Page 67 of Unlikely Heroes
“You sound like me a week ago! ’Hello, I am pleased to meet you,’ is always a good beginning,” she said.
Her eyes lively, the maid let them in and gestured toward the sitting room, a place Meridee was familiar with, after spending so much time in it during the past week. Before they reached the door, Mrs. Munro hurried into the hall.
Meridee glanced at Able, enjoying the little smile that turned into a big one. He walked toward her, his arms out, and Mrs. Munro hurried into them with a sob. She wept, patted his back, tried to talk, then gave it up as a bad business. She clung to him, and he to her, until Meridee felt tears in her own eyes.
“Did she look like you?” was the first thing he said. “I’ve seen my father’s miniature of her, but miniatures are sometimes misleading.”
“Aye, Mary did look like me,” Mrs. Munro managed, as she fumbled for a handkerchief up her sleeve. “She was taller, and her hair was more auburn than mine.” She held him off for a better look. “You greatly resemble your father, but I see my darling daughter in your eyes. Mr. Six, this is a pleasure I never imagined.”
“I can echo that,” he said, and held out his hand for Meridee. “Please call me Able.”
“If you will call me Grandmama.” Her hand went to her mouth, as if to somehow stifle the grief Meridee saw in her face, “You are my only grandchild. Mary’s older sister died in childbirth. My son died without issue, serving king and country in India.”
“Then this must be more than doubly strange to you…Grandmama,” Able said. “You didn’t even know of my existence until last week.”
“I call it providential,” Mrs. Munro said quietly.
Arm in arm, the three of them went into the sitting room. Meridee looked back to the corridor, not surprised to see Mrs. Munro’s household staff gathered there. From earlier conversations, Meridee knew they were longtime staff, and had witnessed Mr. Carmichael’s cavalier treatment of his wife and unusual daughter. The servants drew together now, and she saw satisfaction writ large.
“Sit beside me,” Mrs. Munro said and patted the settee. He did, after pulling the nearest wing chair closer for Meridee. Mrs. Munro took his hand and filled her eyes with Durable Six, sailing master, instructor, genius, who had been left naked and freezing on the steps of a parish church. “You’re tall.”
“It’s a hazard aboard ship, at times. I still bump my forehead now and then, going below deck in a hurry,” he said.
“I know the curly hair comes from your father,” Mrs. Munro said. “Mary’s was straight.”
“I believe I have something else from her. Meri?”
Meridee pulled the battered little Book of Common Prayer from her reticule and handed it to Mrs. Munro, as they had planned. The widow held it to her breast and closed her eyes. “Your Great Grandmother Agnes Frazer gave this to your mother on her fourth birthday,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Mary insisted on writing her name in it.” She smiled through tears. “By the next day, she had read it.” Her face clouded. “She told her father, and he scolded her for being a wicked girl, to tell lies.”
“I was never understood in the workhouse,” Able said. “I was beaten more times than I can tell you, until I learned to not say anything. I pray to God that my mother was not beaten.”
“Oh, no, but is it worse to treat someone you should love with cold indifference?”
Meridee took Able’s hand and squeezed it. He raised her hand to his lips. “And then, Grandmama, I became the luckiest man alive by finding my keeper. I can never forget everything that happened to me, but it all seems less important now. I have a wife, a son – has my keeper mentioned that she is in an interesting state again?”
“She did, and I’m delighted.”
Able looked at Meridee, as if to ask,You or me?She nodded. “If it is a daughter, Able and I want to name her Mary Munro.”
Mrs. Munro dabbed at her eyes. “How did you know that was your mother’s middle name?”
“I have my sources,” Able said, and tightened his grip on Meridee’s hand. He hesitated, then shrugged. “This might sound ridiculous, but did…did my mother ever mention Euclid?”
Mrs. Munro gave a little start. “Aye, she did.” She shook her head. “Some of my friends told me that their little ones had imaginary playmates. I assumed Euclid was my daughter’s.”
“He seems to get around,” Able said.
“Hetellsyou things?” Mrs. Mjunro asked in amazement.
“Someone inside my head does.” Meridee thought him wise not to mention all the other geniuses and polymaths crowded in there, too. “Did…did my mother ever tell you about voices?”
“No, but by then her father had told her never to speak of such nonsense,” Mrs. Munro said. Meridee heard the hard edge, but something else that sounded like relief, because at last she could talk about her child to someone who understood. “I did watch her at her embroidery hoop one day. She was diligent enough, but she sometimes stopped and cocked her head, as if she were listening. Was that Euclid?”
“Perhaps. I entertain other cranial vistors now and then. I expect Mama did, too.”
Mama is such a simple word. It rests lightly on your lips, Meridee thought.
Mrs. Munro turned her attention to the prayer book. After a long perusal, she handed it back. “She obviously wanted you to have this, since she left it with you.” It was her turn to hesitate, handkerchief to her eyes again. “I need to know where she is buried. Does she even have a headstone? I doubt that paupers’ cemeteries are generous with such niceties.”
