Page 20 of Unlikely Heroes
She stopped him with a kiss, and another one. “I know,” she said. “I know. Just remember where you live and whose bed you’re most comfortable in.”
“No fears there,” he assured her.
“You should know something else,” she began, after looking to make sure the pantry door was shut.
“There is a sturdy cot in here someplace where I can have you now? A blanket at least?” he teased. “I have to leave right away.”
“Oh, you! No, it is this: Nick is feeling downcast because he has no role in events taking Smitty and you away.”
“No fears there either.” He took a deep breath, not certain what her reaction would be to his additional news. “As we speak, Headmaster Croker is arranging for a post chaise tomorrow to whisk our Bonfort boy to Plymouth and the counting house of Carter and Brustein.”
“Whatever for?” she asked.
“He’ll have a signed directive from Admiralty for David Brustein to give us the direction of Sailing Master Harry Ferrier. All we know is that Master Ferrier banks there. Anything else is privileged information.”
“Nick is so young. All by himself?”
Able knew Meri would question it. Nickwasyoung.
“We are all subject to the requirements of the fleet,” Able reminded her. “I know Nick will succeed. When he gets Master Ferrier’s direction, he will have additional orders to take the information to the harbormaster and forward it to me via coastal semaphore.”
“My goodness, the semaphore? We do live in a modern age, don’t we?”
“We do.” In mere seconds he reviewed a calculus class with Jamie MacGregor, now serving in the Pacific, and the late Jan Yarmouth, dead and buried at sea, where his two promising lads had speculated on interplanetary travel and something to do with atoms. Modern age, indeed.
“And?” she prompted.
“Smitty and I will locate Master Ferrier and convince him that he wants to get into harness again, earn a pittance, live in a drafty monastery and teach my classes when I cannot.”
“How can he resist?” she teased, then, “Durable, someone can open this door at any moment. Leave my buttons alone.”
“But there they are, and you know how I feel about your bosom,” he protested, but did as she said and rebuttoned her bodice. “I’ll be back in a week, when I will hopefully be Able again.”
“You are always able,” she said. “Oh!ThatAble.”
And so he was smiling when two post chaises pulled up to his home. Ben was unhappy in the extreme when his father ushered Smitty inside the vehicle then went in after him. He demanded his mother put him down, was ignored, and pouted. When Nick Bonfort, serious of face and dressed in his best St. Brendan’s uniform, climbed into the second post chaise, Ben couldn’t help his tears. His two favorite champions were leaving him alone with the ladies and he took it hard.
That left a crying son and Able’s beloved Meridee on the steps, a handkerchief to her eyes, too, but waving them away with kisses. Able blew her a kiss and cheered up considerably to see Ezekiel Bartleby, box in hand, heading toward his house. Amazing how the old tar-turned-baker always seemed to know when something was afoot. Able thought there might be rout cakes in the box to cheer Meri.
It was two boxes. The postilion obligingly stopped and instructed the post boy to commandeer one, which ended up inside with Able and Smitty, after several cakes were handed to post boy and postilion. Ezekiel’s cheery, “I’ll keep an eye on’um,” reassured Able as little else could have. Never more than now did he appreciate the camaraderie of the fleet.
“Urgent business?” the postilion asked.
“Time matters,” was all Able said. “Since we can’t bend time yet, we have to obey the clock.”
Chapter Ten
They ate the rout cakes, and whatever else they could grab during brief stops to change horses, and made the trip to London in six hours, long enough for Able to learn more about Smitty and to encourage the lad to acquire a last name.
Smitty refused to consider his real name of St. Anthony. “He did me mum a wicked turn,” Smitty said and folded his arms, daring Able to change his mind.
“Aye, he did,” Able said, understanding this young man, understanding wicked men and preyed-upon women. Maybe this was a good moment to sound out his feelings for Sir B. He proceeded cautiously. “The name of St. Anthony may be anathema to you, but to those of us who really know Sir Belvedere St. Anthony, it is not.”
“He could have helped me years sooner than he did,” Smitty said.
“I cannot argue that,” Able agreed. “There are times when I know I do not measure up to what my own conduct should be. Let me give you one example.”
With no preamble, he told Smitty exactly what had happened to his own mother, as far as he knew, done in by a wicked Spaniard named the Count of Quintanar. He saw the shock and surprise on Smitty’s face, when he said, “I am quite prepared to hate that Spaniard until I die. I understand your feelings because I share them.” He took a cautious step. “There is one difference, which you must own.”
