The Unlikely Master Genius (St. Brendan Book 1)
Page 17
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Meridee, when the entire ordeal was over, I feared he was going to do himself damage.” He sighed, remembering. “He shook like a leaf for hours. I seriously thought he was going to die.”
Meridee didn’t try to stop the tears that ran down her face, met under her chin, and dropped onto Sir B’s coverlet. It was his turn to dab at her face, and he did it so gently.
“It was then that I realized the price of genius. At least in Able’s case, it seems to allow no leisure, no relief from mental exhaustion.” He looked away, as if thinking over what he wanted to say, then faced her again, not a man to flinch from a hard subject, apparently. She knew what he was going to say before he said it, and nearly stopped him.
“Your—what shall I say?—your personal comfort provides him some relief,” the captain said, and it was his turn to blush. “Look at us. A pair of red faces! Seriously, Meridee, you are a blessing.”
They were both silent. She hesitated to speak, then took a page from the captain’s book. “Even w-when we are together in bed, sometimes I hear him murmuring Euclid’s Propositions. It’s as though he has many conversations going on inside his prodigious brain.”
“Poor you,” Sir B said, “sharing your bed with Euclid.”
Expressed aloud, the idea was absurd and made her smile. “Truly, Euclid doesn’t take up much space.”
The captain stared at her then burst into laughter. “Meridee, you’re a wit!” he exclaimed, when he could speak.
“Since you are plagued with geometry in your marriage bed, let me throw in physics,” the irrepressible captain said. “What holds up an arch? Hand me that tablet.”
She did as he directed, including a pencil, from his nightstand. He drew an arch.
“It’s stress, isn’t it?” she said, after a thoughtful perusal. “One force pushing against another.”
“Most certainly. The stress of that awful afternoon and evening in the sickbay kept your man going. When it ended, he collapsed. The stress was gone.” He sighed heavily. “This is what I fear for Able Six.”
Silence again, with just the tick of the clock on the nightstand. “I will watch him closely,” Meridee said, and then sucked in her breath. “He won’t even see this coming, will he?”
“Unlikely. I think he has a blind spot that prevents him from evaluating certain events or emotions. We can blame that on the workhouse, too. I can only imagine what it must feel like to be unwanted.”
“He’s wanted now,” Meridee said quietly. “I want him. You want him. The school wants him. The Royal Navy wants him.” She couldn’t help herself as her voice rose higher and higher. “Sir B, will it prove too much?”
“Who can say?” he asked in turn, holding out his arms as she fell into them, weeping.
He patted her back until she sat up, appalled at her rag manners. “Meridee, don’t worry about propriety,” he soothed. “We are living in difficult times and we are adults.”
Meridee blew her nose on the handkerchief Sir B had at the ready. “What can I do?”
“Watch him closely. There isn’t much time before either we or the French will break this Treaty of Amiens,” he said. “Some of his lads will be ordered to warships.”
Meridee knew what he was going to say. “Some might die.”
“It is inevitable,” he replied. “We at St. Brendan’s will feel the full measure of devastation, but no one will feel it more than your good man.”
“Why is this his burden?” Meridee demanded to know.
“Because if you peel away the sheer genius, talent, and charm of your remarkable husband, he still has his humanity.”
“Not even the workhouse could destroy that, but it tried,” she said. “I worry.”
“You’re not alone in your fears,” Sir B assured her.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Captain Sir Belvedere St. Anthony insisted upon sending her home in his own carriage, her protests notwithstanding.
“If you need me to sit with you again, only ask,” she said quietly.
“What will I do if your outraged husband calls me out and challenges me to a duel?” he teased.
“For heaven’s sake! I doubt either of you know anything about dueling,” she declared, wondering if she was destined to be the only practical human in Portsmouth. “I will visit you whether you ask for my company or not.” No sense in making a proud man pawn his dignity. She kept it light. “My mother warned me about sailors. I didn’t listen. Good day.”
