Regency Christmas Wishes. Carla Kelly

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      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 supper in the Marlborough Dining Room, he walked the short distance to Johnson Square to listen.

      He sat there long enough each night to be greeted eventually by the singers, then asked to join them. He demurred at first, well-acquainted with his own voice. In their polite Southern way, which was beginning to nestle comfortably under his skin, they asked each night until he agreed. By the middle of the second week in Savannah, he attended choir practice three nights a week.

      By the end of that week, he also knew his feeble and puny enterprise had failed. How much longer could he stay in this beguiling place remained open to doubt. He had the means to stay for months, but not the inclination. A strange homing instinct was drawing him north toward Massachusetts. He wanted nothing more than to walk those familiar streets and think about his life’s direction, something he hadn’t questioned in years, but which now loomed large in his agile brain.

      He owned to traitorous feelings, if such they were. Why was a respected post captain in the Royal Navy even for the tiniest moment considering a more permanent connection with the United States? He should know better, but he liked it here and America was compelling him to stay. It’s complicated, he thought, as he listened to Christmas music, walked the streets and squares of a beguiling little city, and wondered about himself as much as he wondered about Teddy Winnings.

      The day came when he knew it was pointless to remain any longer in Savannah. He sat on the side of his bed and silently informed ‘Sir’ in his now-daily commentary that it was time to move on.

      I certainly bear you no ill will, sir, he thought or prayed. He never could decide which it was. It was a long-odds chance. I know how busy you are at this season, when I suspect many people who pray more than I do want things. I wish it had worked out. Thanks for listening...if you did.

      The day was warm and sunny, much as the day before, and probably as the day after would be. He took his time sauntering to the wharf, breathing in the familiar odour of tarred rope and maritime paint. He waited his turn at the coastal shipping office, aware of his difference among these soft-spoken, slow-moving, congenial folk.

      He inquired about a passage north and was informed that he could leave this afternoon on the Charleston coaster, or hang around until the end of the week for a larger vessel being loaded now with cotton and contracted for a Baltimore destination. He decided upon Baltimore. He could take a coach or private conveyance north from there to Boston.

      Dissatisfied, unhappy, he walked around that day, stayed awake at night staring at the ceiling.

      Tired of his own company and wishing he had cared enough to bathe and shave, he stood on the veranda of the Arundel in the morning, looked toward the print shop and saw her.

      Certain he was mistaken, Jem squinted his eyes shut and rubbed the lids. Almost afraid to look, he opened them, and knew the woman across the street, standing there with a broadside in her hand, was Theodora Winnings.

      He remained where he was, rooted to the spot, certain she would disappear if he took one step closer. She wore a drab dress, unlike the pretty muslins he remembered. Her hair was invisible under a blue bandanna wrapped around and knotted high on her forehead. He had seen this head covering on slaves in Charleston and Savannah. She was slimmer than he remembered, which told him all he needed to know about her hard life. Holding his breath, he looked down and saw bare feet.

      ‘Good God, Teddy,’ he whispered, then addressed his silent partner. ‘Sir, why didn’t anyone take care of her?’

      It was my job, he told himself. He walked toward the woman he knew he still loved, no matter her circumstances, her race, her current matrimonial status, her anything.

      ‘Theodora,’ he said, when he was halfway across the street.

      The woman had been staring down at the broadside, and then looking at the dilapidated print shop, as if wondering what she was doing there.

      Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Teddy. He cleared his throat and spoke louder. ‘Theodora Winnings.’

      Honest to God, if he didn’t feel his heart pound like a drum when she looked at him. He stood still in the middle of the street, barely mindful of a carter cursing at him to move. He gave a don’t-bother-me wave of his hand to the driver but consciously willed himself to move.

      She stared at him, holding the broadside in front of her as if to shield her body. Slowly she raised it to cover her face, which broke his heart.

      He stood right in front of her now. Silently he took the broadside and pulled it away from her face. ‘Teddy,’ he said. ‘Teddy. I owe you such an apology.’

      Now that he looked at her, really looked at her honestly, without any of his malaria fever dreams, he could see the smallest trace of Africa. His recent weeks in Savannah had accustomed him to the beautiful shades of dark brown, barely brown, and Teddy’s own creamy complexion found on the kindly, patient people who waited on his table, changed his sheets, and ironed his shirts.

      ‘Lieutenant Grey?’ she asked, her voice as musical as ever.

      He smiled. ‘Captain Grey, actually, Miss Winnings, like it says in the broadside,’ he told her. ‘I grew a little smarter and achieved some rank.’

      He wanted her to smile because she looked so serious, with sorrow writ large that he knew was his fault, because he had failed her.

      To his dismay, she did not smile. Her shoulders drooped. ‘I should have told you,’ she said simply, and turned to go.

      He reached for her, but she was quicker. ‘You don’t want to make a scene here,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Believe me, you do not.’

      He lowered his hand. ‘Why did you come then?’

      ‘I had to see you, Captain Grey,’ she said and took a deep breath. ‘Now I’ve seen you.’

      ‘But I...’ He saw the tears on her face as she kept backing away.

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’

      ‘Sir, this is not fair,’ he said out loud. ‘Not at all.’

      She looked around, as if wondering to whom he spoke, when the door to the print shop banged open and Osgood N. Hollinsworth stood there glowering.

      ‘Get in here right now, Teddy! Your mistress promised me a day’s work!’

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