“Sí, tu madre, mijo. Your mother, my son,” he corrected, with a nod to Captain Ogilvie, whose mouth hung open. “She would hear a language and know it. Forget anything? Nunca.”
“My mother,” Able said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “My mother! All I knew was that her name was Mary.”
“Su nombr…Her name was Mary Carmichael and she was la persona más inteligente del mundo… I meet? No. meeted?” the count said, speaking slowly, trying out unused English, shaking his head over his errors. “Her father was…was…I do not know how to say.” He spoke in rapid Spanish.
“He was the harbormaster at Portsmouth?” Able said, for Ogilvie’s benefit. He looked at Angus. “Carmichael?” he asked.
Angus shrugged. “Before my time.” He pulled up a stool, thought, then tried. “Conde, in what year?” Ogilvie asked in Spanish.
Able winced. The man’s Spanish accent was as poor as his French one.
“Mil setecientos setenta y cinco,” the count said promptly, then sighed in frustration.
“Seventeen seventy-five,” Able said, groaning inside, like his father, at the cumbersome conversation. Like his father. The thought warmed him, even as his complex mind reeled with betrayal and neglect. There seemed to be some part of him that yearned for this man who was obviously his father. Able turned to Angus, hoping he would understand, but not really caring. “Sir, I am going to speak to my…my father in Spanish. I will tell you what he says later, because you know I can repeat it word for word. Excuse us, please.”
He hoped the prickly captain wouldn’t take it amiss, but he had to know everything at once. To his relief but not entirely his surprise, Ogilvie nodded. “I will go topside. Tell me later.” He touched Able’s shoulder, which also warmed his heart. Was this turning into an evening he would remember forever? Hell, he remembered everything forever.
Soon it was just the two of them. “Would you like something to eat?” he asked, using the polite form of “you”- usted – in Spanish. He knew he wasn’t ready for the intimate form. “¿Quiere usted algo de comer?”
The count shook his head. “No. Let us talk. You have to know I did not abandon your mother. You have to know.”
He spoke slowly, his voice soft, his Spanish impeccable and courtly. Also obvious was the sadness, particularly in his expressive eyes, those same eyes that Meridee said beguiled her even more than Able’s broad shoulders. He reached for Able’s hand, and Able clasped his again.
“Why were you even in Portsmouth?” Able asked. “I know our nations were not at war in 1775 – quite the contrary – but why Portsmouth?”
“In recent years, I have served the Spanish fleet as principal royal quartermaster,” the count said. He relaxed and managed a smile. “I was a glorified clerk with a title, at least when I was young.”
“Still…”
“Your quartermasters use an efficient counting and recording system that the world would like to copy,” the count said, with a touch of humor. “When that foul Napoleon called England a nation of shopkeepers, I believe he was envious.”
“Foul Napoleon?”
“Make no mistake; many of us hate him, too,” the count said simply. “But that is not my story. As a young man, I was charged by Carlos el Rey with studying this method. I was a mere teniente. To Portmouth I went.” He sighed. “I met your mother on the night of my arrival, when the Spanish delegation was feted by the harbormaster, a man name of Thomas Carmichael.” He smiled then for the first time. “Dios, but she was lovely.”
“What did she look like?”
The count reached into his uniform pocket and took out a small frame, elaborately carved and locked with a simple hasp. “I never go anywhere without it. Here.”
Able took the miniature. “I never thought to see my mother,” he said.
“Open it.”
He could not help his intake of breath. Red-haired and blue-eyed, his mother smiled up at him. He swallowed and swallowed again, but was helpless against his tears. Able bowed his head over the miniature and wept. His father sat up and embraced him. They clung to each other.
“As you can see, I am on the other side of the frame,” his father said, when he could speak.
Able wiped his eyes and looked. He might have been gazing into a mirror. He looked at Mary Carmichael and remembered something Meri had remarked on. She had noticed that after he washed his hair, it seemed to have reddish highlights. Now