It Happened One Christmas: Christmas Eve Proposal / The Viscount's Christmas Kiss / Wallflower, Widow...Wife!. Ann Lethbridge
haven’t eaten yet, Mandy. From the looks of things, he wouldn’t mind if you sat down again.’
‘Auntie! When I think of all your lectures on…’ she lowered her voice ‘…the dangers of men, and here you are, suggesting I sit with him?’
Aunt Sal surprised Mandy with a wistful smile, making her wonder if there had been a seafaring man in Sal’s life at some point. ‘It’s nearly Christmas and we are at war, Mandy,’ she said simply.
‘That we are,’ Mandy said. ‘I suppose a little kindness never goes amiss.’
‘My thought precisely,’ Sal told her. ‘I reared you properly.’
Mandy backed out of the swinging door with the custard. The master formally indicated the chair opposite him and she sat down, suddenly shy. And sat there.
‘See here, Miss Mathison. Despite what that old fellow thought, I have enough manners not to eat first. Pick up your fork.’
She did as he said, enjoying just the hint of rum that her aunt always added to her custard. In a week, they would spend an afternoon making Christmas rum balls and the tea room would smell like Percival Bartle’s brewery on the next street.
He ate with obvious appreciation, showing no signs of being stuffed beyond capacity. Then he removed the napkin from his uniform front and set down his fork.
‘I have a dilemma, Miss Mathison…’ he began.
‘Most customers call me Mandy,’ she said.
‘I’ve only known you about an hour,’ he replied, ‘but if you like, Mandy it is. By the way, I am Benneit Muir.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘My dilemma is this—Thomas Walthan won’t hear of my staying at Walthan Manor. Apparently I am not high bred enough.’ He chuckled. ‘Well, of course I am not.’
Mandy sighed. ‘That would be the Walthans.’
‘I can probably find a room at the public house, but more than anything, I’d like some peace and quiet to read. Can you suggest a place?’
‘Venable doesn’t…’ she began, then stopped. ‘Let me ask my aunt.’
Aunt Sal was putting away the beef roast. Mandy slid the dishes into the soapy water where soon she would be working, now that luncheon was over.
‘Aunt, his name is Benneit Muir and he has a dilemma.’
Aunt Sal gave her an arch, all-knowing look. ‘Mandy, you have never been so interested in a diner before.’
‘You said it—he’s interesting. Besides, you as much as suggested I be pleasant to him, because it is Christmas.’ She took a good look at her aunt, a pretty woman faded beyond any bloom of youth, but kind, so kind. ‘Apparently he has agreed to tutor Thomas Walthan in mathematics, but you know the Walthans—they won’t allow him to stay there.’
‘No surprise,’ Aunt Sal said as she removed her apron.
‘The posting house is too noisy and he wants quiet to read, when he’s not tutoring. We have that extra room upstairs. What do you think?’
‘A room inches deep in dust.’ Aunt Sal took another peek out the door. ‘We don’t even know him.’
Mandy considered the situation. She had never been one to cajole and beg for things, mainly because she had everything she needed. She didn’t intend to start now, but there was something about the master that she liked.
‘No, we don’t know him,’ Mandy said, picking her way through uncharted water. ‘Maybe he would murder us in our beds. Or shinny down the drainpipe and leave us with a bill.’
‘That seems doubtful, dearest. He just wants peace and quiet? There’s plenty of that here.’
Mandy said no more; she knew her aunt. After a moment in thought, Aunt Sal gave her another long look.
‘On an hour’s acquaintance, you think you know him?’
‘No,’ Mandy replied. She had been raised to be honest. ‘But you always say I am a good judge of character. And besides, didn’t you just encourage me?’
Aunt Sal folded her arms. ‘That chicken is coming home to roost,’ she said. ‘Remind me not to be so soft-hearted in future.’
‘It could also be that I am tired of my half-brother riding roughly over everyone,’ Mandy said softly.
Aunt Sal put her hands on Mandy’s shoulders and they touched foreheads. ‘Should I have started Mandy’s Rose in another village?’
‘No, Aunt. This is our home, too.’
Aunt Sal kissed Mandy’s forehead. ‘Let’s go chat with the sailing master.’
Here comes the delegation, Ben thought, as the door to the kitchen swung open. At least I’m not on a lee shore yet.
This could only be Aunt Sal. He took her in at a glance, a woman past her prime, but lively still and obviously concerned about her niece. He knew he was looking at a careful parent. He got to his feet, swaying a little because he still didn’t have the hang of decks—no, floors—that remained stationary.
She came closer and gave a little nod of her head, which he returned with a slight bow. She moved one of the chairs closer from the nearest table, but Mandy sat at the same table where he had eaten that enormous lunch. That gesture told him whose side Mandy was on and he thought he might win this. It was a game he had never played before, not with war and eighteen years at sea.
‘I am Sally Mathison, proprietor of this tea room. My niece tells me you are looking for quiet lodgings for a few weeks.’
‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘I am Benneit Muir, sailing master of the Albemarle, in dry dock near Plymouth. I’ll be here three weeks, trying to cram mathematics into young Thomas Walthan’s brainbox. It will be a thankless task, I fear, and I would most appreciate a quiet place at night, the better to endure my days.’
‘Is he paying you?’ Sal Mathison asked.
‘Aunt!’ Mandy whispered.
‘No, it’s a good question,’ he said, quietly amused. ‘He is paying me fifty pounds.’
He could tell from the lady’s expression that the tide wasn’t running in his favour, despite Mandy’s soft admonition. Honesty meant more honesty.
‘I’m tired, Miss Mathison. I often just stay with the ship during dry dock, because I am invariably needed because my ship’s duties are heavy. Scotland is too far to go for Christmas, and besides, my mother is dead and my brothers live in Canada. I…I wanted something different. And, no, I do not need the money. I bank regularly with Brustein and Carter in Plymouth.’ That should be enough financial soundness, even for a careful aunt, he thought.
‘I was rude to ask,’ Sal Mathison said.
‘I rather believe you are careful,’ he replied, then put his hands palm up on the table, petitioning her. ‘Just a quiet place. I don’t even know if you have a room to let.’
Hands in her lap, Aunt Sal looked him in the eye for a long moment and he looked back. This wasn’t a lady to bamboozle, not that he had any skill along those lines. He could only state his case.
‘I don’t drink, beyond a daily issue of grog on board. I don’t smoke, because that is dangerous on a ship. I mind my own business. I am what you see before you and, by God, I am tired.’
He knew without looking that Mandy’s eyes would soften at that, because he was a good study of character, a valuable trait in a master. It was Sal Mathison he had to convince.
Her face softened. ‘Right now, the room is thick in dust. It used to be my mother’s room, Mandy’s grandmama.’ Her eyes narrowed and he knew the matter hinged on the next few seconds. She nodded, and he knew he had won. ‘Two shillings a week—that includes