by Carla Kelly
“Yes. Mam. I use that money to buy extra food and yarn for stockings for them and what all.”
“You do.”
“I also put a little by for myself, because I earn it,” she said, and he did understand. “It isn’t much, but I can do with it as I please.”
“If you were paid what you are worth to me, there wouldn’t be enough money in the entire world,” he said. “I hope that two pounds a month goes far enough.”
“It does,” she said. “My sisters aren’t paid for what they do. I am, and I like it. This is a modern age. ” She sighed. “But why war? We all fight, in our own way.”
It touched his heart to hear her include herself in the titanic struggle against Napoleon that had begun again, after the half-hearted Treaty of Amiens that had brought them together.
“It frightens me, too, as you know better than anyone.”
That led to both of her arms around him, as if she could hold him tight against all the evil and hurt in the world.
“You’ll be teaching everything, taking care of me and our young lodgers, and now keeping an eye on the harbor and its hulks.”
He kissed her hair. “I might add that you still need to learn to swim.”
“I can float,” she reminded him.
“I’d rather you could swim, too.”
“Like John Mark?” she asked, and laughed into his chest.
“I fear he will never learn well, which reminds me: I will see that John becomes more involved at the block factory, in the office and on the floor. We wouldn’t have to worry about him leaping into the water from a sinking ship. The sea isn’t for everyone is it, Meri? Meri?”
Asleep. Content, Able lay back into her warmth. For a moment, the inn seemed so distant from the Channel, which he knew was precisely one hundred nine kilometers, plus one thousand, one hundred and thirty five in small change on the other side of the decimal point. For a moment, he wanted to plop his family down in the North American interior, where no one probably thought much about war.
They could live and never give a thought to Napoleon. For all Able knew, the recently crowned emperor of France was probably in his shirt sleeves right now, holding a candle over a map and measuring the distance from Calais to Dover, not a great leap.
In his mind’s eye, he saw all the Elder Brothers seated at the u-shaped table in Trinity House, playing their somewhat mysterious role in the war. The scroll that was his brain opened next upon Mr. Pitt, undoubtedly returning to power as prime minister and first lord of the treasury again, a man who knew how to finance and wage war. It opened next on the Red, Blue and White fleets, patrolling Channel waters and the Mediterranean, pitting themselves against the continental menace and saying, “No farther.”
Now it was time to sleep and regroup. Tides rolled in and out, seamen stood the watch, and soon he would be back in his classroom with his Gunwharf Rats. Until then, he could savor the richness of his life with Meri Six, and now Ben.
He ordered his nimble brain to shut down. He concentrated on matching his breathing to his wife’s. He kissed her head, and let himself go.
— Chapter Thirteen —
After dropping off Meri and Ben and dumping their dirty laundry downstairs, Able’s next stop was across the street to St. Brendan’s, and up the broad stairs.
Able paused a moment, pleased to see students sweeping the halls, shining doorknobs and scrubbing tile and battling cobwebs. Amazing how an old place like St. Brendan the Navigator School seemed to produce spider webs at will.
He nodded to the formidable old biddy, widow of a bosun’s mate, who presided in the hall, making sure the work was done to Royal Navy specifications, or so some of his students had complained.
“Shipshape and Bristol fashion, Master Six,” she said as he walked by. “The idle brain is the devil’s playmate.”
He nodded and watched the lads a moment. “Back to lessons next week?”
“Aye, master,” one little fellow piped up.
“Did someone dust our Gunwharf Rat?”
“Aye, master,” said another. “We’re ready for class again.”
“As you were, men,” he said, and continued down the hall, pleased when someone started to sing “Heart of Oak.”
They were a far cry from the quiet, cowed children who came to St. Brendan’s, bruised by hard times they had no control over. Or the defiant, noisy lads ready to brawl for the smallest morsel or warmest corner by the fireplace until they learned no one needed to fight for anything at St. Brendan’s except good grades.
