He could only keep her aboard, take her to the Cape, and unload her there. Somehow he had to convince the crew that carrying a woman aboard wasn't unlucky, just this once. But the dying breeze, leaving them sauntering along when everyone knew they needed to race after Armide, two weeks ahead after her escape from the Brest blockade, was not a good beginning to such a strategy. Besides, it was possible and desirable that they'd meet Armide before the Cape — Fleming trailed his fingertips along the closest six-pounder's wooden frame, just in case. What could he do with a spoiled debutante during a battle?
If she truly thought he'd search for her lost Frenchman, she had even less of a grasp on reality than he'd discerned. Kept at home, confined, watched, guarded, spoiled, she had no conception of what war entailed. He didn't wish to tutor her in such a distasteful subject. But his options were few.
Sailors liked what they knew and knew what they liked. If he could convince the crew that they liked Lady Clara, that having her aboard was a good thing and perfectly normal, only an actual disaster would change their minds and lead them to consider her unlucky after all. And the disaster in question would have to be something that could, in the convoluted twistings of the crew's collective mind, be construed as her fault — say, if she broke the looking glass in the sleeping cabin just before a heavy blow dismasted the ship. If he could convince the crew to accept her and then avoid such a calamitous series of events, perhaps they'd be safe.
The wake barely rippled below now. The quarterdeck's impressive slope had flattened as the frigate lost way. Not enough heave survived to cause even the clumsiest landman to stumble. The cruise's auspicious beginning had faded and he might as well go to bed, if Hennessy had found a spare blasted hammock to sling in the dining cabin.
At least she hadn't brought a cat aboard.
Chapter Five
Clara awoke at once and in terror. Somewhere nearby a furious animal growled, absolutely snarled, and overhead something rumbled, as if the predator dragged its stiff, helpless prey across the quarterdeck.
She leapt from the gently swinging hanging cot, blanket tossed aside and twisting about her ankles. The cold cabin floor assaulted her feet, stealing away the night's slumberous warmth, and she shivered. The grey threads of first light peeping through the open gunport removed the edge from the cabin's darkness, but not even the most optimistic fool could have called it dawn.
The cold vanquished the last of her dreams as well, and imagination ceded to rationality. It was impossible for any predator, no matter how large nor vicious, to make the hideous racket penetrating the deck planks, and even more impossible that it should do so while dragging its prey. Besides, salt-smelling seawater dampened the wood beneath her freezing feet, and even if an animal had bounded from the waves to the quarterdeck — another physical impossibility — it couldn't have drawn so much brine aboard. No, the rumbling that had awakened her could only be the collapse of the ship's sides and the growling sound was the hungry sea swirling in through the crack. The wonderful Topaze had foundered in the night, perhaps on a rock, and they were sinking. She snatched up the scattered blanket, tossed it about her shoulders, stumbled from the dim cabin and up the aft hatchway ladder.
Mist covered the quarterdeck, the perfectly sound and ordinary quarterdeck, damp wispy clouds rising from the sloshing boards. At no great distance, fog cocooned the ship within a dim, timeless world of its own, and in a sudden hush the rippling of the water along the ship's sides seemed loud. Two sailors stood at the wheel, one steering and the other watching; behind them, a blanching officer and a winsome child stared at her with wide eyes and startled faces. Not a yard from her knelt a line of the roughest sailors she'd ever seen, a line stretching from rail to rail. Their hair was long, their faces scarred and scruffy, their shirts threadbare, and their shabby trousers ended below their knees, horrid bare calves and rough feet glowing red in the otherwise colorless light. Each of them held a stone, prayer-book sized and white, like a flattened brick, leaning forward as if to press or rub it into the sand-covered deckboards ahead of their line, and each of them stared out to sea, their expressions as wooden as the ship.
It seemed to be some sort of maintenance, maybe a housecleaning, and indeed the drips of tar staining the deck ahead of the kneeling sailors were absent behind them, where gleaming white boards rivaled the smartest ballroom. And doubtless rubbing the deck with sand and stones would make an infernal din, passed through the planking and echoing between the decks until it would awaken the dead. Most importantly, they weren't sinking, and that was good. But there was nothing beyond the ship's sides for the sailors to stare at, nothing she could see in the fog and first pale glimmers of morning, and in that second she realized they were most determinedly looking at anything.
