A Different Sort of Perfect

by Vivian Roycroft

  The bald fo'c'sleman finished flemishing down the line in his hands. "Aye, Mr. Staunton."

  "Well, we'd better work them while we can. Call the ones we've been having to push into place and let's teach them their jobs proper now."

  "Aye, aye, Mr. Staunton." Brearley rolled away for'ard.

  A challenge accepted, a dig returned, some petty revenge thwarted.

  One lout deserving another.

  Clara couldn't have been more proud of him. She settled her crochet in her lap and closed her eyes. The wind swept her along with the frigate, stirring the loose hair around her face, and she gloried in the warmth.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lady Clara had shown herself the mistress of all sorts of social situations for closing in on a month now. So precisely why Fleming felt increasingly disturbed, as their entertainment with the wardroom approached, was difficult for him to pin down.

  The moon, a day past its prime, washed the Atlantic rollers and the deck to a brilliant silver sheen, until it felt as if he waded rather than paced through its suds. Rigging cut spider webs into the boards, and dark spaces beneath the cannons, not distinct enough to be called shadows, nevertheless wavered as the frigate heeled to the swell.

  It certainly wasn't Abbot who gave Fleming pause. His first lieutenant wasn't the most sociable of men, but he made a gracious wardroom host and could be depended upon to foster a convivial dining room atmosphere. Besides, while Abbot's occasional sideways glance made it clear he thought the plan underway was lacking a few details, mainly sanity, he'd never go against his captain and his support if not active assistance was a given.

  Nineteen steps for'ard, through the moonlight and into the mainmast shrouds, ducking his chin rather than let the rigging snatch off his scraper. Nineteen steps astern.

  Nor was Staunton a concern. The little mid had become good friends with Lady Clara and sometimes their young giggles, radiating from the quarterdeck, spread smiles for'ard and aloft, at least amongst the older, settled Topazes.

  Those experienced hands, the heart of his crew, were proving to be remarkably tolerant of her presence aboard ship, and sometimes even indulgent. The only hands who now looked askance at her were the sea lawyers and awkward coves he'd inherited from the Plymouth port admiral during the refit, and not even the most clumsy landmen paid much attention to them any more. Her position aboard seemed secure and by this time, almost normal.

  Water splashed against the ship's side, rippled from the stern, boiled behind. The wake stretched fifteen miles to the horizon, and almost three thousand five hundred miles back to Plymouth.

  Despite his weak stomach, Lieutenant Rosslyn was far too urbane to create a scene and too intellectual to carry any discussion into the emotional entanglement of discord. And the Marine Lieutenant Pym, while dashing in his scarlet coat and keen as a foxhound for blood, confined his assaults to the battlefield, never bringing them to table.

  And that only left Chandler, which was ridiculous. Fleming knew the lad, had watched him grow from a rebellious child to a rebellious teenager back home, until his poor beleaguered parents had begged him to take their child to sea. On the previous cruise, he'd shown Chandler how to channel his energy and excruciating drive to succeed into becoming a good, fit officer. While Chandler wasn't a phoenix nor the most natural of seamen, he was too deeply inured now into the role of a don't-attract-negative-attention midshipman to cause trouble during an entertainment with the captain.

  Besides, surely Chandler knew that if he did, Abbot would have his hide for the embarrassment. There were rules to follow whenever the first lieutenant and ship's officers invited the captain into the wardroom for a meal, just as there were rules when the captain hosted any of his officers in the great cabin. Both were special occasions, formal ones that required everyone's best behavior and most pleasant smiles. If such complaisance couldn't be achieved, the captain needed to stay out of the wardroom, his officers' retreat and the only place they could be away from his august presence.

  After all, he could correct an errant officer in the great cabin. Not even the first lieutenant could correct the captain, not even in the wardroom.

  Nineteen steps astern. Pause, brush the taffrail, and turn. Past the six pounder, the wheel and quartermaster, the binnacle, the hatchway, the skylight, the capstan, the other six pounder. Into the mainmast shrouds. Turn. It was a wonder his footprints weren't worn into the deck.

