The Captain’s Holiday Homecoming: Christmas Masquerade, #3.5

By Meg Mardell

Can a Christmas reunion prove the fresh start they both need?

 

Back at his overcrowded Devonshire family home during the holidays, single father Baz Luscombe seeks the privacy of the barn on Christmas Eve for a moment's peace. And to serenade the horses with some songs of the season on his violin. Which is an entirely normal thing to do. He's not prepared for his audience to include a mysterious man taking shelter from the cold. Even half frozen and weak from hunger, the impressive stranger would make any sane person keep their distance. He even looks a bit like a pirate captain. Or it might just be his hat. As wary introductions give way to conversation, the rambling Baz and the taciturn captain find a strange solace in each other's company. Are they even strangers?

 

Captain Nathaniel Kendall left Salcombe Bay with boyish hopes of restoring his family's fortunes. Misadventure at sea left him with no other option than to stay away for good. When news comes that his sister has returned to the old family home and its attendant ghosts, Nathaniel finally loses his resolve to never again set foot in Devon again. But the road home after nearly two decades away is never straightforward, and an arctic gale blows him off course. Finding shelter in a barn, his relief only lasts until the entrance of Lord Basil, his childhood neighbour. Now how can Nathaniel protect his secrets when faced with the disarming charm and humbling generosity of a man like Baz?

 

As the lantern light burns low, and the hours tick down until the dawn of Christmas Day, both men will need to discover why this secret holiday encounter feels like coming home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meg Mardell
• Release date: Dec 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223853503

Meg Mardell

Meg moved from the US to England because she fell in love with the Victorians' peculiar blend of glamour and grime. After a decade of exploring historical excesses in a prim scholarly fashion, she realized that fiction is the best way to delve into that period's great female-focused and LGBT+ stories. Weaned on the high-seas romances of the 1990s, Meg's lost none of her love for cross-dressing cabin boys but any tolerance for boorish heroes. She's delighted to now have a whole raft of quirky and queer characters to cheer for on their quest for Happily Ever After. She frequently breaks off writing for an Earl Grey tea (milk, not lemon). She's escaped Brexit Britain—but now she misses the rain. You can find her at www.megmardell.com and @megmardell on the social medias.

Book preview

Chapter One

Devon, 1880

Serenading horses was ridiculous. Even if it was Christmas Eve. Well, Christmas Day now. Over the strings of his violin, Baz had caught the high reverberations of the midnight bells from the small seafarers’ church at Salcombe Bay. The wind must be blowing off the water and up the estuary for it to travel the several miles to Luscombe Hall. It was a raw wind that tore up the headland tonight. The bitter weather had broken up his family’s traditional party early tonight, as if the hostile howling had turned everyone’s thoughts to the cosiness of bed. Nevertheless, he had come to the barn, a lantern in one hand, his violin in the other, and his pockets full of carrots.

Others might have realised the preposterous nature of their performance sooner, but Lord Basil Luscombe was not the most perceptive of persons. He frequently wandered off without some essential item or meandered into a room without obvious purpose. His family pointed it out frequently, with many jocund expletives. His late wife had made a sort of private joke of it, something to smile at before she offered up a quick kiss as a salve. His sons, Ciaran and Niall, were now of an age where they could shake their heads with solemn judgement at their father’s hapless way of moving through the world.

It was only on the third chorus of Silent Night that Baz realised he was being ridiculous again. He and his younger sister had started the tradition of a Christmas midnight serenade when they were children. They reasoned that if the legends were to be believed, if animals could really speak when the bell tolled for Christmas Day, then they might also sing. But how would they know the tunes for the best carols unless Baz and Sophie helped them? Which is all to say that she had loved horses, and he had loved music, and they had loved each other. All of this was still true, of course, but Sophie now lived over at their neighbour’s house. Didi Damerell was Sophie’s particular friend, and this was their first holiday together. Of course, she didn’t want to spend the night in the Luscombe family’s freezing barn. Particularly as she now had her own stables to look after.

