by Carla Kelly
“Did you ever think I would fall in love with you?” she asked, her voice soft. “I did, you know, even though you and Thaddeus teased me for years, and I knew all the pretty young ladies fluttered around. I even read those boring Naval Chronicles to see where in the world your ship was. When rumors of battle reached us in Mayfair, I worried. So many times I nearly wrote to you, but that would have been too forward. I wanted to, though. Believe me I did, but years passed.”
His arm stayed around her, which gave her hope. He remained silent. She plunged on. “I convinced everyone, perhaps you as well, that I was perfectly happy to remain a spinster. I had money, my own town house and landau. My less than happily married friends assured me I was better off, and thank goodness I didn’t need a man to provide the money, home and prominence they needed.”
She heard a little sound from deep in his throat. He tightened his grip on her.
“I suppose I would have muddled along pretty well, if Thaddeus hadn’t begged me to teach here at St. Brendan’s,” she continued, speaking more quickly now. She would be done soon enough. What more was there to say, after all? “I had pretty nearly convinced myself that I was fine, at least, until I found myself in your orbit again. And then wouldn’t you know it, I found myself watching the Sixes and envying them for their courage in loving each other. There they were, neither of them with more than pennies to rub together, but so happy. I wanted that for myself. There. I admit it.”
“Then find a man with all his parts, Gracie,” he said finally.
If he had called her Grace instead of Gracie, she would have stood up and left the room. But he called her Gracie and hope can twine about a slender thread.
“I don’t happen to love a man with all his parts,” she argued. “What are you going to do about that?”
Silently, he pulled back the throw covering his legs. He took her hand and placed it on the small portion of his remaining leg. “I don’t stand well, if at all. Sometimes the stump hurts. You’d have to hand me a urinal, and help me sit on the chair in my room with the lid that raises up. All that aside, I haven’t felt strong since Aboukir Bay. I doubt I will live long, Gracie. Is that what you truly want for yourself? Work of an embarrassing nature? Early widowhood? The bleakness of a sickroom? Think hard.”
Calmly, she thought about what he had said, waiting for disgust or sorrow or worry to change her mind. All she felt was relief and joy, because she knew she could win this. Maybe she didn’t even need words.
Silently, she took the throw and pulled it over both of them, settling the end around her hip and putting her feet on his hassock next to his foot.
“I still love you,” she said, her heart light. “You won’t mind if I call you Sir B, because I already do. And when we have a son, we’ll find a better name than Belvedere, which I’ll agree sounds vaguely silly. I’m partial to Daniel, or maybe Edward. I will negotiate about Penelope, however, as long as we don’t rope it to Mehitabel.”
She tipped her head toward his, her hand across his chest now. “I’m brave enough,” she whispered in his ear.
“Able told me not so long ago that all I lacked was courage,” he said finally. “He
was right.”
“How fortunate that I have courage to spare,” she said. “I rather enjoyed that recent night in my townhouse, sharing a bed with you because you were sad, even though you snore and mutter in your sleep.” She patted his chest. “You haven’t said how you feel about me, and I’d like to know, especially since I’ve been so brazen.”
He settled in more comfortably next to her. “You’ll think this odd, indeed, but since that night we took John Mark to Astley’s Amphitheatre, I’ve been thinking how much fun it would be to take a child of my own there, and a wife. You, in particular.”
Grace gasped in pure delight and started to laugh. Sir B joined in, until he kissed her into silence.
“Would it amaze you to know I had the very same thought at Astley’s?” she said minutes later. “You, in particular.”
“Then we are wasting time,” he told her.
She heard the voice of command again, the sound of a man with his mind made up. She knew no amount of gloss could disguise what was lost, but she heard no hesitation. He was right; they were wasting time.
“I can’t get down on one knee and propose, as a gentleman should,” he said, sounding not even slightly apologetic, the old Sir B returning, the tease and the childhood friend who never minded a lively argument now and then, and who didn’t object when she beat him at whist. “I love you, though. Grace Croker, will you marry this battered sea dog, who has seen better days?”
