Coming Home for Christmas (9 page)

T
he longboat took Thomas back to the dock and he stood a long time, watching the water and the
Glenmore.
What he wished for so fervently had finally happened—he had been rescued by the Royal Navy. Too bad he did not want to leave San Diego now. He ordered himself not to think of the captain's words, which were making him doubt. Heavens, a Doubting Thomas! But what if Laura really didn't want to leave?

He could have asked anyone in the
pueblo
to give him a donkey ride back up to the
presidio,
but he preferred to punish himself with a long walk. It was a slow journey, because besides feeling sorry for himself, he knew he was duty-bound to look in on his San Diego patients.

He made the mistake of stopping at the mayor's house to check on the man's wife and child and was met with hand kissing and exclamations of joy. Through eyes that threatened to tear up, he saw the San Diegueños as they were: kind people, for the most part, who
had treated him well because he rendered service and learned their language. In their hour of need, he had been there and they would not forget it.

After he had looked at
la señora
's leg—the mayor watched him closely—and checked out the baby, whose only mishap had been a small cut on his forehead, Thomas let the maid bring him a bowl of bean soup. He listened with growing peace and satisfaction as the woman of the house chattered on about the
posada.

“You do not think the earthquake will stop the celebrations?” he asked, a smile on his face.
La señora
had given him her baby to hold.

She laughed and waggled her finger at him. “
Señor!
Have you not lived here long enough to know that we do not postpone parties?”

He had, but he wanted to let her have the last word. “Let's see: Maria and José will go from house to house and then an innkeeper will finally let them enter?” he asked. “I forget.”

She was generous with his stupidity and waggled that finger again. “You are a tease,
señor!
You have seen our
posadas.
I wonder that Laura Ortiz tolerates you.”

So do I,
he thought, reminded of his troubles.

Saying her name had reminded the mayor's wife, as well. She was silent a long moment, looking down at her leg that Laura had bandaged so expertly. “
Señor,
we may have been wrong about Laura Ortiz.”

He could have cried with relief. Thank God the
pueblo
had seen his wife's worth, as she had labored at his side without a murmur, all that terrible day of the earthquake, helping the very people who had wanted nothing to do with her.

“She is a kind lady,” he said simply. “Whatever her father's faults, they are not hers.”

La Señora
nodded, the color high in her handsome face. “We were hasty. I am sorry.” She leaned closer. “In fact, after you went to the ship, I visited Señora Ortiz. I apologized, on behalf of all San Diego.”

“That is kind of you,
señora,
” Thomas said. “I am certain it meant a lot to her.”

She nodded and took the baby from him. “I also told her that when the ship sails, she is welcome to stay with us.”

If the mayor's wife had suddenly brained him with a stick of firewood, Thomas couldn't have felt worse. “Oh, but—” he began.

It was his night to be overridden in every conversation, apparently. The mayor's wife looked at him kindly. “
Señor,
what kind of a life would she have, so far from her own kind? I assured her it was for the best.” She laid a hand on his sleeve. “You can sail without worrying about your wife. Never fear; we will take care of her here, where she belongs.”

He mumbled something then about seeing his other patients and left the house, blinded by tears. Had Laura agreed to stay? He had to know.

The night was cool in that pleasant way of San Diego that he knew could never be duplicated in Dumfries. With a feeling close to pain, he realized how much he would miss this fair land, this paradise that could turn treacherous when the earth shook. There was no question of remaining behind, because he was a warrant officer in the Royal Navy who had been rescued by HMS
Glenmore.
His country was still at war with France, and now with the upstart United States—
heavens, would it never end? All he wanted to do now was survive the war with Laura, the woman he adored, resign his warrant and practice surgery with his father in Dumfries. The dear man had probably been writing him a Christmas letter for years now; if God was good, he was still alive.

Thomas walked faster. He wanted to teach Laura how to grow roses in Dumfries, deliver their children and grow old with her, his Spanish darling. Was he asking so much? Was there a point at which war paled in the face of love? He doubted it supremely, but he hoped.

