* * * *
Nineteen steps for'ard. Turn in the mainmast shrouds. Nineteen steps to the taffrail. Grip the railing, watch the wake. Watch yourself instead.
Of course she was handsome. Lovely, even. And unlike most silly, spoiled debutantes, she looked natural, unaffected. Unspoiled, in the other meaning of the word. And it was sort of flattering, the way she leaned toward him with wide, dark eyes reflecting the lamplight, her shoulders back and her curves—
Not a clever thought, Mrs. Fleming's little boy. Not clever at all. He was simply trying to make the best of this ridiculous hand he'd been dealt. He'd no business, none at all, looking at—
Nineteen steps for'ard.
It was going to be a long, long night.
Chapter Twelve
Clara gasped, clutching her crochet bag and Staunton's journal to her chest. But Hennessy and his crabby mate staggered to the ladder's foot, her table — her fragile, adorable little desk — still safe between them and not smashed to kindling against the bulkhead.
"Blo—" The mate shot her an aggrieved glance from the corner of his eye and swallowed, leaning against the frigate's roll. Brilliant sunlight fell through the hatchway and splashed across his face, highlighting the bump on the bridge of his nose and the turned-down wrinkles lining his mouth. "Blister it, Hennessy, keep yer end up."
"Keep yours down," Hennessy said, his voice as calm as if he crossed a level floor rather than a rolling frigate's deck. Without looking over his shoulder, he backed up the ladder, balancing against Topaze's heel, pausing while she plunged, and dancing several rungs higher in the lulls between. His boyish face was lined with concentration. The mate followed, hefting the table with one hand and gripping rungs with the other, grumbling a stream of incoherent words that Clara had no desire to hear.
"Don't you mind him," Wake said from behind her. He carried her ladder-backed chair, one gnarled hand holding Titus Ferry's account book atop its seat. From beneath level, brindled brows, he glared at the mate. "Some people jest don't know how to behave around gentlefolk."
The mate's response remained an indistinguishable mumble. Clara ducked her chin, keeping her titter behind the canvas bag Diana Mallory had embroidered for her. As soon as the two table-carriers cleared the ladder, she flew up after them. The roll wasn't so lively as to throw her off stride; the mate, despite his lined face and grey hairs, couldn't possibly have been at sea for long.
On the quarterdeck, they set her desk beside the stern rail, at the very end of the ship, and Wake held the chair for her with a little bow. She thanked them all, awarding a special smile to the gnarled forecastleman, and he again saluted her before ambling for'ard.
Not a cloud hindered the sun's enthusiasm, all the mist burned off or left behind. Glistening white spray flashed rainbows from the steady Atlantic rollers of deepest midnight blue that stretched to distant horizons on either hand. Billows of gleaming canvas filled the masts, and the angle of the stern-most spanker sail formed a splendid awning for her desk. The morning couldn't be more perfect, certainly not after the breakfast and coffee Captain Fleming had shared with her. And especially considering the cunning little wide-based stand she'd found beside her pewter plate, courtesy of the carpenter's mate, Hennessy had said. Titus Ferry's refilled inkhorn fit snugly within its tapered mouth and couldn't possibly spill out any more of that fine oak gall ink.
Even the great cabin's elegance couldn't argue with the splendid view from the stern rail. Clara stuffed Staunton's journal into her embroidered crochet kit, tucked both beneath the desk at her feet, and arranged her writing implements. Three productive strings to her bow; no matter how long the day, she was prepared to meet it.
The wheelmen never glanced away from their task, but the master beside them greeted her with a stiff nod and she returned it, formality for formality. Near the binnacle on the weather side, Captain Fleming and Mr. Abbot curled over a six-pounder, a bit of foolscap spread atop the breech, their conversation as muttered as Hennessy's mate's and almost as heated. With a stubby pencil, Mr. Abbot slashed across the page then scribbled away, his lips a thin line and his eyes flashing irritation.
