by Carla Kelly
Meridee wasn’t fishing for compliments. Once result of motherhood had meant an impressive bosom. Since dresses didn’t grow on trees in the Six household, she had hoped to fit into her last-winter frocks sooner.
“You will always do,” her trusty man told her.
“It’s too tight.”
“It’s just right. There is not a man in the Royal Navy who wouldn’t like to be in my shoes, Meri.”
She came closer and whispered, “I put some padding in, you know, in case I leak.” She glared at him when he laughed. “If, and mind you this is if, the Elder Brothers decide I can stay, I wouldn’t want them thinking …oh, I don’t know what. You fluster me.”
That was an honest assessment. There he was, holding her tight, when any servant could wander by.
“You fluster me,” Able replied, totally unrepentant. “All the Brothers will see is a charming lady with a magnificent bosom.”
“You are impossible to argue with.”
“One of my charms.”
Meridee already knew that her man always had a ready comment. Generally. After Ben made his noisy entrance in November, Able had stared in silence at the slimy, red-faced infant in his arms. He had no words then.
She knew him. If Master Durable Six wanted her at Trinity House, he would find a way. Meridee spent a moment in Grace Croker’s kitchen where Mrs. Perry had assumed undisputed authority merely by her massive presence. “Ben is full to the brim and we shan’t be too long. I hope,” she added.
“I’ll bring his cradle down to the kitchen after you and the master leave,” Mrs. Perry said, looking around as if daring any of Miss Croker’s servants to object. Meridee pointed to a quiet corner with the warmth of the fireplace to recommend it, and blew a kiss to her more-than-servant.
Grace Croker was putting on her gloves in the hall, her eyes already flashing their militant gleam. The woman did love a challenge. Able had warned her what might lie ahead in attempting admission into an organization nearly as exclusive as the House of Lords.
“If we can’t gain admittance?” Meridee asked. The Croker landau bowled along toward Tower Hill with both Sixes and John Mark, who looked with interest on the bustle that was London.
“We will not consider failure,” Grace said firmly.
“Please, Master Six, why am I along?” John Mark asked, as they stopped because of a collision between a bread wagon and a poulterer taking geese to market. The squawking easily overbore the sound of the arguing drivers.
“I suspect the Elder Brethren want to know what we are doing at St. Brendan’s. Mind you, I am not certain.”
“Who are they?”
“It’s an old organization, started by King Henry the Eighth in 1514,” Able said. He stared out the window at the geese, who were now nipping the driver of the bread wagon. “Noisy London. God help us. Trinity House regulates our island’s buoys and lighthouses, and licenses pilots and sailing masters. I never went that route to become a master, although many do.”
By now, interested passersby had subdued the geese. To Meridee’s amusement, most of the birds were being quickly led away, probably to dinner, while the men fought on. Grace’s driver moved ahead after cursing them both.
“I suspect Trinity House has fingers in more pies than we know of,“ Able said.
“Our school?” John asked. There was nothing slow about the little boy who leaned against Able.
“I’ve wondered.”
“But why am I here?”
“Lad, I think they have got wind of the Gunwharf Rats and want to know more. And didn’t you tell Captain St. Anthony about Mr. Maudslay’s block pulley factory?”
Meridee watched John’s face light up. “I could watch machinery all day.”
“I know,” Able said with a lurking smile, “and you teased and nagged at me to let you volunteer to serve as an office boy there. I can remember your every word.”
He could, of course; even John Mark knew that by now.
“A block pulley factory is prodigiously noisy, but I like it,” he admitted, then brightened. “Do the Brothers know block pulleys?”
“Every tar knows them, laddie.”
Meridee smiled inside when Able’s arm went around the boy. She watched the two of them, dressed alike in St. Brendan’s sober garb, with its distinctive patch. Both had curly hair, but John’s skin was tan. She sighed, wondering which of the many men who had tormented his mother was from Africa, or the Caribbean, or somewhere in between.
