A Different Sort of Perfect

by Vivian Roycroft

  "Oh, it's just a tradition the common sailors sometimes employ. But I'm afraid we won't have time for it this voyage. Lady Clara, please excuse me. I must confer with Mr. Abbot."

  Her gaze, again languid, lifted to his, and one distracting wrinkle appeared between her eyes. "Of course, Captain."

  He ran — and knew it for a run, for an escape — and ran Abbot to earth in the fo'c'sle, watching as the hands painted the bow chasers with flat brown paint. "Mr. Abbot—"

  His first lieutenant reached up for a hat that he wasn't wearing, rolled his eyes, and let his hand drop. "Aye, sir."

  "—I'm sorry to disappoint the hands, but I'm afraid this voyage we won't have time for the usual ritual of crossing the Line. King Neptune will just have to tolerate our polliwogs in his territory without their first paying his penalty."

  Abbot actually heaved a huge sigh. As if his captain should have made that simple decision sometime last week, at the latest. As if he hadn't been absolutely certain that his captain would remember it in time at all. As if there had actually been a possibility that he'd have allowed some of his hands to dress up in women's finery, parade around the deck, and tell lewd jokes with Lady Clara aboard. As if—

  "Aye, aye, sir. And thank you."

  Someone sniggered. Someone had the nerve.

  Abbot whirled on the painting work party. "You there, Wake! Look alive, man. You think I wouldn't let the cat out of the bag for an old hand, well, you can think again—"

  Fleming escaped. Again.

  Even in tropical-weight clothing, standing on the quarterdeck in the blistering sun was torture. He said nothing when the watch officer and midshipman, Rosslyn and Staunton, gravitated beneath Lady Clara's awning. When the watch changed, when Abbot and Chandler took over, he said nothing when they both finally did the same.

  Even though it had seemed for a while there as if Abbot might have preferred to roast.

  He said nothing. But he didn't join them. He watched her glance at his officers, her eyes sometimes thoughtful and sometimes glazed, but never quite focused. And he wondered if he could trust himself, if she looked at him with that dark, soft, languid air again.

  For three more interminable, broiling afternoons he managed to hold out, finding scraps of shade from the sails and trailing them across the quarterdeck until they vanished over the side, leaving him defenseless against the sinking sun's glare. But one month out of Plymouth, he celebrated by giving in. He joined her beneath her awning.

  Fleming lasted less than an hour.

  The afternoon was hotter than the one before. She'd been her disgustingly chipper self in the morning, but as the day progressed Lady Clara seemed to collapse in on herself and sat baking with her head thrown back, her arms on the rests and her shoulders sagging into the chair's support. Her hair tumbled free from its silly topknot, slowly unraveling until it hung like a soft, flaxen sheet of damp silk, drooping bare inches above the deck. Sweat plastered her sailor dress to her like a second skin. The half-sitting, half-reclining angle emphasized her long, slender neck and drew his unwilling attention to — some of her other charms, he'd say.

  All those soft curves and graceful lines.

  He couldn't stop looking at her.

  And if he felt her gaze like a teasing quill, how did she feel his?

  His disobedient hand, against his direst decree, reached toward that silken, feminine sheet of hair, hesitated an inch away. She might feel it if he caressed those inviting strands. She'd then know he couldn't be trusted. That he wasn't a gentleman, not at heart.

  And it seemed more important than anything else that she continue to trust him.

  In the end, he didn't dare. He let his hand fall back to his side and he went below, where the sail-maker was turning out the sail room on the orlop deck, examining their spare canvas for the first hint of mold. It seemed a good time for a snap inspection.

  Nevertheless, the quarterdeck awaited his evening. And night. Possibly for the rest of the cruise.

  That day he ceased thinking of her as a spoiled debutante or silly chit. Problem was, he'd no clue what assessment he should insert in their place.

  * * * *

  It was hot. Too hot to work. Too hot to think. To breathe.

  It was certainly too hot to languish in the furnace below decks. Clara sat beneath her awning, sharing it with whoever came to call; she didn't have the energy to turn away a highwayman, much less a quiet officer or mid on slippered feet. Pounding heat poured over her, bathed her in sweat, in itself. It leached the willingness to move from her, leached out all her tension and worries, and left her empty, a steaming vessel waiting to be filled.

  Perhaps some people would call Captain Fleming handsome, with his polite, earnest eyes, patrician nose, grooved smile lines sculpting his tanned cheeks. Those gull-winged eyebrows, with their sharp fold in the middle and flaring ends, gave him a distinguished appearance, certainly. When he worked — and he was amazingly durable, he worked even in this heat — sweat plastered his cunning frilled shirt to his chest and back, so that it flexed when he moved. The material was thinner than anything she'd seen a man wear before and the view bypassed immodest for indecent.

