"Well?" Lady Clara asked. "Did I get it right?"
Finally — finally he managed to disengage from her ship-to-ship engagement. Fleming glanced down, forced himself to concentrate on the sextant's reading. And—
—and—
The woman was a menace.
"Yes." His voice sounded like a croak. Fleming cleared his throat. "Yes, as a matter of fact, you nailed it."
"No," Staunton said. "Her first try?"
Fleming handed the mid his sextant.
Staunton read it and whooped. "Forty-seven degrees! You did nail it, Lady Clara!"
And as the two laughed, Staunton exultant and Lady Clara somewhere between bewildered and disbelieving, Fleming withdrew back across the quarterdeck.
Whatever round that was he and Lady Clara had just fought, he had the uneasy feeling he'd lost.
Fair and square.
* * * *
His tension eased as the morning progressed, although he remained wary of approaching her again. At four bells in the forenoon watch, Fleming led the mids through a lesson with the sextant, raising his voice to include Lady Clara in the lecture — he could hardly exclude her now — and her intense attention threatened to disrupt his equanimity again. But he was being silly. She searched for the man she loved, she had neither time nor consideration for Mrs. Fleming's little boy, and the sooner he forced that thought through his numbed skull, the sooner his world would return to normal.
And the sooner he'd get a good night's sleep, without pacing the quarterdeck half the night.
Despite Lady Clara's warning salvo, all seemed peaceful. Touch wood — and Fleming's hand gripped the nearest railing at the thought — but by jiggers, it seemed as if his plan might be working.
Peace reigned on the quarterdeck, where Lady Clara now curved like a swan over Staunton's journal at her little table. There was peace on the fo'c'sle, the hands carrying on with their work despite that most dreaded, female presence aboard, and there was even peace in Abbot's naturally stormy valley. Staunton's unabated smile proved the shine he'd taken to Lady Clara, the crew's steady busyness advertised no mutinous thoughts, and while Chandler turned up his nose whenever he came within her sphere, that was only to be expected. His elder midshipman and Lady Clara were close to the same age but worlds apart; Chandler could never approach her as a woman because of their class differences, she'd have no reason to notice him, and besides, Chandler wasn't the sweetest-tempered lad he'd ever met.
The only place peace wasn't paramount was in Fleming's own breast.
And he had no one to blame but himself.
Despite that, by jiggers—
"Watch under!"
The mizzenmast lookout's yell, that was, and a prickle of unease spiked through Fleming's complacency. Lady Clara glanced about, her eyes blank from distraction. Wiser heads around the quarterdeck snapped up, Staunton, Abbot, the wheelmen, the master behind them, and Fleming couldn't stop his own from joining. High overhead something long, narrow, and brightly glinting tumbled, flashed between the brilliant white sails, then balanced and fell toward Abbot as if aiming.
Metal. Not good, and his unease ripped past concern straight to alarm. But Abbot leapt backward, stumbled into Lady Clara's table, fell across it, grabbed and held on, and the dropped marlinspike sliced into the deckboard beside his silver-buckled shoe. The end quivered, like a nervous dog's tail, and sunlight glanced off the polished iron. The quarterdeck fell still, the breathless silence stretching for'ard and aloft. In the mizzentop, one cautious, wary eye appeared, peering over the spanker, followed by a full set, popping and aghast.
Abbot pushed himself up, purple-faced. The table rocked, leaned, then righted with a thud over Lady Clara's lap. She jerked back and grabbed the journal, pressing it to the tabletop before it could fall to the deck.
Fleming winced. Not good by any measurement.
"You ba—"
But before the shouted word was fully formed, Abbot glanced sideways at Lady Clara. Her eyes began opening and her jaw slackened. No glance spared for his captain, but Abbot's mouth changed shape like a contortionist in mid-word.
"—ad sailor!" The midway break was infinitesimal. Abbot grabbed the ratlines and ran up the shrouds like a monkey, muttering suspicious-sounding phrases. But none were sufficiently loud for the quarterdeck to overhear.
At the pinrail, Staunton whipped around, faced the sea, and writhed in place. Lady Clara yanked up the journal, as if reading fine print. But her torso and hands shook.