“Block pulleys aren’t exciting, but not a ship would sail without them,” John said. “I could tell the Brothers that, if they ask.”
“You could.”
Able laughed when John Mark said seriously, “Don’t tell Nick or any of the other Gunwharf Rats, but I truly love block pulleys.”
“That’s because you are a mechanist at heart, like Mr. Maudslay who interpreted Marc Brunel’s drawings, and Simon Goodrich who is building the factory,” Able said. “Davey Ten is already studying to become an apothecary. Stephen Hoyt is, hopefully, clerking in Australia, although we have yet to hear from him. Should I despair of actually training many sailing masters?”
Meridee watched a shadow cross her husband’s face and she knew he was thinking of his prize pupil, Jan Yarmouth, dead these ten months after a shipboard accident in the Mediterranean. She wanted to reach for him, but John Mark was there, and by no means slow. None of the Gunwharf Rats were slow. His voice gentle, John changed the subject.
“Sir, we should have brought along Nick. He can already swim better than all of us and likes to stare at our binnacle hour upon hour.” John sighed. “And he doesn’t get seasick when we take Sir B’s yacht into the sound.”
“I would have brought you both, but for Nick’s sprained ankle.”
Meridee saw Nick’s sad face in her mind’s eye. Last summer, the boy with no last name had gathered together his courage and his love and asked if he could take on her maiden name of Bonfort, since, as he pointed out, she wasn’t using it. They had happily been sharing it ever since, officially since a recent visit to the magistrate.
“I depend upon you to remember everything that happens in Trinity House and record it in your ship’s log tonight,” Able said. “You might be quizzed by Headmaster Croker, too. Poor man. He was supposed to be with us, but someone gave him the mumps.”
“Which is why we are on holiday, so to speak,” John said. His eyes on Miss Croker, he whispered to Meridee, “I hear he is not an easy patient.”
“I heard that, and you are right,” Grace Croker said, from her side of the carriage. “I am happy to get away, too.”
“Even if it is to stare down Elder Brothers, Miss Croker?” John asked. “How old are they?”
“I think the term has more to do with experience than age,” Able said. “They number thirty-one. Captain Sir Belvedere St. Anthony, our Sir B, is one of them, and he is forty.”
“Gor, that is old!” John declared.
Grace Croker spoke up. “It won’t seem so old when you are forty,” she told him, with all the crispness of upper class diction at her command. “I am thirty-five soon. Wretched boy! Don’t look so surprised.”
“I am eleven. Forty? Ancient.”
Grace laughed, probably confirming John’s suspicions about her good humor, once away from the classroom, where Miss Croker held forth on penmanship, grammar and decorum.
“Since we are spilling all our secrets, I am twenty-seven and Mrs. Six is a mere twenty-four. And now you’re wondering if we have the strength to roll over in bed.” Able winked at Meridee. She knew precisely what his agile brain was thinking. Able had no trouble rolling over in bed, or doing anything else there.
“Still… Elder Brothers. Are there younger brothers?”
“There are indeed.” Able cleared his throat. �
��And what’s more, the current warden of Trinity House is none other than William Pitt, our recent prime minister.”
“Gor! Will he be here today?”
“Unlikely. I suspect he is a busy man, for all that he is currently out of office. We’ll probably be talking to old merchant mariners and Royal Navy men who will have trouble staying awake.”
“I’m a little afraid, Master Six,” John admitted.
“I am, too, lad.”
“Make that three of us,” Meridee added.
“You, too, Meri?”
“I doubt Grace and I will even get through the door,” she told him. “Perhaps I have less to worry about than I think.”
Fifteen minutes later, Able pointed out the dignified two-story building on a quiet corner street. “Trinity House. Courage, now.”
“Blimey, Tower Hill. Isn’t this where a lot of gentry coves lost their heads?” John Mark asked, suddenly more interested.
“No cant, John Mark,” Grace Croker said, her voice firm in her best educationist’s tone.