“I will,” she said promptly. “Sir B, your better days are just beginning.”
“And yours?”
“Aye, aye, you lovely man,” she said softly.
They kissed again, found it better than the time before, and kissed once more. Sir B was starting to sound breathless, and Grace knew her hair was untidy.
“You realize we are behaving like twenty-year-olds,” she said, trying to pat the pins back in her chignon. “What do we do now?”
“My house or yours?” Sir B asked. “There aren’t any extra chambers here at the Sixes, and I personally would not care to face your brother’s butler across the street in the monastery.”
“I wouldn’t, either,” Grace agreed. “He’s a perfect beast. Do you think Able locked this door?”
“Unlikely. He’s no fool.” He patted his waistcoat, with its silver fob and dangling bosun’s pipe. “Your man Junius gave this to me to summon him.”
He took out the silver pipe, put it to his lips and piped five rapid high notes.
“Which is…” Grace asked, fascinated by this man.
“The Hail. Junius Bolt, if he is worth his salt, will open that door,” he told her. “Gracie, better get out from under this blanket with me. Some decorum is in order, even though you are going home with me tonight. My carriage should be out front.”
She did as he said, wishing her hair was neat and organized. Junius opened the door, followed by Able Six. She stood up, wishing for dignity.
“Sir B and I would like to go to 25 Jasper Street,” she said, and laughed when Able staggered back in mock amazement. “Oh, go to bed, Able! You’re a nuisance, at times.”
He managed an elegant bow. “After Junius and I get my captain into his carriage,” he said. “Stand aside, Grace. Follow us.”
She did as he said, a smile on her face as Able picked up his commander and carried him down the hall. Meridee sat on the steps leading to the chambers upstairs and blew Grace a kiss.
“I’ve never been a matron of honor,” Meridee hinted. “Should I be getting a
new dress?”
“Give me your measurements tomorrow,” Grace said as she followed her beloved Sir B, pushing the empty wheeled chair. “I have a cunning modiste in London and you will look lovely in primrose. She sews on short notice.”
— Epilog —
Late summer - 1804
A visit to Portsmouth from Jamie MacGregor was turning into a pleasant summer ritual. Last year Jamie’s frigate had landed in dry dock for necessary repair. This time he had come to Portsmouth in a sloop of war with a midshipman and a young gentlemen, taking a transfer to the Halcyon, a thirty-eight commanded by Captain David Pettibone.
“You should find yourself on the receiving end of prize money, if the stories I hear about Pettibone are true,” Able told his former student as they walked by the sea wall. “Even better, Sailing Master Marchbank will teach you everything else you need to know. You will be a mate to the master soon enough.”
“Do you know everyone in the fleet, sir?”
“Pretty nearly.” Able felt that tug again, especially standing with someone who smelled like brine. The odor was fading from his own uniforms, and he wasn’t sure he l
iked that.
Theirs was a longer walk than usual. Jamie had the inclination, and Able the time. He had sent Smitty with an eager crew of Rats into the sound in Sir B’s Jolly Roger. Meri had taken young Ben to meet his aunt, uncle and cousins in Pomfrey. They were coming home tonight, and he was eager to see them. Mrs. Perry was presiding in the kitchen, ruling supreme. Jean Hubert had convinced Jacques Rien to accept a parole. It was half four and they were coaching a select class of lads, Nick prominent among them, in learning night signaling.
He smiled to himself as they walked in silence. John Mark Goodrich made a point to drop by the house at least once a week. He still attended morning classes at St. Brendan’s, but his afternoons were increasingly taken up with mechanics in the block pulley factory, which was churning out a steady supply of pulleys for the fleet. Pierre Goodrich’s English was improving, but Lydia Goodrich still worried about his shyness.
