Hours passed as she imagined how the conversation with the ship's captain might run and how they might search for Phillippe's ship. The Navy List catalogued every Royal Navy ship and its captain; perhaps the French Imperial Navy had some similar publication. Once they knew the ship's name, they could stop and question other vessels until they struck the proper trail, and then it was only a matter of time before the two ships met under a flag of truce. She'd see her perfect Phillippe again. He'd be surprised, but oh, so happy to see her, and the Topaze's captain could perform the marriage ceremony; Papa had told her ship's commanders had the authority. She wouldn't even care that she was marrying without a new carriage or a proper gown. No lace; shameful, but if that was required, she'd make the sacrifice.
But perhaps the Imperial Navy didn't have a List, or perhaps this captain wouldn't have a copy. In that case, she'd convince him to take her to France itself. That would be an adventure, as well as a chance to use all those hours of French lessons with Miss Hadley. She'd be an unofficial diplomat and negotiate her way to Paris, until love broke down the final barriers and the Imperial Navy sent for Phillippe. Then they could be married in the Notre Dame de Paris, with French lace. It might even bring about the end of the war, for who could continue fighting after such a rapprochement?
Guilty thoughts of Aunt Helen's undoubted panic, Uncle David's deepening sorrow, Clara shoved firmly aside. In a way, the entire situation was their fault. And of course she would return home at some point in the future, so their fears at present had no real foundation. She'd concentrate on how happy they'd be then, and not on their needless emotions of the present. And yet the image of Aunt Helen, her face streaked with tears and swollen from weeping, insisted upon intruding into Clara's most blissful imaginings.
More hours passed, and still more. Her legs cramped. The air trapped behind the drapes became stale, her breakfast's tea became a painful pressure, and the tawny satin started to look edible to her hollow stomach. Finally she swallowed, hugged herself one last time, and straightened her spine. Perhaps some of her daydreams stretched reality a trifle. All right, more than a trifle. She was here now, she had to find Phillippe, and surely she'd hidden long enough. But still her heart pounded, ever more painfully, as she parted the drapes and swung her stiff legs out and down. Through an open doorway across the cabin, a sailor arranging books on a shelf glanced up and dropped his armful with a rustle and thump. Distant shouts, muttered swearing, the sailor's stammered response, hasty eyes peering through the doorway and vanishing like a scalded cat. Not the loveliest of beginnings.
She slid from her hideaway. Before she found her bearings, though, the deck rolled, hard enough to tumble her against the cannon that loomed an arm's length away. The lanterns swayed, sliding shadows from one corner to another. But to her surprise, she didn't fall. Instead, her knees bent on their own, absorbing the plunge. The Topaze splashed into the wave's trough — Clara felt it through the deck's downward sweep and sudden shudder, knew it as surely as if she stood at the rail watching it happen — and when the deck began its heave higher her balance automatically shifted again. Timbers creaked, a rising, questioning sound, then with a shake of her head — again felt rather than seen or heard — Topaze rolled over the wave's crest and down the other side. The shadows again cascaded, the hanging chair nudged against the backs of Clara's knees and twirled aside, and the ropes holding the cannon to the ship's side groaned. Topaze shouldered her way through the waves and the swell, and cantered on.
No, this was no complaining cart horse, but a bold, highly-bred charger, fit for the most discriminating rider. Even when the smooth roll abruptly jerked, as if Topaze had been thrown off her stride by a rogue wave, Clara's knees needed no assistance and merely shifted to follow. Like when the workers had entered the warehouse and carried away the hanging chair with her in it, her natural affinity for the ship's motion seemed an omen, a sign. She was meant to be here.
She'd made the right choice.
Her heart lifted and expanded until she filled the room — no, Papa had told her years ago it was properly called a cabin. And this one, larger than she'd imagined possible in a small ship, surpassed even the Mallorys' formal parlor in beauty. The sidewalls sloped in as they rose, making the bare rafters a smaller space than the deck underfoot, and the light oak paneling forward, pierced with two matching doors, shone with polishing. But the back — the stern was dominated by a line of small-paned windows, arching up and curving out, a padded window seat and lockers along the entire bulkhead, three swaying lanterns flashing golden sparks from the brilliant glass onto the writing desk below. Beyond was unallayed night.
