Unlikely Heroes (St. Brendan Book 3) Read online

  None of his fellow scientists and geniuses had any good advice. Lately, they had seemed to think he should rely more on himself.

  But wait. There was some sort of clamor at the door to that spectral antechamber where he sometimes found himself. Able settled back, content with the pleasant warmth of Meri’s breasts against his chest, and wondered who it might be.

  We can’t let you in. You’re not one of us, he heard from William Harvey, who should have known better, considering his usual sense of humor.

  Just listen to me then, Able heard.

  He recognized the voice, and felt a great weight lift from his heart. He put his hands behind his head and smiled at the ceiling.

  He strained to hear the whispered conversation there at the door, but it was indistinct. The Italians gesticulated, the Germans folded their arms, and van Leuwenhoek grinned, a merry Dutchman.

  Able knew how persuasive Captain Sir Belvedere St. Anthony could be, and no one strode a quarterdeck with more elán. His heart grew tender as he heard Sir B through the door, his voice intense. I should have thought of this earlier, but I was in great pain.

  Euclid seemed to have the final say among the quarreling specters. Able listened and thought he heard, We’ll make it right, sir, now return to your quarterdeck. Trust Euclid to look out for him, even though Meri had insisted that he stay in the hall at nights.

  Before the sun rose, he woke Meri with a kiss and a cuddle, aware that Ben would wake soon, and the household would be up and ready for another day.

  “Some men take their wives to sea with them,” Meri whispered in his ear.

  “Captains, Meri, which I am not, and never in time of war,” he told her. He smoothed back her hair and looked down at her lovely face. “Something tells me this nasty bit of news will work out.”

  “Something or someone?” she asked, her fingers in his curls.

  By God, this woman knew him. “Very well, then, someone.”

  She laughed softly and raised up to kiss him. “Considering that I banished him, Euclid is remarkably kind to me.”

  “No Greek can resist a pretty face.”

  She grew serious then, and pulled him closer. “Never forget that I am your keeper.”

  Chapter Seven

  The reading of Sir B’s last will and testament began promptly at two bells in the forenoon watch, in Headmaster Thaddeus Croker’s office. Classes had been dismissed and the students were under the thumb of Mrs. Parmley, bosun’s widow who ran as taut a ship as her husband ever had. Spiders lurked in vain at St Brendan’s. There were no decks to holystone here, but she had her boys scrubbing and cleaning.

  Composed, her hands in her lap, Grace sat next to Meridee. Only the dark circles under her eyes betrayed the sorrow and despair that had taken their toll during the last few weeks of her husband’s life on earth.

  It wasn’t dignified, but Meridee nudged Grace, pleased to feel an answering nudge. “This isn’t the first time it has been you and me in a roomful of navy men,” she whispered.

  Grace took her hand. “You are remembering Trinity House, are you not? We were formidable then.”

  Meridee recalled the two of them pleading St. Brendan’s case last year with the conviction born of experience; the Trinity Brothers had listened. We need each other, Grace and I, she thought. Do other navy wives feel that way? “I remember,” she said, her voice low. “Grace, we are still formidable.” The glance they exchanged warmed Meridee’s heart.

  Smitty sat on Meridee’s other side, impeccable in his St. Brendan’s uniform. Meridee admired his calm air, wondering how he managed. None of the other St. Brendan’s lads were there. He betrayed his youth only once when he leaned toward her and whispered, “Mam, what do I do if someone calls on me?”

  She had no idea. “You stand and give a respectful nod and look at them straight on.”

  “I won’t frighten them?”

  She touched his hand, then rested it lightly on his. “No, Smitty. What you are is capable-looking and courageous.”

  “I think they frighten me,” he muttered under his breath.

  He gave her a rare smile, belying his words and reminding her again of the man whose will they were about to hear. Why she was there made even less sense to her than why Smitty was, except that she loved Sir B as much as everyone in the room, including her husband, who sat between Headmaster Croker and the barrister. He had a “why am I here?” look on his face, which probably mirrored hers.

