Page 58 of Unlikely Heroes
The other development had been her astonishing sorrow when Nick Bonfort – admit it, her boy – had left for the fleet with Reverend Alexander Scott, Lord Nelson’s private secretary and chaplain. Even now, Meridee did better not to remember her sadness, especially when Nick was so proud to be sailing with the fleet like other Gunwharf Rats.
Reverend Scott, bless him, had taken the time to reassure her that Nick would be as safe as houses onVictory, Admiral Nelson’s flagship. “I’ll keep a close eye on the lad,” he said, after Nick darted upstairs to bring down his seabag. “I can’t deny that I need his services. One of my assignments is to read and translate all foreign correspondence that falls into our hands from whatever source. If Nick is good at dictation, that will save me time.”
“Nick is excellent at dictation,” she assured Nelson’s chaplain, even as her heart broke. “There is this, as well: My husband’s own work with Admiralty has meant times when the lads of St. Brendan’s must be circumspect and silent about what they hear. Nick will never betray a confidence.”
“Even better.” Nelson’s secretary looked toward the sitting room door when they heard Nick hurrying downstairs. “Are you ready?”
“Aye, sir,” her dear boy said. “Will I do, Mam?”
“Aye, you will,” she said. “Make us proud, son.”
It slipped out; for two years, Meridee had danced around her deep affection for this child who adopted her name. With a nod to Reverend Scott, she took Nick by the hand into the front hall. “What would you think if I asked Master Six if he and I could adopt you?”
She had seldom seen a smile so wide and genuine. “Is that an aye?” she asked, when he remained silent.
“Aye,” he breathed, and hugged her.
“Then I shall ask him. I know what his answer will be. Come home safe to me,” she said.
It was time then to let him go with a smile, a kiss and a wave until he was out of sight, and so she did, only to collapse in tears in Mrs. Perry’s commodious embrace. “They’re all hard to say goodbye to,” she blubbered as Mrs. Perry held her close, “but this is worse.”
Meridee told Mrs. Perry what she had promised the boy. To her pleasure, the housekeeper nodded her approval, which meant more tears, because she valued her housekeeper’s opinion as much as she would have valued her late mother’s.
“Come home safe to me,” she whispered, when Mrs. Perry returned to her work. “And you, Able, my love. All of you.” It became her continual prayer. There was much to tell her husband when he returned.
But now the house was quiet, Ben having accompanied Pegeen and Mrs. Perry to the end of the street to Ezekiel Bartleby’s for rolls. Junius Bolt had settled Georgie down for his morning nap, singing any number of ribald sea ditties to Sir B’s child, to Meridee’s amusement. She did have a moment to sit and mend whatever poked out of her sewing basket, secure in the knowledge that all was as well as it ever could be on Saints Way during wartime.
Or she could lean back and consider the blessing of another baby. So far, no one knew except Mrs. Perry, Grace and Junius. She hesitated to inform the world at large, not after the last time. Better wait and let this newest acquisition grow in peace, quiet, and anonymity for a while.
Meridee remembered something Able had told her when she was carrying Ben. They had been sitting right here, Able for once just relaxing (if his mind was ever still, which she doubted). She was darning eternal stockings and contemplating the movement within her.
“I envy you at times, my dear,” he had said.
“How is that? You’re the glamorous entity in our marriage. I merely cook and clean and keep you from dabbling in household finances.”
Able laughed at that; he knew his limitations. “All you have to do right now is simply to be. You know, breathe, eat and sleep, whilst someone inside you benefits. In your present condition, to be is to do.”
He was right; she knew it. The baby they had begun was diligently growing, no matter how its mama puked in the morning, or gagged on porridge, or already wondered why her waist was disappearing so soon. No one had suggested that might happen earlier, now that she had already borne one baby, an eight-pounder.
“To be is to do,” she said and closed her eyes. “I will sit here and simply be.”
She barely closed her eyes when someone banged on the door.Please, please no bad newswas her first thought, as always, when Able was at sea. She hurried toward the door, wondering if she should even open it, then stepped back in surprise when Captain Ogilvie solved the matter for her and barged right in.
Sometimes she wondered why Grace even tolerated the man; this was one of those times. Her next thought was one of fear for Able, but the captain put that fear to bed immediately. “Able is fine, Meridee, if irritated with the navy. He wanted to be here instead of me, but duty calls.”
She stepped back again as Angus Ogilvie was followed quickly by Jean Hubert and a man she stared at, doubted her eyes, and stared again, gaping like a half-wit. Her hands went to her mouth as she gasped, “You’re…you’re…”
The man removed his elegant bicorn and bowed as if she were a queen. “Francisco Domingo y Guzman, Conde de Quintanar, at your service.” It was a lovely bow, one to remember. “You are Mrs. Six?”
“I am, sir, er, count, or…” She turned to Captain Ogilvie. “I need to sit down.”
“You do look a bit fine-stitched,” Angus said. “Let us close the do….”
You can try, Meridee thought, as she watched Mrs. Perry’s sudden arrival in the open door from the street, wielding her umbrella like a cudgel, murder in her eyes. Meridee hurried forward to stand between the housekeeper and the count. “Mrs. Perry! Please! Take a good look at him.”
The housekeeper did, breathing fire and walking around the Spanish count, spending enough time to make the count forget himself and glare back. They were the same height, but Mrs. Perry easily outweighed him. She finally stopped and stared, then shook her head in amazement.
“How in the world do things like this happen?” Meridee asked Jean Hubert, who looked on with a smile.