Captain Fleming straightened. Neither victory nor temper showed through his composed face as he pressed one hand to the small of his back. His blue broadcloth coattails flapped in the wind's gust. But when his gaze, sweeping about the ship and across the quarterdeck, crossed and meshed with hers, those arched eyebrows swooped higher, his lips curled both down and up in a mischievous smile, and he doffed his scraper in a bow. Standing up to curtsey would be silly, but somehow her nod in return felt woeful and inadequate.
He carefully tore off half of the well-scribbled foolscap, excused himself from Mr. Abbot, and joined her.
"Well met, captain's clerk." He slid the half-sheet across the table's polished surface. "Here's a start on the starboard watch. If you'll fair-copy this into the account book, Mr. Abbot and I will finish arguing out the remainder."
Mr. Abbot's handwriting resembled that of a cat; no wonder his work needed fair-copying. She'd have to compare each name to the muster roll to ensure her accuracy. But she'd make no friends by pointing that out, and took a moment to school her features to smiling serenity before lifting her gaze to meet his. "Certainly, captain. I'll start now."
Captain Fleming's lips twisted into a wry smile, as if he knew her precise, appalled thought. He leaned across the table and whispered by her ear, "Bonne chance."
A shiver rippled up her spine, warm and delicious, like nothing she'd ever felt before. It struck a surprised and surprising chord deep within her and flushed warmth all the way down to her toes. But before she could sort out the enticing sensation, he cleared his throat and stepped back, a cloud crossing his eyes. And there it was again, a sudden silence and a long, wondering stare. Whatever she'd felt, he'd felt it, too.
Interesting.
The cloud across his eyes faded and his expression sharpened, as if he turned that sensation over in his mind, as well. Difficult to ascertain what the dratted man was thinking. But if he experienced the same feeling at the same moment, then perhaps she'd learn to understand him better before Topaze touched the tip of Africa.
And perhaps then she could convince him.
He settled his scraper into its proper place, saluted her with a wary glance, and returned to where Mr. Abbot still scribbled away. His coattails waved as he walked, like the oddest sort of battle standard. Which was a perfectly odd thought, in itself.
She frowned and bent to her work.
* * * *
"Splashed any good ink lately?"
Staunton, of course. She'd been correct in her first assessment: he had much in common with the young Barlow pests. Clara leaned back, slid the ribbon into place, and closed his journal. Good thing she'd finished the two watch lists before he showed up, although Mr. Abbot's feline scratchings hadn't made that an easy task. "Any good betting pools in hand?"
Staunton wore his stovepipe hat and blue jacket with white collar patches, the coat's sides tossed back over his buttoned ivory waistcoat. But the crisp effect was ruined by his saucy grin. How could the scamp dress so well and behave so impudently?
"There's one—" but he stopped and cleared his throat rather than continue. "You know, you're not like the other debs I know. You smile without fluttering your eyelashes at everything in trousers—"
It would be rude to press him on whatever it was he'd decided not to share. Although surely the betting pool in question related to her. But she couldn't let him get away with such a widespread insult to her fellow debs. She reached down, grabbed her crochet bag, and pulled out her lace-making, thinking fast. "Oh, indeed? And how many debs do you know? Not many, I'll wager."
"At what odds?" He grinned again and hefted the heavy brass scientific instrument he carried. "—you don't wear gobs of smelly lotions or perfumes—"
He was entirely too cocky. "If you're so certain you'd accept the wager, then that tells me all I need to know. You have eld
er sisters and you visit them in London between cruises. How many are out?" She shook out the sheet of lace she'd started at home and sighed; it didn't look any more impressive now than it had back in Plymouth.
"All three, and their friends are atrocious." Staunton rested the instrument atop her table. A sort of small spyglass with two darkened, angled mirrors above and a swinging, wedge-shaped filigree of brass below, its rounded pie-crust edge was marked off in degrees like a compass. It looked very impressive, and she found it hard to believe someone so young and impish was capable of using it.
Oblivious, he rattled on. "—you don't scream for no reason, or at least you haven't yet—" He shook his head. "What on earth are you doing?"