“Jamie, your sister was hoping you wouldn’t be upset with her because she did not wait for your return to port before marrying a very worthy fellow,” he said, which made Jamie laugh and shake his head.
“Since we never know when we’ll raise Portsmouth, I wouldn’t have expected her to wait,” he said. He turned serious then, and apologetic. “Sir, we should have told you we were older than we said. Our workhouse master specifically stated twelve year olds was the outer limit, and I knew I wanted to be here.”
“No apology necessary. I know something about ambition and a burning desire to put the workhouse behind, no matter how. Where away the Halcyon, Jamie? Can you tell me, or are your orders a secret?”
“I think we can trust you,” Jamie teased, with that same endearing camaraderie they had fallen into, now that one of St. Brendan’s first graduates was slowly and steadily advancing in the fleet. “We’re heading into the Pacific on what Captain Pettibone calls a fishing trip.”
“Then prize money for sure, lad.”
“Sir, is there anything I should know about going around the Horn?”
“Don’t try the deck without a rope around your waist and pay attention to your sailing master,” Able said promptly, remembering in vivid, instant detail every single trip around the Horn from the age of nine on. “You’ll probably learn a whole host of new curses, too.”
“Is that even possible?”
They laughed together. They stopped on the walk by the sea wall, and Able described the events of last May. “Trinity House and the Navy Board each sent the school letters of commendation for service rendered. They’re hanging in our assembly room across the street. Be a proud Gunwharf Rat, Jamie.”
“Aye, sir, I am.”
He said it with quiet pride. They looked at the hulks in the harbor, still wretched places for prisoners, but less so, with more care and attention from the Transport Office and frequent inspections from the Navy Board. Able had served on two inspections. While conditions were by no means perfect, at least they weren’t quite so soul sapping.
He pointed to the iron cage swinging by the Gunwharf, final resting place of Captain Tobias Faulke, late of the hulk Captivity and unlamented. “He was flayed within an inch of his life, then hauled up a yardarm and hanged. A placard announcing Traitor was nailed to his chest and he was paraded naked past all the ships,” Able said.
“That’s hard to watch.”
“Aye, it was, Jamie. He went into that iron cage and there he remains, a warning to all.” He peered closer. “Look like he’s been reduced to bones.”
“I hear there was a French conspirator involved,” Jamie commented. “Or maybe that’s just scuttlebutt.”
“I’ll tell you this, but it’s between you and me: Claude Pascal is being followed by a Trinity House thug with surprising abilities. Already I think Captain Ogilvie has silenced several conspirators in other ports.”
“And how is Sir B? Betsy mentioned him in a letter that caught up with me at Gibraltar, but the paper was waterlogged, and the ink had run.”
“He married Grace Croker,” Able said and laughed. “I hear from Nick and some of the other Rats that she is much more pleasant to her students when they struggle with log writing in class.” He nudged Jamie. “Not your favorite skill, if memory serves me.”
Jamie made a face. “Memory always serves you, Master Six, but my handwriting has improved. It was either that or walk the plank, my old sailing master told me.”
“Jackie Smithers would say that.” He could tell Jamie more about the St. Anthonys, but forthright Grace was surprisingly shy about informing the world she was increasing, according to Meri. Well, it would be obvious eventually.
Back at the house, Jamie politely declined an invitation to dinner. “I’m to eat two doors down from St. Brendan’s,” the future sailing master said. “Betsy’s so proud of her cookery and her very own sitting room.”
“As she should be. We’ve all come a long way, Mister MacGregor. Stop by tomorrow when Mrs. Six is home. She’ll want to say hello.”
The evening was too fine to go inside. Able sat down on his front steps, content to look across the street to St. Brendan’s. On Monday he would take his next batch of youngsters to the stone basin to strip to their smalls and practice floating.
