think you’ll see much action?”
Charles shrugged. “A lot will depend on these next few months in Europe. If the war really is going to end, and they’re taking bets at the Admiralty, there’ll be pressure on the Americans to seek peace.”
“It was a bloody stupid war to start with.”
“It was. I suspect national pride was involved on both sides but if the Royal Navy is no longer having to deal with the French we’ll have more time to spare for our American brothers. I’d sue for peace quickly if I were them. But you didn’t haul me from my fireside when I’d barely stepped into the house to talk international politics, Claude. Do you have news for me? Do you act for Mrs Kent?”
“I do. She replied charmingly and very decisively, engaging my services. As requested by you, there has been no mention of my fee. I’m rather presuming…”
“You’ll be paid one way or another, Claude. Get on with it.”
“How did you know that Kent was up to something?”
Charles froze. He set down his glass. “I didn’t. Was he up to something?”
“In a manner of speaking. If you didn’t know…”
“It didn’t feel right. His behaviour towards his cousin’s widow was too harsh. At first I just assumed he’d disapproved of the marriage and was a miserable bastard. But then it occurred to me that what he was effectively doing was isolating her. I wondered why.”
“Very clever. You should have been a solicitor, Charles.”
“I should expire from boredom. Also… I didn’t realise to start with that she nursed the old man in his final illness. She was under the impression that he made no changes to his will because there wasn’t time. But there was plenty of time. I got to know the vicar in Heysham while I was there. He and his wife were regular visitors to old Mr Kent and they made it clear that he remained mentally sharp to the end. Mr Archibald gave it as his opinion that the loss of Kent’s only son probably hastened his death, but he didn’t suffer memory loss. So what have you found? A codicil of some kind?”
“Better than that,” Claude said smugly. “I have found another will.”
Charles choked on his wine. “What?”
“Surprised Charles?”
“I’m astonished. But I don’t understand. Why does nobody else know about this will? What does it say?”
“Somebody definitely knew about the will. I’ve seen copies of several letters which confirm that Frederick Kent was present at the reading of the will. It took place in… look, never mind. Stop choking and drink some water. That sounds like the arrival of supper. I’ll pick up the story while we’re eating. Food may stop you interrupting me so much.”
Claude had been right about the food. Hogan’s Chop House, which was situated at the corner of Palmer Street and Caxton Street provided an excellent supper. They ate pork chops and steak and kidney pudding washed down with more claret and Claude told his story with relish.
“It’s not surprising that nobody knew old Kent had changed his will because he didn’t use his usual solicitor. In fact he didn’t use anybody local at all. About three months before he died, Mrs Kent and the children went to stay with some friends in Whitby. Army friends I believe. No idea why, although the chap I spoke to thought the old man might have suggested it to give her a break from the nursing. He was pretty much bedridden by then and she seems to have taken on the burden of caring for him herself.”
“So who nursed him during that time? The housekeeper?”
“Another relative came to stay: a female called Thorpe, from Manchester. Some kind of cousin. Mrs Thorpe was escorted by her son: a Mr Gilbert Thorpe who was the new junior partner of a respected firm of Manchester solicitors: Grey, Harbottle and Thorpe. The Thorpes stayed for the week, until Mrs Kent returned from her holiday, then they packed their bags and went home. Apart from possibly attending the funeral and sending a letter of condolence, I don’t suppose they thought of it again. It was just a matter of family duty to the old man. They barely knew the young widow.”
“What happened to the will?”
“Several copies were properly witnessed and signed. At the request of the old man, young Thorpe sent one to Frederick Kent in London as he was a named executor. He kept another in his office in Manchester in case it should be required.”
“Why didn’t he come forward when the old man died?”
“He did. He wrote to Kent very properly. Kent assured him that he had the will and would make all necessary arrangements for the administration of the estate.”
“Did Kent destroy the new will then? And if not, why not?”
“He didn’t destroy it because he was a potential future beneficiary under that will. He simply failed to make its provisions known to the widow. Or, which is more serious, to the other gentleman who was appointed joint executor and guardian of the two children.” Claude reached for the bottle and refilled both their glasses. “That’s really the only thing Thorpe did wrong. He should have made a point of informing that gentleman of his new responsibilities under Kent’s will but he left it to Frederick Kent to do so, probably at that worm’s suggestion. I don’t have any proof yet but I doubt he even knows he has two wards.”
“Who is it? Oh wait – the boy’s Godfather? Christa told me he’s named after his Godfather.”
