After prayer, the women picked up their hoops and embroidered in silence. Occasionally a wicked little grin earned Bristol a hard glare. Which only made her hidden amusement more compelling. She had only to glance at Jane to feel a bubble of laughter welling in her throat.
When Jane compressed her thin lips in disapproval, as she did continually, it seemed that acres of fleshy cheek stretched along her face. Jane’s features were small, squeezed together in her round face, as if God had erred and given her the wrong eyes and nose and mouth for that face. Bristol stifled a giggle. She had an idea La Crosse would see a great deal of Jane’s cheek tonight. Jane’s lips would certainly pinch constantly throughout dinner.
When Mr. Aykroyd arrived, Jane threw down her sewing, looking as relieved as Bristol felt. She shrugged her cloak over a spotless white collar and tied her hood. “You won’t change your mind?” she asked Bristol. Her tone was scrupulously polite, but under the nasal twang lay a clear hope that Bristol would not alter her decision.
“No, no. I hope you enjoy yourself.” Bristol managed to speak before collapsing across her cot in gales of laughter.
Jane Able’s mouth opened, then snapped shut. “Most unseemly,” she sniffed, sweeping grandly from the small cabin.
After the door closed, Bristol repeated the words, “Most unseemly,” mimicking Jane’s nasal pinch. She fell on her cot, laughing until she felt weak, letting go the dismal emotions of the previous week. Pious, prim Goodwife Able was about to receive a generous dollop of “unseemly.” It was small revenge for the hours of cleaning slop basins and mopping Jane’s acid face—definitely unworthy of an Adams, Bristol thought—but she enjoyed the moment immensely.
The smile still lingered at her lips when a knock sounded. Bristol’s smile widened. The confrontation between captain and saint must have been worse than her wildest imaginings for Jane to be returning this soon; she’d scarcely had time to walk the length of the ship and back. Bristol wasn’t to have her time alone after all. And that was to be regretted, but worth it, she decided. She looked up expectantly, struggling to keep a straight face.
Mr. Aykroyd pushed open the door. Peering behind his shoulder, Bristol looked for Jane’s outraged face, but saw no one. She lifted her brow. “Where’s Goody Able?”
Mr. Aykroyd’s eyes widened in surprise, his face a tortured map of scars and deep clefts. “Why, her be with the captain, of course. Have ye turned daft, gel?”
“But...”
“I come to fetch ye for a turn on deck. Captain say it be all right to take ye up at night for a piece of air.”
Bristol sprang to her feet, an eager smile transforming her tired face. “Oh, aye! You can’t imagine what it’s like being cooped up in here!” She threw on a dark cloak, even smiling at the bearded Mr. Speck in her enthusiasm. Mr. Speck hung over Mr. Aykroyd’s shoulder, watching hungrily.
Mr. Aykroyd grinned at Bristol’s delight, the effect on his ruined face enough to turn weaker stomachs. “Ye can’t imagine what ye’d face if ye didn’t be locked in. Isn’t that so, Mr. Speck?”
Mr. Speck stroked his beard with a grimy hand; he nodded, his staring eyes never leaving Bristol’s breast. Suddenly Mr. Aykroyd’s arm flashed, and the hilt of his knife struck deep at Mr. Speck’s ribs. Mr. Speck howled and doubled over, clutching his chest. “Ye don’t be staring at a lady with lust in yer black heart!” Mr. Aykroyd hissed dangerously. He hauled Mr. Speck upright by the man’s filthy collar and glared into his eyes. “Don’t be forgetting that, Mr. Speck,” he said softly. “Or ye he finding yerself swabbing animal pens instead of sleeping peaceful outside this door.”
“Aye, sir,” Mr. Speck answered sullenly. He rubbed his ribs, resentful eyes on the planks.
“Now, then”—Mr. Aykroyd shoved his knife into his breeches and offered Bristol his arm—“we’ll be taking a breath of air.”
Bristol smiled into her hood. It seemed the incredible Mr. Aykroyd was capable of lightning changes in mood. She suspected Mr. Speck would feel a painful bruise for several days. Gratefully she pressed Mr. Aykroyd’s arm, allowing him to lead her on deck.
The night sea took Bristol’s breath away. A light breeze chased the waves, and Bristol wrapped her cloak tightly about her body. After a turn of the spar deck, they climbed to the rear quarterdeck and leaned against a wooden rail out of the wind. Bristol felt a deep reluctance to return to the cramped cabin.