 

He thought she might be asleep, but she was still sitting in the canvas chair beside Ralph Gooding's bed. He stood silently in the open doorway, listening to the dying man's labored, irregular breathing. He hated it when patients died, but as he stood there, leaning against the doorframe now, he heard the quiet click of Laura's rosary. He closed his eyes as the sound soothed him.

After a moment, he opened his eyes, startled to see Laura's level gaze appraising him. She had been crying, but her gaze was calm. In another moment he was on his knees, his head in her lap. She smoothed his hair, murmuring something that might not have even been words.

“Laura, I know the mayor's wife visited you and made you an offer,” he said into her lap.

“She did,” Laura whispered. “I told her I would think about it.” Her fingers were gentle in his hair. “I don't have to think about it, though.”

“I love you.”

Her hand stopped. “Is that the wisest thing you ever did?” she asked, after a long pause.

Heartbroken, he knew then he had lost. He opened his mouth to say something, anything. He was overridden again, this time by Ralph Gooding.

“Laddie.”

Thomas raised his head from Laura's lap. Still on his knees, he rested his elbows on Ralph's bed. “Right here,” he said distinctly, in command of himself again because he was a surgeon first, even as his own life crumbled like the nave in San Juan Capistrano.

“I tried to teach her. Not enough time.”

Puzzled, Thomas shook his head. “I'm sorry, Ralph.”

The carpenter smiled. He closed his eyes. “You worry too much.”

Thomas shook his head again. The man was making no sense at all. All things considered, this was hardly surprising. Death had come knocking and never liked to be ignored for long.

He sat back on his heels, loving this patient of his, this carpenter in the Royal Navy who had sailed on many a ship through many an ocean. He had never complained or mourned his lot, even as he suffered and faded. And here he was, thousands of miles from his home. Or was he? Thomas turned his head and looked out through the open door. The earthquake had crumbled a portion of the wall. Even though it was dark, and he couldn't see it, San Diego Bay was down there; the
Glenmore
rode at anchor, and the sea was home to the likes of Ralph Gooding.

Thomas turned back to his patient, forgetful that his wife was even in the room. He raised up on his knees
and kissed Ralph Gooding's cheek. “Do you want to be buried at sea? I can easily arrange it.”

He thought for a moment that he was too late, until the labored breathing began again. “No, laddie. Find me a pretty place here. Shouldn't be hard.”

Thomas nodded. “I wish I could have cured you,” he whispered.

“Ah, well. I've had a good time.”

Thomas sat on the bed, taking Ralph's hand in his. The carpenter's breath started and stopped several times, then he opened his eyes and looked at Laura, who had pulled the canvas chair closer.

“Laddie, tell her in Spanish…”

“Tell her what?” Thomas asked gently, when the breathing resumed.

“To sing the song. You wanted to hear an English carol and I taught her.” A bubbling sound came from his ruined throat. “No time.”

Thomas looked at his wife and repeated Ralph's request in Spanish. Her eyes turned into deep pools of sorrow.

“I didn't learn it all,
señor.
The earthquake got in the way.”

“Sing what you know,” Thomas said, still mystified. “He doesn't have long.”

“He taught me for you,” Laura said. “He knew you were homesick and wanted to be away from here. He wanted me to sing it on Christmas Day.”

“You need to sing it now,” he said softly. “For Ralph.”

She rose gracefully to her feet. She went into their sitting room. He heard her rummaging around in the blue cupboard he had bought on a whim, almost as
impulsive as their marriage. In a moment he heard the snap of castanets.

“I've never heard a Christmas carol with castanets,” he murmured to Ralph.

“Hush. Enjoy the moment,” his patient said. “Raise me up.”

Thomas did as he was asked. He looked at his patient, seven-eighths dead, and went to the cabinet where he kept the rum. He poured a small glass for Ralph, even though he doubted the man could swallow. He couldn't, but Ralph opened his eyes and licked the rum off his lips.

