by Carla Kelly
“Explain yourself, but do it sitting here,” he told her, pointing to his lap.
“So you can drop crumbs on me?” she teased. “Earlier in the week, Ezekiel told me that the student with the scar and the intense eyes – who but Smitty? – dropped by and showed him the roster. Swore him to secrecy. ‘I know bakers get up really early,’ he told Ezekiel. ‘I know you used to serve in the fleet. Could you stand the morning watch if I get someone to trade off with you?’”
“That’s good thinking,” Able said, and reached around Meri for another crunchy-topped thing. “He agreed?”
“Couldn’t agree fast enough, Smitty told me. Once a sailor, always a sailor. When I dropped by the bakery this afternoon for our completely fresh stale pastries, he told me not only would he stand the watch, but Mrs. Bartleby would take turns with him so the bakery would not suffer.”
He wasn’t often surprised by events, but this one floored him. “His ball and chain? I’m not even aware of her real name.”
“Emily,” she said promptly. “I met her yesterday for the first time.”
“Why in the world….”
He watched his wife as her eyes filled with tears. “Able, she came out of the back room and told me herself that she wants to fight Boney, too. Dared me to argue about it.” She sniffed back her tears. “And guess who else wants to fight Boney?”
“Not you on that watch,” he said in what he hoped was a firm, husbandly tone. Hoped. He had discovered in the past year that even a genius is sometimes baffled by the fairer – not weaker – sex.
“No, I’m fighting Boney right here,” she assured him. “Mrs. Perry will take a turn.” She straightened his neck cloth. “She hates Boney, too. Said her husband would still be alive, if not for the war. He could have left the sea when he started feeling rheumatic, and taken his carpenter skills to a healthier place in England, but for the Corsican Tyrant.”
“She’s right.” He kissed her cheek. “Anything else that I don’t know?”
“That seems unlikely in the extreme,” she said and leaned against his chest for a peaceful moment.
The room was empty. He kissed her hair. “Tell me something I don’t know. Double dare you.”
To his utter delight, she whispered in his ear. The tickle of her lips set his nerves humming. He whispered back, “I thought perhaps you liked that, but I, um, fell asleep too soon to inquire. Shall we add that to our amorous repertoire?”
“Most definitely,” she whispered. “Tonight.”
— Chapter Twenty-eight —
The Gunwharf Rats began standing the watch on Monday, after a super-secret meeting in a room in St. Brendan’s cellar, with everyone crowded together to hear Headmaster Croker discuss the matter.
Able looked around the room at the serious faces of his students, every one intent, involved and committed. What a room it was. He hadn’t known of its existence, but the headmaster seemed to know his building from attic to cellar. He also had an unexpected flair for a solemn occasion in a secret place.
Thaddeus asked Jean Hubert to attend. The Frenchman stood beside Grace, his expression serious. Ezekiel and Emily Bartleby were there, as was Mrs. Perry. Ezekiel had entrusted the bakery to Meridee, Ben, and Nick Bonfort, who became the instant envy of his peers, surrounded as he would be by bread, tarts, and éclairs.
The surprise was Walter Cornwall, who slipped in before Able closed the door. “Sir B’s orders,” was all he said as he stood against the door.
Headmaster Croker held up Smitty’s roster, copied onto smaller sheets, but with the playful dolphins still cavorting over a most serious schedule. “This is Smitty’s work and I applaud him for it. Smitty, hand these ‘round.”
When everyone had a roster, the headmaster went over the schedule. “All I ask is that you simply stand the watch,” he said. “Others are watching, too, but we feel the need here, and we do have an excellent view of the hulks, one the others don’t quite have.” He rationed out a smile. “I think our long-ago monks, perhaps St. Brendan himself, saw the need for vigilance, not only from sin, but also from European adventuring.”
As the headmaster looked at each student again, Able felt his heart swell. He knew his workhouse students’ origins, challenges and turmoil. No one wanted me, he thought. No one wanted you, either, but here we are, standing the watch for England.