  To her secret shame and even secreter enjoyment, she hadn't let that stop her. Diana's influence must finally have taken hold, leading to her new appreciation for male bodies. Well, something had to have caused it.

  Mr. Abbot wasn't as tall. His shoulders were broader, and the muscles in his arms pressed harder against the material of his shirt sleeves when he'd hauled on a rope in the ship's waist. If he wasn't careful, he could rip through the soft cambric of his frilled shirt. He worked on in the heat, as well, continuing his patient teaching of the landmen. He'd gone aloft to impart some lesson to the reefers, and he'd directed a repainting of the bronze cannons and anything that didn't move on the deck. If she wasn't careful, he'd have a team painting her soon. But it was too hot to bother fighting them off.

  It was too hot even to maintain dignity. But it wasn't too hot to consider men. Diana would have been proud of her.

  Something had made her horribly bold, amazingly shameless and immodest. The sea air, perhaps, or some unusual ingredient in Captain Fleming's well-stocked table, or something that had been imparted to the fresh water by its storage in the cask. More likely it was being surrounded only by men or doing a man's job that was making her so unfeminine. Aunt Helen wouldn't be proud at all, and Harmony's round face would form a perfect O from her dropped chin, if either of them ever learned of her brashness aboard.

  Or perhaps it was a deeper appreciation of the closeness of life and death, with nothing between her and the hungry sea, and ultimately her Maker, except the frigate's fragile hull.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Steel clanged, clashed, scraped together, rang like a bell. Beneath her awning, Clara sighed over Staunton's journal. Here they come again.

  Morning sunlight splashed across the freshly scrubbed quarterdeck, crisscrossed with black ghostly rigging lines and already dotted with pitch melted from the yards. She peered between the stern-most starboard six pounder and the wheel, still manned despite its current uselessness. Within moments, a small shadow backed into that walkway, at first only the head, and it stayed there, swaying and jerking, as the clashing rose in pitch. A ringing clang, a shuffle, and Staunton danced backward into full view, blocking again and again, high, low, high once more. Then Chandler's greater reach told and Staunton gave more ground.

  Ending with his back bumping her table.

  As they'd done every single time before.

  "Enough, Mr. Chandler." Mr. Abbot stepped between them. Both cutlasses lowered. "Can't fault your footwork, Mr. Staunton. It's just the length of your arm's letting you down. And it's wise of you, Mr. Chandler, to play so to your strengths and his weaknesses. Being a gentleman of course has its place—" glancing sidelong at her "—but during a fight to the death with the King's enemies is not one of them."

  Sweat dripped from both mids and
plastered their checked shirts to their scrawny forms, their disheveled hair to their foreheads and ears. They glared at each other across the quarterdeck, Staunton contained but with glittering eyes, Chandler flushed and panting like something wild and cornered, as if he was the one who'd been forced to back up half the ship's length.

  Five times.

  Perhaps now Mr. Abbot would put a stop to the unequal contest. But she wouldn't say anything, no matter how distressed she became. If she had to fight her own battles, well, Staunton surely knew he had to do the same.

  Even if it wasn't right nor fair.

  "Once more, gentlemen." His face expressionless, Mr. Abbot turned and strode back the way they'd come.

  Clara sighed, as quietly as she could. What on earth did the first lieutenant expect, when a thirteen-year-old boy was faced with one of eighteen, almost a grown man? Some sort of miracle?

  The clumping footsteps diminished and Mr. Abbot vanished behind the mizzenmast.

  Chandler shoved Staunton's shoulder. "You can do better. Now fight, blast you." He stomped off after Mr. Abbot. Staunton, face darkening, followed, his free hand clenched.

  She would hold her tongue. No matter how much she yearned to give Chandler another piece of her mind and temper. No matter how fiercely protective she'd become of the younger midshipman. Besides, when Chandler pushed Staunton during their training sessions, he was driving the lad to improve his skills, and that could only be a good thing, could it not?

  She'd continue to tell herself that.

  A quick lift and slide of her chair, and Clara peered between the six pounder and wheel, all the way to the quarterdeck railing. Halfway along, beside the stern ladder and skylight, the two mids crossed their stubby, blunted cutlasses again.

  Chandler lifted his head. His gaze meshed with hers. A flush started at his collar, brilliant red in the brassy morning sunlight.

  He knew she was watching them.

  And he became self-conscious and clumsy when watched.

  Oh, dear.