It was far more comfort, more contained elegance, than she'd ever expected. No better, more inviting place could exist for reading, napping, lace-making, dreaming. It was breathtaking. Perfect.
Topaze shuddered and jerked again, sending the lanterns spinning. The sailor or steward who'd discovered her reached for Clara's elbow then hesitated and drew back, throwing a disconcerted glance aside. The right-side door was now open — somehow she'd missed its motion — and an officer stood framed there, blond curls brushing the timbers. Indignation seethed from his erect bearing and lowered brows. Of course, he didn't understand yet. But he looked every inch a gentleman, dark broadcloth coat tailored and silk stockings discreetly gleaming. Once she'd explained her distress, surely he'd do whatever he could to help; perhaps her castles in the air weren't so farfetched, after all. And to think she'd considered speaking out, alerting the workmen to her presence within the hanging cot!
"Oh, this is wonderful! It's better than any ball!" Clara could no longer resist. She twirled, joining in Topaze's dance, although her walking dress would never do it justice. For this she needed a ball gown of silk and crepe, a petticoat edged with ivory Irish lace, her lightest slippers. The deck rolled beneath her, handing her through a quadrille figure, chassé, glissade, jeté. Topaze made a wonderful partner, as good as — well, that was a silly thought. She'd nearly said, as good as Phillippe. And that was a worse thought — she'd totally forgotten him in that shining moment. She'd also forgotten Papa. "How could my father have given this up? It's perfect!"
In the doorway, the officer tilted his head. "Perhaps he preferred his ballrooms unmoving and out of range of enemy carronades."
She was dancing and he was staring. Embarrassment won. Clara froze, staring back. The light from one lantern fell fully onto his face, highlighting the planes of his cheeks and forehead. His strong, winged brows and chiseled nose spoke of patrician breeding, perhaps even noble blood at one or two removes, and his baritone voice rang rich with education and culture. But patently false gaiety edged his thin-lipped smile and no humor lightened his expression, despite the ingrained, slanting grooves separating his lips and flushed cheeks. His pale eyes were angry.
The ship's pitching and rolling didn't disturb him, either. Although he was so tall his curls brushed the open rafters, his shoulders, broadened by gilt epaulettes, shifted above his white breeches without any visible effort on his part, as if he'd been moving with fractious vessels for so long that even the worst couldn't surprise him now. Such long-taught grace would make him as delightful on a dance floor as his ship, surely?
She had to be tired. Where else could these silly thoughts be coming from?
"You must be the captain." She didn't really need to ask; his innate elegance and air of authority made him a match for Topaze. But the awkward silence was stretching and she needed to say something, no matter how inane.
His eyebrows rose in the middle of his forehead, above his nose, and slanted down near his temples, exaggerating their gull-wing break above those pale eyes. But he didn't introduce himself. "What gave me away? The epaulettes?"
That was twice he'd said something faintly ridiculous and wholly sarcastic, catching her off guard and flustering her thoughts. He still hadn't given her his name. And their mutual stare, intense on his side to an astonishing degree, had lasted too long for propriet
y. Aunt Helen's training and Harmony's teasing censure demanded she turn a demure gaze to the deck. But the velvet night beyond the stern windows drew her, and she clasped her hands rather than flatten a palm to the spotless glass.
"Captain, I need your help."
His chin drooped. "Who are you and what are you doing aboard my ship?"
His ship. She'd been right. "Under the circumstances, I suppose I must introduce myself. Lady Clara Huckabee, of Plymouth." She curtsied.
He bowed in return, his movements automatic, as if his body went through the socially necessary motions without his mind's engagement. But some improper imp possessed him and he still hadn't broken his stare. Perhaps he was transfixed by her beauty. It happened all the time in the novels Diana read.
