by Carla Kelly
“These patrons … might I know them?”
“I don’t even know them,” Croker said, with mild exasperation. “The whole school is kept quiet, as if people in power are ashamed of it.” He shrugged. “P’raps they are. For myself, I have never understood the point in condemning children who had no say in their birth.”
“Refreshing of you.”
“There aren’t many as enlightened as I am,” Croker replied, with some spirit.
“How were you declared headmaster here?” Able asked, considering himself chastened for his sarcasm. His amazing brain recalled years of slights, abuse, and scorn.
“I’ll spare you the gory details, but I was teaching some gutter rats right here at my own expense. Simple things like arithmetic and letters. Captain Sir Belvedere St. Anthony found out. There seems to be a prodigiously effective word-of-mouth channel among sailors.”
“Prodigious,” Able echoed. “Why were you doing this in the first place?”
A shadow of great melancholy passed over the headmaster’s countenance. “Penance, Master Six, and I’ll say no more about it.” Again the hand across his eyes, as though he saw something he could not dismiss. “I was invited to Admiralty House, quizzed a bit about my interest in teaching young boys of low or less-than-low birth, and installed in this place officially. This is our third year.”
“Any of your pupils in the fleet yet?” Able asked. He knew better than to pry further into a man’s life.
“This spring will see the first of the lot,” Croker said. “All twelve of my upper class have stayed and succeeded, which still surprises me. I was certain we would lose a few. It’s not an easy course.”
“When your alternatives are a return to the workhouse or life on the street, St. Brendan’s is highly attractive.”
“Hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“Few do.”
“I have already mentioned the three fortunate lads who were taken from here earlier by relatives,” Croker said. “I will find more lads.”
“It’s a rare thing when anyone seeks out a workhouse child,” Able said. “In fact, I have never heard of it.”
“Really?” Croker spent a moment in thought. “That is one area where Master Blake shines. He went out of his way to find relatives.”
I wouldn’t have credited Blake with that much interest, Able thought. Howsoever, Meridee would scold me soundly if I ragged on about Master Blake. “Perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt, Headmaster Croker.”
“P’raps you should. Call me Thaddeus, when we are private,” the headmaster said, and dismissed more comment on the matter of Master Blake. “I would like you to teach the younger boys mathematics, at least at first. Acquaint them with numbers in a way that will not terrify them. I wonder: in exchange for this admittedly slow going for someone of your ability, could I tempt you with the calculus for one or two of the older lads?”
“With pleasure. Headma … Thaddeus. We could meet daily wherever you say.” He looked around at his bare classroom. “How do you aim to use me in the afternoons?”
“This is where I intend to veer from a rigid schedule,” Theodore Croker said. He walked to the window. “We have before us a world reluctantly at peace. How much longer do you give the Treaty of Amiens?”
“A wild guess? Four months at most. Better weather returns by May. I know Whitehall doesn’t wish to give up Malta, as stipulated by the treaty.”
“In light of this, I propose a course I will loosely call Seamanship. Teach them what they need to know to survive in the fleet. It is ambitious to make miniature sailing masters of them, but I would like you to try.” He waited barely a second. “How will you begin, Master Six?”
Able pointed to the window close to the building’s corner. He looked down at the debris-filled stone basin. He had seen one like this in Livorno, Italy, with hot sun turning the basin into a shallow pool where toy boats bobbed about.
“They’re going to learn to swim. I’ll start with a depth of three feet, maybe less, so they can master floating.”
“You had mentioned that. In superstitious minds, does not learning to swim tempt Neptune to sink ships?”
“Have you ever seen a man drown? I have. He doesn’t struggle. He tips his head back then silently slides underwater. God, what a waste,” Able said softly. “I predict the renewed war will not stop until one of us is bled dry. If something as simple as swimming helps our side, I am for it.”
“Very well, master. Sir B told me you have a gift for going right to the meat of an argument.”