“I want you to walk behind St. Brendan’s, along the sea wall that faces the harbor,” Headmaster Croker explained. “Train your telescopes on the hulks every ten steps or so, and also the water.” He seemed to study their expressions. “I see by your faces that you wonder why.” He gestured to Jean Hubert. “People have a way of slipping off hulks. Monsieur Hubert has given his parole, so we need not worry about him.”
“What a burden of honesty you bear, Jean,” Able whispered to the Frenchman. His comment earned him a hard stare, followed by a wry expression that made Grace Croker put her hand to her mouth, her eyes merry.
“Please, sir, if I may: What are we looking for?” asked one of the younger lads.
“People who would find ways to ruin us,” the headmaster said. “I can’t be more specific. Watch for people or things going on that don’t seem to fit.”
“Thank’ee, sir.”
“You are most welcome, Whitticombe.” Headmaster Croker clapped his hands. “Very well, let us go to class, and tonight, let that watch commence.”
It began quietly, as all good watches should begin, this one sweeter than most because Meridee and Mrs. Perry made sure the eight p.m. to midnight lads were well-fortified with grog mild enough for Able’s careful wife, and bread and butter sandwiches the size and thickness of Spanish roof tiles.
Betsy made certain the midnight through four a.m. crew received the same treatment, then retired to bed. Ezekiel and Emily Bartleby left a note stating they were standing the four a.m. to eight a.m. watch, and placed it on top of a dozen of Meri’s favorite rout cakes, the ones with lemon and sugar icing.
In the morning, Able checked the tablet with the date, time, and room for comments. He chuckled to see that the midnight to four a.m. watch had observed a couple “doing something fishy by the stone basin,” with the added comment, “Don’t tell Mrs. Six.”
“If that’s the worst thing they see, huzzah,” he said as he initialed the page and turned to the next one.
And the next one and the next one. The week passed with nothing happening, which was precisely what Able wanted. He laughed one morning to read Walter Cornwall’s pithy comment about that same amorous couple, in all likelihood. “I sent them on their way with threats,” he wrote. “Mrs. Perry thought it was funny.”
He shook his head over Mrs. Perry paired with the formidable constable from Landport Gate, wondering how that would work, but was wise enough not to ask Mrs. Perry. He had been the recipient of her fixed stare years earlier during his days in the fleet, and didn’t relish her censure.
What did amuse him was the housekeeper’s willingness to include Walter in breakfast, after coming off that morning watch. He became a regular, fitting in well with the lodgers because he never minded answering the boys’ questions about his employment, or his own early years in a Cornish workhouse.
Meri pointed out to Able one morning as she was dressing that Betsy seemed not so shy around Walter anymore. “Mrs. Perry told me that yesterday morning Betsy was awake and served Mr. Bartleby and Walter sandwiches.”
“What am I to infer from that?” Able asked. “Isn’t she a little young to be anyone’s interest? I know for a fact that her twin is just fourteen.” He buttoned up the back of Meri’s dress, putting cold fingers on her bare skin until she yelped.
“Mercy on us, Durable Six, does blood not circulate in your appendages?” she asked.
“You know it does. I still say she is too young for anyone’s attentions,” he replied, not mea
ning to raise his voice but thinking of young girls in workhouses who were preyed upon by house masters who should have known better. He closed his eyes, relieved when Meri covered them with her warmer hand.
“Shh, shh, no fears, love,” she soothed. “Mrs. Perry and I have matters in hand.” She moved her hand and kissed him. “Here is something Betsy told me yesterday. I’ve been trying to find a moment of privacy to pass it on to you.”
“Such moments are hard to come by, aren’t they?” he said, sorry he had raised his voice. “Should I worry?”
“Not at all.” Meri sat him down and tied the neck cloth he had slung around his neck. “Sit still. You’re worse than Ben trying to wriggle out of his nappie.” She applied herself to his neck cloth. “She told me that when Jamie was being considered for St. Brendan’s, he lied about his age to Headmaster Croker, who had told workhouse masters that the school wanted lads between eight and twelve, the better to train them. He said he was twelve. Betsy said they are now sixteen, not fourteen.” She stepped back to survey the results. “My word, but you are a handsome man.”
