Without warning, a cloud darkened the misty, retiring sun. She glanced up. The sails flapped, a forlorn, desolate sound. Clara shivered in a sudden foreboding chill and time slowed to an expectant crawl around her—
—as her fingers lost their grip on the inkhorn and it tumbled to the spotless white deckboards below.
While the stopper remained in her hand.
* * * *
He knew it was coming. Somehow Fleming knew, when her trembling hands put away the pen and unslung the inkhorn's strap, somehow he knew disaster hovered on the quarterdeck's wings. Every humor in his system yearned to fly forward and grab the inkhorn before disaster could uncoil and strike, but his shoes seemed nailed to the deck. And as the catastrophe unfolded, all he could do was stand there and watch as the inkhorn tumbled, too slowly to be anything but the worst nightmare, spilling black ink across her skirt, the mainmast fife rail, the coiled halyards and belaying pins, and finally the deck itself. The inkhorn clunked onto the white boards, thumped to its side, and happily drained out Titus Ferry's prized oak gall ink.
For a moment everyone stood rooted. Fleming wished he could close his eyes and go back in time, so he could warn the silly chit not to handle the blasted thing without first tightening the stopper. But that would have sounded patronizing and wouldn't produce the effect he needed. And now she presented him with an infernally awkward situation and there was nothing to be done but work through it.
Somehow.
In the unnatural silence permeating the ship and its crowd of staring sailors, Lady Clara gasped, the sound loud, sudden, and startling. Her hands flew to her cheeks and hovered, uncertain, over her mouth and pallid face. She stared in horror at the mess and those huge, dark eyes seemed to widen even further.
And she dropped to her knees on the deck, scrubbing at the spreading stain with her skirt.
As if that would clean it off.
His temper broiled just beneath his surface, sporting a satiric, disagreeable snarl. He wanted to scream, rant, rave, carry on until he turned blue in the face, but not only would that not repair the catastrophe, it might upset the crew. Tamping the tantrum away, he instead attempted a smile, as if nothing important had occurred, but it felt strained and across the quarterdeck, Abbot's eyes prepared to pop from his whitened face.
At the least, he could stop her from making such a fool of herself. Fleming reached down, wrapped his hand about her elbow, and tugged. More capable hands could take over and repair the mess. But in her frantic dismay, she misunderstood his intention and yanked her arm from his grip.
Still scrubbing away. With the hem of a silken dress. Like the lowest scullery maid using her apron to rub out a spot on the hearth. He wondered her pride could bear the humiliation.
"Beg pardon, cap'n. Beg pardon." The voice behind him rode a higher timbre, as if the speaker didn't quite shout but came close. Nevertheless, after the drubbing the long guns had given his ears, the speaker yet seemed distant.
But the bucket nudging against his knee wasn't. Fleming stepped aside, and Wake and Mayne, the two sailors who'd stitched her new gown, doffed their hats and crowded beside her, thumping down buckets of sand and water by the soaked-in pool of black ink.
"Beg pardon, m'lady," Wake said, "we knows you mean well, but that won't help it none. Here, let's sprinkle this here stain with some sand — go ahead, Mayne, show her how it's done Bristol-fashion — then we'll drip some water on it and use the holystones. That's what they're for, y'know." The old fo'c'sleman leaned over the mess on one side of her, the young foretopman on the other, and three backs blocked Fleming's view of their work.
"I didn't mean to." Her voice sounded as if she wanted to cry, and the satiric sneer in Fleming's heart felt a tug. Oh, please, let the common sailors react the same. She certainly seemed to have charmed these two, and while Wake wasn't educated, not a foolish bone resided in his wizened body.
"Course you didn't, m'lady, we knows that. See? Mayne's scrubbing with that there holystone and he's getting it right out. This won't take nothing but a few minutes to clear up, so don't you worry your head none about it. Needs more sand here, Mayne."
It sounded… it almost sounded as if… He glanced around. Crossing the gangway and clearing up around the ship, the old hands mainly wore indulgent smiles. Several glanced at Lady Clara in a reassuring, paternal sort of manner. As if she were a much-loved young member of the family.