We are working miracles, he thought, as gratitude filled all the spare places in his mind not already occupied. He glanced out the window at his home across the street, where Meri was probably rushing about, unpacking, or maybe just chatting with Nick or Betsy. And miracles are working on me, too, lads.
Able knocked on the door with the discreet metal scroll proclaiming the apartment of Thaddeus Croker, headmaster and man currently recovering from a wicked case of the mumps.
Thaddeus’s servant, a morose fellow, ushered him in. Whispered questions about the state of St. Brendan’s headmaster led to a sorrowful shake of the head, and the comment, “He’s been dwindling, sir, dwindling, I vow.” His lip jutted out. “He threw a bowl of gruel at me this morning.”
“He sounds more like a man on the mend, Bertram.”
“Sir!”
“Bertram, I trust I may visit the headmaster,” Able asked, as the two of them stood there in the apartment’s foyer, the servant making no move and the mental clock in Able’s head ticking louder and louder.
Patience, Able thought, with diminishing patience. He knew Bertram had an affinity toward the dramatic. At the moment, he appeared unwilling to budge or offer anything remotely resembling information. He would not yield, and Able had neither the time nor the inclination to wait him out.
“Thaddeus! Thaddeus!” he called. “Where away?”
“Able, do come to me,” he heard mostly distinctly, even above Bertram’s sucked-in breath and noisy exhalation, sounding like the most put-upon servant on their foggy, damp island. “I don’t know why I never have visitors.”
“I do,” Able said under his breath. He tapped lightly on the door and entered. “Bertram is both intimidating and quite capable of keeping out the faint of heart. How are you, sir?”
“Bored,” the headmaster croaked, and waved him toward a chair by the bed. “I stink from Bertram’s poultices. Able, you’re a reasonably intelligent man.” (It was joke between them.) “Will a mixture of iodine, saltpeter, wax, asafoetida and God knows what else cure anything?”
How to keep a straight face? “Headmaster, I have heard asafoetida is used as a defense against pregnancy in some primitive societies.”
The narrow-eyed glare the headmaster threw his way suggested to Able that Thaddeus Croker was probably on the mend.
“That’s the best you can offer me?” he grumbled.
Or perhaps the headmaster was still ill, Able reasoned. He tried to tamp down the laughter rising inside him. He had to be ill. Why else would the invalid offer such low-hanging fruit? Resist the urge, Able thought, then failed.
“Your poultice is one of the great triumphs of medicine. You reek. I doubt you could tempt any nubile female to get within a barge pole of you – perfect contraception, asafoetida or not.” Able laughed out loud, even as he unwound the eye-watering bandage. “There, sir. I should toss this in the fireplace, but it might explode, I would die, and Meri would be so disappointed.”
Thaddeus held his neck and laughed.
“I recommend a clean cloth instead. When the swelling is gone, any physician will pronounce you no longer a menace to society. Give it a few more days.”
“I told you I was bored,” Thaddeus repeated.
“Let me tell you what transpir
ed in London. That should divert you.”
By the time Able left, the headmaster had resigned himself to three more days of quarantine. Even better than the dangled carrot of no more wretched poultices and better food from the kitchen was the promise of three hundred pounds a year from Trinity House. Able saw no point in mentioning his own shabby treatment by one of the Elder Brothers, or Mr. Pitt’s breakfast commentary about Gervaise Turenne.
“Trinity’s warden, Mr. Pitt himself, was most specific that you start paying your sister for her work, and that we find a French teacher and a draftsman or artist,” Able told him. “Someone to add some polish to our students’ lives.”
“It will be my pleasure,” Thaddeus said.
When Able returned to his own house, he could nearly feel the order and love within, beginning as soon as he opened the door. Betsy greeted him with a curtsy and took his boat cloak and hat. She said Mrs. Six was in the sitting room with Nick Bonfort, their other young lodger.