Watching the moonlit foam marking the ship’s trail, she realized that beneath her feet, below decks, Captain La Crosse now dined with Goodwife Able. Bristol found it inconceivable that the two had endured one another this long. She glanced toward Mr. Aykroyd, his face dim in the moonlight. “Tell me about Captain La Crosse,” she asked, giving way to an overwhelming curiosity. “What is he really like... what’s his background?”
. Mr. Aykroyd removed a clay pipe from his coat pocket and lit it. He leaned his elbows on the railing and blew a stream of blue smoke toward the water. “What do the captain be like?” He shrugged. “I’ve known him most of his life, and I can’t answer ye fully. The captain be a man of many faces, many depths. But I promise ye this: Captain La Crosse be the finest man I ever hauled canvas with or ever expect to meet.”
Dismayed, Bristol turned from the night waters and leaned her spine against the rail. She gazed out over the dark, creaking ship. Somewhere inside, she’d hoped for Mr. Aykroyd as an ally; she’d hoped Mr. Aykroyd disliked Jean Pierre La Crosse as deeply as she believed she did. A frown soured her voice. “He lacks manners, and he’s rude and patronizing and of doubtful moral character!”
Mr. Aykroyd chuckled. “Oh, the captain has the most elegant manners when he chooses to use them. His ma, rest her soul, saw to that.” He glanced at Bristol’s profile and added, “As to his moral character... he be a man, Mistress Adams, not a saint.”
Bristol pressed her lips together, deciding not to comment. Instead, she keyed on a different point. “Then you knew the captain’s mother?” A note of surprise lifted her voice.
Mr. Aykroyd looked into the glowing bowl of his pipe, answering softly. “Aye. Marie La Crosse be the finest woman ever drew God’s breath.”
“She’s dead?” Bristol found herself interested, not only in Jean Pierre’s history but also in Mr. Aykroyd’s responses. There was something in his tone... a tenderness Bristol hadn’t suspected. He delayed so long in answering that Bristol wondered uncomfortably if the question had upset him.
“Aye,” he said finally. “There was an agreement with Jean Pierre’s father. At the age of fourteen, he was taken from Marie, lest she soften the lad with a woman’s influence. She sent the boy to his natural father... and then Marie died. Some say she died of a broken heart; the boy was her treasure, her life.”
Bristol considered the information. Night sounds of groaning rope, faint laughter, and the sliding whisper of the waves floated around them. “His natural father. Then Jean Pierre is a... a bastard?” Perhaps she had grown since boarding the Challenger; the word wasn’t as hard to say as it would have been two weeks ago.
“Aye.” Mr. Aykroyd’s voice hardened. “Tweren’t Marie’s fault! Many a country lass has lost her heart to a dandy with gold in his purse, and then lived to regret it. Young girls without protection stand at the mercy of a man’s will!” He paused, and a defensive pride crept into his grizzled voice. “But Marie carried her head high, she did.”
Bristol tilted her face, puzzled. “But... how do you know all this? And was Jean Pierre’s mother French, or his father?” She touched Mr. Aykroyd’s sleeve in sudden consternation, embarrassed. She’d been furious with the captain for prying; now she was doing it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Aykroyd. I’m prying, and I don’t mean to. I...”
Mr. Aykroyd stared at the black water, lost in a private memory, unaware of Bristol’s interruption or touch. “Jean Pierre’s father commissioned me to stay with the boy from the first. And to help Marie as I could. ‘Twas me that took the boy away.” His tone lowered to a whisper. “I didn’t
be there when Marie died. She died alone.” His hand tightened around the pipe bowl until Bristol thought the clay would shatter. “All alone. I should have been with her, but I was in England with the boy and his father.”
Bristol blinked nervously at the fierce emotion drawing Mr. Aykroyd’s mangled face. She tugged his sleeve, breaking the chain of painful memory. “Where in France did Jean Pierre and his mother live?” This seemed a safer subject, less bruising, she hoped.
Mr. Aykroyd slid an embarrassed glance toward Bristol, then away; his fingers loosened around the pipe, and he stretched, standing erect. “Where? In a cottage in a small village called Eze. On the southern coast of France.” Composed again, he tucked Bristol’s arm in his and propelled her toward the steps. “A prettier village ye never saw, thatched cottages nestled in a valley, and an old castle crumbling on top the mountain, looking out to sea. Just the place for a boy with dreams to fancy himself a sea captain.” He drew on his pipe, then knocked the ashes over the side. “Or a woman with no dreams to be buried.”
