“Oh, especially that one.” She looked across the yard. “Two really large bathtubs, eh?”
“As near as,” he replied. He looked and then nodded, as if pleased with what he saw. “The brick ones like these are called graving docks.” He pointed to the massive open gates. “A ship needing repair would sail in here, and thegates would close. Big pumps would take off the water and leave it dry. Talk about our modern age—the pumps in the Plymouth yards are steam-powered now.” He pointed to the uniform rows of open space in the masonry. “The shipwright runs in long poles that, in essence, balance the ship upright. Carpenters go down there once the water is gone and commence repairs. When it’s done, the gates open, water flows in and the ship sails away.”
He pointed to the second graving dock beyond, and the long wooden structure behind it.
“It’s probably full of mice and birds now, but that’s the shiphouse. You could build a right fine vessel in there, out of bad weather, and then slide it down the ways into … into the bathtub, and then out to sea, once it was masted and rigged. Nothing huge, mind, no frigates, but …” He stopped and his chuckle was self-deprecating. “You probably think I am a lunatic.”
“No, I do not,” she assured him.
“It shut down because … ?”
“We could ask Mrs. Aintree, or maybe even Lady Telford. Sir Dudley bought the whole thing, plus some other houses.” She hesitated and then realized that grand ideas shouldn’t be strangled at birth. All she had to offer was gossip, but there was probably some truth in there somewhere. “The talk about the village said that the shipwright, a man long dead, got into a fearful row with some of the fishing fleet captains. They took their repair business elsewhere—Dumfries, I think—and that was the first nail in the coffin.”
“And then the war probably enticed what builders remained to go to Clydeside near Glasgow,” Douglas suggested. “I do know that shipwrights in Plymouth and Portsmouth commanded a respectable wage, likely better than anything Edgar could offer. It was probably the same in Glasgow.”
She nodded and leaped closer to Douglas when awhole fleet of bats—one was too many—flew swiftly into the shiphouse. He put his arm around her.
“Only bats,” he whispered in her ear. “Aren’t you the brave lady who just shook Joe Tavish’s teeth until they rattled, bullying him into taking Christian charity?”
“Don’t remind me. That was not my shining moment,” she said, trying for dignity. “Bats are different.”
“I will concede that bats are different,” he said. “Just think, Olive: This shipyard and dry dock could employ a lot of men. Granted, our stubborn Highlanders might prefer to remain proud and starving.”
“Not if they see others making good money and working.”
He turned to face her. “Tell me honestly, Olive Grant: Is this going to look like a stupid idea once the sun is up and I have had some sleep?”
“It might,” she said cautiously. “No! It is a wonderful idea.”
He yawned. “I believe I could almost curl up among the bats …”
“Hang from the ceiling?”
“I suppose not.” He yawned again. “Such rag manners, Olive. Two hours of sleep, if I’m lucky, will enable me to check on Mrs. Aintree, then delouse Joe Tavish—horrors—then visit Lady Elsie Telford.”
“Do you know a shipwright?”
He started walking back, still holding her close. “That is the only sure entity of this decidedly sketchy plan. I know three. I also took a good look at the shipyards in Devonport before I left Plymouth. The demand has certainly dropped off, now that Boney is cooling his heels on St. Helena.”
She bid Douglas good night, or maybe it was good morning, from the middle of the street. She went up her own front steps and watched in amusement while Douglas just stood at his door, key in hand, as if wondering what his next move should be.Just go inside and lie down, she advised, from her side of the street. She smiled as he staredat the key in his hand, as if it had suddenly grown lichen, and then finally turned it in the lock.
Two hours was just enough to fool Douglas’s brain into thinking he had enjoyed sound sleep. A few minutes later, he stood over Mrs. Aintree, her eyes half open (matching his), her hand free of overmuch swelling.
“Are you ready to take a stick to me because I am the author of all your pain?” he asked her. “Give yourself a few days to feel better.”
The widow shook her head. “You left me in good hands. Oh, dear, that is amusing.” She laughed and then closed her eyes and slept again, while Rhona Tavish tidied up the already spotless room.
He debated for a long moment whether to say anything to the Tavishes about Joe, then he decided he couldn’t leave them ignorant. After helping Tommy with the milk pans, he gathered them into Mrs. Aintree’s kitchen.
Mrs. Tavish surprised him. Her arm around Tommy, she listened to the whole story, sniffing back tears when Douglas described her husband’s mean supper of oats and cow’s blood, mixed in a bowl of dirt. When he finished, she looked at her son.
“Well, lad?”
Tommy nodded. “We’ll clean’um up, Mr. Bowden. He’s still Da, and he needs us.”
“I’m not so certain that Mrs. Aintree will allow him here,” Rhona Tavish said.
“No worries. He can stay in my shed for now.”
