Unlikely Spy Catchers (St. Brendan Book 2)

by Carla Kelly

  — Chapter Sixteen —

  Dinner was lobscouse, everyone’s favorite, accompanied by the luxury of white rolls from Ezekiel Bartleby, who lingered long enough in the kitchen to hear about Astley’s Circus.

  “Elephants, Mr. Bartleby!” John Mark exclaimed. “I was so close I could smell them.”

  “Methinks that’s not much of an endorsement,” the baker said.

  John shrugged. “No worse than cleaning out the stone inlet last year,” he said, with a nod at Able. The nod turned into a grin and a glance at Meridee. “Or boiling the wharf rat.”

  The baker waved a hand and left the same way he had come, through the kitchen and out the back door. “Johnny, I doubt Mrs. Six will ever allow another rat in her kitchen.”

  Meridee gave a proper grimace, the one she knew John, and probably Ezekiel, wanted to see. A year and then some with her own Gunwharf Rats had changed her perspective. She saw the inlet and the rat through John’s eyes as solid evidence that he had a history now that included more than the bleak misery of the workhouse. With gratitude in her heart, she saw John Mark as a well-scrubbed lad – Mrs. Perry’s threats of soap and water promptly heeded – who could reminisce happily now, and count friends, and eat until he was full, and be tucked in at night. She swallowed, determined not to cry.

  She mostly succeeded, since dinner was on the table. There was Able already seated with Nick, his eyes on their small son, who waved his arms about in his bassinet, a wicker laundry basket doing double duty. It was Able’s turn tonight to have Ben by his chair at the end of the table, so she could eat in peace. In her magnificent husband, she saw another child who could eat until he was full and be tucked in at night any way he liked, which usually involved her.

  I have so much, she thought, as she passed the peas to Nick Bonfort. “You didn’t even need that cane tonight, did you?” she asked.

  “No, Mam. I navigated successfully,” he replied. Nick did love big words, almost as much as he loved adding up columns of numbers in his head.

  They ate in relative silence. Meridee had attempted including conversation in their meals, recalling many a rollicking discussion of everything ranging from polliwogs to how hard the pews were in their father’s church: nattering between bites in her brother-in-law’s house. But no, the Gunwharf Rats preferred to concentrate on their vittles; as did Able.

  If Mrs. Perry concocted a sweet, that was another matter. A seafaring man could lean back in his chair and chat between bites. Tonight’s treat had been left on the warming table by Mr. Bartleby, who probably would have denied all knowledge of it, because he disliked compliments.

  As it turned out, the Spotted Dick was the perfect accompaniment to Able’s extra treat. He waited until John and Nick had dug in, then called for Mrs. Perry and Betsy to join them and bring more bowls and spoons. When everyone was seated, Betsy and Mrs. Perry looking at each other, he pulled a battered letter from his inside pocket.

  “I have here our first letter from Stephen Hoyt,” he said.

  Meridee sat back with a sigh of relief. A year and a few months is a long time to wait between letters. She understood the implication. “My love, that means he found his mother quickly, didn’t he?”

  “He did. Headmaster Croker and I have already read the letter,” he explained. “I didn’t want to open it here at the table to find bad news to accompany our Spotted Dick.”

  The Rats nodded. They understood bad news better than most.

  While the boys ate and Meridee assumed charge of Ben, he read the letter from the Gunwharf Rat who kept running away until Meridee took him to London to find out precisely where his parents were, both of them serving sentences on the other side of the world in New South Wales. Sir B had arranged for him to travel with a clerk and his family, bound for colonial offices in Sydney, the voyage a lengthy one.

  Meridee cuddled her baby as Able read of crossing the Atlantic and stopping in Rio de Janeiro to take on fresh water and more livestock. Stephen described the long, boring journey from the Atlantic to southern Pacific, to finally land in Sydney in one piece.

  “’Mr. Quaiffe found my mother almost at once,’” Able read, pulling the lantern closer now because daylight was gone. ‘ Ah, this is satisfying, lads. ‘Mam is working in the infirmary, tending the sick and delivering babies, when needed. I work for Mr. Quaiffe in his office, copying correspondence intended for other stations, but I live with Mam. We are both paid a wage.’”

