Page 6 of A Christmas Love Redeemed
‘He said his name was Fabien Brassard,’ Hannah said.
Her mother kneeled down beside the wounded sailor and turned back his uniform jacket. Seeing the ugly splinter of wood, she grimaced.
‘He’s a problem, that’s what he is.’ Her hand went to her throat. ‘Sir Simon Maxwell has half the county out looking for survivors from that wreck.’
‘If we turn him over to Sir Simon in this condition, he’ll die,’ Hannah said.
Her mother looked up at her. ‘Then we had better ensure he is in a fit condition to be handed over. We have to get him into the house. I would like to see how bad that wound is.’
She rose to her feet, running her hands down her apron.
‘A dead Frenchman is going to be considerably more of a problem than a living one. We can only pray that God will spare him.’
With the help of Noah, their man-of-all-work, they half-carried, half dragged Fabien to the cottage and up the narrow stairs to the small bedroom Hannah occupied. Despite Hannah’s offer to help, Mrs. Linton closed the door on her while she and their loyal maid, Bet, dealt with Fabien’s wound, extracting the splinter of wood and cleaning it of debris.
As the small household sat for dinner, no one mentioned the unwanted visitor who tossed in a feverish sleep upstairs.
They were just clearing the dishes from the table when a loud knocking on the door made Hannah start. She and her mother exchanged glances as Bet answered the door.
‘Sir Simon, what brings you out on such a cold night?’ Bet asked with a forced cheerfulness.
Unbidden, Sir Simon stepped into the tiny parlour. A large man in height and girth, he almost had to stoop to stand upright. He planted his feet in front of their meagre fire and looked around.
‘Have you eaten?’ Mrs.Linton asked, gesturing at an empty chair.
Hannah’s heart beat so hard she could hear it in her ears. How could her mother sound so calm?
‘No thank you, Mrs.Linton. We’re on the hunt for survivors from that French ship that went down just off the coast yesterday,’ he said. ‘Have you seen or heard any strangers hereabouts?’
Hannah held her breath, her fingers twisting together under the table. By rights, this was the moment her mother should hand Fabien over to Maxwell, and their lives would continue as before.
Instead, Mrs. Linton continued in her calm, untroubled voice, ‘No one, Sir Simon. Have you found any?’
‘Picked up a poxy little Frenchy off the Wineglass Beach yesterday but looks to me like most of ’em went down with the ship. Bodies will be washing up over the next day or so. My advice to you, Miss Linton,’ he looked at Hannah, ‘is stay away from the beach. Not a sight for a young gel like you.’
Whenever Sir Simon looked at her, his eyes raked her, lingering too long on her chest. She shivered and Sir Simon, mistaking her frisson for one of fear of dead bodies, laughed.
‘No need to worry, Miss Linton. A dead Frenchy’s not goin’ to hurt you. It’s the live ones we worry about.’
‘And what do you do with the “live ones”?’ Hannah enquired, hoping she sounded as calm as her mother.
‘If I had me way, I’d finish the job, but the law says they’re to be kept nice and snug. Don’t mean they have to be comfortable.’ He gave her a wink. ‘We’re putting ’em in Dorchester Gaol till they can be taken up to London. We’ve some nice, dark cells with some pleasant furry companions. That’ll teach ’em!’
Hannah avoided her mother’s eyes, but she knew from Mrs.Linton’s whitened knuckles that her thoughts were on the young man upstairs. In his present condition, being moved to a gaol cell in the middle of winter could have only one outcome.
‘Surely, Sir Simon,’ Mrs.Linton ventured, ‘some Christian compassion should be shown?’
‘Prisoners of war don’t deserve Christian compassion, Mrs.Linton.’ Sir Simon swivelled his gaze from Hannah’s neckline to her mother. ‘Well, I’ve kept you long enough,’ he said. ‘Keep your door bolted at night and send word if you see strangers.’
‘Of course, Sir Simon,’ Mrs. Linton said. ‘Thank you for your diligence.’
She closed the door behind him, leaning against it.
‘It ain’t right,’ Noah complained when Mrs. Linton returned to the table. ‘That bloody Frenchy should be handed over to the authorities.’
‘And he will be when he is strong enough,’ Mrs. Linton said. ‘But I cannot in all Christian conscience condemn him to death in a prison cell. I keep thinking about William and how grateful I would be to know a good, Christian woman cared for him in his hour of need. Now mind your own business and keep a still tongue in your head, Noah.’
Noah pushed his chair back, rising stiffly to his feet. He’d been with the Linton family since boyhood, and now the years lay on his stooped shoulders and grey hair.