"Wait, you came aboard in the furniture? In the hanging chair?"
"Yes, and I apologize for the deception, Captain…?" She'd thrown out sufficient hints prior to this.
"Oh. Yes. Fleming. Alexander Fleming."
No, he seemed befuddled rather than entranced, and after sitting cramped inside the hanging chair all day, she must look a disheveled fright. He wasn't transfixed, but more likely wondering what on earth she was doing there.
"You must be wondering what on earth I'm doing here."
His gull-winged eyebrows swooped up again. "I'm wondering when you'll get around to explaining it."
Dratted man. If she didn't need his help… but she did.
"I desperately need your help." He opened his mouth but she rushed on before he could make fun of her again. "I'm searching for the man I love."
"And he's aboard my ship." It wasn't a question, with the rising note at the end, but a flat statement of disbelief.
Dratted unromantic man. "No, he's aboard a French ship. He's a French captain and we met during the peace—"
Captain Fleming straightened suddenly and a loud thunk startled her into breaking off. He winced, his hand started to rise then fell back by his side, and he withdrew into himself by an inch, so that his blond curls again brushed the rafters.
"Oh, dear." That had to hurt. "Are you all right?"
"Sterling," he snapped, "I thank you. Lady Clara, this is not a private yacht. I cannot break off my assignment—" Silence fell. His jaw continued working and his lips formed words. But a magic spell had stolen his ability to project sounds, and only the rushing of water and creaking of timbers whispered through the cabin. The intensity of his stare had not diminished.
"Are you making fun of me again? It's very rude to make fun of a lady, you know."
His mouth and eyes closed. He certainly wasn't transfixed now, if he ever had been. The expression on his pinched face reminded her of Uncle David, mustering the final reserves of his patience. "Perhaps if you didn't make it quite so inviting." He raised a hand, stopping her retort before she began. "Lady Clara, I must return to sailing my ship and I must consider what you've told me."
Well, that was a good thing. "You aren't sending me back to Plymouth?"
"Without the man you love? Heaven forbid." Captain Fleming turned to the sailor who'd found her, standing in the cabin's deepest shadows with a perfectly blank expression on his face. "Hennessy, I must ask you to see to Lady Clara's needs. She's to be given my sleeping cabin and shown every courtesy. Move my dining table into the great cabin—" he winced again "—and sling a hammock for me there. My lady, we'll speak further in the morning." He bowed, withdrew through the still-open door, and closed it behind himself.
As if escaping from her presence.
Definitely rude. And unromantic. And dratted. But he hadn't sent her ashore and that had to be worth something.
Now, if she could only convince him.
Chapter Four
Cats.
Fleming paced the weather-side quarterdeck. Nineteen steps for'ard, brushing his scraper against the mainmast shrouds as he turned. Nineteen steps astern, to the carved, curved taffrail. Once, as a mathematical exercise, he'd calculated that one thousand seven hundred and sixty steps equaled a rough mile, and twelve steps into the ninety-third length of the quarterdeck gave him the benefit of that much exercise. Of course, it was other captains, less physically active ones or those who dined to excess, who needed such benefit, and not him. But the common sailors, the fo'c'slemen and reefers and waisters, were hidebound and superstitious to a fault. They liked what they knew, knew what they liked, and considered anything else unlucky. During the last cruise, the Topazes had grown accustomed to seeing their captain pacing the weather-side quarterdeck while he planned the next line of attack. To keep them happy, he'd pace the weather-side quarterdeck until he dropped.
Calico cats. Orange tabbies. Purring kittens or yowling barnyard bruisers, sailors as a rule didn't like cats. Cats were considered unlucky at sea, and while Fleming had known notable exceptions, felines of almost every description unaccountably vanished during long voyages. It was a wonder the balmier Pacific isles and the Canaries weren't swarming with former ships' pets, scrambling into cutters and launches for rescue when frigates sent boats ashore for watering.
