Coming Home for Christmas
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Carla Kelly
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Prologue
December 25, 1809
Dear Son,
Another Christmas has come and gone. Neither your mother nor I see any sense in repining, considering how much worse off so many are. Still, we cannot help but reflect on the pleasure it would give us to see your sweet face again. I am not certain whether to blame the French or the Spanish. Ports have changed hands more often than some of my neighbours change their smallclothes—your mother says I should not have written that, but it’s probably correct. She is a true Scot, though: tearing up this paper and starting over would be a waste.
Your mother and I take turns in writing to you and this month is my turn. Only this year we were made aware of your incarceration in Alta California, which seems strange, considering that Spain has been our ally for some time now. When I made a trip to London to speak to someone on the Navy Board, he informed me of your probable location. We can only assume, hope and pray that you are well and receiving a letter now and then—perhaps even this one.
If you are alive, I trust you have used your time well like a good Presbyterian, and learned Spanish. Or if you are incarcerated still, I know you have enough skills to poison the whole lot of them and hurry home to us. Your mother thinks it most likely that you are stranded on the far side of the world and have no way to get home.
Your brothers are here for Christmas, Malcolm soon to depart for Carlisle with his new wife. I know it will come as a disappointment to you to know that he married your fiancée. Cora said she sent you a letter breaking your engagement, but I do not know if you received it. If this is the first news of that event, you are probably jolted. Well, son, Cora was four years waiting for you and a woman of twenty-three is ripe and getting stale. There will be other lassies.
So, my dear son, the best of the season to you. Perhaps we will see you in 1811 or 1812. Your mother and I pray for this daily.
Your loving father,
Angus Wilkie