“A fair number of…let us call them men who made imprudent choices,” Able said. “Fifty, if memory serves me.”
John Mark leaned across the sailing master, a casual gesture that would never have happened only months ago. The simple, careless act warmed Meridee’s heart.
“Mrs. Six, does memory always serve the master?”
“Always,” she told him. “Fifty men.”
Meridee looked with interest on a modern building, probably the latest word in design, with two small cannon flanking the entrance. Beyond the understated style, what distinguished Trinity House was Neptune and his trident atop a flagpole.
John darted out of the carriage, remembered himself, and held out his hand for Miss Croker. Meridee glanced at Able, who had closed his eyes. She watched his face drain of color. Sometimes he retreated to the Dumfries Workhouse, a little boy who could not explain himself to anyone, and with no advocate who cared.
I care, she thought. I care so deeply. She put her hand over his eyes. She felt his eyelashes against her hand as he opened his eyes.
“You won’t leave me alone here?” he whispered.
“Never,” she replied, her lips against his ear. “Euclid is probably lurking about, too, drat the man.”
He chuckled, in charge of himself again. “Now, now, my love.” He looked around to make sure John Mark was out of the carriage. “Euclid may have been banished from our bedroom, just as you insisted, but I would never deny him the pleasure of a visit to Trinity House. Or you.”
“If I can get in,” she said. It was her turn for inadequacy.
“You will get in. That I do not doubt.”
“I wish I had your confidence.”
“You know how that works, dearest,” he said. He stepped out of the carriage and held out his hand for her. “What’s mine is yours, and apparently mine is Trinity House right now, for better or worse. That really should be in the wedding vows.”
“Now you would rewrite our vows?” she teased, anything to calm her nerves.
“Nay, lass. How could anyone improve upon, ‘With my body I thee worship?’ We’ll leave our vows alone.”
“Oh, you,” Meridee said and felt her face flame.
“Just a few hours and you’ll be back in Curzon Street with Ben. All will be right in your world.” He helped her from the carriage. “My world, too.”
Her courage returned.
—
Chapter Three —
Easy to say. When Able found that his legs were rubber, Grace Croker gave him a kindly glance, took John Mark’s hand and marched up the low steps to the entrance.
Meridee’s arm through his steadied him. He had no idea who was holding up whom, but that was one of the joys of marriage; it didn’t matter.
The door opened upon a one-legged fellow with an eye patch, obviously the veteran of many fleet actions or encounters with pirates.
Able’s wife took in stride the sudden retreat of one small boy from the steps. He slowly moved behind her, where it was safer.
“That’s the doorman,” she whispered to John. “He is no obstacle. You’ve been invited here, John Mark. Don’t forget it.”
“I have, haven’t I?”
“Yes. Did you come back here to buttress me? Alas, I have not been invited.”
“Aye, Mam, that’s what I did. Are you feeling better now?”
“Yes, my dear. Thank you.”
It was Able’s turn. He mentally shoved aside all the theorems, broadsides and propositions clambering about for attention in his brain and took the letter of introduction from his uniform pocket. A few strides, and he held out the invitation.
“Sailing Master Able Six and John Mark, student, are requested and required to attend upon the Elder Brothers of Trinity House,” he said.
The doorman glanced at the invitation and nodded. “Come inside, master.” He looked at Meridee and then Miss Croker. “But not the ladies. They can wait for you elsewhere.”
“I’d rather they were admitted, too.”
“Impossible, sir. Trinity House is for seafaring men only. I could lose my situation here, if I allowed them entrance.”
Able tried another tack. “I suspect John Mark and I have been invited here to discuss St. Brendan the Navigator School. My wife and Miss Croker are equally important there. If the Elder Brothers really wish to know how we function, they should include the ladies.”
The doorman didn’t look convinced. “Then they should have been mentioned in the invitation. Will you come in or not, Master, uh, Six?”
“I’d rather not,” he said, going against every instinct that obeyed orders. “Ladies, shall we return to Curzon Street?”
