sobered quickly. “Able, when you hear his story....” Jean being Jean, he could not help himself. “I am going to savor this moment. It is the only time I know more than you do.”
He swam ahead, mercifully leaving Able to himself, his brain entirely silent. Then he heard Euclid, of course Euclid, but he sounded more tender than usual, that old scoundrel. “High time, Able, high time. We never knew how to tell you.” And that was it. His mentors and tormenters had known more than he did all along. His great anger turned to anguish at the misery of his early years. Could all that have been prevented? What was missing in this story?
He might have stayed in the water longer, but he saw horsemen on the beach, dismounting, shouting in French, and taking aim. Oh no, he thought, before he took a great breath and dove deep. I have a score to settle with my father, or possibly a story to hear. I can die later.
Captain Ogilvie was already at the helm when Smitty helped him aboard. Everyone on deck braced for the turn as the Mercury put wings to her heels and left the beach to the fusiliers.
“Where is he?” Able asked, as he gathered up his uniform.
“Below,” Angus said. “Go on. Everyone else can stay up here.”
“I…no.”
“Go below,” Angus said, with something close to tenderness. “Would you like me to come, too?”
Feeling six years old and surprisingly bewildered, Able nodded.
“I have the wheel,” Jean Hubert said. He couldn’t resist. “Angus stinks so bad that you’ll send him topside soon enough.”
A lantern swung gently, now that the Mercury had righted herself on a course toward England. The Count of Quintanar lay in a bottom berth, his eyes closed. He opened his eyes but said nothing, only observing his son with what looked like an expression of unfathomable relief, mingled with greater sadness or regret. Able couldn’t tell.
Ogilvie tossed him a towel. He dug around for dry smallclothes, then put on his trousers and black turtleneck sweater that Meridee had knitted for him. He wanted her beside him precisely now.
Jean was right: Angus Ogilvie smelled as bad as a ship’s bilge after a one-year cruise. “Captain Ogilvie,” Able said as he buttoned his trousers. “As captain of the Mercury, I currently outrank you. Find something else to wear.”
Angus saluted and dug in his duffel. Able hesitated only a moment then tapped his father’s legs. “Move a little,” he said in Spanish. “I am not certain I want to sit with you, but I need your story.”
His father shifted and Able sat beside him. “Captain Villavalencia of the Firme distracted me so you could escape at Cape Finisterre, or we would have had this conversation sooner, Conde. What you said…”
“Forgive me?”
“Yes! You knew I existed,” Able said, and felt the anger return. “If you knew, why did you not rescue me from the living hell of a workhouse?”
His father began to cry. He held out his hand, petitioning for something. Acceptance? Absolution? Able looked at his hand, fine-veined like his own hand, with long fingers. He waited, wondering when his cranial guests would weigh in with opinions. Nothing. He knew what Meridee would have him do, so he took a deep breath and clasped his father’s hand.
He wiped his father’s face with the sheet. “What were you doing in Dumfries with a common whore?”
The Count stared at him and shook his head. “Your mother was no common whore and I was never in Dumfries,” he said firmly. “Never.”
Able stared in surprise. When the count winced, Able realized he had been squeezing the man’s hand too hard. He loosened his grasp but did not release him. He sniffed and turned around to see Angus Ogilvie dousing himself with lemon cologne, strong and Spanish. The captain shrugged. “It’s the best I can do right now. Do speak in English, if you would. He refused to tell us much until he could speak to you first.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem at all,” Able said. “Count, how many languages do you speak?” he asked in Spanish. His voice rose; he couldn’t help himself. “How’s your Greek? Your Latin? French? I needed a few days to learn German, but I learned. What about you?”
The count’s mystified expression changed to calm acceptance. He raised Able’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “My dear boy,” he said in halting English. “You have it wrong. I speak Spanish.” He shrugged. “And my English? It will improve.