Bristol stared at him, moonlight glowing on her high cheekbones. “You cared for her. Very much.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. She too knew the pain of leaving someone she loved, and she recognized the ache in Mr. Aykroyd’s face and voice.
For a moment he said nothing. Then Mr. Aykroyd laughed, a short, pained bark. “Care? Open yer eyes, gel! Caring for the likes of me? Him what looks like this don’t dare to love.” He tugged her forward. “I was paid to look after Marie La Crosse and her son, and that I did.” Mr. Aykroyd prodded Bristol down narrow stairs, not allowing her time to ponder the sadness in his voice. “I still be looking after him,” Mr. Aykroyd muttered. “They be some tasks what have no ending.”
Bristol glanced at him from beneath her lashes. “The captain won’t let you go?”
Surprised, Mr. Aykroyd halted. “I won’t let him go! He looks like...” He stopped and frowned. “The bloody fool bought me a cottage in Southwark. For my retirement, he said. Thinks he’ll be giving me a hearth and a bit of garden and I’ll not be peering over his shoulder. A garden!” Mr. Aykroyd spit over the rail. “I promised Marie I’d stay with the boy, and so I will until these old bones wash off the decks.”
They walked the length of the ship and entered the stairway leading down. As they passed beneath the flickering light in the dim passageway, Bristol stole a glance at the wisps of white hair peeping forth under Mr. Aykroyd’s knit cap. She wondered how old he was; with his ridged face, it was impossible to form an accurate guess. Sighing, she pressed his arm sympathetically; life had dealt hard with Mr. Aykroyd.
A soft shuffling noise sounded from the shadows near Bristol’s cabin door. Moving closer, she saw Master Boyd step quickly away from Mr. Speck. A grimace turned down Bristol’s mouth. The young boy’s flushed face smiled up at her, his blond hair shining in the feeble light.
Hastily he bent to the planks and retrieved a bottle of red wine. “This is for you, mistress,” he said, extending the bottle. “With the captain’s compliments. He asked that I express his regret at your absence.”
She looked at him, trying not to think what he might have been doing in the shadows with Mr. Speck. La Crosse was right. One person could change nothing. “Thank you.” She frowned, turning the bottle in her hands.
The captain bested her in a belated show of manners. But still she found his choice of messenger uncomfortable. Annoyed, she struggled with the paradox of the captain’s character. “Thank Captain La Crosse on my behalf, please.” The words came slowly, sticking to the roof of her mouth.
“Aye, mistress.” The boy didn’t move. He stood on one foot, the other raised and rubbing along his calf.
Puzzled, Bristol glanced at Mr. Aykroyd. The way the boy stared caused her to wonder if she overlooked something. Did he sense she felt uneasy with him?
“Off with ye.” Mr. Aykroyd grinned. He patted the boy’s thin shoulder and gave him a little shove.
Master Boyd’s head swiveled for a last glimpse of Bristol. “I never saw a prettier lady!” he blurted. Then he disappeared, running down the dark passageway and bolting up the stairs.
Mr. Aykroyd laughed, pulling out his ring of keys. “I believe ye’ve made a string of conquests on board this ship!”
A wry grin tugged Bristol’s pink lips. “If so, I’m only aware of that one.” She shook her head, fiery curls bouncing along her shoulders. “That poor child?’ She glared at Mr. Speck, but not a trace of shame humbled his yellowish eyes. Bristol shuddered and carried the wine inside.
“Good night, gel.” Mr. Aykroyd pulled at the door.
“Oh, wait!”
“Aye?”
Bristol leveled beseeching green eyes toward Mr. Aykroyd. “This was so pleasant... couldn’t we do it in the daylight? I’d so like to see everything in the sun. Could you speak to the captain for Goody Able and me? Please?”
Doubtfully Mr. Aykroyd pulled at a wisp of white hair. “Ye be asking a lot, mistress. Wouldn’t be a man on board able to steady his hands after one look at that flaming hair of yers.”
“I’ll pin it under my cap and wear a hood. Please?”
Mr. Aykroyd chuckled. “Yer hair don’t be the only part of ye apt to drive a man mad, gel.”
“I’ll wear my loosest apron and my cloak over that.” She smiled, impishly, holding out the wine bottle. “Would you accept this wine in trade for asking Captain La Crosse?”
Mr. Aykroyd pushed back his cap and ran a knotted hand through the puffs of thinning hair. “It’s persuading, not asking, that ye mean to trade for.” Bristol grinned and nodded. Mr. Aykroyd shook his head and slapped his cap into place. He accepted the wine bottle, and a rueful smile rippled the scars and valleys. “Gel, either I be too old for sense, or ye can count two in yer conquests.” He sighed. “If ye don’t beat all, gel!”