“He’s hobbling about pretty well now, master,” Betsy said, beaming at him. This Betsy was far cry from the thin and wary child who had made her way to Portsmouth from a workhouse in the north, looking for her twin. She touched her apron pocket. “And I have a letter from Jamie.” She held it out to Able. “Would you like to read it?”
“Very much, but let us wait until dinner, for all to hear,” he said.
She put the letter back in her pocket and patted it with something approaching tenderness. “He’s safe, sir.” She hesitated. “He always begins his letters that way, as if he knows I worry. Sir, did you begin letters home that way, too?”
“I would have, had there been anyone for me to write,” he said, and watched the concern build on her face. That would never do. He touched her shoulder. “Betsy, only think how lucky your twin must feel, to know there are always letters waiting for him.”
Appearing considerably more sanguine than the convalescing headmaster across the street, Nick Bonfort glanced up from the book on his lap. His face split into a wide, welcoming grin. “Hullo, sir! Ezekiel Bartleby made me some crutches so I can get about.”
“Talented man. May I join you?”
Meri indicated the chair beside her. Able scooped her up instead, which made Nick laugh out loud when she shrieked. He sat down in the chair and deposited her on his lap in a froth of petticoats. He gave Meri a smacking great kiss on her cheek.
It was all nonsense, but Able had learned early in his tenure as quasi-father to some of St. Brendan’s young pupils that nonsense was what workhouse boys needed. Even better than good food, blankets and a bed was the knowledge that mothers were for teasing and caring about, and fathers could be firm and loving, too. Most had known neither.
Nick Bonfort, the boy with no last name at first, was a serious child, earnest in his studies. He was quietly devoted to the woman who had happily shared her maiden name with him. Able told Nick about the visit to Trinity House and the pledge for more funds, which might mean more instructors.
He told Nick of the need to be ever watchful, over their own house and St. Brendan’s itself. Serious child that he was, Nick nodded. He glanced at Meri and chuckled.
“Master, I think she fell asleep,” he whispered to Able.
“Meri Six? Never,” Able said. He had felt her regular, deep breathing against his uniform sleeve. Someday when Nick had a lady of his own, he would appreciate the tenderness of such a moment. “She’s just resting her eyes.”
“Am not,” Meri muttered, then returned to sleep. Able and Nick grinned at each other.
“Sir, I have an idea,” Nick whispered. “I think we Gunwharf rats here at home and over at St. Brendan’s should start standing a nightly watch over our part of the harbor. You know, keeping an eye on the hulks in case a Frenchman tries to escape and do mischief. What do you think, Master?”
“That, Nick Bonfort, is precisely the injunction we were given in London. How did you know?”
“It seemed logical, sir.”
You will command a frigate someday, Able thought, with admiration. Maybe serve as Trinity House’s warden. He frowned. Provided nasty cases like Captain Ogilvie die out.
“It is logical,” he agreed. “This nation will see our worth, won’t she?”
“We Gunwharf Rats can stand a watch for England,” Nick said quietly, “whether she knows she needs us or not.”
— Chapter Fourteen —
There was nothing like the comfort of her own bed. Meridee came awake slowly, which suited her nature, fully aware that Able was probably already up, sitting in a chair by the window, his long legs propped on the window seat, actively thinking about something
They had spent a quiet evening in the sitting room, with Nick demonstrating his prowess with crutches and then taking a tentative step. “Not so bad,” he had announced. “The surgeon told me sprains hurt worse than breaks. What do you think, Mam?”
“I’ve never had either, so I couldn’t tell you.”
Her answer didn’t seem to satisfy Nick. “What about you, Da?”
She held her breath with the loveliness of the moment. Nick seemed not to notice what he had said. Able’s head went back against the sofa in surprise, then down against his chest as he struggled with an emotion she knew deep in her soul was foreign to him. Certainly someday Ben would call him Da, but this was Nick Bonfort, unaware.