  Unless Lady Clara herself was the mental itch disturbing his rest. But no. That was ridiculous.

  Utterly ridiculous.

  Of course.

  He couldn't wait for this blessed entertainment to be done.

  * * * *

  Planning her toilette for a dinner engagement had never been easier. Nor less thrilling. Despite freshwater soaking and lemon juice, the ink stains hadn't entirely come out of her grey sarsnet walking dress, which wasn't suitable for a formal dinner, in any case. That left her with the cute little watchet blue sailor dress Wake and Mayne had stitched up for her. It wasn't particularly stylish, but it would at least blend in with the officers' and midshipmen's uniforms.

  Clara eyed herself in the little looking glass and sighed. Discouraging. Her appearance seemed so… ordinary. Everyday. If she did something with her hair… but a Sunday chignon would be too severe and she was hopeless at curling. She could pin it up and leave the tail down to brush her collar, but without ribbons, it would look so very plain. Why couldn't she steal Harmony's thick, naturally curly hair, even if only for a day? A few hours?

  Come to think of it, she still hadn't gotten the white gown Wake had promised to sew for her. Perhaps she should ask. Or would that seem demanding? Yes, it felt so. Wake and Mayne had many other, more pressing duties besides serving as her own personal mantua-maker. She'd have to be patient, whether she enjoyed it or no.

  A knock sounded. She turned. "Yes?"

  The door cracked open and Hennessy peered around its barrier. His eyes danced with more than his usual good humor, as if he'd just heard a very good joke. "My lady, Wake's here to see you. Brought you somewhat, he has."

  The gnarled fo'c'sleman stopped in the doorway, smiling like a Dutch uncle, and knuckled his forehead with his free hand. His left held a folded bundle of indigo, white — and rose pink.

  Her pulse quickened, dancing in her ears. "Mr. Wake, how are you this evening?"

  She would be gracious and go through the rituals of polite conversation. She would.

  No matter what it cost her in anticipatory tenterhooks.

  Wake nodded and smiled, but unlike Hennessy, he didn't enter her private cabin. "Thank you, me lady, we'ems all in excellent health afore the mast. Well, old Brearley's got a bit of a cough, but nothing to worry about, that. He's always had it, see. And you? I hope you're blooming?"

  Her grin had started with his first sentence, faded with the beginning of his second, and renewed its advance as he brought his rambling to completion. There was a childlike contentment beneath Wake's garrulous sharpness that bespoke a kind and generous nature. She found it impossible not to like him, no matter how rough his manner, words, and clothing.

  "Blooming indeed, Mr. Wake. I believe the sea air must be a universal tonic for a lady's appetite and complexion, and I intend to recommend all my friends spend as much time aboard one of His Majesty's warships as they can connive."

  He nodded again, wrinkles deepening around his eyes. Instead of entering the cabin, he handed his bundle to Hennessy. "Word at the scuttlebutt is," he said, lowering his voice to a murmur, "you and the captain are dining with the wardroom tonight. Mayne and I, we thought you might need something a smidgen more formal than that there everyday gown, so we snatched some time from our other duties and stitched this'n for you."

  Hennessy handed it to her, and she couldn't stop a squeal as she shook it out. This was no mock uniform; this was proper evening attire, a round gown of the indigo linen, cut more full in the skirt and with insets of white to flare into a demi-train behind
as she walked. Some tailoring genius had sewn distracting little rose-colored ribbons into flower-shaped patterns across the bodice, into the hem, and at the little puff sleeves' points. He'd even brought extra ribbons, doubtless for her hair.

  "Oh, it's wonderful! Mr. Wake, this is utterly delightful and— and—" But words couldn't do her emotions justice. Clara ran her fingers over the carefully-sewn ribbons. "It's perfect."

  Wake beamed. "Enjoy your evening, me lady." He touched his forehead and left, his stride suspiciously like a swagger.

  She called her thanks to his retreating back before Hennessy followed, still grinning and closing the door behind them.