It eased her heart to walk down the stairs followed by the sound of laughter, rather than the screams of pain that had propelled her up them hours earlier.
Since it did no good to protest Sir B’s kindness in sending her home in a carriage with a crest on the door, Meridee leaned back, wishing she could enjoy the drive through the gentrified side of Portsmouth, where captains and admirals lived. Instead, she worried, arguing with herself about her ability to be and do what her amazing husband needed.
Sir B, you seem to think I can manage four troubled boys and one genius, she thought. As the carriage returned her to the less genteel part of Pompey, she fought back a sudden urge to demand that John Coachman take her back to the vicarage in Devon, instead of to her house on Saint’s Way. They had received a brief note yesterday from her brother-in-law, announcing that Amanda had been brought to bed with another daughter. Meridee had assured Able it wasn’t necessary for her to return now to visit, but as she rode home, she suddenly wanted to run away from the trouble she sensed was coming. She could call it a visit to a beloved sister and her newest niece, but Meridee knew better.
The terrible moment passed and she saw the absurdity of her childish plea. “Grow up, Meridee,” she said out loud. “Grow up. Others need you more.”
She waved goodbye to the coachman from the top of her steps and let herself into the house. An appreciative whiff told her that Mrs. Perry’s pease porridge was ready. She followed her nose down the hall to the kitchen, where two boys, heads together, leaned over a table and stared at tiny bones. Mrs. Perry loomed over them both, a hand on each shoulder. Meridee smiled to watch Davey Ten leaning into the African cook the same way he leaned into her.
She hung her bonnet on a convenient nail and came closer. Nick made room for her.
“Mrs. Six, what do you think?” he asked, and she heard all his enthusiasm.
A rat it will ever be to me, she thought. “I think it is marvelous, they way you are laying him out.” There. That was ambiguous enough.
“Master Six copied the skeleton on this paper,” Davey offered. “Said he saw it in an anatomy book once. How does he do that?”
“He just does, Davey,” she said. “You can be certain it is correct.”
Mrs. Perry must have found a piece of black fabric from somewhere. “It’s a side view,” Davey explained. “Some of the tiny leg bones are missing, so Mrs. Perry said we should just show half the rat.”
“That way, we have enough parts,” Nick added. “Mrs. Perry has some carpenter’s glue, so here we are.”
“You would think Mrs. Perry dealt in rat bones every day,” Meridee said.
She heard her cook’s rumbling laugh. “I even found this wonderful board to mount it on. Nick says John Mark has the best hand to write ‘St. Brendan’s Wharf Rats’ across the top.”
“And John Mark and Stephen Hoyt?” Meridee asked her cook.
“In the dining room, studying. It seems their instructor, who will remain nameless, mentioned something about potential greatness for lads who know their numbers. Dinner’s at six, Mrs. Six.”
Meridee went into the dining room, where John Mark, elbows on the table, chin in hands, applied himself to fractions. Stephen stood at the window, rocking back and forth on his heels. Nodding to John, she went to the window and stood beside him. To touch him or not to touch him? She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder and took it away when he flinched.
“What do you think of the rat?” she asked.
“Will you talk to me sometime?” Meridee asked. “I want to know how I can help you.”
“No one’s ever helped me,” he whispered.
“Then it’s time someone did,” she whispered back.
Meridee made her way next to the sitting room, where she thought she might find the master. He sat in a wing-backed chair, long legs out in front of him, head back, eyes closed. He wasn’t asleep because his eyes moved behind their lids. No doubt he saw something no one else did. With a small sigh, she knew whatever raced through her husband’s brain was oceans kinder than what Stephen Hoyt saw. All she saw when she looked out the window was the street below and the backyard.
“My darling,” she said, and Able opened his eyes and held out his arms. She slipped onto his lap and into his embrace, her head against his chest.
“Isn’t this where a good wife asks her husband how his day went?” Meri asked.
