It Happened One Christmas: Christmas Eve Proposal / The Viscount's Christmas Kiss / Wallflower, Widow...Wife!

She set down the plate and smiled as he poured a flood of gravy over the pudding. A cut and a bite was followed by a beatific expression. Nothing made Mandy happier than to see pleasure writ so large on a diner’s face. She wanted to sit down and ask him some questions, but Aunt Sal had raised her better.

Or had she? Before she realised what had happened, she was sitting across from him at the small table. She made to rise, astounded at her brazen impulse, but he waved her back down with his knife and gave her an enquiring look.

‘Where are my manners, you are likely wondering?’ she said.

‘I could see a question in your eyes,’ he said. ‘Ask away, as long as you don’t mind if I keep eating. I’m used to questions at sea.’

He had a lovely accent, Mandy decided, and she could understand him now. How that had happened in ten minutes, she didn’t know. ‘It’s this, sir—I was wondering about your uniform. I know you’re not a common seaman, but I don’t see an overabundance of gold and folderol on your blue coat.’ She smiled, which for some reason made him smile. ‘Are you a Quaker officer of some sort and must be plain?’

He set down his knife and fork, threw back his head and laughed. Mandy put her hands to her mouth and laughed along with him, because it was contagious.

‘Oh, my,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll have to share that in the wardroom, miss…miss.’

‘Mandy Mathison,’ she said.

‘You’re Mandy’s Rose?’ he asked, as he returned to the dripping pudding.

‘I am! My name is Amanda, but Aunt Sal has always called me Mandy. She scolded me one day when I was two and pulled up a handful of roses, then cried because of the thorns.’

‘An early lesson, lass, is that roses have thorns.’

‘So true. When she leased this building and started the tea room, she named it for me. But, sir, you haven’t answered my question.’

‘I’m hungry,’ he said and Mandy knew she had overstepped her courtesy. She started to rise again and he waved her down again. ‘I’m senior warrant officer on the Albemarle, a forty-five frigate. Forty-five guns,’ he explained, interpreting her look. ‘It’s only been in the last three years that we masters have had uniforms.’ He held up one arm. ‘This is the 1807 model. I hear the newer ones have a bit of that folderol on the sleeves now.’

‘I shouldn’t have called it that,’ she said. ‘What do you do?’

He chewed and swallowed, looking around. Mandy leaped up and hurried into the kitchen again, returning with the pitcher of water and a glass.

‘I forgot.’ She poured him a drink.

He drank it down without stopping. He held out the glass again and he did the same. He let out a most satisfied sound, somewhere between a sigh and a burp, which made the vicar turn around.

‘We drink such poor water on blockade.’ He picked up his knife and fork again and made short work of the dripping pudding. Mandy returned to the kitchen with empty plates from other diners and came back with that healthy slab of roast and more gravy, setting it before him with a flourish, because Aunt Sal had arranged the carrots just so.

‘Sit,’ he said, as he tackled the roast beef. After a few bites, he took another drink. ‘I’m in charge of all navigation, from the sails and rigging, to how the cargo is placed in the hold, to ballast. Everything that affects the ship’s trim is my business.’

‘I’m amazed you can get away from your ship at all,’ Mandy said. She hesitated and he gave her that enquiring look. ‘Are you going home for Christmas?’

‘Too far, lass.’ He leaned back and gave her an appraising look. ‘Do you know Venable well?’

‘Lived here all my life.’

‘In a weak, weak moment, I agreed to help Thomas Walthan cram for his lieutenancy examinations.’ He lowered his voice. ‘He’s a fool, is Tommy, and this will be his fourth try. I’ll be here three weeks, then it’s back to Plymouth and those sails and riggings I mentioned. Do you know the Walthans?’

Oh, did she. Mandy decided that after this meal she would probably never see the sailing master again, but he didn’t need to know everything. ‘They’re the gentry around here. His father is Lord Kelso, an earl.’ She couldn’t help her smile. ‘Thomas can’t pass his tests?’

The master shook his head. ‘I fear there’s a small brain careening around in that head. My captain wants him to pass and promote himself right out of the Albemarle.’

He returned to his meal and she cleared away the dishes from the last group of diners, the vicar and his wife, who came in every day at noon.

‘I believe you’re flirting with him,’ the vicar’s wife whispered, as Mandy helped the old dear into her coat. ‘You’ll recall any number of sermons from the pulpit about navy men.’

Mandy nodded, hoping the master hadn’t overheard. She glanced at him and saw how merry his eyes were. He had overheard.

‘I’ll be so careful,’ Mandy whispered in her ear as she opened the door.

Reverend Winslow took a long look at the master and frowned.

Now the dining room was empty, except for the sailing master, who worked his way steadily through the roast, saving the carrots for last. When he thought she wasn’t looking, he spooned down the last of the gravy.

‘Is there anything else I can get you?’ she asked, determined to wrap herself in what shreds of professionalism remained, after her battery of questions.

‘What else is in your kitchen?’ he asked.

‘Just a custard and my Aunt Sal,’ she replied, which made him laugh.

‘How about some custard? Maybe I can chat with your aunt later.’

She returned to the kitchen, just in time to see Aunt Sal step back from the door.

‘I’ve been peeking. He’s a fine-looking fellow and that is an odd tattoo,’ Sal whispered. ‘He certainly can pack away food.’

‘I don’t think life on the blockade is blessed with anything resembling cuisine. He’d like some custard.’

Aunt Sal spooned out another massive portion, thought a moment, then a more dainty one. ‘You 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.’