Well. Having a lovely young lady on deck cleaned up the ship in more ways than one.
And surely it was none of her fault that accidents happened around her, every time she turned around.
Chapter Thirteen
Ah, Sunday. No matter how earthly her entertainment of the previous evening — and after Diana had joined their little trio, some of those Plymouth entertainments had been earthly indeed — nevertheless, Sunday had always remained a day for prayer, worship, repentance, and meditation on her many trivial little sins. So when Clara read in Staunton's journal that sailors aboard His Majesty's warships were accustomed to rising a half hour earlier than normal on the Sabbath, to priddy themselves and the ship for some ritual known as "divisions," she not only heartily approved the practice, but determined to join it. Whatever it turned out to be.
Fixing her hair without assistance, unfortunately, wasn't something she did well. Fashioning those rebellious, baby-fine strands into a simple chignon and holding them in place while she rammed in every hairpin available required more than her usual dose of even Sunday patience and ate away every minute of her extra time. But when she examined the result in the little looking glass above the washbasin, the surge of satisfaction brought a pink glow to her cheeks. Classical and sober, and nothing that could cause the least blush of pride in herself or lust in anyone else. Perfect for Sunday.
Hopefully it would hold throughout the service. One thing about life at sea — everyone saw everyone else at their best, and worst.
She found the sennit hat Hennessy had woven for her — what clever men sailors were — fastened it carefully over the chignon, gathered her clerk's materials, and ran up the ladder to the quarterdeck just as the drummer began his roll.
Everyone, it seemed, had either been awaiting her arrival or the drum's signal. The red-coated Marines formed a perfect square on the poop deck with a stamp and clash of polished muskets. Below on the gangways, the sailors, all wearing white shirts and trousers, sorted themselves out by their duty positions, the forecastlemen standing proud from the foretopmen and the waisters and so on. Each division stood with their toes touching the line of a deck seam, embroidered seabags filled with something lumpy aligned before them.
Captain Fleming, Mr. Abbot, and the two midshipmen all wore broadcloth dress uniform coats and buckled knee breeches with white silk stockings. She tucked herself into position behind Captain Fleming as the midshipmen inspected the sailors. Chandler walked down the starboard line, Staunton down the one to port, every few steps stopping and speaking to one of the new hands, and then watching as the sailor rearranged his clothing or position in some way.
This divisions ritual was clearly more formal than the muster held on her first full day aboard, and everyone was taking special measures. Her heart lifted and seemed to swell within her. Yes, this was mete for Sunday: serious, high-minded, and elegant; everyone at their best indeed. She couldn't be more ready for a sermon and hopefully it would be an uplifting one.
"Ready, captain's clerk?" Captain Fleming didn't smile, which of course wouldn't be appropriate at such a time. But his eyes twinkled when he glanced over his shoulder. And he could do nothing about the smile lines engraved between his lips and cheeks.
"Aye, aye, captain." She had to fight her own inappropriate smile when his eyes flashed with mirth and his eyebrows swooped higher. Dratted man. When his eyes laughed at her in that manner, it was difficult not to like him.
Mr. Abbot stepped over and doffed
his scraper. "The midshipmen have reported, if you please, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. Abbot. We'll start with the Marines."
The Marine lieutenant, Pym, saluted the captain's approach, then Captain Fleming strode slowly between the lines of red-coated statues. She watched the pale blue eyes in his patrician face as he glanced over each leather stock, polished button, spotless facing, and blazing bright musket; then he'd nod once, as if satisfied, take half a step for'ard, and repeat the same elaborate procedure with the next Marine. None of them met his glance, not a muscle moved, the most excellent demonstration of Sunday composure she'd ever seen. It couldn't get better.
But in front of the first forecastleman he paused and she stopped behind him. "Well, Brearley, I see you're back with us for another cruise."
The middle-aged sailor whipped off his straw hat, revealing a startling white billiard-ball dome, and grinned. "Aye, cap'n." His hoarse voice rumbled in his throat. "Couldna let ye go ta sea w'out me."