  Drat, she'd had Wake right in front of her. It would have been the perfect time to ask about the white dress, the subject had already been raised so it would not have been pushy — and she'd muffed it. Sweet as this evening gown was, the little dribs and drabs of white with which he and Mayne had decorated it could not possibly have used all the cloth the captain had assigned to her. Oh, well, at some point she'd ask him, and then she'd know.

  Clara slipped off her sailor dress and pulled on the new gown, twisting her arms back between her shoulder blades to fasten and pin it into place. The sleeves settled off her shoulders and she pushed those of her short stays down to match; with luck they'd stay there, discreetly out of sight. Otherwise she'd be reduced to resettling them every few minutes and that was hardly something she wished to do at a table full of men.

  Delight soared through her like fireworks. Feeling breathless, perhaps from the surprisingly tight bodice, she stepped into the lantern's circle and turned to the looking glass.

  Oh, dear.

  Oh, dear.

  Her nimble-fingered personal mantua-makers had finally erred.

  Some trick of the sewing, some stiffening or lining pressing against her ribcage, pushed her — her bosom up toward her breastbone. The neckline wasn't gathered, but instead folded into a neat V-shape that plunged far more deeply than any she'd ever worn before. The combination was shocking to her — never mind the wardroom.

  She looked like— like a—

  Like a lady of lubricity, to quote those naughty berth-deck parrots.

  A fichu — she needed a fichu or some other sort of scarf to fill in that immodest, wide-open space. Tearing a length off her sailor dress or grey sarsnet was not an option, no matter what. Those were her only dresses, and even if she had Wake and Mayne adjust this evening gown, it wasn't suitable for day wear. It would do her no good to destroy or damage one of the other gowns to salvage this one.

  "Lady Clara?" Captain Fleming's voice, outside the gun deck door. "Being late is considered an insult to the wardroom."

  Blast.

  Blast, blast, blast! No time to find a solution; insulting Mr. Abbot was even less of an option. She'd just have to brazen it out. "One more moment." She combed her hair, entwined one of the spare ribbons into it, twisted the tail around itself until it folded in half, positioned the twist on the crown of her head, and rammed in hairpins. It nestled discreetly against her head; the tail and ribbons flowed over her shoulder and brushed her bare neck. Not fashionable, but rather charming. And considering everything else, surely no one was going to be looking at her hair, in any case.

  The other ribbon she tied around her neck in a small bow. Again, not wonderful, but a necklace of sorts. The ribbon's chevroned ends lay atop her bosom's curves, swelling from below. Perhaps she should turn the necklace around and put the bow in the back? No, then it might tangle with her hair ribbon.

  It was the best she could do. She was done.

  And Heaven have mercy on her soul.

  Captain Fleming awaited her beneath the skylight, between the aft ladder and capstan, wearing an impressive formal uniform. Afternoon sunlight glittered off two lines of shining buttons curving down his chest and from crisp gold trim that ran along both lapels, in complicated swirls around his cuffs, and in a double row along the raised collar. Pristine white breeches, almost as brilliant, hugged his thighs, and the stockings — surely silk — showed strong, rounded calves, more like those of a man who walked all day instead of a fairly sedentary ship's captain. He seemed taller, somehow, or perhaps stronger — but that wasn't quite right, either—

  Such jumbled thoughts cluttered her head that she paused outside her cabin's gun deck door; she really should sort herself out before beginning a formal evening's entertainment. But before she could gather her wits, Captain Fleming rocked back on his heels. His eyes widened and his gaze fixed—

  —right where she'd prophesied.

  Which wasn't going to help.

  Her face flared with warmth, but the heat quickly shifted lower, flowing down her torso as if drawn by his attention, then sinking even more deeply within her until it ignited. A little flame bloomed inside her center and it heated her from the inside out, along her arms and legs and up into her neck again, and following closely on the racing flame's heels was a calm, floating euphoria such as she'd never known before. Such an odd sensation, so strong and confident, as if she held power over this man that she'd never suspected. And that was odd indeed, because Phillippe was the only man who could equal Captain Fleming's natural, blazing authority, and she couldn't possibly hold power over either.

  Satisfied. That was the feeling. She drew satisfaction from his widened eyes, by his gaze tracing in the most delightful manner down her bodice.