“I suppose it is, whereupon that good husband replies, ‘My dear, you would be amazed how rapidly these lads are taking to fractions.’ ”
“I have no skill whatsoever with fractions,” Meridee admitted.
“I never required it from you,” the good husband said. “And my calculus students: yesterday I asked them to imagine something useful of a mechanical nature that we need.”
“And …?”
“Jan Yarmouth wants to land a man on the moon, which led to an animated introduction—mine—to Newton’s various and sundry laws. Jamie MacGregor wants something to transmit information from place to place using Benjamin Franklin’s electricity.” He kissed her cheek. “Meri, such students! I have been sitting here imagining travel through space and instant messages, and then you sit on my lap. I am in transports of delight.”
“Knothead,” she said with feeling.
“You’ve been all this time with Sir B?” he asked. “He was adamant a few days ago that you visit. I trust you found him well enough.”
She shook her head, and he tightened his grip. “Able, he was in dire pain. None of his servants were brave enough to do what he wanted, so I—”
“You marched in there and helped him,” he said, a statement of fact. He couldn’t help himself then. “I doubt you gave him a black eye.”
“Wretched man,” she murmured. “Am I never to live down one weak moment when I could not suffer one more twang to my nerves?”
“Probably not. We all enjoy a good story, especially when the protagonist looks so lovely and incapable of violence.” He turned serious. “It was his leg, wasn’t it?”
“He was in mortal agony from pain that … that … I can’t explain it. A ghost pain from a mangled leg no longer there.”
“I’ve seen this, even in amputations not as grievous as his. What did he ask of you?”
“That I hold his leg and squeeze it,” she told him. “I was embarrassed at first, but it did give him some relief.” She rested her forehead against his chest. “When he felt better, Mrs. Perry’s rout cakes worked their wonder.”
He spoke into her hair. “What did he really want with you?”
“He wanted me to take good care of you, especially after the treaty ends and some of the boys must go to sea,” she said in a rush.
“And serve and run the risk of death at sea,” he finished, agitation in his voice. “Meri, I came so close to not accepting this position for that very reason. It’s one thing to risk my own life, but quite another to train lads for war. And these lads! They’ve known suffering enough already.”
“He fears for your peace of mind, and I am to watch you closely,” she said, preferring frankness to a dodge. She rested her head against his chest, took a good whiff of his shirt, and sat up.
“Where have you been, Durable Six?” she demanded.
He laughed, but she saw little humor in his eyes. “This is where the good husband says, ‘Why, tender Meri, whatever are you referring to?’”
“You are still a knothead.” She sniffed his shirt again. “I know you don’t smoke.”
He glanced at the clock. “I’d better make this fast, or Mrs. Perry will give us what for. Get comfortable.”
That was simple. She put her hand inside his smoky shirt, and he pulled her close.
“I told you that Master Fletcher wanted me to tip a glass with him at the Bare Bones,” he began with no preamble—not that any well-bred words she knew could ever dress up that stinky pig.
“And you succumbed,” she said.
“I did, and it was disturbing,” he replied. “Well, not the grog. I came back here first and dug through my duffel until I found sailor’s trousers. Where did you put that shirt you want to burn?”
“I burned it,” she said, which made him chuckle.
“Which is why this new one smells. I didn’t want to run into a drunk who dislikes sailing masters, now, did I?”
“You’re much too smart for that,” she agreed. “Very well, you’re dressed rough like a sailor and ….”
“We found a quiet table and Master Fletcher shouted for the grog,” Able said. “I must admit it tasted fine and took me back a few years.”
“I gather you have been to the Bare Bones a time or two when you were young and impressionable and in port?” Meridee teased.
“Indeed I have. Didn’t lose my virginity there, though.”
She punched his chest and he laughed. “I saved that for Spain. Ow! Meri, you know I didn’t come to you a saint.”
