Mrs. Six. He’ll be back as soon as the fleet hands him enough messages intended for London. It’s his first command, and long overdue, in my estimation. G’night.”
“I do worry,” she said softly to Master Ferrier’s back as he crossed the street. “I always will. His first command? Oh no, sir. He commanded my heart the first time we saw each other.”
Chapter Seventeen
Meridee waited, if not patiently, then at least with as much dignity as she could muster, for her husband to return from the Channel. News of the fleet action off Cape Finisterre sent her and Nick flying to Able’s classroom to locate the Cape on his globe.
“Perhaps the Mercury will return with dispatches of the battle,” Nick said, as they returned home.
“How long would that take?”
“Five days?”
Five days came and went and others brought news of the action, including a casualty list, which contained no familiar names, to her relief. She burst into tears anyway, which meant that Ben’s lips began to quiver. Grace St. Anthony found that her lap was strong enough to hold one woman and a toddler.
“Dry your eyes, Meridee Six,” Grace told her eventually. She handed her a handkerchief and started to laugh. “I wish Sir B could see you two watering pots.”
How could anyone maintain much dignity? Meridee blew her nose and laughed, too, which meant that Ben hopped off his mama’s lap and returned to stacking blocks, shaking his head, either at the folly of females, or wondering what Papa would think.
“The thing is, when Able returns and asks Ben how we fared, my traitor son will tell him exactly what happened, down to my last tear,” she confided. She rubbed her damp cheek against Grace’s. “Silly you for thinking that moving into the Six household was solely for your serenity. Maybe it was for mine.”
“Then we are both well-served, friend,” was Grace’s quiet reply.
It should not have surprised Meridee that Ezekiel Bartleby had the first news of the Mercury, which he dispensed one morning after breakfast. Nick and Grace had already crossed the street for classes, and Junius Bolt had returned little George to his crib, well-fed and drowsy.
At the baker’s three distinct raps on the back door, Mrs. Perry dried her hands on the dishtowel. She returned with Ezekiel bearing rout cakes and a wide grin. He set down the cakes with a flourish and Meridee picked up one with the most icing.
He didn’t bear completely good news, but it was news that told Meridee precisely where her own wants and needs conflicted with the Royal Navy’s. “Some of the fleet’s in port now,” he announced, but followed up those tidings with less happy ones. “The Mercury made port, dropped off someone, took on water and vittles and left immediately for Spithead. Your man is off to Admiralty House, bearing dispatches.”
The rout cake halfway to her mouth returned to her plate uneaten. She wanted to cry; she wanted to storm about the room railing against cavalier treatment of wives by the Royal Navy; she wanted to give the innocent message-bearer an undeserved piece of her mind. Instead, she took a deep breath and another, reminded herself that this was a time of national emergency and she was a mature adult. Generally.
Ezekiel Bartleby must have recognized mutiny barely suppressed. He took the unusual step of taking her hand in his floury one, then reached into the bib of his apron and gave her a note. “From our genius,” he said. “It was handed to Walter Cornwall on the wharf and the constable gave it to me. Walt said he looked tired and a little thin, but otherwise in good trim.”
He turned to go, but Meridee stopped him. “You were so kind to bring this to me. I know you want to know what he wrote,” she said. “I’ll glance through it first.”
My lovely one, she read quickly, we are all fine. What a crew I have. She smiled at that, thinking of Smitty and Davey and the other Gunwharf Rats, then teared up immediately, as she read on and his meaning became clear. You and Ben are my constant crew. Never forget it.
She savored those words, then read the rest of the note to the baker and Mrs. Perry. And there was Junius, listening from the doorway. Pegeen peeked around the scullery door. Meridee read of a battle; Whitticombe’s steady hands on the wheel to obey Smitty’s every order as the Mercury darted about; repeating signals read flawlessly and hoisted by