“We did this for you, laddie,” Ralph said. He waved his index finger to a beat only he could hear.

Laura nodded. She cleared her throat and looked down modestly, then up at Thomas. She hummed a note, clicked her castanets, then sang. Her voice was sweet, her English fractured.

He knew the tune at once, thinking of a midnight on deck in the Arctic when he had sung that very carol to a thoroughly bored tern that had happened to land nearby, forced down by freezing rain. It had been Christmas then, too, one of many he had spent at sea.

He wanted to laugh out loud, but he knew his wife well enough to know that would be the wrong thing, especially since her expression was so earnest.

As Ralph watched, a half-smile on his face, she sang it again with more assurance—but no better English—
employing a syncopated chatter with the castanets that would have astounded any British choirmaster. She added a solemn little dance that looked more Spanish than Mexican to Thomas, but which made him smile.

“I don't know any more, Tomás,” she told him.

“Well, accompany
me
then, my lady,” Thomas said, and began to sing. “‘And what was in those ships all three, on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day? And what was in those ships all three, on Christmas Day in the morning.'”

Laura twinkled her eyes at him then, and he felt his spirits rise. “‘The Virgin Mary and Christ were there,'” he sang and nodded at her.

“‘Own Creesmus Dye, own Creesmus Dye,'” she sang.

They went through the whole carol that way, to the syncopated click of Laura's castanets, ending up in each other's arms, laughing.

“My love, say you won't stay here, when the
Glenmore
sails,” he asked, his lips in her hair.

His love gave an unladylike snort, not something one expected of a hidalgo's daughter. “Did that old prune tell you I was staying?” she asked. “As if I would let you sail without me!” She dropped the castanets, put both hands on his face and kissed him soundly. When her lips were barely separated from his, she asked, “Will I like Scotland?”

He gathered her close. “I rather think you will.”

They both stopped then and looked at Ralph. Laura sighed and turned her face into his chest. Thomas kissed her hair and tightened his grip on her. “Well, Ralph, we sang you out,” he murmured. “‘Own Creesmus Dye ta ta dum dum.'”

With tears they laid the carpenter out, washing his wasted body and dressing him in a clean nightshirt. Thomas shrouded him and wrapped him tight, then summoned two of the kitchen help to carry Ralph Gooding to the deadhouse. In the morning, he would make arrangements with Father Hilario and the
presidio
's captain to find a good place for a man who had sailed the seven seas and died far from home.

He sat a moment with Ralph in the deadhouse. He had fulfilled his final obligation to the HMS
Splendid
and to Hippocrates himself, in this distant land. It was time to go home, after he had dragged the
Glenmore
's young surgeon through some cleansing surgery in the back country, tending Kumeyaay. He stood in the doorway a moment more, looking at the shrouded man. He gave a small salute.

 

He hoped Laura would not think it strange if he reached for her even before he had blown out the candle, later that night. She must not have minded, because she was raising her nightgown over her head even before he closed the door to the
sala.
They made wordless love, assuaging their sorrow, celebrating their marriage, and planning for a future. Warm and drowsy, she cuddled close to him, her leg thrown over his thigh, running her foot down his shin.

“Laura, after Ralph's funeral, Surgeon Fletcher and I will be going into the back country to check on the more remote
pueblos.
”

“He is a foolish man,” she said with that former superior air of hers that he had been missing.

“True. In a few days, I will bring him back here much wiser.” Thomas kissed her sweaty hair. “Perhaps
you can arrange with the mayor's wife for us to be the innkeepers for that final posada on the 24th.”

“We can welcome in Maria and José?” she asked, kissing his chest. “You and I, who have no home?”

“Who better than us?” He patted her hip. “And then we will have to sail on Creesmus Dye.”

“You're making fun of me,” she said, softening her accusation by running her tongue inside his ear.