But Baz thought the horses might miss it. If not the quick recitation of sprightly carols, then at least the carrots that followed the ultimate song, Silent Night. But as the concert neared its end, they all stood placidly in their stalls, unmoved by the sad final notes. Blast it all, maybe it was him who missed it. Missed the small human audience that used to applaud good-naturedly to make up for the horses’ determined lack of encouragement. Ridiculous. And now he felt like weeping, which was even more ridiculous. Baz might be a blockhead, but not a blubberer. He sent the sadness down his bow arm and coaxed the violin to make his lament. The final descending credenza filled the chilled barn with vibrating pathos.

A rustle from one stall snapped his final note.

One of the horses was restively shuffling about in their stall. Even if the Creator hadn’t bestowed human speech on the animals tonight, the message was obvious: bring me carrots. At least somebody hadn’t forgotten the Luscombe family tradition.

Baz moved eagerly towards this fine, upstanding beast. The noise came from Ambrose’s stall. But of course it did. The chestnut gelding had spent nearly two decades as part of the Luscombe family. First as a carriage horse, but now as a gentle mount for visitors to the hall.

What a fantastic old fellow you are.

Despite his crooning approach, the horse shuffled again, adding a little head toss. Extra carrots for Ambrose. Baz reached for his pocket, discovered he still held his bow, quickly rearranged his instrument, and produced a nice fat carrot for his faithful companion.

Look what I’ve got for you, old friend. A real festive treat. It’s not Cook’s ginger cake, but I think you’d like this even better, wot?

Ambrose snorted and sidled to one side of the stall. Strange.

What’s the matter, lad? Don’t pretend you don’t want a carrot after kicking up a fuss.

Ambrose let out a gusty sigh and stayed on the far side of the stall.

Lord. You’re worse than Didi pretending she doesn’t want a third helping of the Christmas cake. And I’ll tell you what I always tell her. Fine, more for me.

Baz bit off the end of the carrot with a satisfying crunch. Then froze.

What was that? A breath?

It was. A sort of huffed exhalation. To the untrained ear, it might have come from one of the half a dozen large, respiring creatures in the barn. But this wasn’t the sweetgrass exhalation of his equine audience. The hairs on his arms stood up despite the heavy greatcoat he wore over his festive dinner clothes.

How hadn’t he noticed before? Ambrose wasn’t eager. He was uneasy. The horse was uneasy because he wasn’t alone in the stall. Something – someone – was in there with him.

Baz spat out the carrot.

Blast, blast, blast. Should he get help? Luscombe Hall was always filled to the rafters at this time of year as his siblings and their families returned to the childhood home. But if he woke one of them up, then all of them would be up. Including his septuagenarian father. And Lord Luscombe would doubtless be determined to lead the whole party as he refused to make any concessions to his age. Should he ring the bell in the servant’s quarters? That would be a shabby thanks for their great achievement of fitting the whole family into the Hall and feeding them besides. They’d just finished cleaning up the traditional Christmas Eve feast and were no doubt looking forward to a bit of rest. No, he must take care of this situation himself.

Baz pitched his voice low and firm. But not unkind. The intruder was probably just some poor wayfarer with nowhere else to sleep.

Whomever you are… come out now and show yourself.

No response save for the perceptibly increasing wind. Perhaps he could coax them out. With the human equivalent of a carrot.

If you need a place to stay for the night. I can see about you bedding down somewhere.

The woodshed, perhaps. Not as well insulated as the barn, of course. But not as bad as sleeping in the open. He’d find a blanket and some bread and – concentrate, Baz! The person might yet prove a very rough sort.

I can help you. But I really must insist on you stepping out of the stall. Now.

A dark bulk slowly unfurled from the concealed corner of the stall closest to the gate. Had they been so close the entire time? How could a person of this size be unobserved? The stalls were as high as a horse’s shoulder. This shadow was taller. Nearly as tall as Baz. And a good deal bulkier. Crikey. Perhaps Baz should have woken the entire house. But it was too late now.

The shadowed figure turned to face Baz in the stall’s doorway, his hands raised with the same slow, disarming movements as if determined to spook neither man nor beast. Perhaps because he knew his appearance would be far from reassuring. He wore a weather-splattered greatcoat of considerable volume and indeterminate colour