He had his own news for Meri. It wasn’t something he could put in a letter. When they were comfortable in the sitting room, Ben asleep and her feet in his lap as he massaged them, he could tell her about his own visit to Trinity House, and the invitation to come aboard as a Younger Brother. The request came from Captain Rose, who had followed William Pitt as warden, now that Pitt was too busy.
Able had accepted with surprise and real pleasure, looking forward to occasional visits to London for meetings, as long as Meri and Ben could come along and stay in Lady Grace St. Anthony’s townhouse, which even Sir B agreed was nicer than his own. There were still times when Able needed his wife’s bolstering faith and love, those times when he felt like a child of the workhouse. Thankfully, those moments were spaced farther and farther apart, maybe shooed away by his nosy specters, or by his own will and destiny.
The other matter touched his mind and heart. Captain Rose had taken him up another flight of stairs to a series of offices, and opened a door.
“I want you to see something,” he said as he lit a lamp. “We don’t use all these rooms. A few weeks ago, we were doing some inventory and I noticed this.”
He held the lamp up to illuminate a small painting in an exquisite gilt frame that reminded Able of similar frames he had admired in a Cádiz shop. His mind flew back to that hot afternoon in 1795 when he stood there, tempted to buy a frame, and put someone’s portrait in it, to pretend he belonged in a family. The moment had passed and besides, the frame was too dear for his pocketbook.
“Look closely.”
Able shut down the little scene in his mind and gave the picture his full attention. He stepped back in amazement.
“That’s what I thought, too,” Captain Rose said.
“Who…who is this?”
“I’m not certain. There was a time some years ago, as you know, when Spain was not warring with us. A naval delegation from Cádiz visited Trinity House, wanting to tour the dry docks at Portsmouth, and lighthouses.” He tapped the picture. “The name on the back says Francisco Jesus Domingo y Guzman, Conde de Quintanar. That’s all I know.”
“I look like him.”
“No doubt.”
“Maybe it’s the curly hair and the straight nose. Spaniards do have a look,”
Able said.
“They do,” Captain Rose agreed. He blew out the lamp and indicated the door. “I wanted you to see it. You may form your own opinion.”
He knew Meri would be pleased at his Younger Brother status, but he knew she would be more interested in the picture. Meri, where are you? I really don’t care to have you out of my sight and it has been thirteen days, seve
n hours, thirty-six minutes and fifteen sixteen seventeen…. Stop it, brain.
Maybe if he stared up the street past the bakery, he could will the post chaise into sight. Meri had argued about a post chaise versus the mail coach and he ignored her. Their funds were modest, but he decreed such a luxury for a wonderful woman who should have more of life’s finer things, except that she loved a sailor.
Ah. The post chaise turned the corner, carrying the two dearest people in his universe – sorry, Euclid – coming home. Coming home to him.
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— About the author —
A well-known veteran of the romance writing field, Carla Kelly is the author of forty-two novels and three non-fiction works, as well as numerous short stories and articles for various publications. She is the recipient of two RITA Awards from Romance Writers of America for Best Regency of the Year; two Spur Awards from Western Writers of America; three Whitney Awards, 2011, 2012, and 2014; and a Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times.
Carla’s interest in historical fiction is a byproduct of her lifelong study of history. She’s held a variety of jobs, including public relations work for major hospitals and hospices, feature writer and columnist for a North Dakota daily newspaper, and ranger in the National Park Service (her favorite job) at Fort Laramie National Historic Site and Fort Union Trading Post National Historic Site. She has worked for the North Dakota Historical Society as a contract researcher.
Carla’s interest in the Regency Period of England has moved well beyond the more-typical lords and ladies Regency romances. She feels more at home writing about ordinary people of that interesting era, in particular those involved in the Napoleonic Wars both on land and at sea. She feels equally at home writing about the 18th century inhabitants of the American Southwest, as reflected in The Spanish Brand Series, set in the royal colony of New Mexico in the 1780s. Other novels reflect her interest in the American West of the late nineteenth-early twentieth centuries, involving coal mining and ranching.