“A gentleman by the name of Major-General Sir Paul van Daan, currently making a name for himself serving under Wellington in France. I don’t know the man but I do know his reputation. I have just written to him.”
“What does the new will say?”
“It’s not that different to the original but changes were made after Jack Kent’s death. In the first will everything was left to Jack as his only son. After that the boy would inherit when he reached the age of twenty-one. Provision was made for an allowance for the widow and a dowry for the girl when she was ready to marry.”
“That’s what Christa told me.”
“There are some things she doesn’t know. The allowance was far more generous than the one Kent is paying and, in addition, all household expenses including those for the children should be paid out of the estate. She shouldn’t need to write begging letters for children’s clothing and the price of keeping a respectable riding horse and carriage horses.”
“So what changed with the second will?”
“With his son gone, the child became heir. There’s a trust set up until he’s of age and its provisions are very sensible and extremely detailed. The children have two guardians but their day-to-day care is placed firmly in the hands of their mother. There’s no suggestion that Frederick Kent has any right to remove them. In fact he can’t do anything without the agreement of the other trustee and joint guardian.”
“Van Daan.”
“Yes. More importantly, if Mrs Kent remarries her allowance stops, but there is a generous bequest by way of a dowry.”
“Good God.”
“Just so. But the reason Kent didn’t destroy the second will entirely was because if anything happened to the two children he was to inherit everything apart from the bequest to Mrs Kent.”
“Wasn’t that the case in the original will?”
“No. If the children died, and sadly so many children do, the estate would have been divided between several cousins with equally valid claims.”
“Bloody hell. He really found himself in a fix. But why in God’s name didn’t he just produce the new will? It’s not as if there was any benefit to him in the short-term. He didn’t want to look after those children.”
“I don’t know, Charles. He clearly loathed your Danish lady. Perhaps he had a secret thing about her when young Jack first brought her home and she rebuffed him. Or failed to notice him at all, which can be rather worse. Whatever the reason, he’s landed himself in the soup now. The legal profession rather frowns on one of their own trying to swindle the widow and orphans, even in such a roundabout way. It gives all of us a bad name.”
Charles was considering. “Claude, you’ve done extraordinary work. Thank you. But I still don’t understand how you managed to discover the existence of a new will made out by a solicitor you’d never heard of in a town you never go to. What was it, magic?”
“Oh, I had help. When Mrs Kent first wrote to engage me formally, I’d asked about the will. She’d never actually seen it so my first intention was to write to the cousin and demand to see a copy. But she mentioned that there were boxes and boxes of papers in the old man’s study. Most of the house was simply closed down because she couldn’t afford the servants to keep it up. The study was one of those rooms. Because she had no idea if any of the paperwork was important she just locked the door. She wrote that she rather expected that one day Mr Frederick Kent would decide to go through it.”
“He probably didn’t even realise it was there,” Charles said softly.
“I can only assume not.”
Charles understood. “You found the will.”
“My clerk did. He was there for three days, covered in dust. He found the will as well as copies of letters to Kent asking him to write to Van Daan. I think the old man was fading fast by then but he tried to do the right thing.”
“What happens now?”
“I’m going to write to Kent formally, setting out everything I know. Under the circumstances there might well be charges of some kind, if it’s proven that he’s played fast and loose with the estate finances. Myself, I doubt he has. I think he’s playing the long game. But either way he can’t stay on as trustee.”
“Thank God for that.”
“I’ll also write to Van Daan. He is not going to be able to take leave and come home to sort out this mess just now, though from what his solicitor has recently told me about him, I’d quite like to be in the audience when he does. The solicitor, a man called Solomons, is going to suggest that Van Daan authorises him act on his behalf. He can make sure the widow receives her full allowance and that the estate is properly financed. He can also set enquiries in train to see if Kent has had his fingers in the strong box. That’s probably all we can do for now.”
“That’s probably all Christa requires. I presume Kent will resign as a trustee.”
“I’ll make sure of that. Solomons seems like a good man; I can work with him. I need to write to the widow to explain it all.”
“Entrust the letter to me, would you? I don’t have much time before I sail but I’d like to deliver it in person. Let me have a note of your fee, Claude. Presumably ongoing expenses will be met out of the estate but until that’s authorised, I’ll settle your account. I’m so grateful.”
Claude helped himself to the last beefsteak from the serving dish. “Thank you old man but there’s no need. I don’t charge family members. Or potential family members. Give her my best wishes. I’m looking forward to meeting her in person.”
***
Christa was stunned into silence by Charles’ account of Mr Frederick Kent’s duplicity. She took the package of letters from the solicitor and stared at them.