Able nodded in agreement. “I will not be on the side bled dry.”
“Once they have learned to float?”
“We’ll add more water and they will learn to swim.”
“It’s devilish cold water right now, master,” Thaddeus said, but with a smile now, as if pleased to play devil’s advocate.
“Unless they are sailing in the South Pacific, the water is always cold,” Able replied. “I’ll know when to reel them in. I suspect Meri will be standing by with towels and admonition, if I fail to notice cyanotic lips.”
“You’ll enlist your long-suffering wife?” Theodore joked.
“I know Meri Six,” Able said. “It will be her idea. You should see her with her nephews. She likes taking care of the little boys.” Big ones even more, he thought, and felt his face grow warm.
“Very well, let us assume they can swim like otters now. What then?”
“I’ll return the basin to water shallow enough to stand in and we’ll build little boats.”
“Is this play or work?”
“How about work disguised as play?” Able questioned in turn. “I’ll teach them how to balance small loads on their little ships to keep them in trim, one of the most critical duties of a sailing master.”
His mind raced along at its usual breakneck speed, so he forced himself to speak slowly, aware no one thought as he did. “If the weather is too inclement—I’m no monster—we’ll come up here and practice keeping the ship’s log, which as you know, is another duty of the sailing master.”
Thaddeus bowed elaborately, but Able noticed no condescension or mockery in the gesture. The headmaster appeared genuinely appreciative.
“How will you clean out this … this midden?”
“With shovels and little boys,” Able said. “With your permission, I’ll call for volunteers tomorrow after breakfast.”
“They’ve been informed that the days this week are for their own purposes, before we plunge into another rigorous term. We know when to let up, and now is the time.”
“If no one volunteers, I’ll begin myself,” Able said. “Do you ever wager, sir?”
“No! You plan to make this irresistible, somehow? You’re going to clean out a disgusting basin full of God knows what and have the lads lining up to help?”
Able smiled. “I think they will. Will you secure a cart of some sort and several rakes and shovels by tomorrow morning?” They stood in the classroom doorway now. “Tell me where we can dump the trash.”
Thaddeus stopped, unmindful of the students in the hall, some sweeping, some sitting on the benches reading, others doing nothing, all watchful. “Does nothing daunt you, Master Six?”
“Durability is my legacy and my name, Headmaster Croker,” he said most formally. “No man is dauntless, I suppose, but I come close.”
Able looked around him at the boys in the hall, lads like himself. He gazed into their eyes and understood the need to be in this place at this time. They seemed to understand that he knew them.
“We have work to do.” Able Six knew he was a cynical man. Where was this great lump in his throat coming from? “We must find the greatness within, during this time of national emergency.”
“It will be a hard task, perhaps a thankless one,” Croker commented. “Obviously you found greatness.”
“To a point, sir. I can rise no higher in the fleet because I am still a workhouse bastard.” He stopped. “N
ow I would like to … to think a bit, with your permission.”
The headmaster gave him a nod, which looked surprisingly deferential to Able, who knew he would never get used to such … such what? He didn’t know the word. Acclaim was too strong. Admiration came closer, but still wasn’t right. Better leave it alone. A man can’t know every word.
He closed the door behind him in his classroom, and gave a sigh of profound satisfaction. He stared down at the debris-filled basin, thinking of the lessons to be learned there.
He left the corner view and walked to the other windows, opening one to see the home he now shared with the woman who, along with several ship captains, saw his greatness, or whatever it was.
As much as they laughed about his need for a keeper, it was true. A man could have no better advocate. Put her in the form of a wife, something he never thought to acquire, and a man could ask for no more.
The wind blew cold off the Solent, but he breathed in deeply, knowing he would miss the free range of a ship at sea, but aware this was his domain now, here and across the street, where another kind of destiny, the loving and gentle sort, awaited him.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time afternoon shadows began to lengthen, Meridee knew their house was one step closer to a home.