“Meri, there are days when you are certifiable,” he countered. “Sixteen now? He was fourteen then and passed for twelve?” He thought a moment. “He did seem tall for twelve, I’ll admit.”
“She told me that in his last letter, Jamie said the matter preyed on his conscience.”
He considered her comment, in light of Walter’s interest. “Should I give Constable Cornwall an avuncular talk and tell him to mind his manners?”
“Let’s see: you are twenty-seven now and Walter is a few years younger. I don’t think so.”
“I’m relieved,” he said dryly. “Give me a theorem any day.”
“You know, Able, we might someday be the parents of daughters,” she told him. “Think about that.”
He closed his eyes and groaned. “Meri, this parenting business is not for the faint of heart, is it?”
I really should become better adept at divining what makes people do what they do, Able thought during spare moments in the day, when he wasn’t teaching, or coaching students in the dismantling and reassembly of a sextant.
With his older students, he balanced on a raft in the stone basin behind St. Brendan’s, the better to simulate the difficulties of taking a reading to determine longitude, that bugaboo of maritime navigation until recent years. He knew what he was doing and could explain it in his sleep, which allowed him the luxury of considering what it was that attracted a male to a female. Or vice versa, although he doubted Betsy had made the first advance toward as prepossessing a fellow as a Portsmouth constable.
He was still considering the matter hours later when he sat with Meri, Grace and Jean, on their way to dinner at Sir B’s in Grace’s carriage. Betsy had been left in charge of Ben, stuffed to his gills and tugging at his eyelashes, ripe for bed.
While carrying on normal dialog with the other occupants of the carriage, he thought about Grace and Sir B. If the dinner grew boring, he knew he could entertain himself trying to figure that one out and still carry on as superficial a conversation as any dinner required. He had long ago learned that a discussion of the weather did not require a detailed analysis of wind velocity and temperature.
He had another aim, one that had occupied his mind since the sextant class. As the boys had practiced, Able had looked up at St. Brendan’s to see Jean Hubert standing at the second floor window, sketchpad in hand. He was drawing something in the harbor, but what? Any day now, I will become as suspicious as billy-be-damned, he thought. Soon I won’t be fit for company.
He resolved not to consider the matter, as they greeted Sir B in his dining room, a dignified room, but not a pretentious one, and not so large that they all felt a little silly, a small party of five – six if you count Gervaise – strung out awkwardly in the middle of twelve chairs. The table had been set companionably close to Sir B, who was already seated at the head.
It was the usual excellent meal, but one more in tune with the navy, beginning with common barley broth soup, served in any wardroom from the Arctic to the Antipodes. It was followed by a crisp rack of lamb and then coq au vin, possibly an odd juxtaposition, unless one considered that the early stages of any voyage meant there might be lambs baaing and chickens clucking in the hold, waiting to be eaten sooner rather than later in the officers mess. Able could have eaten more of the polenta, because it was cooked as he had first devoured it in a grog shop in Malta, fried crisp with cheese from Parma or Reggio sprinkled on top – crunchy, flavorful and something never found in a Scottish workhouse. He could happily eat polenta all day. The meal ended with Meri’s favorite Voluptuous Little Pies, and fruit and nuts.
Halfway through the meal, Able noticed Gervaise staring intently at Jean Hubert, as if expecting something from him. What have we here, he thought. He noticed something else – Grace, her eyes soft, gazing at Sir B. And what have we here? Meri is so right.
— Chapter Twenty-nine —
Might as well play this out. Might as well test Mr. Pitt’s earlier suspicions. Able knew Sir B had better sense than to dismiss the two ladies to a sitting room while the gentlemen talked. When the table was cleared and a new cloth laid down, Sir B directed Grace to pour the tea.