As if part of his job were already done.
Fleming raised his eyebrows at Abbot: Are you seeing this?
Abbot looked away: No. Sir.
No pity there, at least. The world remained on its axis.
Finally the three rose and stepped back, revealing a deck and railing as clean as before. But still Lady Clara wilted, her hair drooping, her eyes sad.
Her dress a stained, crumpled disaster.
"Now, you just soak that pretty gown of yourn in cold, fresh water overnight." Wake wore the same indulgent smile as the other experienced hands; he'd been charmed right out of his usual sharpness. "And if that don't work, we'll hit up the old pusser for some lemon juice, and that will tayke it right out. It would be the pity of the world to leave such horrid stains in such nice twillt silk." Behind him, Mayne nodded without ever looking up from the again spotless deck.
"Thank you, both of you." Even her voice drooped.
Fleming's heart tugged again. But beyond the old hands with their silly smiles, the younger men held back, staring, their expressions leery and unhappy. Fleming sighed.
As that rebellious captain said during the last American war, he'd only just begun to fight. He might sink, but the devil take him if he'd strike.
Chapter Eleven
In the great cabin, reassembled at the close of quarters, Fleming poured off a tot of whatever Hennessy had ready in the decanter and slugged it down. Aged tawny port, he discovered as soon as it passed his lips, and the light, sweet flavor imparted comfort more through its rich texture than its alcohol content. The setting sun filled the cabin with a golden glow, echoed by the satin on the hanging chair — where the entire fiasco had begun — and a pool of brilliance splashed across the little rug Hennessy had woven from strips of sailcloth.
Peace.
Peace at last.
And someone knocked on the door.
He sighed and set down the sherry glass. "Come."
Abbot entered. It would have been an exaggeration to describe his face as purple. But not by much.
"Captain." In a convulsive movement, as if realizing his negligence, Abbot yanked off his scraper. "Forgive me. But this cannot continue."
He should have seen this coming. The lovely port's influence faded and what felt like a hand began squeezing the nape of his neck. Best to get it out in the open. "Speak your mind, Mr. Abbot."
His first lieutenant's mouth worked for a few mad, soundless moments before he straightened and hauled in a deep breath. "That's my quarterdeck—"
Fleming's eyebrows shot up.
"—well, of course, it's not mine, not exactly, but it is, too, because it's my responsibility." Another deep breath, as if Abbot paused and sought the proper words to convey his meaning without infuriating his captain, a distinct possibility. "The ship's upkeep, its management. Its appearance. Sir, we all want a ship we can be proud of, and — and that's not going to happen if — if events such as this continue to occur—"
Fleming grabbed a second sherry glass, poured another tot, and handed it over. Abbot slugged the port back and a beatific expression spread across his face. Even his determined chin relaxed.
"Better?"
"Somewhat." Abbot inhaled the last few drops. "That's awfully good."
That sounded like the sort of hint his first lieutenant considered subtle. Fleming topped up both glasses. "Mr. Abbot, I agree we're in a difficult situation. We're stuck with a silly, spoiled debutante. Our orders forbid us to touch any shoreline until La Palma, and then only to take on water with the express instructions not to be seen. S
o we can't simply unload her and ship her home, not until we reach the Cape—"
Abbot spluttered and lowered his glass. A drop of garnet-colored liquid drooped from his nose. He reached up a hand and dashed it away. "Sir—"
Fleming raised his voice and plowed on. "—meaning we must find some way of dealing with the situation." He sipped his port. It really was too good for slugging; hopefully it would have a salubrious effect on Abbot before he burst something. "Some constructive way that doesn't involve murder, mutiny, or damaging the paintwork."
"We could send her back in the launch—"
"And who should man it?"
"Staunton's sufficiently responsible—"
"They're already thick as thieves. With her winsome ways, she'd charm him into taking her wherever she wished to go, not where his orders stated, and we might never recover them nor the launch."