  Able read in silence for a blink or two, which meant he turned a page rapidly. “’On and on, and this, lads: ‘Tell the Rats hello from me.’” He chuckled. “’And tell Mrs. Six that I won’t be running away again.’” He sat back. “That’s it. I suggest that you write him a letter.”

  “D’ye think he and his mum will ever return?” Nick asked. “That is, when she satisfies her sentence?”

  “No. It’s a long way, and the passage expensive.” Able’s wise eyes took on that faraway look that Meridee saw now and then, and knew he was thinking of the sea and ships, and land nowhere in sight. He sighed, just a small sigh, but it went to her heart. “Mrs. Hoyt has found respectable employment where she is needed, and Stephen is turning into a government employee. I will add a small note to Mr. Quaiffe, and assure him that Stephen is good with his numbers. As you were, men.”

  After the table was cleared of dishes, he set them to work writing letters to Stephen and adjourned with her and Ben to the sitting room. He found his comfortable spot on the sofa with Ben leaning against his upraised knees and handed Meridee the letter, turning to the page he skipped.

  She knew what she would find, and there it was, Stephen writing to assure her that his mother had set him straight on Papa’s death at sea. He wasn’t a hero, as you told me, Mrs. Six, she read, but you knew I needed that, didn’t you? Mum and I had a little cry and then a laugh, so we are fine. Please be fine, too.”

  “You knew what he needed, Meri,” her husband said. “You have that knack. Give us a kiss and go hurry those boys along.”

  She thought about the letter long after Able slept, wondering if she would ever understand the pull of the open water. She turned over carefully to watch her husband, to savor his deep breathing, and feel a little envy at the length of his eyelashes. He was her man and she loved him. Don’t ever go to sea again, she thought.

  She heard Ben whimper in the next room – amazing how her hearing had sharpened with her baby’s arrival – and knew the problem. She shouldn’t have eaten those onions with tonight’s roast, considering that somehow everything filtered through to mother’s milk.

  She left their bed and hurried to Ben. She changed him, then jiggled him in her arms, knowing that he needed to pass gas to feel better. She walked with him in the hall, then opened the door to the empty bed chamber on the seaward side of their home, the better to keep Ben’s irritation quieter to the sleepers.

  It was also her chance to observe the only challenge she ever felt to Able’s loyalty. She knew how much he enjoyed taking Sir B’s yacht into Portsmouth sound, a regular event now, designed to soothe him and train the Rats in helmsmanship.

  After a few minutes, Ben let out a noisy wind that made Meridee chuckle and think of his father, who didn’t do well with onions, either. She could have put Ben back to bed then, but the water beckoned her, too. She held her now-sleeping son and continued her pacing.

  She gazed at the dark water and the row of seven brooding prisoner of war hulks. She looked closer. That was odd. A lantern blinked a message from one of the hulks. Who could it be signaling? Two blinks, a pause, two blinks, a pause, one more. She waited. That was all.

  Ah well. Her feet were cold, and Ben slumbered now. Why should she waste the perfectly excellent warmth of a sleeping husband’s legs?

  In the morning after breakfast, Able took his boys across the street to St. Brendan’s, dressed in their old clo
thes. “We have to tackle the dust and grime, so says Mrs. Blackstock.” He sweetened the pie. “Then I believe we will visit Building Twelve, better known as the block pulley factory. That is, if it won’t bore you.”

  John Mark practically jumped up and down. Even the more serious Nick Bonfort nodded with considerable enthusiasm, and then frowned. “Suppose I cannot walk the distance yet?”

  “We’ll hire a carter,” Able said.

  After Ben was full and entertaining Betsy with coos, Meridee threw her cloak around her shoulders and hurried across the quiet street herself. Up the stairs to the Headmaster’s quarters and a rap on the door brought her to Grace Croker, pacing back and forth in the sitting room with some energy.