  Captain Hector Rose, Trinity House’s warden, had joined them, as well as the ubiquitous Captain Ogilvie. How did that man insinuate himself into so much? she wondered. There were other distinguished-looking fellows, enough of them to make Meridee wish for a kettle full of petit fours from Ezekiel Bartleby as solace for nerves.

  I marry a bona fide genius, end up in raffish Portsmouth, and my life changed, she thought, still marveling at the difference of a few years. She smiled at her husband, reading his thoughts almost perfectly. And you wish I were sitting beside you. So do I.

  Meridee prepared to be bored but look interested through the reading of Sir B’s will, and she succeeded, to a point. Who could know anything about St. Brendan’s usually denigrated students and not feel a catch in the throat when the barrister, Sir Charles Park, announced a huge bequest?

  “He wrote this in his own hand,” Sir Charles said, with a kindly glance at Grace St. Anthony. “’I know not what the coming years of war will bring, but St. Brendan’s must continue as a school for workhouse lads of promise.’” He removed his spectacles and addressed Grace. “My dear Lady St. Anthony, he was so adamant that he word the matter correctly.”

  “He knew how important St. Brendan’s was. He always knew,” Grace said softly.

  Sir Charles cleared his throat and continued through other bequests, then came to one which brought a smile to his face. To Meridee’s surprise, he looked at her. “You are Mrs. Able Six?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sir Charles,” she said, then glanced at Able, who shrugged his shoulders, as mystified as she was.

  “Very well, then!” Sir Charles gave her a deferential nod. “’To Meridee Bonfort Six, wife of Sailing Master Durable Six, should her husband predecease her in his service in the Royal Navy and/or St. Brendan the Navigator School, one thousand pounds per annum, as long as she shall live.’”

  Meridee gasped. She looked across the room to her husband, who had bowed his head. When she saw his shoulders shake, she longed to leap to her feet and hold him.

  Sir Charles held up his hand. “A little more, so humor me.” Another throat clearing. “’The house at 11 Saints Way has already been purchased by me and will be assigned to Mrs. Six now, with the addition of a few signatures. She need never fear eviction, provided she does not mind living in this devil-may-care port.’”

  Meridee struggled between laughter and tears, and tears won. Without a word, Smitty took a handkerchief from an inside pocket and pressed it in her hand.

  It wasn’t enough. She knew she wanted her husband right then; fortunately, he knew it, too. With no apology he left the table and was at her side in remarkable time. She clung to him, and he to her. After a moment, they turned their attention to Headmaster Croker.

  “Sir, accept our apologies for this interruption,” Able said. “By his unparalleled bequest to my wife, Sir B has allayed my only fear. God bless the man.”

  He returned to his seat and Meridee sat again, certain that everyone in the room could hear the pounding of her heart. She whispered to Grace, “Friend, did you know this?”

  Grace nodded, and blew her a kiss.

  After several more mundane bequests, all of which indicated to Meridee that Sir B was far wealthier than she ever could have imagined, Sir Charles finally reached the final page of the will. He looked and then looked again, showing it to the solicitor seated behind him. They conferred. Meridee heard, “I don’t recall this. Do you?” and “But Sir Charles, it has been initialed, has it not?” “Someone’s initials. Can you make th
em out?” “No, Sir Charles. It’s Greek to me.”

  Sir Charles Park read the final entry to himself, shaking his head. He looked at Master Croker apologetically. “I daresay our firm has been working too many long hours.” He tapped the page. “This little entry I disremember, but all things considered, it is a wise one, I have no doubt.” He looked at his audience.

  “It is this: “I will my yacht the Jolly Roger to St. Brendan’s, with the proviso that it be assigned to the Royal Navy for the length of our current national emergency. She is a sweet vessel and can easily handle ship-to-shore messages from the blockade off France and Spain to Admiralty and the Navy Board.” He smiled at the words. “’Trust me, she is fast.’”

  He looked at Smitty this time, and then Able. “This part concerns you two.” Smitty leaned forward. Gone was his usual veiled expression, replaced by an unmatched intensity. “’What better way to train lads for the fleet than to serve such a duty? Able Six will command, if he is recalled to the fleet, and Smitty will serve as sailing master.’”

