That was the cork out of the bottle. Mincing no words, she told of someone named Mrs Dalton totally misunderstanding a simple early-morning hug on the front step, and spreading the news to the rest of her neighbours. The whole thing was so ridiculous that his first instinct was to laugh. A look at Anna, close to tears, stopped him from being a complete idiot.
‘You mean…oh, you couldn’t possibly mean… Mrs. Dalton thinks you and I are involved in a…a…clandestine affair?’ he managed to choke out.
‘Plainly put, sir, she saw you coming out of my house in the early morning, and assumed… Well, you can imagine.’
He could. ‘Miss Fontaine, I am so sorry. Surely we can explain…’
‘I’ve tried. She won’t even open her door to me. And the other neighbours…’ She shuddered. ‘They turn away when I see them.’ She stood and paced the length of the room, stopping in front of him. ‘What’s worse is she also tattled to the curate, and he paid me a visit, too.’
‘Thecurate?’
‘He inflicted himself on our parish several months ago. Our old vicar, a most sensible man, is not doing well, and Reverend Maddy is a substitute,’ she told him, her irritation evident in her whole demeanour.
John leaned back. ‘Now you will tell me that he didn’t believe a word of your explanation, preferring to assume the worst.’
‘Obviously I don’t have to tell you that.’ She sank down on the sofa beside him. ‘I ordered him out of my house.’
It all sounded so trivial to him, so easily explained, and so far removed from his usual occupation that he still wanted to laugh, and tell her the whole thing would blow over. He took her hand instead.
‘Miss Fontaine, as I already mentioned, I must leave tomorrow afternoon. I have no opportunity to make other arrangements for my son.’
The mention of Allan seemed to settle her, which he found touching beyond belief. If she had opened the door weeks ago on a hissing snake and invited it inside, she would have been better off than she was now, with her neighbours disapproving, and a self-righteous curate ready to pounce.
‘I know I am taxing you to the limit. Dare I hope that my boy may remain here?’
‘Certainly he may,’ she said promptly. ‘I like Allan.’ She turned to face him, giving him an up-close view of a pretty face with freckles on her nose. He hadn’t noticed them before; then again, he hadn’t been so close except for that pernicious embrace.
‘Captain Beattie, I’ve managed to live for twenty-nine years calling no attention to myself. I’ve done nothing wrong. Could you speak with the curate?’
‘Consider it done,’ he said. ‘I still must leave by tomorrow’s tide. I may be gone a month or more. Miss Fontaine, my life is not my own, but I will speak to the curate.’
‘Early church is at eight o’ clock.’
‘We will go and I will talk to him afterwards.’ He shouldn’t have, but he gave her a little nudge, something he might do to Allan. ‘It will work out.’
To say that his sleep that night was sweet and deep would be a gross exaggeration, beyond the fact that Allan was a little furnace and he was warm. He slept finally, hopeful that a man of God would understand.
Chapter Ten
When he woke, John had to admire the efficiency of Miss Fontaine’s well-run household. Pru brought in hot water, after a light tap on the door. When he sat up, she curtsied. ‘Miss Fontaine knows you want to shave.’
‘She is right. Wake up, my boy. We’re getting ready for church!’
Trust Pru. ‘Get up, Allan. Time’s a-wasting, and you know how Missy feels about that!’
So it’s Missy for Pru as well, is it?he thought, as Pru closed the door and Allan woke up.
He looked at his timepiece. Had he really slept eight hours? In a row? He stripped, put a bath sheet around his waist, and lathered up his face. He savoured the simplicity of shaving on a deck that didn’t pitch or yaw. He glanced at Allan, who sat up in bed watching him, his eyes lively.
‘Papa, will I be able to do that some day?’
‘Aye, you will grow whiskers, laddie,’ he said, touched to the depth of his heart as he remembered doing exactly what his son was doing, this little boy he saw so seldom.
John dressed carefully, wishing his uniform wasn’t so shabby, then helped Allan into his clothes. ‘We look as fine as five pence,’ he told his son. ‘I think I smell breakfast.’
John laughed as his boy darted out of the door and down the stairs. He followed at a more dignified pace, smiling to see Anna in the corridor.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I could wish my uniform weren’t so worn, but I somehow have no time to see a tailor.’