Warmth crept over her face and she fumbled the miniscule chain stitch, dropping the loop from her hook. "I'm afraid it's more what I'm trying to do and less what I'm actually accomplishing. It's a method of making lace, only I'm not particularly good at it."
Probing green eyes examined her straggling work and then her face, with equally serious scrutiny. That infernal heat deepened.
"Perhaps you aren't good at it yet," he said. "But you don't seem the sort to throw it in without first giving something a really good go."
So the little pest could be kind as well as witty. Astonishing.
"I've been trying for a year," she said, giving him a grateful smile. "But this tiny thread makes me squint at home. Hopefully I'll be able to see it better, out here in the bright sunshine."
Originally she'd tried her hand at knitting and netting, but she could never keep the proper tension on the yarn and whatever she'd made turned out lumpy, unlike the beautiful pieces Harmony deftly wove. Nor could she compete with Aunt Helen in sewing, and Diana's embroidery put hers to absolute shame. So what was left but crochet, where even if she lost tension on the yarn, she could create a perfectly wearable wrap?
He set the brass instrument down and leaned closer. "Show me the pattern?"
But that was too funny, even if sailors stitched their own clothing. "You can't be serious."
His scowl was good-natured. But he didn't straighten, instead angling his head sideways out of the light. "I see what you're doing. The hook makes little loops and you weave them back on each other. By forming the loops into circles, it makes flowers, and then you stretch a sort of trellis between them. That's clever, and I'd be dropping those stitches like mad, you can bet on that."
Her heart warmed to the engaging pest. "I'm hoping to make the lace for my wedding gown."
His stare sharpened, as if he could read her soul or at least her thoughts through her skin. It wasn't a judgmental expression; he almost seemed to be laughing at her, if she read him accurately beneath his usual glee. But the weight of that stare, far older and more confident than any lad his age should be able to produce, made her feel that she was being judged. Had the news of her search for a French captain made its way through the officers and crew? Should she tell them? No matter how friendly Staunton seemed, perhaps it would be better to keep such personal information to herself.
As she dithered, another stitch slipped off the hook and she jabbed at it. "But I'll only wear it if it's properly done." Oh, bother it. She set the lace aside and nodded at the odd brass instrument. "Now, your turn. What on earth is that?"
"This?" Staunton hefted it. The swinging arm slid along the outer edge, and numbers advanced, twenty, thirty, forty, within the arm's little notched opening. "This is what's called a sextant. Proudest moment of me life, first time I successfully brought the sun down to the horizon with it." He fumbled with the arm and it froze into place. "Even if the clamp doesn't always catch since that time I dropped it."
He'd been kind to her and that called for reciprocation on her behalf. "Well, that sort of thing can happen to anyone, can't it? Show me how it works? I'm afraid I won't sort out any nautical science for myself, no matter how well you show the way with understanding crochet."
Again he surprised her by not laughing. Instead, Staunton handed over the sextant. As she'd suspected, the brass was solid, and warm from his skin and the sunlight.
"Hold it here at the top with your left hand and look through the eyepiece, in the sun's direction but aiming below it, at the horizon. Here, let me help you. Can you see the sun?"
Through the sextant's spyglass, the world seemed much darker than normal and split in two vertically. On the left side, sea and sky melded together into a sharp, distant line, brilliant glare highlighting their meeting point. On the right, the sky had displaced the sea and rolled it down; the bright line drooped, the water had receded to a lower level, and an even brighter disk hovered at the view's upper edge. It was as if someone had drawn a beautiful, accurate rendition of the horizon, then sliced it in two and moved one side down before pasting them back together again.
"Yes, I can see it."
A gentle touch guided her right hand to the clamp he'd fussed with earlier. "Squeeze the clamp, and rotate the index arm away from you until the sun touches the horizon."