  Everyone in the room seemed to exhale at the same time. Sir Charles held up a warning hand and looked closer. “Let me continue. ‘Be persuasive, you Gunwharf Rats, in convincing the starched shirts at Admiralty that I have not lost my wits entirely. I suggest you take it up with Billy Pitt.’” Amid quiet laughter, Sir Charles set down the will and his expression grew serious. “He finished this way, Master Six: ‘Would that I could sail with you both. Your friend, Sir B.’”

  There was nothing more to say, beyond the usual legalese that no one remembers except scribes and sticklers. “In coming weeks, we will handle all the finalizing of property and assigning of monetary bequeaths. In due time, you will hear from my firm,” Sir Charles said.

  There was one more matter, one that Sir Charles remembered when he folded the documents into his briefcase and a letter floated down.

  He picked up the letter and handed it to Smitty. “Bless me if I hadn’t forgotten precisely why else you were supposed to be here, my lad. This is my reminder. If you have any questions, let me know.” He put a hand on Smitty’s shoulder. “He wanted to tell you in person, but possibly for the first time in his life, words failed Sir B. Good day, all.” He and the solicitor left the room.

  Meridee watched Smitty’s face, noting uncertainty for nearly the first time since she had known him. A quiet lad, but one of capable, sometimes fierce, mien that complimented his impressive build, he was seldom jostled or bothered. She sat beside him again. He looked up at her and she wondered if he did not want her close by.

  “Would you rather I did not intrude upon this moment?” she asked quietly.

  “Stay here, mam, if you please,” he said. “I’ve never received a letter. How do I open it?” He handed it to her.

  Yes, who would ever write to Smitty, a workhouse boy? she thought with sympathy. Meridee took out a hairpin from the chignon at the nape of her neck and slid it along the crease. She smiled to see Sir B’s handwriting, remembering little notes from him when he was too ill to leave his house, but still eager to encourage and tease a bit. “He wrote this when he was feeling good, I think,” she told Smitty.

  “He didn’t know me, mam,” Smitty said.

  I believe he knew you better than you think, she told herself. “Perhaps he did,” she said. “Read it and find out.”

  She looked away while he read, unwilling to intrude. She heard him gasp, then lean against her, something he never did, unlike her other St. Brendan boys. She saw devastation on his face, and put her arm around him.

  He held out the letter to her. “You read it, mam,” he told her.

  She read it to herself, amazed, understanding Smitty’s resemblance to Sir B.

  She handed it back to Smitty, who started reading out loud, as if to make it real. “’My brother was a worthless vagabond and spendthrift,’” Smitty read. She heard all the amazement, and then a cold sort of anger, the kind that festered. “’On his deathbed three years ago, he admitted to me that he had fathered a child. He had taken you, his son, Edward St. Anthony, to a workhouse at the age of six, when your mother died.’”

  “Do you remember this?” Meridee asked, hoping for a little amnesia. She didn’t want to imagine a boy, his mother dead, taken to the workhouse by his father and left there alone. She glanced at Able and saw all the horror on his face.

  “Aye, mam, I remember all of it,” Smitty said, and he sounded grim. “I was there almost seven years.” He dropped the letter.

  Able picked it up and continued reading. “’God forgive me, but I didn’t know what to do. Smitty, if you are reading this now, I confess I should have taken you into my household three years ago when I learned this. I was still so angry at my brother for wasting his life and causing our late mother such grief that I couldn’t do it.’” Able looked at Smitty. “Lad, he was human.”

  “Sir B never suffered in a workhouse, did he?” Smitty asked quietly, all the bitterness in plain view.

  “No, but have some charity.” Able indicated the letter. “I believe he did the next best thing. Tell us exactly how you got here.”

  The words spilled from the usually taciturn boy. “One day a kitchen girl slipped me a folded-up note. It was unsigned.” He looked at the letter. “Same handwriting. Sir B’s handwriting.”

  “What did the note say?” Meridee asked, when Smitty remained silent.

  “Told me to run away to St. Brendan’s in Portsmouth on Saints Way,” he replied promptly. “I ran away the next day.” He looked from Meridee to Able. “You know the rest, Master Six.”