Now or never. “Sir B, John Mark wanted you to see his illustration, to a half-inch scale, of the scoring machine at the block pulley factory,” Able said. He took John’s careful drawings from his inside uniform coat pocket and spread them on the table. “Jean, have you seen these?”
“No, but they’re certainly wonderful,” the Frenchman said, giving them a cursory inspection. “Who is helping the lad? I know my art class hasn’t begun to approach this level of sophistication.”
“Simon Goodrich, or possibly Henry Maudslay,” Able said, “when he has time to drop by. John Mark said Mr. Goodrich has asked him to illustrate all the machines. I think the factory is about to begin production.”
While Sir B and the ladies contemplated the illustrations, drawn by a gifted student, Able looked at Jean Hubert, who had turned his attention to the loose skin around his fingernail. It would have been hard to imagine a man less concerned with strategically sensitive drawings.
Jean, you ninny, Napoleon could use these illustrations to manufacture his own metal block pulleys, Able thought. Aren’t you even slightly interested?
He wasn’t, to be sure. Able glanced at Gervaise, who usually stood behind Sir B’s chair, ready to serve him in an instant. The valet had edged closer to Jean Hubert, but his eyes were on the drawings, his mouth open.
Silent, doing nothing to attract anyone’s attention, Able watched as the valet moved slowly closer to the prisoner, who suddenly scooted his chair nearer to Able. That he was obviously trying to avoid Gervaise struck Able like a brick thrown into his brain. This was not a man seeking to connect with a fellow Frenchman. This was someone trying to get away.
I can oblige you, Able thought. He stood up and offered his closer chair to Jean, who accepted it with relief in his eyes and a nod of gratitude. This placed him next to Meri, who gave Able a questioning look. He shook his head slightly and she returned her attention to the drawings, her face a study in blandness.
Even closer to the drawings, Jean still showed no interest in them. All he had wanted to do was get away from Gervaise. What in the world is going on? Able asked himself. Any idea, Euclid? Galileo? Sometimes you gentlemen are completely useless to me.
Out of the corner of his eye, Able watched Gervaise return to his usual position behind Sir B. In one of his usual lightning-fast blinks, Able noticed one thing that seemed to play out as if in the slow movement of a bad dream. For the tiniest moment, stretched out in the odd way that his brain sometimes functioned, Able saw vast unease on the valet’s face.
Able didn’t have to wrack his brain even the slightest to remember William Pitt’s breakfast observation in London
that the disgusting Captain Ogilvie had palmed something off onto Gervaise during the ungodly business outside Trinity House. Able’s face grew hot just thinking about the humiliating experience.
Time to end this evening. Time to go home and think. How good an actor was he? More to the point, how good was Meridee? Why not find out?
“Sir B, you’ll have to excuse me, but my sweet wife is starting to nod off,” he said, hoping he sounded urbane and totally doubting it. “What with starting this evening watch at St. Brendan’s, we’re all keeping unusual hours.”
The quizzical expression on Gervaise’s face was all the reward Able needed. The valet had no idea about the additional level of observation. Able thought he could make something of this.
“Gervaise, you look surprised,” he said. “Aye, we’ve decided to have the Gunwharf Rats stand a harbor watch.”
“Whatever for, sir?” the valet asked, then stepped back. “Beg pardon, Sir B,” he said. “I am speaking out of turn.”
Sir B waved his hand casually. “No matter, Gervaise. Able, explain it to him. Anything to defeat Boney, eh, Gervaise? I know how you émigres loathe and despise the man.”
“We decided the boys could use the experience before watches get thrust upon them in the fleet,” Able said, and watched Gervaise relax visibly, standing there behind his employer’s chair. “No more than that.”
“I hope you don’t plan to do it too long,” Sir B said with a chuckle. “You’ll wear out the lads and they will wish themselves back in the workhouse.”
“No, they won’t, sir,” Able contradicted quickly. “But never fear. Our own Smitty has created an admirable schedule that spreads out the duty so no one suffers.” He glanced at Meri, blessed darling of his, who caught his eye and yawned precisely on cue.