Bristol clapped her hands, green eyes sparkling. “Oh, thank you! Thank you, Mr. Aykroyd!”
He wobbled a finger, and his blue eyes sobered. “Now, mind ye, they’s no guarantee! The captain might not agree. He don’t warm to hauling women passengers in the first place, and having ‘em on deck be courting trouble!”
Bristol smiled confidently. “You’ll persuade him, Mr. Aykroyd, I just know you will.” Her eyes twinkled.
Mr. Aykroyd stared. “Gel, ye be a natural-born flirt! Ye live in the wrong age. Ye belong in a time where such talent be put to better use than bargaining for a bit of sunshine!”
Blushing, Bristol dropped her eyes, but she felt pleased. From anyone else, such talk would be familiar and offensive, but from Mr. Aykroyd it was a compliment.
He hurried through the door. “I best be fetching Goodwife Able before ye bargain me out of my key ring!” He smiled over his shoulder. “I’ll talk to the captain.”
Bristol’s spirits rose a hundred percent. Humming under her breath, she removed her cloak and hood and sat down to the tray waiting atop her trunk. Immediately her pleasure diminished.
Scouse again. The concoction of finely pounded biscuit, bits of salt beef, and potatoes boiled in pepper appeared to be a great favorite of the crew’s, but Bristol regarded it with distaste. She wondered what Goody Able had eaten for dinner; definitely not scouse. Nor duff, that awful Sabbath dish which the crew treated as a savory delicacy; as nearly as Bristol could determine, it consisted of a mound of flour boiled in seasoned broth, then drowned with thick molasses. She made a face and stirred the scouse with her spoon, her appetite vanishing.
She pushed away the tray when Goody Able returned, unable to force another bite. Jane Able swept into the cabin, her moon face glowing with high color, and her small eyes lively. She glanced at the half-eaten scouse and wrinkled her nose.
“We had roast mutton and goose and ham slices. Delicious!” Jane swirled out of her cloak, ignoring Bristol’s openmouthed stare. “I can’t imagine why you refused such a delightful evening... the captain is quite charming!” Jane inched past the trunks to her cot. “And so educated,” she en
thused. “Look!” Jane brandished two heavy books. “Jean Pierre was kind enough to lend us these from his personal library.”
Jean Pierre? Goodwife Able was permitted first names, but Bristol was restricted to “Captain La Crosse”? Bristol’s lips thinned and her eyes narrowed to angry slits. La Crosse appeared determined to humiliate her at every opportunity.
“Now we’ll have something to occupy our minds while we sew. One can read while the other embroiders. We’ll take turns.” Jane examined the titles. “I believe we’ll begin with this one. It’s a persuasive argument against papist doctrine. The other presents arguments for and against kneeling to receive Communion. Jean Pierre promises both are excellent and elevating.”
Bristol swallowed. “That’s what... Jean Pierre... claims, is it?” This was astounding. Jane looked ten years younger. “You... you found Captain La Crosse charming?” Helplessly Bristol wondered if they were speaking of the same person. A charming Jean Pierre La Crosse did not tally with the man she’d shared a dinner with.
“Indeed! I do hope the dear man invites us again soon.” Jane lay back on her cot and turned serious eyes to Bristol. “I only wish Herman could meet Jean Pierre. They have so much in common.”
Bristol couldn’t imagine what that might be. Jane’s husband emerged such a meek, mild creature in Jane’s descriptions. “I thought Herman was a farmer,” she replied incredulously. La Crosse must have bewitched Jane; there didn’t seem any reasonable explanation for what Bristol’s ears were hearing.
“He is, he is.” Jane waved an impatient hand. “But when I return from England, Herman and I intend to invest in a small business.” Jane traveled to London to receive an inheritance from a distant uncle. Her nasal voice sounded wine-drowsy. “Perhaps some form of shipping,” she mused aloud. In a few minutes a rousing snore rose from Jane’s cot.
Bristol extinguished the lamp, brushing her long hair in the darkness. How in all of heaven could Jane possibly have thought the captain anything but vulgar and boorish? What had they discussed to produce such a glow in Jane’s pinched cheeks? Bristol frowned in irritation. A twinge of something very like jealousy pricked her heart. “What nonsense!” she muttered, flinging her brush into the trunk and tossing herself onto the cot. Sourly she wagered Jean Pierre La Crosse hadn’t taken Goody Able into his arms when she attempted to depart.
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