Anything except her. Standing there in her shift, hair unbound and falling over one shoulder, only a draped blanket between her and even worse immodesty. Her feet, cold and wet, likely as red and horrid as theirs, just as bare. And visible. Perfectly, obscenely visible.
"Oh!" Clara whirled. The cabin; she'd retire to the cabin and dress. Although she'd rather die than be seen by anyone ever again, no matter how long the trip to Africa required.
Captain Fleming stood at the ladder's foot, fully dressed, and she froze in place. In the dim light trickling through the skylight and hatchway, his expression seemed grave, even solemn, although his gleaming eyes made her suspicious. His chin didn't lower, his gaze didn't drop to her scandalous attire, and he didn't laugh. The dratted man didn't laugh.
And for that small mercy she'd be forever grateful. No matter how long she held last night's rudeness against him.
"Lady Clara." Amusement rippled beneath his formal words. "I see you've forgotten something." He paused. "Make that several somethings."
Gratitude be hanged. She raced down the ladder, kicking the blanket aside and balancing on the ship's roll. "Heaven forbid a man should abstain from commenting on a lady's embarrassment."
He stood aside. "Perhaps if the opportunity weren't quite so perfect."
She paused and glared. Those slanting lines between his cheeks and mouth deepened, his lips twitched, and that required a response for the honor of her sex. "Like your manners." Oh, if only she'd produced that line with dignity, rather than seething, blushing heat. Too late to try again. She brushed past and stomped the two steps to the cabin.
"Ouch." He paused again, but before she could slam the door, he said, "May I expect you for breakfast?"
Her stomach tightened. The sandwich the steward had brought her could only have been a few hours ago, but it felt like forever. She didn't want to like the dratted man, but he certainly knew the proper inducements. "Breakfast?"
"In the great cabin. Shall we say an hour?" He bowed and trotted up the ladder, vanishing with a bounce beyond the skylight's glass panes.
He made the exit. She'd intended to, it would have given her a moral superiority over him, and instead she'd allowed him to distract her, not with pretty words or flattery, but with the ordinary promise of food. And with the distraction, she'd given him the victory. Clara slammed the door after all; hopefully he heard it.
At least Captain Fleming seemed a good-natured, gentlemanly officer beneath his teasing. Surely she could convince him to assist her.
Without giving him any further victories.
* * * *
His back hurt, of course. He'd sworn never to sleep on a hammock again, he'd purchased a perfectly functional hanging cot in fulfillment of that oath, and he'd given it up to the first spoiled debutante who'd invaded his ship. Now his back hurt and it served him right.
Lady Clara's little morning fiasco wasn't funny, of course, no matter how his sense of humor tugged at him. If his crew decided the silly chit was a silly chit, his now carefully crafted strategy would be worse than useless; it would backfire, the hands misreading his acceptance of her as something fishy. Once they scented dishonesty in any of their officers, especially the captain, their loyalty would
evaporate. Not only would they be unhappy with a woman aboard, they'd be even more unhappy with their chain of command. It would be a disaster waiting to strike at the first emergency.
Even if she was a silly chit. And no matter how deliciously enticing he found her bare feet and ankles. Best he simply not consider them.
The fog had drawn in and Topaze coasted under fore and main royals, the rustle of water along her side drowned by the holystones' rasping. In such conditions, normally the officer of the watch would have a drummer rattling away, or a ten-minute gun banging, or lit lanterns hanging from the t'gallant masts, to warn nearby ships. But they were well off the main sealanes and he'd left orders against such actions. Any other ship around would be giving notice; they'd avoid traffic and whisper past unseen.
Below, Abbot huddled with the purser over a line of barrels on the fo'c'sle's larboard gangway. The main hatch beside them yawned open; the barrels had been raised from the ship's bowels with a whip on the yardarm. Abbot removed his hat. "Slops time, sir."