  “So do we all now, Smitty.”

  Grace St. Anthony came closer, her expression pensive. “Meridee, didn’t I say my husband took some secrets to the grave? Smitty, I had no idea.” She pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. “I knew there was something more than pain bothering him in his last weeks, but he never told me. Sir B sent that unsigned note to you three years ago, because he couldn’t bear to deal with it any other way.”

  “He was a coward,” Smitty said, his words a condemnation.

  “He was human,” Grace repeated, her voice kind. “I hope you understand that someday.”

  “Never.” Smitty shook his head. “I know my father wasn’t a good man, either. He never gave Mam enough money to live on and we starved.”

  He said it simply, but his eyes showed all the hunger, and the longing worse than hunger. “I had two meals a day in the workhouse and that was better.” He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge a worse memory. “I couldn’t do nothing about the tormentors, though. I was too small then and they...” His expression took on a more Smitty aspect, the look of someone with scores to settle even now, and no way to do it. “I grew, though, I did.”

  “What’s done is done. I have scores to settle, too, and no way to do it.”

  Smitty started to say something, then stopped, as if recalling himself to the moment. “Does anyone understand us, Master Six?”

  “As long as we understand each other, does it matter? Let’s go home, Smitty,” Able said. “We need to strategize on how to fulfill Sir B’s wish that we turn the Jolly Roger into a warship, a messenger.”

  “Name her the Mercury.”

  Meridee watched Captain Ogilvie join them, after a bow to Grace St. Anthony. Where had he come from? She hadn’t heard a door open.

  “The winged messenger of the gods?” Able asked.

  “The very one.” Ogilvie bowed a second time to Grace and included himself in the conversation. “We will ask you, Lady St. Anthony, to christen the Mercury.”

  She waited for Grace to put the upstart Captain Ogilvie in his place, but she did not.

  “I will do that gladly,” she said simply. “There is a condition, Captain Ogilvie.”

  “Only name it,” he replied.

  “Able will have someone in mind to teach in his stead,” she said. “Could you please locate Jean Hubert? We still need his draftsman skills and his language instruction.”

&nbsp
; “You think I can find a Frenchman who has obviously, ahem, jumped ship?”

  “I am certain of it.”

  Meridee watched with real glee as the two of them stared each other down. To her further delight, Captain Ogilvie looked away first.

  He bowed to the new widow. “Very well,” Angus said. “Give me a few days.”

  Chapter Eight

  Finding Jean Hubert took a mere three days. When Angus Ogilvie sent Able a cryptic note – “expect JH anytime”- even Able had to grudgingly admit that Angus Ogilvie was at the top of his game, however questionable it might be. Who knew? He also admitted to Meri that he liked seeing that spark of interest return to Grace’s eyes when he showed her the note after class. “She likes the rascal, same as we do.”

  It was evening now, with Smitty and Nick Bonfort at their usual spot in the dining room, finishing homework. Able held Ben on his lap as his son sounded out words in Isaac Newton’s masterpiece, Principia Mathematica, the English version. Unperturbed by all the genius around her – what a woman he had married – Meri knitted a sock.

  “Who should show up in my trigonometry class this afternoon but Jean Hubert, looking none the worse for wear, the scoundrel,” Able said. “He wouldn’t admit where he had been – gave me that half-insolent, all-French smile. As we speak, he is dining with Headmaster Croker. He’ll be here soon.”

  Oh, predictions. Able heard a knock. He listened for Mrs. Perry’s heavy footfall, and smiled to himself. Ah, yes, here it came. It was low-voiced but intense. He leaned toward his wife.

  “Meri, I believe Mrs. Perry is giving our returning prodigal what for,” he whispered sotto voce.

  “Good,” Meri replied. She smiled at Ben. “What say you, Ben?”

  “I missed him,” the little one replied, almost with his father’s intonation and inflection.

  “You are both scoundrels,” she said, her affection for them obvious. “Ben, there is an excellent pile of blocks over there that needs stacking. Give Sir Isaac a rest, won’t you?”