  “Goodness, but you wear me out,” she teased. “Of course, Able assures me I was built for comfort and not speed. Grace, whatever is the matter?”

  Trust Grace to be forthright. She stopped her relentless pacing and went to the door of the sitting room. Meridee hid her smile as Grace listened to the fierce argument in progress from what was likely the headmaster’s chamber.

  “My brother and Bertram have been going at it hammer and tongs for inside of half an hour,” she said as she closed the door with a decisive click. “Thaddeus is a terrible patient. Someone should shoot him.”

  She stared at Meridee then burst into tears. Meridee blinked in amazement then did what she did best, or so Able told her: she hurried to her friend, wrapped her arms around her and let her cry.

  The tears ended soon enough, as the organized, efficient, practical spinster blew her nose into the handkerchief Meridee gave her and sat down with a plop.

  “Meridee, tell me honestly: what does it feel like to be in love?”

  I wondered when you would figure it out, Meridee thought. She sat beside her friend. “Oh, out of sorts, wondering if the object of your affection has a clue, certain you are barmy to even be thinking naughty thoughts. Will that do?”

  Grace nodded, her eyes dry now, almost as if she had run out of tears. She took a deep breath and another. “I have known Belvedere all my life,” she began. “Who do you think first dubbed him Sir B?” She stopped and reached for the next handkerchief Meridee offered. She looked at it suspiciously. “Why do you have two handkerchiefs?”

  “Because I’ve been watching you.”

  “You knew more than I did,” Grace said, in her usually frank manner.

  “Maybe.”

  Grace sat a moment in silence, as if wondering how to speak what her heart was telling her.

  Meridee squeezed her hand. “You can tell me.”

  All Grace needed was permission. “W…we were at the circus. Gervaise wheeled Sir B in and John Mark helped. He’s a scamp about his studies, but otherwise a dear boy.”

  “Sir B?” Meridee couldn’t help herself and received the glare from Grace she knew she deserved.

  “Meridee, at times you try me.”

  “I know,” Meridee replied, all complaisance.

  “They were wonderful box seats close to the circus floor. I sometimes wonder how he does it and on such short notice.”

  Money helps, Meridee thought. It doesn’t hurt to be an acclaimed hero, either.

  “I watched Sir B with John, so self-assured, so kind, and I thought to myself, ‘Wouldn’t he make a wonderful father.’” Grace leaped to her feet, paced the width of the room twice then stopped in front of Meridee. “Merciful heavens, I want to be his wife! Me!” She resumed her track across the carpet. “I have known that man for years. I remember all the teasing at my expense between him and Thaddeus – they’re five years older than I am. Why am I thinking like this?”

  “Because you love him.”

  “How can this possibly work?”

  Meridee felt her own heart break a little at such a question. Sir B was chair bound, in pain, rail thin, and not even slightly robust. She thought of her own healthy man, full of quirks to be sure, but vigorous in all the ways that a wife craves.

  “It will work if you fight hard enough and if you truly want it to,” she said finally. “Do you?”

  Instead of pacing, Grace sank onto the sofa. Meridee watched an entire range of emotions cross her face, ordinarily a plain-enough face, but one filled with love this time. What a difference it made.

  “I do,” she said quietly. “I truly do. I’ll have to figure it out, won’t I?”

  — Chapter Seventeen —

  Prison Hulk HMS Captivity

  To Jean’s surprise, Ianthe Faulke proved to be an excellent student of art. She was ten years old, self-assured, well-dressed on this ship of rags and tatters and quite effective at turning a blind eye to the misery around her.

  Not that the captain’s quarters were miserable; far from it. Someone in the family obviously had money, because the great room across the end of the stern and the smaller dining room – the only rooms he ever saw – sported furniture that didn’t come from a supply depot. There were even velvet curtains across that wonderful row of windows, and if he was not mistaken, a Turkish carpet underfoot. He had seen enough of those in Mediterranean ports of call.

  He knew Ianthe was allowed nowhere else on the ship, and he marveled at such a hothouse existence. Jean wondered if the child had any idea of the misery on all three decks beneath her, and decided she did not.

