As much as he would have preferred to avoid Plymouth, Ben Muir accepted the fact that the Royal Mail had its routes. He walked to the Drake, surprising Mrs Fillion, who knew he wasn’t due until after Christmas. She made no comment, but he hadn’t expected any, since he was wearing his sailing-master expression. His quick visit to Brustein and Carter should have sent him out smiling, because his prize money was doing nicely, but it didn’t.

      He walked to the dry dock in Devonport and looked up at the Albemarle as workers swarmed about. The masts were bare of yardarms and rigging, which made the frigate appear as vulnerable as an enemy hulk after Trafalgar. He would bide his time in Scotland for a week or so, then return to supervise what made him so valuable to the fleet. This time, no matter how hard he stared at his ship, all he saw was a barefoot woman standing in sleet.

      He shook his head over the continuous game of whist at the Drake that had been going on since at least the Peace of Amiens. He slept only because a man can’t stay awake more than three days in a row. He woke up tired, and began his mail-coach journey from one end of England to Kirkcudbright on the River Dee, hating himself with every mile.

      He arrived three days later, bleary-eyed and unshaven, at Selkirk Arms, the posting inn with such a view of the river. He wasn’t sure if the landlord recognised him, even though they had gone to grammar school together. Ben was not in the mood for conversation, so he shouldered his duffel like the common seaman he really was and walked home, past MacLellan’s Castle, by St Cuthbert’s and up Church Row to Number Nine.

      His Aunt Claudie opened the door. She stood a moment in shocked silence, then held out her arms to him. ‘Benny, Benny,’ she crooned, apparently not minding his travel smell. ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’

      He knew he had been away too long because he had trouble understanding what she had just said. With some regret, he knew he had tidied up his own brogue so he could be understood aboard ship. The gentle burr of his aunt’s welcome eased his Scotsman’s heart.

      ‘I hadn’t planned to come home,’ he explained, as he let her drag him inside. ‘Where’s t’auld man?’

      ‘Ye’d better sit down, lad,’ she said and pushed him into a chair in the parlour.

      He gave Aunt Claudie a long look, but saw no sorrow there. ‘What has he done?’ he asked.

      ‘He went on a trip to that country,’ she said as she relieved him of his cloak and hat.

      ‘Good God, did he go to Canada and my brothers?’ He couldn’t help shouting.

      ‘Nay, lad, nay, England!’ she exclaimed, her hands over her ears.

      He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. ‘Why, in God’s name?’

      ‘It was something you wrote in your letter. He wouldn’t tell—such a stubborn man is my brother—but don’t you know he left immediately.’

      Ben sat back in the chair, aware of his deep-down exhaustion. What had he ever written in his two letters from Venable of such urgency that would make a seventy-year-old fisherman, retired and comfortable before his own fire, scarper off?

      Aunt Claudie returned his stare with one of her own. ‘Are ye ill, Ben Muir? Is that why?’

      ‘No. Good God, he has never even left the district!’

      ‘Don’t I know? As I remember, he got your last letter, muttered something like, “He’s never done this before and he’s messing up.” He was aboard the mail coach in the morning.’ She gazed at him with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Laddie, ye probably passed each other on the road!’

      In the morning Ben secured a seat on the outgoing mail coach to Plymouth. He had a few minutes, so he reacquainted himself with the innkeeper and sat down to sweetened porridge and tea, vexed and troubled that his sole remaining parent had a peculiar bee in his bonnet.

      He had just finished his tea when the innkeeper brought a letter to his table.

      ‘Ben, last night’s Royal Mail dropped off the mail sack. There’s one addressed to you.’ He chuckled. ‘Likely you rode all the way here with this letter in the mail coach.’

      Mystified, Ben took the letter. As he read, he felt his whole body go numb. Reverend Winslow had begun by apologising for his presumption, then spent a close-written page telling what had happened to the proprietor of Mandy’s Rose and her niece. I thought you should know, the vicar concluded. If I am mistaken in your affections, I do apologise. Yours sincerely…

      Horrified, Ben realised he had badly underestimated Lord Kelso. The mail coach stopping at every town would never be fast enough. He put both hands on the innkeeper’s shoulders. ‘What’s the fastest way I can get to Devon?’

      The innkeeper didn’t flinch. ‘This is a matter of grave national emergency, isn’t it?’

      ‘Without question,’ Ben lied. ‘I’ll trust you not to mention that you even saw me here. Suppose Napoleon’s agents find out? What can I do?’

      ‘Post-chaise,’ the keep replied. ‘Barring snow, you’ll be there in two days.’

      He arrived in three days. No amount of willing the horses to go faster could defeat snow around Carlisle, and then at York. The worst moment came as they rolled into Venable, past a darkened Mandy’s Rose. Bright lights burned everywhere else, making the closed and shuttered tea room appear long-abandoned, as though the last proprietors had left during the War of the Roses. Funny how quickly old buildings—and old ships, for that matter—could appear almost haunted.

      He knew his postmen had tried to do what he demanded, so he paid them liberally and wished them merry Christmas. He stowed his duffel at the posting house and walked to St Luke’s. The vicar would know where Amanda and Sal Mathison had taken themselves. He cursed his stupidity again, resolving to do what he could for the woman he loved, who by now probably wouldn’t speak to him until the twentieth century, if either of them lived that long. And then he had to find his father. For the first time, the blockade of France and Spain sounded almost like going on holiday.

      He