“I think I would trust your surgeon, son,” Able answered, his voice cracking like a schoolboy’s.
And that was that. Matter-of-fact, solemn Nick Bonfort became their own. The three of them looked at each other in quiet agreement. She waited for Able to speak again. What he said did not disappoint.
“Nick, when it’s the three of us, please do call me Da,” he said when he could talk. “With others in company, I must remain Master Six.”
“I understand,” Nick replied. “Da.” He said it again, trying out the word. “Da.”
“What are you thinking of, my love?” she asked her man that morning as he sat so still, gazing out the window. “Euclid?”
He turned to look at her, surprised. “Well, no, actually.” He held out his hand to her. She slid to his side of the bed where she could reach him from where he sat. “I was thinking about my father. I wish I could have known him.”
“Dearest, what is your earliest memory? Think a bit.”
He gave her a strange look. “I’ve already told you about my birth. Wasn’t that odd enough?”
“Is there more?” Meridee knew no other couple in the world was having such a conversation on a cold February morning.
“I remember two heartbeats, you know, suck and swish over and over.” He chuckled as he changed the mood. “You’ll have to agree that is a long way back, Meri. That’s it.” His expression grew thoughtful. “No Euclid. I haven’t thought of him in several hours. Should I worry?”
“I’m not worried,” she said, and got out of bed, tugging at her nightgown. “He’s your best friend.”
“Next to you,” he told her, grabbing her for a kiss. “Oops. You have a second sense about Ben. Quick kiss then.”
And here was Ben, getting creases on his fat rolls now, staying awake to coo and smile. After breakfast no one had to rush off to class. She savored the unbelievable luxury of turning her baby over to his father, who flopped on the sofa, propped his knees up, and chatted with Ben about Nikolas Copernicus and the earth’s rotation while she finished kitchen duties with Mrs. Perry and Betsy. Nick made his way downstairs cautiously, trying out his sprained ankle without a crutch.
He limped into the sitting room, where he made himself comfortable on the floor by the sofa. Meridee stood in the doorway and listened. She thought they weren’t aware, but Able tipped his head back to almost see her.
“Meri, what do you think of this? Tell her, Nick.”
“Mam, remember
I mentioned Mr. Bartleby?”
“I do.”
“He might like to watch the harbor with us.”
“He has a bakery to run,” she reminded Nick.
“Da tells me that once a sailor, always a sailor. And he is tough.”
Meridee could see any number of demerits to this idea, but knew better than to shoot it down. Life with her nephews in their father’s parish in Devon had taught her things she was putting into practice now. “It has possibilities.”
“We should consider them.”
“Nick, you sound like a captain I once served under,” Able said. “Let me suggest your idea to Headmaster Croker. Right now, I want to look in at the block pulley factory.”
“I wish I could come, Da.”
“So do I, son. When school resumes next week, I believe we will be making class visits. We need to know more about this modern age we live in, of factories that turn out parts quickly in mere days, instead of weeks. You’ll be there, then.”
Nick yielded graciously enough, especially since he had no choice. After breakfast, they left him in the sitting room with Betsy and Ben, who had trained his eyes on the maid with the flaming red hair.
“Does he know his own name yet, Master Six?” Nick asked, formal now because Betsy was there.
“Possibly, but I don’t think Ben will come when you call him,” Able joked.
“When he starts tugging at his eyelids, please put him in his bed, Betsy,” Meridee said.
“And what about Ben?” Betsy teased in turn, which meant both young people were laughing as the Sixes left the house, with the baby staring from one to the other.
Able stood a moment on the outside steps. “Hard to believe that is the same Betsy MacGregor who for six weeks shook like a leaf whenever anyone here slammed a door or raised a voice.” He offered her his arm. “And now Mrs. Perry tells me that Betsy bargains with the best of them in the fish market.”
Meridee nodded. “And Nick has good ideas.”