“Oh, be quiet and tell your story,” she said, wondering what all her sisters would make of such a conversation. Better they never knew.
He gave her a little shake, then tightened his grip on her. “I wondered why Fletcher asked me there, and then I saw him.”
“Who?”
“Master Blake, of all people. He sat across the room from us, talking with a true hard case. Blake was dressed pretty rough, too, and he didn’t see us, thank God. I asked Master Fletcher what in hell was going on and who was that man?”
He stopped and stroked her cheek, as if seeking immediate comfort, and Meridee thought of Captain St. Anthony’s worries about her husband. “You can tell me anything, Able,” she whispered into his neck.
He nodded. “Master Fletcher said he didn’t know why Blake was there, but he had heard scuttlebutt that Blake had been ‘sentenced,’ if you will, to St. Brendan’s for gambling debts.”
“Then who was the other man?” she asked.
“My very question to Fletcher,” Able said. “All he knew was he thought the fellow was an ugly customer who—I should cover your ears—is a well-known pimp.”
“I don’t even know what that is,” she said. He whispered in her ear and Meridee gasped.
“I still don’t understand,” she said, her face flaming. “Master Blake?”
“I don’t either,” Able said. “I came back here, but Master Fletcher said he was going to wait a bit and see if he could follow Blake when he left.” He spread out his hands. “That’s all I know.”
“Should you … should you say something to Headmaster Croker?” she asked, as she heard the bell for dinner ring. Mrs. Perry had given that prized task to the boys, and whoever had the duty today was ringing for all he was worth.
“Our summons,” Able said. “I don’t know what I would tell Thaddeus yet. I’ll wait and see what Master Fletcher learns. I admit to some confusion.”
“That’s a rare confession for you,” Meridee said.
“I don’t much like it,” he replied. “Let’s go to dinner before one of our lodgers wears out that bell.”
They did what they had done the night before, Meridee beginning with ordinary conversation and an additional reminder for Master Six to get a haircut, which made serious John Mark giggle this time. To her distress and Able’s, Nick told her that Master Blake nearl
y beat one of the boys because he could not recall who ruled England when the Magna Carta was signed. Fortunately, the schoolmaster changed his mind.
“Who was the ruler?” Able asked.
“King John, and he wasn’t a good’un,” Davey said, then turned to Stephen. “Please pass the bread.”
A discussion of English kings followed the boiled potatoes, with no consensus reached on the current trials of poor George the Third. The rout cakes satisfied everyone, and Nick yawned out loud, to his embarrassment. Meridee helped the boys and Mrs. Perry in the kitchen, leaving Able to stand by the window, staring out at the rain sluicing the panes and probably thinking about Master Blake and a pimp. Meridee wondered at her own odd education.
God bless Mrs. Perry. When the chores were done and Nick and John both yawned, the cook handed each student two rout cakes bundled into a square of cloth, saying, in an offhand manner, “In case you need something in the middle of the night.”
Able watched his students troop upstairs, cakes in hand. Meridee nudged him. “Do you need a little something if you wake up at night?” she teased.
“I have a little something, name of Meri Six,” he teased back, and she blushed.
The newly established bedtime ritual followed. Indeed, from the way they sat up so expectantly in their beds, Davey Ten and Nick were waiting for her. Sitting on each bed, she wished them goodnight, then tucked the blankets about them when they slid down. She debated a moment, then kissed each forehead.
Stephen Hoyt was already lying down, his blankets high and his body turned toward the window. Oh, no you don’t, Meridee thought. She touched his shoulder and wished him goodnight anyway.
John Mark had a smile for her. “Is this what real people do when they go to bed?” he asked as she tucked him in.
“I believe it is,” she said. “See you in the morning.”
Her bed had never looked better, especially with Able lying in it, flipping rapidly through what looked like Greek writing. All she wanted was to curl into a little ball and wish away, if only for a brief time, what she had learned today. She knew her burden would come crashing back in the morning.