Or at least that was what it sounded like.
"Well, well. Carry on." Captain Fleming took the half-step and stopped in front of Wake. "Good job with my clerk's uniform, Wake. Well done."
The old fo'c'sleman nodded as he removed his hat, dignity belied by his satisfied smile. "In course, captain. In course."
Another half-step. No detailed, piercing inspection for these sailors, but then, they were all at least in mid-life and must comprise an amazing lot of nautical experience between them. And they seemed to have a history with their captain. He called each by name, either gave them a casual greeting or said something to the point, and moved on. Well, they wore no formal uniforms, designed to impress, merely neat, clean white slops. But his eyes did glance over their shaved cheeks, their hair, if any, and their overall presentation, so the inspection wasn't entirely a sinecure.
In the next section, the more fashionable foretopmen with their be-ribboned trousers and neckerchiefs, he also thanked Mayne for his work on her sweet little sailor dress; otherwise he carried on as before. Not until they reached the third group, the waisters, did he fully stop.
This was in front of one of the new sailors, a slack-jawed young farmer who managed still, even here, to look as if he should be herding cows or harvesting something. Captain Fleming eyed the neat straw hat the ex-farmer crushed in his broad, rough hands, and glanced over the clean but somewhat askew white slops.
"What's your name?"
After a silent, awkward moment, an elbow whipped out, seemingly from nowhere, and poked the ex-farmer. He swallowed. "John Smith, sir."
"John Smith," Captain Fleming repeated. His expression sharpened and his gaze fastened on the man's wary face. "Where are you from, Smith?"
"Fredley, sir. Near Box Hill."
"And you're a farmer, Smith?"
The broad face wagged. "Lost my lease, I did, so I had to do somewhat else."
"Well, I'm sorry for it, Smith." Captain Fleming's voice was kind. "But it's good that you're here and you're young enough to learn a new trade. Carry on."
Another nod, another half-step, and the brief interview was over. Smith unfurled his crushed hat with slow deliberation, as if thinking over what they'd said, then crushed it again onto his head.
The little meeting added another layer to the inspection's pattern. In front of each new hand, Captain Fleming stopped and asked similar questions. And each time, he repeated the man's name with each question he posed, as if driving the name and face into his memory with the words.
There had been almost fifty new hands listed on the muster roll when she'd checked them off. He didn't think he'd remember them all, did he? But whether or no, she couldn't help but be impressed with the effort he made.
It slowed the pace of the inspection. As the morning sun rose higher, casting a spider web of shadows across the deck from the rigging, they wound their way past the gunners, the mainmast and mizzenmast hands, the standing officers, the master-at-arms and ship's boys, and finally the afterguard. And even then, they weren't quite done. At the captain's nod, the bosun stepped forward.
"On end clothes!" he bawled.
The sailors grabbed the waiting seabags and pulled out their contents, which proved to be their slops, some newly sewn and others well worn. Chandler and Staunton again walked down the lines, checking each hand's pile, before reporting to Mr. Abbot, who turned and removed his hat to the captain.
"All in order, sir."
"Very creditable, Mr. Abbot." Captain Fleming poised atop the for'ard ladder. "I think we're going to have a trim fighting ship." He started down the ladder. "Come along, captain's clerk. We must inspect below decks."
As soon as her head vanished below the ladder's frame, voices broke out in gossipy murmuring above. The cool air suddenly felt too warm. At least the crew had enough courtesy to wait for her to leave before they began discussing her; the timing could mean nothing else. Deep breaths settled her. Gossiping on a Sunday, no less. They should be ashamed, not her.
More footsteps followed them down two flights, and at the foot Mr. Abbot stepped up beside her. They trailed Captain Fleming across the berth deck's dim, low cavern to a cabin in the for'ard-most wedge of the bows. Mr. Abbot pulled the curtain over the doorway aside and ushered them in.
Hammocks were slung in two clumps, a larger group of a dozen clustered around the door's ventilation and another of four in a back corner. The ship's surgeon stood between them, wearing a rusty-black frock coat and sober grey breeches, the hair on the right side of his head combed over the top of his shining pate until it met that on the left. "Captain, Mr. Abbot," he nodded to each, looked at her, and stumbled over his tongue. "Mi— I mean, captain's clerk."