  By his male appreciation.

  It was far better than any empty compliment.

  This had to be the female allure Diana had tried to describe, so many times but always to no avail. And it was the most amazing sensation she'd ever experienced.

  Of course, that should be Phillippe standing there running a bold and wandering eye over her charms, as perhaps they must be called. Not Captain Fleming. But even despite that flaw, she could consider the evening a success already.

  Captain Fleming lifted his gaze to hers, blinked, and seemed to awaken from some absorbing thought. A touch of color invaded his tanned cheeks, and he bowed. "Lady Clara. I see Wake found you."

  That sense of control strengthened and glowed within her belly. "Indeed he did." She curtseyed.

  His eyes followed her down and back up. Then he cleared his throat and offered his arm. "Well, we mustn't keep the wardroom waiting."

  Content at all levels, she took his arm and allowed him to escort her to the aft ladder. "Good evening, Morrow," she said in passing to the Marine sentry outside the captain's cabin. While of course Morrow didn't answer, standing at perfect attention with his musket gripped before him, the pleased flicker behind his eyes said all that was necessary.

  It was going to be a wonderful evening.

  * * * *

  A sheet of thick canvas hung from the rafters, forming a barrier between the berth deck and the wardroom, and behind its protection the entertainment flourished. Topaze's officers had outdone themselves. The opening Sillery had been gentle and crisp; the table blazed with silver, crystal, pewter plates, and snowy linen; and cleanly-dressed sailors stood behind the chairs, serving as footmen for the meal.

  They'd opened with consommé, Mr. Abbot ladling it from the serving bowl at the table's head, and he'd opened the conversation by asking her how she was enjoying her cruise, an inspired subject, surely. She'd stumbled over herself trying to do justice to the ship's beauty and the crew's kindness, reducing the Marine Lieutenant Pym and Dr. Eckhart to beaming smiles. Only Lieutenant Rosslyn, who'd flushed at her entrance and thereafter never raised his glance from his plate, and Chandler, whose scowl didn't alter, refused to respond to her paean.

  By the time they reached the garnet-red Burgundy and succulent leg of mutton, Captain Fleming's tense shoulders had relaxed beneath their epaulettes. Difficult to say whether she should feel insulted by his edginess; surely he'd not suspected her of a lack of conviviality?

  "The decanter stands by you, Mr. Rosslyn." Mr. Abbot motioned to the sailor behind his chair — a foretopman from the starboard wat
ch — and the footman began clearing away the dinner plates. The others followed suit, Mayne hauling away the mutton's remains, and as they worked Lieutenant Rosslyn topped up his wineglass and passed the decanter along. They'd all had several glasses with the meal; she'd do best by letting it pass her by this round.

  "So you believe reading a midshipman's journal has helped you adapt to the naval life?" Lieutenant Pym only filled his glass half full before handing the decanter off to Chandler. "Not to cast aspersions on the navy's method of training young officers, but I can't say I've ever heard of the journals helping anyone before."

  "Perhaps some of the credit should go to the midshipman in question." Clara smiled at Mayne as he slid her plate from the table and brushed crumbs from the cloth before her, capable as any liveried footman. "Mr. Staunton has a remarkably scholarly writing style, better than many published books from experts that I've read."

  Chandler ducked his chin, then drank a long draught of the Burgundy. Drat her choice of answer; she shouldn't have complimented Staunton without having something nice to say for Chandler, as well, and she'd never seen his journal. Fanning their mutual resentment wasn't a safe course.

  Mr. Abbot filled his glass to the brim. Astonishing man, he seemed to have a bottomless capacity for wine, perhaps not the best example for the two boys. "Mr. Staunton, would you care to weigh in on Lady Clara's assessment?"

  But Staunton shook his head and let the decanter pass him by, too. "I wouldn't dare."

  In the general laughter, Clara hid her relieved sigh with a sip of wine. Perhaps it would blow over without incident. But no, Chandler didn't join the mirth. She'd have to keep a close eye on the midshipmen's relationship in the next few days. Vexatious, but they were approaching dessert, and that might cheer him up.