She looked around the sitting room with real pride, amazed at how the simple lace table covers she had squirreled away years ago turned austerity into near luxury. It was the home of her own she had wanted for years.
She had spent the day working alongside Sadie, the maid Thaddeus Croker had so kindly loaned to her. The first course of action had been to assure Sadie that she was used to turning a hand in the vicarage, and she wouldn’t stand by idle. That bit of awkwardness put aside, they scrubbed floors, washed windows, and rearranged items in the kitchen.
Luncheon had been kindly delivered to them from St. Brendan’s: meat pies and potatoes, washed down with actual grog. Sadie laughed at Meridee’s wary expression as she sniffed the cup.
“Aye, ma’am, rum and water, but I assure you the cook at St. Brendan’s leans heavily on the water spigot for the boys.”
Dessert was petits fours, which made Meridee stare again. “One of the bakers nearby heard about St. Brendan’s,” the maid explained, as she picked up a delectable morsel robed in chocolate with a candied cherry on top. “He’s embarrassed if we exclaim over him, but he likes to surprise the headmaster with seasonal delicacies.”
“What does Mrs. Croker say about all this?” Meridee asked, after polishing off the other chocolate petit four. She eyed the one with candied lemon peel on top and picked it up.
“There is no Mrs. Croker,” Sadie said with a shake of her head. “Rumors say she suffered some preventable illness, but the master was too busy to see to her comfort before she died.”
“Heavens, recently?” Meridee set down the pastry, which had lost its appeal.
“Years ago, long before I came into employment. He never speaks of it.”
Meridee tried to imagine a husband too busy to care for wife, and couldn’t. She remembered her own mother agonizing over Papa as he declined and faded away, despite all anyone could do. She knew Able would never neglect her welfare, and she knew it worked both ways.
She picked up the petit four again and ate it thoughtfully, savoring the lemony tang and the smooth icing, still getting used to the idea of marriage and wondering who to ask if she ever had any questions. She smiled to herself, knowing the only person she ever needed to ask was the man who shared her bed.
It was a beguiling thought, which she carried with her as they prepared the rooms where four boys would take up residence soon enough—sheets and blankets tucked, pillows fluffed. Sadie found rugs for the boys’ rooms and one for Meridee’s room, which they tugged upstairs after a thorough beating in the backyard.
When they finished and the chairs were back in place in front of the fireplace, Sadie gazed around like God on the sixth day and pronounced their efforts excellent. “You’ll be warm and cozy here, Mrs. Six,” she said. “There is even room over there for a cradle.”
Meridee blushed, even though Sadie hadn’t said anything she hadn’t already been thinking for the past tumultuous week. The words were matter-of-fact and woman to woman. Something about the saying of them out loud settled around Meridee’s heart. This was her life now. If matters moved ahead as they did every day for thousands of women like her throughout the British Isles, there would be babies and more challenges and heartache mingled with laughter, because that was how life ran through a person’s mortal span.
She spent a quiet moment gazing out the bedroom window to St. Brendan’s School across the road, and the watery Solent beyond. She reached the pleasant conclusion that her role was to provide the daily, mundane routines of life that a man would want, be he ordinary or exceptional.
Before she left for the night, Sadie fetched a pot of soup from the school. “The headmaster eats most of his meals with the boys, but you and Master Six might enjoy a quiet dinner together,” she said, setting the pot on the hob.
“My goodness, what is it?” she asked, as she lifted the lid and sniffed the combination of exotic spices, mixed into a hash of what looked like well-done potatoes and leeks, plus meat she had no previous acquaintance with. She wanted to poke it suspiciously with a fork, but that didn’t seem polite, not after Sadie had gone to so much trouble to help her today.
“Lobscouse,” the maid announced. “A particularly fine one, I might add.”
“Is it a sailor’s delicacy?” Meridee asked, hoping her question sounded innocent, rather than wary.