She couldn't help it; she reddened again.
"Good morning, Dr. Eckhart." As if he'd heard nothing provoking, Captain Fleming bestowed another nod and glanced about the sickbay, stopping almost immediately at the first hammock inside the door. "Ah."
Clara eased closer and started. The hammock held a motionless man, his shocking green face providing an unholy contrast to his ash-colored hair. His deeply sunken eyes, high forehead, and somewhat large nose gave him the look of an absent-minded, interesting intellectual, should he ever recover from whatever dangerous malady had seized him. But as he neither moved nor seemed to breathe, poor man, no recovery seemed likely.
"Lady Clara," the captain drawled, in his first hint of Sunday-inappropriate levity, "meet our second lieutenant, Mr. Rosslyn."
She blinked. That half-dead lump of humanity was conscious?
It seemed so. Mr. Rosslyn's lips curved up at the ends. If it was meant to be a smile, though, it managed instead to look even more like a death mask.
She had to force herself to reply. "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure."
The attempted smile faded within a moment, and all traces of life vanished once again.
As Captain Fleming moved to the next hammock, she edged toward Mr. Abbot, standing nearby with his hands clasped behind his back. She whispered, "Is he dead?"
"No," the first lieutenant whispered back. "He just wishes he was." His smile was thin, sadistic, and entirely inappropriate for Sunday or any other civilized day. "Mr. Rosslyn is always seasick our first week out."
Seasick? A professional sailor, and an officer to boot? Astonishing. She hadn't even considered such a possibility and hadn't felt a single qualm herself. How could anyone be seasick with Topaze's gentle motion? It was as soothing as a rocking chair.
But now she'd surely seen Mr. Rosslyn at his worst. And she had to yank her horrified fascination away from contemplating his greenness.
Perhaps her Sunday wasn't going to be as uplifting as she'd hoped.
The captain had reached the four hammocks slung in the sickbay's corner, and any levity left his expression. He straightened until his hair brushed against the rafters. "Taylor, Swift, Dendridge, Biddle. Here you are. Again." His words thudded into the quiet, weighted with heavy dissatisfaction.
The four looked at their toes
, the ceiling, the doctor — anywhere except at him. One glanced across, met her gaze, and looked sharply away.
As if he'd seen something indecent.
"If someone had told me," Captain Fleming continued, "that four experienced, sober crewmen such as yourselves would have behaved in such a manner, I'd never have believed it. Not after what happened last time. And yet. Here you are. Again."
By now, all four had turned a mortified shade of brick. Another glanced at her but only for a second. The first one muttered something in a voice that didn't reach across the sickbay.
"Well, if you believed that," the captain said in the same stern voice, "then you aren't the experienced, sober crewman I thought you."
The first lieutenant wasn't her first choice as a source of information, but Staunton wasn't there and she had to know. In the quietest whisper she could manage, Clara asked Mr. Abbot, "What's wrong with those men? I can see no bandages nor signs of illness."
Mr. Abbot cleared his throat. Were his ears turning pink? Impossible.
"They have a French disease, Lady Clara."
Which left her no wiser. What on earth was a French disease?
* * * *
Whatever possessed him to take her into the infirmary, where she'd see the ingenious sailors who'd managed somehow to sneak ashore in Plymouth and contract syphilis — whatever had possessed him, Fleming couldn't imagine. Hopefully she'd no clue what it meant. Her expression seemed bewildered, but Abbot's flush told its own story. He should feel badly about subjecting his first officer to such a trial; Abbot was lost around the so-called gentler sex; but Fleming felt nothing but relief.
Someone else got to answer her questions. Excellent.
But as they emerged from the infirmary back into the berth deck, Fleming realized where they were and what loomed ahead of them. A chill seeped through him, not terror nor even fear, but a cold-sweat dread. He knew what was coming, it was going to be a disaster, and he was helpless to prevent it.
A Different Sort of Perfect Page 10