"She couldn't charm Chandler—"
"Chandler's more mature and responsible, yes. He's also performing a man's work. Who's going to cover his duties while he's gone?" Fleming sipped again. "And would you really risk a woman, even a spoiled and silly one, in an open boat?"
Abbot fell silent. Judging by the expression on his face, he desperately yearned to say, Yes, that one. Instead, he downed another swallow of port. This time, it didn't soften his chin.
Not a good sign. Fleming needed to end the argument quickly or he risked losing his first lieutenant's support. "My plan is to make Lady Clara a functioning member of the crew."
Another splutter, followed by a cough. At this rate, he'd choke. Abbot threw him a disbelieving, appalled look.
"Oh, think, man!" Fleming set his empty glass on the table and stalked past the rudderhead cover and the gleaming row of sparkling glass panes. The stern windows weren't open, which should lessen the speed with which his words would fly through the ship by a few seconds, at least. "If the sailors look upon her as one of them, a mature, capable crewmember, it might counterbalance the unluckiness of having a woman aboard. It would do away with the novelty factor and prevent those strange, twisted superstitions that form in the night watches, the ones that foster unease and dread among the crew." He wheeled around and stared Abbot down. "I plan to keep the crew happy because, as you know, the luckiest ship is often the happiest one. The hands give more of themselves, and more willingly, when they're content with their lot. And with the Armide, our quarry, carrying more than double our broadside weight in metal, Mr. Abbot, we need — no, we desperately need a happy crew. Am I wrong?"
Abbot swallowed the last of his port. "Captain, of course you're — I mean, there's no question that—" Words seemed to fail him. His mouth opened, closed, produced nothing. The hopelessness of their situation had finally struck home. His eyes cut sideways to the decanter.
Not taking the hint a second time. "May I count on your assistance, Mr. Abbot?" Of course he felt like an idiot while he said that; Abbot's staunch support hadn't been lacking since the first moment his shoe touched the deck.
But this time, Abbot's expression turned dour. "With your permission, Captain, I'll return to my duties." He clapped his scraper atop his head, ducked his tall frame through the doorway, and carefully closed it behind him.
Banging his head against the nearest bulkhead was tempting, in a mad sort of way. But his crown still ached from the drubbing it had received when he'd stood straight in the great cabin without thinking, and perhaps adding to his misery wouldn't be the wisest move. Maybe another drink before dinner… no, he shared the table now. He'd need all his wits about him for this plan to come to fruition.
* * * *
"Do the sailors really wash the entire deck every morning?"
Across the dinner table, Captain Fleming lowered his fork, the bite uneaten. Clara rolled her lips together. She should have timed that better.
But he showed no sign of impatience, a little smile gracing his face. He'd brushed aside her apology over the inkhorn incident with a similar smile and a comment that such an accident could happen to anyone, and while it was difficult to believe him utterly, his words had soothed the worst of her embarrassment.
"Every morning. The bosun and his mates rouse the idlers from their hammocks at four bells in the morning watch—" He paused, gull-winged eyebrows swooping higher in challenge, and this time successfully got the fork into his mouth.
Yes, she should know this; she'd read through the first pages of Staunton's journal after changing from her hopelessly stained grey sarsnet to the sweet little indigo sailor dress, which fit so well she couldn't believe it hadn't been tailored by an expert mantua-maker. In the journal, Staunton stated that each bell marked the passage of half an hour, and all but the afternoon dog watches were four hours each and therefore a total of eight bells. And there was the first watch beginning at eight o'clock at night, followed by the middle watch, the morning—
That couldn't be right.
"They start work at six o'clock each morning?" Normal people slept at such an hour.
His lips curled and his blue-grey eyes gleamed in that wicked manner. "As you discovered this morning."
He wasn't going to let that go. Evil man. The next question she timed deliberately. "Why is the midships battery called the slaughterhouse?" When he glanced up, eyes still gleaming, she added, "That is the term you used, is it not?"