  Two days into their lessons, he changed his mind about his pupil. Captain Faulke had given him carte blanche to order any art supplies for Ianthe that Jean wished. He had quickly submitted a request for a sketching pad, drawing paper, and a box of soft pastels, which appeared the next day like magic. Jean’s tired eyes rejoiced at something as mundane as art supplies on demand.

  Ianthe was less enraptured. “I do not like the way the powdery stuff rubs off on my hands,” she announced, as she sat down by the stern windows with all their lovely light for drawing that he could only envy.

  “You can wipe it off your fingers with a damp cloth,” he assured his pupil. “I will teach you how to smudge the colors into something close to clouds or smoke.”

  “I do not like the feeling, I tell you,” she said more emphatically, folding her arms.

  He attempted to cajole her. “Miss Faulke, it is what we happen to have right now. You’ll appreciate what you can do with pastels, once you try them.”

  “I never will,” she informed him, then turned a sly look on him. “See here, prisoner Number One Dash Eighty Seven, it is this way: if you argue with me, I will tell Papa. He will put you in the Hole and rats will gnaw at your toes. I insist upon wax crayons. Now.”

  Jean felt his blood run in chunks. Whatever bonhomie he felt turned to fear, and even deeper distrust of the English. Mon dieu, this child was a monster with a sweet face, and not to be crossed or thwarted.

  This war cannot end soon enough, he thought, as he forced himself to bow, and promise crayons the next day.

  So, it was crayons, a less artistic medium, to Jean Hubert’s way of thinking, but at least it would not get him sentenced to the Hole.

  Besides the chance to breathe better air and trade his deck’s constant twilight fug for the bright light of nature, Jean Hubert enjoyed the pleasure of a clean linen shirt and English-made trousers. He had found them folded on the dining room table on his second day with the note, Wear these. I do not wish to frighten my daughter by your current appearance. Mrs. Captain Faulke. P.S. Wash if you can. We do not care for prisoner stink.

  We don’t like reeking, either, he thought in anger. He swallowed his Gallic pride – something he was becoming increasingly good at, to his dismay – and bent to the will of the autocratic Faulke females, anything to be a deck closer to freedom, even though he was as imprisoned as ever.

  Far and away the best part about his new employment was one good meal a day, served in the cubby off the dining room, after the lesson was done. It was usua
lly cold, because the steward who served it had no love for the French. At least it was food that could be chewed and not merely spooned down. He loved the fresh bread, even though it was a far cry from what he could find in the average boulangerie in an average French village. He nearly cried at the appearance of potatoes and beans all firm and tasty, not boiled down to mush.

  Jean knew in his heart that he should save some of this food for certain prisoners he knew were ill and dying. Before God Almighty he tried to think of them as he sat squeezed himself into the alcove and took the tin lid off the dish, but he could not. The Lord would likely beat him with more than a few stripes after he died, but at least he had real food now.

  Once he understood how the wind blew with his scheming little student, Jean Hubert knew he could manage this peculiar assignment. And he would have, if he hadn’t overheard something that frightened him even more than Ianthe Faulke.

  He came to the morning lesson feeling better than usual. Since Ianthe had rejected the lovely box of pastels, he had been granted permission to appropriate it. His two sketches of sunrise on the Loire had earned him slightly more money, which brought with it the relief of knowing that his modest stash of earnings was becoming nearly robust, as least by prison hulk standards.

  The lesson had gone well, too. When Ianthe felt like cooperating, she produced her own charming sketches. Her indulgent papa – no prisoner would have recognized this man – had procured four oranges, which had led to a humorous scene.

  “We must sketch these pretty things,” he told his pupil, who nodded. “But there is one problem.”

  She raised one eyebrow.

  “It is this,” he began, and gave her a tutorial suited for the ten-year-old mind, about the beauty of asymmetry. “E voila,” he concluded with a small flourish of his hand because he was after all, French, “three oranges would be more aesthetic than four. What should we do?”