The weight dragged at her left arm and her nervous fingers slipped on the metal clamp. That would never do; she couldn't permit this scamp to get the best of her. A deep breath, then she adjusted her grip, squeezed harder, and eased the arm along its aligned path. The further she moved it, the lower the sun's disk and the sea's level fell, moving as one down the spyglass's right side. It took a surprisingly long push before the glowing sun settled atop the horizon's bright line.
"There." She released the clamp.
Warm fingers pressed against hers and some of the bronze's solid weight eased. "Try holding it steady between your eye and the horizon, and swing the sextant from side to side an inch or so." Again he guided her right hand. "If you're holding it level, the sun should brush the horizon like a pendulum."
It took a few tries to get it right. The helping hand took more and more of the sextant's weight until she was tempted to let go. But she didn't, instead gripping it more tightly, keeping her eye firmly against the eyepiece, and adjusting the sextant more finely with the little screw on the bottom. "There," she said finally. "That's got it level."
"Well, let's see what you've got."
That voice, that new one. It wasn't Staunton's.
That was—
Clara jerked back, away from the eyepiece.
Captain Fleming hovered over her, supporting the sextant. His bicorne scraper sat primly atop the table, and thus freed, his golden forelock ruffled in the wind. Strong sunlight lit the edge of his patrician nose and darkened to shadow in the sheltered smile lines beside his mouth. His fingers pressed against hers with no shame at all. He'd leaned over her, stood close to her, touched her hand.
And to her astonishment, it didn't embarrass her.
And that should have been embarrassing in itself. Only it wasn't.
His smile deepened, presumably at her reaction. He straightened, took the sextant from her, and turned it, although his gaze didn't drop to examine the numbers along the index arm.
That warm shiver again worked its enticing way up her spine, just as delicious and surprising as it had been in the morning hours. And for some inexplicable reason, Clara at that moment realized she hadn't thought of Phillippe, wonderful, brave, gallant, perfect Phillippe, all day long.
* * * *
From a secure post halfway across the quarterdeck, Fleming had watched as Staunton and Lady Clara smiled and chatted with perfect amicability, bending together over her odd needlework. When the midshipman had handed her the sextant and guided her through its usage, though, something indignant had swelled within Fleming. Topaze didn't carry a schoolmaster and, as Abbot had reminded him, that made the captain responsible for the mids' education. Granted, Lady Clara was barely a member of the crew, much less a midshipman in formal training — but still, he carried a responsibility for ensuring she learned properly.
Or at least, that was the story he intended to stick to, should any ill-mannered lout question him.
He'd already wal
ked halfway across the quarterdeck, unnoticed by the pair, before the sextant wobbled in her delicate hands. An impulse bubbled within him in the moment, and he hadn't paused to consider it more closely. Instead, he'd acted. Two long steps, quiet as the proverbial mouse, and he'd added his grip beside hers, taking half the sextant's weight. With his right hand, he touched a finger to his lips, stopping Staunton's wide-eyed comment before it began. The young mid's grin broadened, but he'd continued his instruction without any change of voice that might have warned Lady Clara.
Whatever it was about her that brought out the mischief-maker in Fleming, he wasn't going to examine it too closely. But such a lack of self-examination was no reason to fight that mischief-making urge.
Besides, Staunton's instructions on taking the sun down to the horizon seemed perfectly proper and nothing a schoolmaster could fault.
Then she'd announced that she was done, he'd taken the sextant from her with some inane comment, and the astonished look on her face when she'd jerked back and stared at him made it all worthwhile.
But then something strange and unsettling happened.
She didn't flush. Nor did she look away. Her dark, dark eyes narrowed and her expression sharpened, holding his stare as if she were fully comfortable with the implied intimacy. She glanced at the sextant cradled in his hands, and then slowly — ever-so-delectably slowly, her gaze trailed up his body, or at least the front of his uniform coat. And it felt like a physical touch. Like two fingers trailing up his chest, over his ribcage, to his collarbone. Beneath that very same coat.
And by the time her gaze finally meshed again with his, he was flushed enough for both of them. From the strength of the self-control his body quite suddenly demanded.
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