“Should I read them now?”
“No. Take your time over them; they’re important. You should hear from the estate bankers within a few weeks about your allowance and how the expenses of the house will be more suitably managed.”
“I am truly shocked. And so grateful to both you and your cousin. You’ve done so much.” She managed a little smile. “I’ve no idea how much this has cost but I hope Mr Fane does not mind waiting a little for me to settle.”
To her immense surprise, Charles Stewart flushed. “I’ve spoken to him about it. Any longer-term legal expenses will be settled by the estate. There is no hurry.”
“What about my cousin-in-law? What will happen to him?”
“I don’t know,” Charles said honestly. “I know very little about the law. If it is discovered that he has stolen from the estate, I imagine Sir Paul van Daan will want him to be prosecuted. I don’t know the man but…”
Christa laughed aloud. Charles stopped speaking and stared at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, blushing a little. “It’s not a laughing matter I know. It is just that I do know the man and if he discovers that his fellow trustee has stolen from his Godson I think he is more likely to punch him than prosecute him. I hope he has not.”
“So do I.”
“If he has not, I hope no prosecution will be necessary. All I wish is for him to go away and leave us alone. The important thing for me is that I no longer have to scrimp and save to clothe myself and my children. And I need no longer fear that one day they will be taken from me. Captain, you have done all of this. I can never express my gratitude enough. Thank you.”
“My cousin Claude did all the work. I just pointed him in the right direction. I appreciate your thanks, ma’am, but I think a great wrong has been put right. Or will be soon.”
“That is of course very important, Captain.”
“I think so, ma’am.”
Christa met the steady dark eyes. “We have become very formal since you were last here.”
“That’s because I’m terrified.”
It made her giggle. “You? What nonsense. I saw you deal with Cousin Frederick. Now I understand how you fight the French. You have no fear.”
“I do right now. I can only stay for a few days, Christa. I’m needed in Portsmouth. Before I leave, I have a request. I’m here in time for the Lancaster horse fair. It’s on for three days: they sell horses and livestock and there’s also a hiring fair and a market. They hold it twice a year at the beginning of spring and of autumn. Would you be willing to accept my escort? I’ll hire a carriage and we can take the children and make a day out of it.”
Christa stared at him in surprise. “A horse fair?”
“There’s a lot more to it than that. There are games and sports and food stalls. I think Paul and Annalise would love it. We can bring your maid.”
“That sounds very proper,” Christa said gravely. “We would be happy to accept. Tell me, are you in need of a new horse, Charles?”
He grinned and shook his head. “Not really. My stable at home is well stocked and I don’t have much need of a horse when I’m at sea. I would like to buy a horse for you and I thought we could see if we can find suitable ponies for the children. We should also hire a proper groom and perhaps a stable lad to take care of them and to help teach the children to ride.”
Christa was so surprised she could not speak for a moment. Eventually she said:
“Until the estate is more settled Charles I cannot afford…”
“You don’t need to. It will be a betrothal gift. If you think you might… that is if you would consider…”
She realised with a little lift of happiness that this was the request she had been hoping to hear. He looked as if he had been nerving himself to say this all the way from London to Lancashire. It was painful to watch.
Christa had never been shy, which was how she had managed to marry a young British officer within two weeks of meeting him. She had grown up a lot since then but she realised that Captain Charles Stewart RN was currently just as tongue-tied as Lieutenant Jack Kent had been all those years ago. She gave a little laugh and walked forward into his arms.
“You made those two requests the wrong way round, Captain.”
“I know,” he said ruefully. “Christa… will you?”
“I will tell you for certain once you have kissed me.”
He laughed with her and bent to obey her order. When he finally lifted his head, the tension had left his body. She felt warm and safe and very much at home in his arms.
“I have never really been properly betrothed before,” she said, smiling at the memory. “We were young idiots and we did not have time.”
“Well I’m afraid it will have to be a betrothal this time sweetheart. But not for that long, I hope. As soon as this tour of duty is over we’ll be married. In the meantime, I intend to write to my aunts. I cannot wait to introduce you to them. You will be a considerable relief to all of them.”
The Reluctant Debutante and other stories are taking a break over Christmas but will return much refreshed in 2026…
Welcome to the French Lieutenant, my Christmas story for 2024. As always it’s freely available on my website, so please share as much as you like.
Welcome to the Yule Log, my Christmas short story for 2023. I hope you enjoy it. As always it’s free on my website so please share as much as you like.
