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! That Able.”
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.”
“Maybe,” Smitty said. “Sir.”
“Sir B didn’t know of your existence until his brother finally blurted it out.”
“He could have acted once he knew!”
“He could have. Let us acknowledge, as Lady St. Anthony said, that Sir B was human.”
Smitty considered the matter. “I will if you will, sir,” he said in a low voice. “Suppose if you actually meet your father?”
“The possibility is remote,” Able hedged, then acknowledged the obvious. “You are asking why you should be forgiving and I should not?”
“Aye, sir.”
“That’s fair, Smitty,” he said, even though he didn’t want to. It didn’t help that his cranial spectators seemed to be applauding Smitty. “You win. We can both agree that we had mothers who cared. Yours fed you when she had nothing for herself. Mine could have left me in the back alley to die with her.”
Smitty understood. “Still, how could men treat women so?” He turned away, trying to isolate himself in the small space of a post chaise.
“As long as we never treat them ill, lad, we have victory of sorts.” Able touched Smitty’s shoulder and met with no resistance. Wordless, Able put his arm around Smitty. They sat close together as the horses ate up the miles toward London.
“I have never regretted my own odd name,” Able said, continuing where he had