Fleming nodded. "Mr. Bruce," he said to the purser, "when you cut the blue linen for the bargemen's jackets and the white duck for their trousers, please cut an additional length of each that's three times as long as the others. Mr. Abbot, we'll muster the men after breakfast. The wind will remain uncooperative for some hours and we might as well take advantage of the calm. But before we do, let's start going over the muster roll, shall we?" Best if he didn't discuss his plan with his first lieutenant at this point; Abbot was rather young for apoplexy, but certain chances shouldn't be taken.
Chapter Six
Clara threw on every stitch she possessed, threw herself facedown on the hanging cot, and buried her head beneath the satin pillow. Some events a lady's reputation simply could not live down. This promised to be one such. While they'd talked last night, the steward Hennessy had said the trip to the Cape could take as long as two months. But once there, surely everyone would tell the tale, delighting their friends in the nautical drinking establishments — plus all sorts of perfect strangers. She bolted upright and hurled the innocent pillow across the sleeping cabin. Wonderful; even if she boarded another ship for the return trip at once, the gossip would likely reach Plymouth before her. And if she was delayed or unlucky, everyone in England would know before she returned.
Good thing she was marrying a Frenchman. No one would be cruel enough to tell him, would they?
Overhead, the cleaning crew's racket finally died away and the ocean's ripple could again be heard, at first as a murmur and slowly mounting to a conversational whisper, until the Topaze and the sea sounded like fishwife gossips catching up on the news. The morning light slipping through the open gunport brightened to a misty glow and cool air softened the heat from her face. Clara sat on the hanging cot, rocking with the little swell and listening. The fog seemed to draw into the cabin itself, enveloping her in a cocoon distant from the rest of the ship, alone and content.
In the near silence the ship's bell rang, muffled and hesitant, and suddenly the cabin filled with the quiet thunder of hurrying unshod feet. She quit counting the chimes and scrambled up, the cot rolling her onto the deck and then bumping against the backs of her knees as she hesitated. That sounded like a Mongol horde, the entire crew running in panic, a true emergency. But she'd been embarrassed once and couldn't bear it if they laughed at her again. True, no one had actually laughed the first time, but if she was fooled a second time they surely would.
Someone knocked at the outer door.
Oh, heavens, it truly was an emergency and some brave soul had come to warn and rescue her. Clara flew across the cabin and wrenched the door open, ready to run for it.
The child who'd stood on the quarterdeck earlier leaped back like a startled horse. One hand grabbed his tall black hat, anchored it to his head, then quickly doffed it. "Crickets, but you surprised me." His hatchet face relaxed into a smile, thick black hair falling to the shoulders of his indigo coat's white collar tabs. "My name's Staunton, by the way. Mr. Midshipman—" he seemed to grow an inch where he stood "—Richard Staunton, at your service, m'lady." He leaned forward and his whisper turned conspiratorial. "His Nibs told us your name."
If they were in a death-or-glory situation, the child hid it well. Clara sucked in air. "Mr. Staunton, how pleasant to meet you. What's the to-do?"
"Oh, the hands have just been piped to breakfast, that's all. They eat half an hour before the officers, you know." Staunton's casual, friendly air reminded her of Harmony's younger brothers, the pests.
Without thinking, Clara slumped in relief, gripping the doorframe. At the edge of her sight, one of his buckled shoes tapped its toe, rocked on its heel, and swung back and forth, his plain canvas trouser leg flopping along behind the motion.
"No, you didn't know." Staunton grinned again. She glared and his grin redoubled. "They usually make a lot more racket, but His Nibs has issued orders for everyone to be as quiet as mice."
The sounds of several hundred unconcerned men eating rose through the aft ladder. Clara shuddered.
"Or at least rather monstrous rats." He grinned again.
This was ridiculous. She'd been yanked about by her own nerves for the last time. "Mr. Staunton, do you happen to have a book describing the naval life, one I can borrow?"
He paused, brown eyes sharpening. The gathering intensity within him blew all comparisons with the young male Barlows from her memory. They all might behave in a casual manner, but even relaxed and bantering, Staunton radiated a confidence that surpassed anything she'd seen before in someone so young.