“Dearest, it’s an order,” his wife reminded him.
She was right. “I imagine it is,” he said, resigned, but not content. “Very well. John Mark and I will hike home when we are done here.”
“I think not. Gervaise, move me closer, if you would. Sutton, kindly move aside and let these people in. All of them.”
And there he was, Captain Sir Belvedere St. Anthony, godfather to Able’s son, managing to look authoritative and magisterial even in a wheeled chair, pushed by his valet, Gervaise Turenne. The doorman stepped aside and Sir B gestured them to follow.
“We won’t get you in hot water, Sir B?” Able asked.
“I don’t care if you do,” Sir B said. “You know my theory on forgiveness versus permission.”
“I saw it in full bloom in the occasional fleet action,” Able said, remembering well.
“As long as I don’t get the sack,” the doorman said, but he was grinning now. Sir B had that effect on everyone Able knew.
“That will never happen,” said a firm voice, another voice of command.
Able turned toward the street, took a breath and another one. William Pitt himself was coming up the steps, brushing raindrops off his caped overcoat.
“Able, is that…”
“Aye, missy,” he whispered. “We’re in rare company.” He bowed as Meri curtsied and John Mark stared, open mouthed. “Come now, lad. You’ll catch flies.”
John closed his mouth and managed a remarkable bow, one that made the august man smile and say, “Oh, the navy. How do you blokes do it? And Miss Croker, too? How on earth did you fall into this den of thieves? I thought you had scruples.”
“I was more than fortunate, Billy,” Grace said. Able had to resist his own repetition of John Mark’s stare as she extended her hand and the former prime minster shook it as he would a man’s hand. “I’m delighted to see you.”
The illustrious man tipped his low-crowned beaver hat to Grace. “So good of you to summon me, Grace. I don’t always have time for these events.”
Able turne
d to Grace, who by now had crooked her arm through the arm William Pitt offered. “Miss Croker, you fair amaze me.”
“He’s a lifelong friend.” Grace patted Meri’s cheek. “My dear, your man doesn’t know everything. And here we are, getting wet.”
Too stunned to even look around and enjoy the simple beauty that was Trinity House, Able let the doorman take his boat cloak, bicorn, and Meri’s cape, followed by John Mark’s smaller boat cloak. William Pitt added his overcoat to the pile, with Grace’s cape on top. The doorman didn’t even stagger as he stumped away on a good leg and a wooden one.
“There should be introductions,” Pitt said, his eyes on Able. “Are you the remarkable man I have heard of?”
Speak, speak, Able told himself. Bastard you may be, but you’re no longer a workhouse boy. He bowed again. “Sailing Master Durable Six, sir. This is my wife, Mrs. Six. John Mark is one of my pupils at St. Brendan’s.”
“I have heard of your school from Captain St. Anthony,” Pitt said, with a slight bow in Sir B’s direction. “And from my friend Thaddeus Croker, your headmaster, and Miss Croker, my childhood friends.” He directed his attention to John Mark. “Grace Croker can climb trees with amazing speed, Mister Mark.”
“Gor, sir!” the boy exclaimed.
“Gor, indeed,” William Pitt said, not batting an eyelash.
Able wanted to laugh in the worst way, which would have probably earned him a jab in the ribs from Meri. Instead, he turned his attention to older men in dark suits gathering at the top of the branching staircase.
Pitt cleared his throat. “For some reason known only to God, I do not doubt, I was elected warden of this remarkable collection of old tars, who jealously guard our buoys, navigational markers and coasts.” He bowed toward the stairs. “How many years has it been, gentleman?”
“Six at least, Mr. Pitt,” said one of the Elder Brothers. “Come aboard, all of you.”
Meri’s hand tight in his, Able gave her fingers a squeeze then went quickly to Sir B and grasped one side of his wheeled chair. With a pang, he realized how light the man was as he and Gervaise lifted him up the stairs to the first floor.