Clergymen, too, generally weren't welcomed aboard and most captains refused them passage. Blue-light captains who felt their faith strongly learned to camouflage their parsons as clerks, pursers, or schoolmasters for the midshipmen — anything except what they actually were. Better treated than cats, they weren't often abandoned ashore, but shipping a clergyman tended to create an unhappy crew.
And corpses. Unluckiest of the three unlucky Cs, carrying a corpse darkened a ship's spirits dreadfully. During battle, it wasn't unusual for sailors to tip the fallen overboard rather than hold them for a funeral service. Even a former best mate wasn't safe once breath left the body.
Nineteen steps for'ard. Brush the shrouds in the turn. The dim quarterdeck, lit only by the stern lantern and the few stars not yet eaten by the clouds marching down from the north, stretched ahead of his restless feet. Fleming paced on.
A Jonah approached the summit of unluckiness aboard ships, but most sailors were hard pressed to define just what the term entailed. It might be a failed master's mate, a thirty-plus-year-old "young gentleman" passed over without promotion to lieutenant, either from poor understanding of a seaman's job or a lack of influence within the Navy Board. It might be a survivor from a mutiny, who'd managed to convince the court-martial captains he'd been knocked unconscious, awoke to find the ship had been seized by the crew, and no blame could attach to him. Whatever the Jonah's past circumstances, everything bad always seemed to happen on his watch, to his gun or mast, when he was around. And once a man — sailor, warrant officer, or commissioned gentleman — was branded a Jonah, his days aboard ship were numbered. His life continued only if he found his way ashore, post haste.
Fleming paused, gripping the taffrail. The dwindling breeze caressed his left cheek and only a few stars still gleamed in the south, behind him and over the Brittany peninsula. The wake had waned as Topaze lost speed, but in the glow of the stern lantern its remains still bubbled, white and frothy, below his position.
The most unlucky cargo of all, for any warship, was a woman.
His fingers tightened around the carved wood. Unlike the other sailors' superstitions, there were practical reasons captains preferred not to carry women. Through no fault of their own, they nevertheless distracted the crew, aroused envy and bitterness between the officers, and in time could lead to the disruption or collapse of naval discipline. A sturdy gunner's wife, round and good-natured, to care for the youngest mids, the "squeakers" — that was to be expected, and such a woman was welcomed aboard most fighting ships. But a lovely young gentlewoman, especially one with a bold, determined eye and an inability to take no for an answer — that was another matter entirely.
If improperly handled, Lady Clara could be a disaster. And she wouldn't be easily handled. In age she appeared below twenty, adding immaturity and lack of experience to her strong will and his problems. Chasing her Frenchman implied she couldn't wait for peace and h
is return, for whatever reason, and in turn that implied a problem at home, one she'd run from rather than work to solve. She'd shown herself willing to take a chance, but not yet sufficiently mature to discern which chances were worth taking. Perfect; just perfect.
He pushed off the rail and turned. Nineteen steps for'ard, past the long six-pounder on its oaken truck, the grizzled quartermaster blank-faced at the wheel, the mizzenmast and its shrouds, the capstan, the skylight, the other starboard six-pounder, the grating. One more step, into the mainmast shrouds. Turn.
He couldn't put her ashore. His orders forbade landfall until the Canaries, and then they specifically stated he must avoid being seen while taking aboard fresh water. Abandoning her on an empty shore, like those unlucky cats, was out of the question.
He couldn't return Topaze to England and drop her off. They'd see rain before morning, likely mist at dawn, and then the wind would back into the southeast. He'd be windbound at Plymouth, possibly for weeks, and Armide would escape.
He couldn't send her home in the launch. A woman in an open boat, on a voyage that might take days if his weather-reading proved false? Under-officered as they were, he couldn't spare even little Staunton as escort. Besides, Lady Clara's beseeching eyes and feeling words would persuade anyone short of Abbot to set her ashore in France, and that would be another disaster in the making.
A Different Sort of Perfect Page 3