"I've got Norie's Seamanship," he said, "but that's more about hauling lines and tying knots, and that's not what you mean, is it?"
She shook her head. "I want to better understand what's going on so I'm not constantly jumping from my skin."
"Or clothes." At her scowl, he grinned again. "I tell you what, you can read my journal." He clapped that silly stovepipe hat atop his head and started walking backward. "Wait here; I'll be right back." He turned and ran, ducking through the handles of some sort of mechanical equipment and vanishing from sight, his steps clattering down unseen stairs.
With his lanky form out of the way the gun deck opened before her. Various bits of machinery stretched down the center, some protected by wooden half-walls, and the massive shafts of the mainmast and foremast rose through the confusion to the low, open-raftered ceiling. A long line of bowsed cannons curved along the bulkhead, groaning and edging beneath their ropes like tied beasts yearning for release. A powder horn hung above each long, brown-painted cylinder, a rack of cannonballs within reach but out of the way. Brightening sunlight pouring through the open gunports pooled around them, lapping at their feet and leaving the upper edges of the machinery darkened. She'd slept beside one of those guns, as if it were a piece of furniture, like a chair or dressing table, barely noticing it. But seeing them in a pack… Clara shivered.
Her feet refused to stay still. Hesitantly she walked along their restrained ranks. Heat warmed her ankles when she stepped into a pool of sunlight, and as she passed each open gunport, the sea's whispering grew louder, then fell away again. Even the ocean didn't wish to attract their attention, it seemed. The cannons smelled of gunpowder and lard, as if their wheels were greased with the cook's leavings.
And coffee. Heavens, someone nearby was roasting and brewing coffee. It smelled like paradise. A small frigate was well enough outfitted for such luxury? She'd had no idea.
Each cannon sported a name, painted at the bottom of its cradling rack. And such names! Real Terror. Belcher. Widow Maker. Old Trusty. Biting Bruiser. She'd slept beside one of these? Did it, too, have a name?
Footsteps clattered and she turned. Staunton bounded up a ladder nestled between mechanical devices and the huge base of the mainmast. Grin as broad as ever, he handed her a small leather-covered journal, a brass plaque on the front engraved with his name. "Here you are, m'lady. Hope it helps. And I'll answer 'most any question, promise faith
fully." He raised one grimy hand and touched it to his forelock, as if saluting her.
"Mr. Staunton, why do the cannons have names?"
He shrugged, his grin twisting into a smirk. "I don't know that. But you know, they've always done it, give the guns names, I mean. The sailors."
"The sailors do it?" That seemed odd. "They kill people with these cannons. They're not toys. And yet they give them names, like pets?"
"Even the meanest fighting dog has a name, Lady Clara."
A point, perhaps. But it still seemed odd, even distasteful. She shook her head.
"In any case," Staunton said, "I came down and disturbed you on orders of Mr. Abbot. The upper decks are priddied now and fit for a lady's presence, if you'd care to go on deck."
No one had laughed at her, she reminded herself. But she didn't feel ready to face them all yet. Hedging, she asked, "Who's Mr. Abbot? Is he the officer who stood by the wheel earlier?"
"That's him, our first lieutenant. You'll like him, he's awfully keen."
"I don't know—" she started, but cut off as footsteps clattered down the aft quarterdeck ladder. They turned together.
Captain Fleming stepped from the sunlight into the gun deck's shadows. His face was calm, but again his eyes gleamed. "Lady Clara. I see you've met our resident scamp."
Staunton's grin never seemed to diminish. "The trials of naval life, Captain."
Something about that dratted man made her spine stiffen at his approach. But it would be rude to display such an emotion, as rude as his behavior last night and his teasing this morning, and he hadn't yet driven her to that point. Or if he had, she wasn't going to admit it. "Mr. Staunton very kindly offered to help me learn nautical customs."
"A worthy endeavor." Captain Fleming's gaze flickered to the journal she clasped to her side. "Would you lay long or short odds on his chances of success?"
A Different Sort of Perfect Page 4