Page 57 of Unlikely Heroes
“I went immediately to her father, told him, and begged permission to marry her. He refused.” The count’s voice hardened, and rose with anger, then changed into that exquisite anguish beyond anger. “I pleaded. I begged on my knees. He said his daughter would never marry a Papist and a Spaniard. He went to the embassy in London and I was gone within two weeks.” He bowed his head.
What could Able say? There was only one small thing he could do, and he felt like doing it now, he who had been prepared to hate his father all his life, the genius who whored with and deserted his prostitute-mother and left her. How could he have been so completely wrong? “Tu eres mi padre,” he said simply, using that intimate word. “Tu.”
His father looked into his eyes. “I never thought to see you, not ever. I have spent my life knowing I would never hear “tu” from my child – he or she – who surely must hate me forever.O dios, I wish I knew how myqueridaMary Carmichael ended up in… in Scotland, you say?”
For all his brilliance, Able had no idea, either. Better get the worst of it over. He took a deep breath. “All I know is that she gave birth to me on a cold February night in Dumfries, Scotland,” he said, trying to control a flood of emotion and failing. All the swallowing and smashing of two fingers against the bridge of his nose amounted to nothing as his tears came. “She left a trail of blood as she dragged me to the steps of the parish church and laid me there wrapped in her cloak. She left a Book of Common Prayer with the name Mary inside. She…she crawled back to the alley and died alone.” He kissed the count’s hand. “She has a name now and I have a father.”
They wept together.
Chapter Twenty-five
Able’s plans to snatch some time, upon his return to Portsmouth, to begin the search for his mother came to nothing when they encountered thePicklethe following morning.
No one had slept well except the count. Once his story was told, he fell asleep. After tucking him in the berth, much as he would tuck in Ben, Able came on deck. Seven serious people sat close together wrapped in blankets, because the night had turned cold. They looked at him, full of questions.
Smitty. Tots. Whitticombe. Davey Ten. Avon March. They were his loyal crew, his true Gunwharf Rats, nearly as dear to Able as his own child. There at the wheel stood Frenchman Jean Hubert, with his own conflicts and loyalties all askew. He nodded to Angus Ogilvie, a man most ruthless and secretive, but tonight, tenderly kind. Able sat with them by the binnacle as Jean helmed theMercury, and told them everything, word for word.
He wondered at first if he should have said so much, but knew he could not leave the Rats out of this stark account. Of all people, they knew the bleakness and loss of hope found within the walls of England and Scotland’s workhouses. He knew their fears and their anger, because he shared them. To dismiss the Rats without telling his story would have been the worst sort of leadership.
“I am fervently hoping that when we return to Portsmouth, the navy will not need us immediately,” he said, into great silence when he finished. “If Mr. Ferrier continues to be willing to stuff heads with knowledge, I will try to find out how my mother ended up in Scotland. As you were, men. There are five vacant berths below. Take them, Rats.”
No one moved. Was this mutiny? “Um, that’s an order,” he said gently, loving them. He looked at Smitty, who had evolved into the natural leader. “Mr. Smith?”
Smitty nodded to the other Rats. “We think you should go below again and stay with your father. We’re fine here on deck, aren’t we, men?”
This called for compromise. Even if they sometimes forgot, Able knew what the Rats were like when they were tired. They were mere lads, after all, lads with hearts of oak, but young ones, all the same. “Let us do this, and I won’t have an argument. You five take your berths. I will make a pallet and sleep on the deck beside my father. That way if he wakes up and forgets where he is, I can hold his hand. Will that satisfy you?”
It did. The boys trooped below. Able turned to his older crew, who had been watching that last exchange with barely disguised mirth. “I am sorry to condemn you to watch and watch about this night, but it appears that the Gunwharf Rats have spoken.”
“Go below, Able,” Ogilvie said. “Jean and I will stay awake by telling outrageous lies about how brave we are.” He laughed. “What a story you have for Trinity House brothers when we next meet.”
“The story had no ending yet,” Able reminded them. “Maybe it never will.”
The morning brought thePicklealongside with unwelcome news. Able and Captain Ogilvie crossed over to thePickle, where Captain Lapenotiere handed Able a tarry bag. “I must get to Portsmouth, and this must go to Plymouth immediately. I’m glad to see you, Captain Six.”
And I am sheltering an enemy aboard the Mercury, Able thought, knowing that no amount of rouge and powder could cover upthatpig. He accepted the bag, deeply disappointed but well aware of his duty.
He hadn’t reckoned on Angus Ogilvie who, as it turned out, had a far better idea. Ogilvie took Captain Lapenotiere aside for a few whispered words. ThePickle’s skipper listened, then nodded. “Hurry him over smartly now,” he said. “We have no brig. Is your prisoner aggressive?”
“Nay. He’s an older gent and still bewildered how quickly we nabbed him. I can control him,” Angus said. He ushered Able to the shaky plank uniting the yacht and the schooner.
Mystified, Able walked the plank to his own deck, Angus right behind him. “What deal did you just make?” he asked.
“The sort of deal secret agents make,” Angus said, with a disarming smile that belied his reputation as a dab hand with a strangler’s wire. “I told the good captain that I and a French double agent are escorting Spain’s royal quartermaster to interrogation and incarceration, and we must get to Portsmouth quickly. He agreed to three supernumeraries. Get your father on deck.” He looked suspiciously virtuous and glanced at thePickle. “Every word I said is true. I expect Meridee will have any number of questions for her father-in-law when we arrive on her doorstep; ergo, interrogation. As a recipient of her boundless hospitality, I can vouch that she will be happy to incarcerate him in a comfortable bedchamber.”
Able smiled, getting into the meat of the matter, even though he wanted to be the one to introduce the Count of Quintanar to his daughter-in-law. “And woe betidemi padreif he thinks to run afoul of Mrs. Perry.” He clapped Angus on the shoulder. “Thank you. Tell Meri I’ll wind up in her bed one of these days. On second thought, don’t.”
Captain Ogilvie grinned.
* * *
Thank goodness Able wasn’t home to see her puking into a flowerpot. Meri wiped her mouth and eyed the now-pathetic cluster of violets. She had thought she could make it to the washroom just beyond the pantry, but no. Poor violets. After she ate the handful of ship’s crackers she kept at the ready in her apron now, she would try to salvage the violets.
Mrs. Perry beat her to it. “I’ll tend to these, Mrs. Six,” the housekeeper said, coming up behind her and speaking in her most commanding voice (it also didn’t hurt that she was nearly as tall as Able). “Youcouldlie down.”
“I could,” Meridee said, as her stomach settled. “I’m already feeling better, though, even if this next little Six is so far no more well-mannered than my small genius.” She touched her belly, happy it was no longer empty. When Able returned, she would have to tease him about their obviously fertile washroom.
But where was he? Meridee thought she understood the vagaries of life at sea, where nothing was predictable. She had been patient; she also knew she could barely wait to tell him about this latest development.