“I suppose you could say so,” Sadie replied, after some consideration. “Tars have a tendency to put a little of this and that into a pot and hope for the best.” She held out a waxed paper packet of what looked like cornmeal. “Cookie already ground up the ship’s biscuit. You can add it just before you serve it.”
Might as well expose her ignorance. “Is a lobscouse some sort of fish?”
Sadie whooped with laughter. “Mercy, no!” she said, her eyes lively with merriment. “Someone must have named it that for want of a better idea. It’s corned beef that comes out of a keg long at sea. That’s why there are so many spices. Cloves, cardamom, allspice, and nutmeg.”
“I am dubious,” Meridee admitted, unwilling to poison her husband of a mere week. “A very long time in a keg?”
“Since we’re in Pompey, it’s fresh corned beef, or as near as. Your man will love it.”
Will I? Meridee asked herself. She walked Sadie to the front door, grateful for her help, but unwilling to be left alone with lobscouse. “Should I serve something else with it?”
“Bread would be good,” the maid said. “I’m heading home, which isn’t far from a bakery. Get your cloak and hat.”
Meridee grabbed up her cloak, reticule, and winter bonnet. Dusk came quickly as they hurried along. “I won’t have to walk too far back alone?” she asked, trying to sound adult and casual.
“Two blocks is all,” Sadie said. “Mind your step. Haven’t seen a street sweeper in ages.”
There was no point in telling the maid that she had never walked alone to little Pomfrey without someone accompanying her, even if it was only her nephews. She didn’t think Sadie would understand.
It was two long blocks, past warehouses where workers were shrugging into overcoats and leaving. Others hurried along, heads down, as a raw wind whipped along, making Meridee clutch her cloak tighter.
They passed a lamp lighter. Perched there on his ladder, he must have said something impudent to Sadie, who responded with salty language. “Maybe we shouldn’t …” Meridee began, as Sadie grabbed her arm and tugged her into a brightly lit bakery.
“What does Master Six like?” Sadie asked.
“Rye bread, ship’s biscuit, and brown bread,” Meridee replied. She looked for white bread and saw none, but there, nestled in the corner, were a half-dozen petits fours. “And all those petits fours,” she sa
id, pointing to them. “Yes, that will do.”
“Show me your money first, miss,” the baker said, which told Meridee worlds about his usual customers.
She already knew better than to open her reticule wide. She took out a handful of coins and put them on the high counter. The baker nodded and smiled at her. “A lady of quality in here?” he asked, but his tone was kinder, now that he knew she had money.
“She’s the wife of Master Six, St. Brendan’s new instructor,” Sadie said. “No cheek now. She’s quality, like you said.”
The baker scowled at Sadie, who glared back. “Don’t let him cheat you, Mrs. Six,” she said, loud enough to be overheard. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be on my way.”
Meridee resisted the urge to beg her to walk her at least halfway back home. I’ve done a foolish thing, she thought, but smiled instead. “Thank you for your help today, Sadie.”
With a wave of her hand, Sadie hurried into the increasing gloom. Meridee turned back to the counter. Might as well show a brave face. “Here’s my basket. I’d like one rye, one brown bread, a dozen ship’s biscuits, and those petits fours.” She knew her lot in life now was to cajole tradesmen. “I had some earlier that you must have given to Headmaster Croker at St. Brendan’s.”
It was the right comment. The baker nodded and dipped his head in what Meridee might have called shyness in someone younger and more sensitive-looking. She reconsidered. He was obviously an artist, no matter his floury apron and red face.
He filled her basket, took some of the coins on the counter, and handed back the rest. She reached for the basket and he handed it over as politely as a lord.
“Hurry on home. It’s getting dark and I don’t trust anyone on this street.”
Meridee took a deep breath and stepped onto the sidewalk, wishing she had been smarter about venturing from her house in what everyone knew was a town with more rascals than paving stones.
She looked around and saw no women on the street, no friendly faces, just stares and leers. Eyes forward, she clutched her basket and told herself not to run.