He took the bite and chewed, thoroughly, before answering. Surely it was rude, keeping a lady waiting? Finally he swallowed. "Not all captains teach their crews proper gunnery, preferring not to waste ammunition or, as they put it, 'to throw cannonballs into the sea.' This includes French ships as well as English ones. So the gun and battery captains on such ships, to ensure the cannonballs strike their target, aim for the enemy's center — the ship's waist, which is also generally the widest part of the ship, increasing their odds of hitting something. Therefore that's where most of the casualties in battle occur."
"And so the slaughterhouse." It was a sobering thought. Wake had swabbed number sixteen, the cannon called Old Trusty, in that very place. She'd hate to see anything happen to that sweet man.
"Many captains assign their most useless gunners to the slaughterhouse cannons, the sailors they can most afford to lose. But to keep their fire worthwhile, he must also include some experienced gunners, men who can keep them steady, performing their duties and aiming at the enemy." He cut again into the roast. "It's difficult, and that's a job we'll address tomorrow, captain's clerk — setting watches and balancing the gun crews so there's a mix of experienced and green hands for each cannon. Mr. Abbot and I will perform most of the work, but there will be lots of writing required."
She nodded, pleased in a silly sort of way, and sipped her wine. "My best copperplate hand shall be at your disposal, Captain."
The dinner was as excellent as breakfast and served in the same elegant style. Astonishing, how much she felt at home, as if she'd been aboard the ship, interacting with the officers and crew, for much longer than a single day. Amazing. Odd. And utterly satisfying. Although she missed Harmony's chatter, Diana's razor wit, and Aunt Helen's sweet soul. Poor Aunt Helen, she'd left no word and they had to be frantic.
But there was nothing she could do for them now and worrying would only spoil her evening. Clara set her napkin aside and leaned forward, over the table. "Are all sailors so handy with needle and thread? My father was, and I envied him his neat, even stitches. But I never could match them."
Captain Fleming glanced up again from his plate. The skin below his blue-grey eyes had darkened in the lamplight and appeared bruised, as if tiredness dragged at him. But his patience hadn't wavered. He'd answered all her questions without treating one with contempt. And while an interrogation had always seemed an awkward and unamiable form of conversation, and although she felt thoroughly impertinent, Clara simply couldn't stop herself. There was so much she wanted to know about Topaze and her crew.
"Proper flats we'd look if we weren't." Captain Fleming nodded to Hennessy, who began clearing away the meal.
"Most ships don't carry women aboard and so we've learned to take care of ourselves."
"All of it? Cleaning, sewing, cooking—"
His lips twisted in that sly grin. "Are you volunteering for scrubbing the decks in the morning? Now that you've gained experience, of course."
Dratted, evil man. She finished her wine and smacked the stemware onto the table. Hennessy swooped it up, too, and carried it away.
Perhaps some people would consider him handsome. Well, yes. Perhaps.
* * * *
A chair and small desk had magically appeared in her little sleeping cabin, between the hanging cot and the cannon. The cannon was named The Game Chicken, and likely the magician was named Hennessy. Content with the world, Clara settled down with Staunton's journal, reading beneath a steady, clear-burning lamp. But her eyes drifted closed within minutes and the words formed no meaning within her mind, conveying no information. The day had been so full, so active, so incredibly memorable; how could she think her head would absorb anything more?
She could fight it no longer. Clara turned down the lantern and climbed into the hanging cot, arranging the delightful antique-gold satin drapes about herself. Instant comfort assailed her, and her eyes drifted closed again.
Topaze whispered through the sea, water swishing along her sides as if wishing everyone good night. A door closed nearby, Captain Fleming exiting his cabin, and a moment later, his footsteps climbed the aft ladder toward the quarterdeck. The dedicated, responsible captain, ensuring her safety and that of his ship and crew, while she slept. That aspect of him could not be misunderstood. But what she was to make of his sudden silences, his impertinent stares, the following blink and his gaze yanked aside—
Funny, she hadn't thought of Phillippe in hours. No, she hadn't thought of him all day, not since breakfast, and had barely thought of Aunt Helen and Uncle David. What a dreadfully selfish creature she was. But the thick blanket of tiredness buried even that guilt, and it couldn't keep her awake more than a moment.
A Different Sort of Perfect Page 8