Marrying the Captain. Carla Kelly
in Lyme Regis. Didn’t he say something about a vicar’s daughter?”
“She’s the daughter of a solicitor, sir,” Mr. Proudy answered. “Dorie, I believe. Thank you again, sir.”
Oliver watched him go. Dorie, eh? he thought. Why on earth did I let all the Dories of the world pass me by? Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have given his mates’ personal lives a second thought. He blamed his new frame of reference on Lord Ratliffe’s miniature, and that curious axis shift at Admiralty House.
He nooned with Childers over a bowl of soup, then realized he had to return to his bed at the Mulberry. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he told the shipwright. “If you have any questions, ask Mr. Ramseur.”
Even though his ears throbbed and his throat felt as though it was trapped in a vise, Oliver directed the hackney to Drake’s Inn first. All I want is information, he excused himself. I’ve known Mrs. Fillion for enough years to appreciate how much she likes to gossip. I will have to question her carefully, though.
He told the hackney driver to wait for him. He found Mrs. Fillion in the kitchen, staring glumly at her account book. She brightened when she saw him.
“Is the Mulberry not to your liking?” she asked. “They do need the trade.”
“So do you, madam,” he replied, sitting down. “Tough times ahead.”
She turned worried eyes on him. “We’ll fare all right, sir. Are you comfortable enough at the Mulberry?”
“I am,” he replied. “The Massies are seeing to my needs.” He leaned closer, pleased to see Mrs. Fillion do the same. “Pete Carter has fixed me a wicked brew for my throat, and Miss Massie seemed determined to keep the fire stoked to healing levels.” He shook his head. “It’s Gran that fair terrifies me.”
Mrs. Fillion laughed. “She’s an ogre, is Nancy Massie.” She leaned closer again. “If it weren’t for her, I can’t imagine what would have happened to Nana.”
Oliver didn’t have to say anything. He just raised his eyebrows.
“Nancy’s daughter, Rachel, was a flighty piece. She caught the fancy of a lieutenant. What happened to Rachel has happened to women in port the world over.” She looked at him knowingly.
“Ah, yes” was all he needed to say to restart Mrs. Fillion.
The innkeep lowered her voice. “Rachel had the bad fortune to die in childbirth. I don’t know how Nancy did it, but she held that lieutenant to some level of accountability.”
“That’s rare.”
“It is.” Mrs. Fillion shrugged. “I wouldn’t care to stand in front of Nancy Massie when she has an ax to grind. Somehow, a deal was struck. The baby’s father would see to her education, and then provide her with a meaningful opportunity.”
“Which didn’t happen, obviously, because she’s back in Plymouth.”
Mrs. Fillion nodded. “Five years ago, Nana came home on the mail coach from Bath. No one has said why.”
And you can’t worm it out of Gran, Oliver thought. This must be a tight secret indeed. And you don’t appear to know who that lieutenant was. He couldn’t deny his own disappointment at Mrs. Fillion’s news, which enlightened him no more than Lord Ratliffe had. He still didn’t know why Nana had bolted for Plymouth.
“At least Miss Massie has her grandmama,” he said, leaning back so he felt less like a co-conspirator.
“Gran’s a fierce protector,” the innkeep said. “So’s that old Pete.”
“A regular Scylla and Charybdis,” Oliver murmured.
“Are they Frogs?” Mrs. Fillion asked.
“Even worse. Greeks.”
“So Nana has returned to Plymouth. Lord knows if she will ever leave it.”
“No dowry, I gather?”
“Heavens, no!” Mrs. Fillion sighed, then gave him a knowing look. “A pretty face can get a woman a career in Plymouth, eh, Captain? But not Nana—a rich man’s by-blow, and not quite a lady.”
“She’s very much a lady,” Oliver said firmly. He couldn’t overlook the calculating look that suddenly came into Mrs. Fillion’s eyes, and hastened to neutralize it. “But it’s a pity, I agree. What can she hope for?”
“Not much. And what a pity! Such a pretty child. She always came with her gran to the market. I can still see her hurrying to keep up. Even the fishmongers gave her little treats, and you know what a rough lot they are!”
He could imagine Nana Massie captivating her Plymouth audience. For the tiniest moment, he wondered how nice it would be to take a little daughter or son on board the Tireless and introduce them to his watery world. He could hold a small son up to the wheel and let him think he was helmsman.
His mind was wandering; it was time to leave the Drake and go to bed. “Times are tough,” he repeated. He stood up. “Gran still calls her Nana?”
“We all do. When she was a baby, she couldn’t say ‘Eleanor.’ I suppose she was Eleanor at that la-di-dah school in Bath, but what good did that do?”
What good, indeed. He returned to the waiting hackney.
As they traveled up South Hoe, he noticed the wigmaker’s shop on the corner of Lambhay. Surely a town the size of Plymouth only had one such business, especially now that men were inclined to exhibit their own hair, and not rely on someone else’s.
He told the driver to wait, and went inside. A bell announced his presence and a bald man came out from the back room. Oliver had to suppress a smile when the man’s eyes went right to his hair, studied it, then glanced away, disappointed.
“I’m not a customer,” Oliver said.
Here was the dilemma. He wasn’t a man to lie, but he was curious about something. “My… my father is sensitive about hair loss, and I thought I would inquire into wigs.”
The proprietor launched into a rhapsodic description of all he could do. Oliver felt uncomfortable for his lie, but he had ventured this far, so he might as well continue.
He listened and asked a few questions about the wigmaking process itself. “And where does the hair come from? Do you… do you have any hair here I could look at?”
He did. The man reached under the counter and brought out two long hanks of hair—one blond and the other Nana’s. He had to resist the urge to run his hand down the length of it, auburn hair more brown than red, but with deep copper tones. It nearly took his breath away. Or maybe that was his putrid throat; hard to say.
“Go ahead,” the wigmaker urged. “Touch it.”
Oliver ran his hand over the hair, then combed his fingers through it, unable to resist. He suddenly wondered what it would look like, spread upon a pillow, still attached to its former owner. He had to remind himself his damned occupation had rendered him immune to females.
“That’s beautiful,” he said at last, reluctantly removing his hands from the dark mass. “What do you pay for hair like that?”
The wigmaker ran his own fingers through the slightly curling locks. “Usually I give eight to ten shillings for hair this length.” His eyes looked troubled then.
“And?” Oliver prompt ed.
“I paid a pound.” The wigmaker shook his head. “I tried to talk her out of cutting it. Imagine that. She told me to go ahead, they needed the money.” He returned the hair to his drawer. “She cried when I finished.”
“I can imagine,” Oliver murmured. He had to leave, not so much because of his throat this time, but because he couldn’t stand the sadness. “Let me ask my father what he thinks about a wig. Good day,