An Unattainable Stronghold which is book 8 of the 
Welcome to an Unsuitable Arrangement, my Valentine’s Day short story for 2023. As always, it’s free so please share as much as you like.
Here comes 2023 at Writing with Labradors and a very Happy New Year to all my friends, family and readers.
I’d already effectively finished book 7 of the Peninsular War Saga at the end of 2021 and passed it on to my editor. Poor Heather had a somewhat fraught start to 2022 since she knew how desperate I was to get another book out after a year’s gap. She worked very hard despite some health problems of her own and the book was published in April. A
I went back to 
In addition to the two books, I wrote my usual three free short stories this year. Valentine’s Day took us back in time to the winter of 1808-09 and 
With travel opening up again, I fulfilled a long-held wish and signed up for a Waterloo tour with 
Other trips during the year were more about catching up with friends and family after such a long separation during lockdown. I still managed to slip in some historical visits though, with a trip to the Naval Dockyard in Portsmouth, Maritime Greenwich in London and the Military Museums in Winchester, where I acquired a Rifles bear to add to my desk army.
On a personal level, I’ve mostly recovered from the effects of the various lockdowns. I’ve made a start of book 8 of the Peninsular War Saga. It’s called An Unattainable Stronghold and follows the 110th into the Pyrenees and the storming of San Sebastian. After that, I’ll be going back to the Iris to join Hugh Kelly and Alfred Durrell along the coast of northern Spain where they are joining Sir Home Popham on his campaign to annoy the French and the Spanish equally. I’m very much looking forward to the biography of Popham currently being written by my good friend 
The year had a sad ending when we heard that my uncle, William ‘Bill’ Bryant had died. Bill was a huge personality, very much part of my childhood and will be very much missed. He raised a family of history lovers and I laughed aloud during one of the eulogies about his passion for watching war films, despite the fact that he must have seen Zulu and the Battle of Britain a thousand times. The final piece of music played at his funeral was chosen by him, and we both laughed and cried as we left the service to the rousing sound of the Great Escape.
Welcome to the Jolabokaflod- an annual tradition here at Writing With Labradors. Every year since 2017 I’ve offered some of my books for free on Amazon kindle as a Christmas gift to my readers, old and new.
Waterloo 2022: prelude only really came about because I live on the Isle of Man. My much anticipated 
The 
There is, as usual, an abundance of information and artefacts about Lord Nelson, England’s most feted naval hero including the clothing he was wearing when he was shot down on the deck of the Victory during the Battle of Trafalgar. While I’m grateful that the national obsession with Nelson means that EVERY navy museum has something relating to my period of interest, I can’t help imagining the howls of indignation of a few other navy officers of the era who really did some quite impressive stuff themselves, but don’t get a mention. Nevertheless, the National Maritime Museum is fascinating, with loads to see and do for both adults and children and I highly recommend it.
Greenwich Seaman’s Hospital was built on the orders of Mary II who was affected by the sight of wounded sailors coming home from the Battle of La Hogue. It is incredibly beautiful architecturally and both the Chapel and the Painted Hall are well worth a visit. I particularly liked the Chapel, which has naval motifs incorporated into the design. 
Nelson also features a fair bit, surprisingly enough. England’s Hero lay in state for several days in the Painted Hall and there is a small dedicated Nelson Room, but my favourite artefact is a lion which was apparently a model piece for the Nelson frieze. The lion is holding a stone which purports to claim that Nelson fought in 122 battles. I had this piece of information from the guide and I’ve not managed to check it at all, but my extensive reading on the subject of the Napoleonic navy so far has suggested that most of the time was spent either on tedious blockade duty or seething at home on half-pay. Nobody seemed able to answer my question about how Nelson managed to see quite so much action during his time in the navy but if I get to the bottom of it, I’ll let you know. Alternatively, if anybody else knows where I can find a list of these battles, I’d love to hear it. Nice lion, though.
My final visit of the day was to the Cutty Sark, a nineteenth century tea clipper located in dry dock on the river bank. The Cutty Sark has a very sentimental place in my heart as it was a favourite place to visit as a child. We used to go to Greenwich a lot, getting the bus from Mile End and then walking through the Victorian foot tunnel under the river. I loved it there, the park and the eclectic market, the little shops, the Queen’s House and the Observatory, the graceful buildings of the Naval College. That much history in one place always set off my very eccentric imagination about the men and women who had lived in these buildings and walked these streets in the past. But the absolute joy for me was the once or twice a year when we were allowed to actually go aboard the Cutty Sark.