Regency Christmas Wishes: Captain Grey's Christmas Proposal / Her Christmas Temptation / Awakening His Sleeping Beauty. Christine Merrill
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its ships and confiscating British crewmen.
‘No, sir, no war,’ Jem said. ‘I simply need to place an advertisement.’
‘Good thing you came this week, Captain,’ Hollinsworth said with a shake of his head. ‘I am laying out the final issue. No one in this Godforsaken town reads.’
‘Really? It appears to be a prosperous place.’
‘Perhaps I am hasty. Commerce here is conducted on the wharf, in the cotton exchange, at the slave auctions and in the taverns, without benefit of newspapers,’ Hollinsworth said. ‘I am not mistaken when I suspect that these...these...let’s call them Southerners...don’t trust anyone not from here.’
‘Where are you from?’ Jem asked.
‘Somewhere a ways to the west of here. Considerably west,’ Mr Hollinsworth said, with a vague gesture.
‘I’ve heard Southerners like to duel at the drop of a hat,’ Jem said, half in jest.
Hollinsworth shook a pudgy finger in Jem’s face. ‘You’ve never seen happy-triggered men so devoted to honour! Don’t run afoul of them!’
‘I shan’t, sir,’ Jem said, still amused. ‘About an ad...’
‘I can arrange it,’ the printer or editor or whatever he was said. ‘Soon enough, I will blow the dust of Savannah off my shoes. Do have a seat. I am so overcome by the idea that someone wants to place an ad that I must sit down, too.’
‘You mentioned slave auctions,’ Jem said, and felt his stomach lurch. Amazing that he could live through years of war and typhoons with nary a flinch in his gut. He knew his sailors referred to him as Iron Belly. Good thing they didn’t know how he felt right now, thinking of slaves and high bidders, and Teddy somewhere in between.
‘A travesty, those auctions,’ Hollinsworth said with a shake of his head. ‘Imagine it—a Yankee named Eli Whitney, invented a machine to take the seeds from cotton bolls. Now everyone is rushing to plant more, increasing the need for slaves.’ He gave a bleak look. ‘But you didn’t come here on slave business, did you?’
‘No,’ Jem lied. ‘Years ago, I spent a few months in Charleston, nearly dead of malaria. A young lady nursed me back to health. I hear she lives in Savannah now, and I want to find her.’
That was enough information for a fat little printer with inky hands, Jem decided. Besides, it was mostly true. He had no trouble looking Hollinsworth in the eyes.
What he saw smiling back at him was difficult to comprehend. If he hadn’t known better, he would have suspected that this man he had just met saw right through his careful words and into his heart, that organ many a midshipman would have sworn he did not possess. What in the world? Jem thought, then dismissed his sudden feeling of vulnerability as the drivel it was. He folded his arms and stared back. ‘I will pay you well.’
‘Enough for passage to Boston, like you?’ Hollinsworth said with a wink.
Do you know something about me? Jem thought, startled again. ‘That seems a little high. If you are reasonable, I will be generous.’
Hollinsworth slapped the table between them and the dust rose in clouds. Jem sneezed again. ‘Oops! I can be reasonable.’
He named a small sum, which confirmed Jem’s suspicions that Osgood N. Hollinsworth was a right jolly fellow, and liked to tease even potential clients. ‘That will be fine,’ he said, and took the few coins from the change purse in his coat.
A sheet of paper and pencil stub seemed to materialize from thin air while Jem was blinking his eyes from the dust.
‘What do you wish me to write?’ the publisher said. ‘Maybe something like, ‘Where are you...insert name? Captain James Grey wants to know. Inquire at the Times and Tides on Bay Street.’ Insert name?’
‘Theodora Winnings,’ Jem said and tucked away his handkerchief. ‘Could you run it in big letters?’
‘I can and will,’ Hollinsworth said promptly. ‘There isn’t much news this week, beyond a warning from the mayor about hogs running loose, and a notice about two escaped slaves.’
‘That will do,’ Jem said as he rose, eager to leave this dusty shop before he sneezed again. ‘Now to breakfast.’
‘And I to work,’ Hollinsworth said. ‘The broadside will be distributed tomorrow. You might wish to walk around Savannah and admire what happens when a town is laid out in an orderly fashion. It’s quite unlike your port of Plymouth.’
‘How do you know where I...’
Hollinsworth shrugged, and looked at Jem with that same piercing but kind glance. ‘A lucky guess, Captain Grey. The ham, biscuits and gravy next door are superb, and you might discover an affinity for hominy grits. Good day to you.’
Osgood N. Hollinsworth had been correct about the ham, biscuits and gravy. Nearly in pain from over-indulgence, Jem pushed himself away from the table and paid his bill of fare.
Over the next few days, he realised Hollinsworth had also been right about Savannah, a pretty river town laid out in leafy squares. He came to admire the deep porches and understood their necessity. Summers here were probably blistering hot and drenched with humidity. In the deep shadows of the verandas he saw overhead fans, probably set in motion by the children of slaves doing what they were ordered to do. He couldn’t help wondering if Teddy had ever been ordered to fan folks too.
But it was almost Christmas, so the fans remained motionless. He walked, admired the buildings, and breathed deep of magnolia wreaths on many a door of home and business alike. It was far cry from his memories of Boston at Christmas, with wreaths of holly and bayberry, hardy enough to withstand the aching cold. The heady fragrance of magnolia blossoms seemed to reach out to the boardwalk and grab him unaware.
He watched the faces of the city’s workers, wondering if he would recognise Teddy Winnings if he saw her. Would she recognise him? A man who stares day after day into a shaving mirror can probably be forgiven if he thinks he has not changed much. For one thing, Jem knew he looked healthier than the pale, shaking malaria-ridden specimen Teddy had tended. He had put on sufficient weight and heft to give himself more of an air of command. Eleven years had done that, too.
His own curly hair was scarcely visible under his hat, mainly because his habits kept it short. He was a man grown, tested and experienced, not a lieutenant just beginning to understand mortality, and think about dangers ahead. Age could do that; so did war.
When the broadside came out the day after he bought his ad, Jem had been suitably impressed with Hollinsworth’s effort. The twenty-word plea ran across the bottom of the single page in bold letters impossible to miss. Would anyone read it was the question.
In his anxiety to find Teddy without knowing how to do so, he began a little daily commentary to the Almighty, that unknown personage he had been addressing as Sir for years. He acknowledged the absurdity of it, but found himself comforted.
Several days passed. In the print shop where no one ever came, Mr Hollinsworth displayed in the window what he insisted was still the last broadside he intended to publish in Savannah. Jem watched for the small stack to diminish as readers put down their pennies, but it remained the same height, to his discomfort. This was no way to find Theodora Winnings, and so he told Mr Hollinsworth, who took his sharp comments in stride.
‘I’ve distributed my broadsides in the squares, too,’ the little man said serenely. ‘Be patient.’
Jem honestly tried to be patient, going so far as to sit in the back of Christ Church in Johnson Square, the oldest of the squares, according to a shoeshine boy who gave his boots a lick and a promise each day. A choir rehearsed in Christ Church in the evenings, preparing for Christmas services, or so he gathered from their repertory. After