cake to another,’ Mr Barraclough confessed. His head hung lower. ‘My Aunt Ella has no idea.’ He struck a little pose. ‘I lay the blame at Cupid’s door.’
The captain turned away and his shoulders started to shake. Don’t look at him, Mary warned herself. She had to ask. ‘Cupid’s door? But this is Christmas, sir, not Valentine’s Day.’
‘Cousin Mary, people can fall in love at Christmastime, too,’ the captain said, his expression bland, except for a lurking twinkle. ‘Surely it happens all the time.’
Mary looked from one man to the other, one a tease and the other a prig, and fell back on her remedy for all ills. ‘Gentlemen, shall we have tea?’
Mr Barraclough agreed to tea, settling himself at the table with the air of a man prepared to stay all evening. Mary poured, wondering if tea had been a tactical error. She knew better than to look at the captain, who had seated himself on the sofa beside his sleeping child. She wanted to laugh when he crossed his legs and the peg rested atop his knee. He waggled it once or twice; Mr Barraclough stared, then coughed and looked away.
The sight of the peg-leg seemed to have deprived him of speech, which gave Mary the opening for her questions. ‘Sir, did Miss Bruce know about the cake?’
‘No. It arrived after she left to visit her sister, my mother. She gets one every year.’
‘A sister? How amazingly profligate,’ Captain Rennie said.
‘Sir! A fruitcake! From someone in Edinburgh I have never met!’
The peg-leg waggled again and Mr Barraclough stared at it. I’m going to thrash a post captain in the Royal Navy, once this bore leaves, Mary thought.
‘What did you do with the cake?’ she asked.
After another look at the wooden leg, Mr Barraclough dragged his eyes away and told a tale of Miss Bruce’s unrequited love for a solicitor and the thirty years she had pined for him. It was the stuff of Highland legend, if Mr Barraclough was to be believed. ‘Mr Maxfield was too shy to declare himself, so my mother tells me, and my aunt too much a shrinking violet to nudge him.’ He paused for breath finally, casting sidelong glances at the peg-leg, which had mercifully settled down, to Mary’s relief.
‘And?’ Mary prompted. ‘My aunt has never mentioned such a tale.’
‘Aunt Ella falls into severe melancholia at Christmas, because Mr Maxfield wasn’t ever brave enough to kiss her under the mistletoe positioned so strategically at the Select Female Academy.’ He sipped his tea noisily. ‘For thirty years, she has pined, cried and taken to her bed at this time of year, when most Christians rejoice. I have witnessed this annual agony and it is not a pretty sight! Then she goes to Stirling and pines and cries there, too.’ He gave a gusty sigh. ‘Such is the fate of the spinster, I suppose.’
Lord, I hope not, Mary thought, then tried to remember the last time anyone had kissed her under mistletoe, much less a kissing ball. To her dismay, nothing came to mind.
‘But what does this have to do with the missing cake?’ Captain Rennie asked. To Mary’s surprise, he sounded interested.
‘I, sir, am a romantic,’ Mr Barraclough announced, with a click of the teacup on the saucer. In his tight, shiny suit, he looked more like the counting-house clerk he probably was, and no solicitor. Mary felt her heart soften as she began to understand this little man, probably no more acquainted with adventure than she was.
‘After ten years of listening to my aunt suffer this annual torment, I decided to mail the fruitcake to Tavish Maxfield, along with a note declaring her steadfast love and a proposal of marriage. I signed it Ella Bruce.’
Silence, then the captain applauded. ‘Well done, Mr Barraclough!’ he declared.
‘D’ye think so?’ the man asked, blushing like a maiden. He tweaked the few hairs forming a fringe around his head, smoothing them with nervous fingers.
Mary stared at them both, the captain’s admiration seemingly genuine, and Mr Barraclough’s pleased expression told Mary worlds about his own quiet life, shared with a spinster aunt. Almost like my life, she thought reluctantly.
‘Sir, it takes a bold stroke to conquer the heart! Rather like war at sea,’ Captain Rennie said. ‘If Mr Maxfield follows through and goes to Carlisle, your auntie will be so pleased. If he does nothing, she’ll at least be none the wiser.’ Rennie clapped the man on the shoulder. ‘Brilliant!’
Mr Barraclough beamed at Mary. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have fretted and worried so much,’ he said. ‘I am not ordinarily so impulsive.’
‘Maybe you should not fret,’ she agreed, in charity with him because Captain Rennie was. She glanced at the captain, who now sat calling no attention to his peg-leg. ‘More tea, Mr Barraclough?’
* * *
While Nathan slumbered on, Mr Barraclough stayed another hour, drinking tea, eating some of the rapidly congealing Cumberland sausage and telling them about his life in the counting house of Mackey and Wilde. It was as boring and dry as toast, but the captain seemed to take an interest in each dull detail. Mary listened in growing admiration of her cousin as Ross Rennie teased out little scraps of information about Mr Barraclough’s own pining for Jennie Lynch, a rector’s daughter. As her cousin made affable conversation with a man probably as lonely as his maiden aunt, Mary had the smallest glimmer what sort of captain he was and felt her own heart grow warm at his effortless kindness. She amended that mentally—his kindness once he had got past his teasing nature.
Just as kindly, Captain Rennie found a way to end the evening’s interview. He took out his watch and shook his head sadly. ‘Sir, all good things must come to an end, and look you here, my son is sound asleep.’
The two men shook hands, then Barraclough bowed gallantly over Mary’s hand. It was a self-conscious attempt, but it touched her heart. Maybe she could take a page from her cousin’s book.
‘Mr Barraclough, perhaps it is time you gave Jennie Lynch a kiss under the mistletoe,’ she suggested, pinking up as much as her parlour guest at her presumption.
‘Aye to that,’ the captain said. ‘Remember the bold stroke.’
The counting-house clerk nodded thoughtfully. He bowed to them both and started for the door.
‘Oh, wait!’ Mary said, hurrying to his side. ‘You didn’t tell us where you sent the fruitcake.’
‘I forgot.’ Mr Barraclough giggled. ‘I directed it to Tavish Maxfield, Esquire, Number Fifteen Apollo Street, York.’ He beamed at them. ‘Mrs Rennie, you must be so happy to have your captain home from the wars.’
‘My...’ She glanced at the captain, then looked away, suddenly as shy as Miss Ella Bruce, who was probably sobbing out her heart in Stirling right now.
‘She certainly is happy to see my waterlogged carcase,’ the captain said to Mr Barraclough’s retreating figure. ‘And I am glad to be here.’ He closed the door and leaned against it.
‘You could have told him the truth,’ Mary said, her face on fire.
‘We’ll never see him again. If I had corrected him, he would have been embarrassed. What would be served?’ He sat down by his sleeping son again, his hand going naturally to Nathan’s leg in a caress. ‘He was a little fellow in need of an audience. I hope to goodness he does kiss Miss Lynch under the mistletoe. Hope he gives her a really loud smack.’
Mary wasn’t certain she should say what was on her mind, but now her cousin was giving her that same interested look he had given to their late guest. She saw no subterfuge in his expression and it gave her courage. Or maybe it aroused her lately submerged sense of humour, because no one on Wapping Street in Edinburgh seemed to tease or joke.
‘Don’t deny that you started out to discommode the man,’ she chided. ‘I thought he was going to climb the wallpaper when you started waving about your...your peg.’
He