  The flush mounted, rising higher in a scarlet tidal wave until it collided with his dark sandy hair. His lips thinned, his face tautened as if yanked back by the ears, and some emotion between desperation and determination hardened his face until he seemed as brittle as crystal. With an obvious effort, he yanked his attention back to Staunton as Mr. Abbot's hand dropped.

  Again steel clashed and clanged. But this time was different. Chandler's swings were stiff and choppy, and they didn't knock Staunton's blade aside as easily nor as often. His blocks lagged his opponent's attacks, and instead of holding firm against the other blade, Chandler's cutlass quivered when struck. He didn't look away from their duel again. Nor did his flush fade.

  It was Staunton's turn. He pressed Chandler back along the quarterdeck toward the railing, step by awful, embattled step. Near the capstan, Chandler faltered and thrust out his cutlass with a sudden flash of desperate venom. Staunton twirled his blade about the other, guiding it aside, and in the same motion swung down and in. The blunted edge slammed against Chandler's unprotected thigh, inches above the knee.

  Perhaps Staunton had never before connected, or perhaps there were rules to the game that she didn't understand. Whatever the reason, he stepped back rather than press his new-found advantage, his cutlass lowering toward the deck. Chandler leaned over, one hand pressed to his sweat-soaked trouser leg.

  Where a thin line of red blossomed.

  If she hadn't distracted him with her inconsiderate attention — but he'd hate it, and her even more, if she fawned over him. If she vanished below, he'd think she despised him.

  Nothing else for it. Clara bent over the journal and pretended to read, eyes moving over the flowing script. At the page's end, she turned the leaf. She had no idea what the words attempted to tell her.

  "An excellent exercise, gentlemen," Mr. Abbot said. "Mr. Chandler, stop by the infirmary and get that seen to. Mr. Staunton, put these away and resume your duties. Carry on." A now-gentle clatter, fading footsteps, and the three were gone.

  Within the minute, Staunton bounded up the ladder. "Did you see that, Lady Clara? Did you see me rap Chandler a good one?

  With all her heart, she longed to tell Staunton Well done. But he'd already had the incredible satisfaction of besting his long-time rival, in a rivalry he'd never sought. And whatever she said, it was only a matter of time before it filtered through to Chandler's ears.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Staunton. I'm afraid I missed it. Was it a telling blow?"

  His face twisted. But before the grimace was complete, he grinned. "Well, no, it would not have determined the fight's outcome. But it felt awful good, smacking that — young gentleman about a bit. And it would have made a difference in a real fight with real blades, indeed it would."

  "I congratulate you, Mr. Staunton. I'm no judge of swordplay, but both of you showed yourselves a credit to the ship. And tell me, since I missed it, did Chandler take the disappointment well?"

  Staunton's grin broadened until it lit his entire face. "Like a gentleman, Lady Clara. Of course. He's an awkward lout. But he's our awkward lout."

  That was the best message she could hope to send through the ship's grapevine to Chandler. It was true that he had asked for the treatment he received. But only if she and Staunton made the first rapprochement would this silly feud ever die.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The heat beat down upon Clara, as if she were trapped within an invisible drum of throbbing pressure. Silence held the ocean in check, as it had for the three interminable days since the mids' lesson with Mr. Abbot.

  The Atlantic swell rolled Topaze beneath her in a regular, recurring disturbance, drifting with her thoughts. First her feet rose as her thrown-back head lowered even further; then her body rocked, feet dropping and head rising, as the swell rippled below; and then everything righted and paused, waiting for the next line to pass. Comforting like a rocking chair, relaxing like a hot, summertime Bath season. Granted, right now she'd opt for a cool one instead.

  Something flapped and snapped. Topaze eased forward. It broke the mesmerizing rhythm. Clara opened her eyes, blinking and squinting in the merciless glare. Overhead, the main royal swayed on its lofty perch, more than it might merely from the ship's rolling. Wake had said, several days ago, that they'd feel the wind's return in the highest sails first; the main royal was the highest sail Topaze carried.

  She waited, staring up at the mainmast, as Topaze slowed and resumed rolling. A full suit of sails had been spread for a week now, canvas laundry hung out to dry, and she peered between the mizzen t'gallant and mizzen t'gallant stays'l at the royal's tiny scrap. It swayed again, not as much, and the first stab of disappointment tightened her chest.

  Then the royal filled, bellied out, and beneath it the main t'gallant flapped, echoed by the fores'ls. Topaze's whisper to the ocean rose to a mutter, then to a song as sail after sail filled, and the frigate leaned from the building wind until her deck sloped like a cottage roof. On the fo'castle, a handful of sailors laughed and jigged, slapping each other's backs and shoulders, pushing and playing as grown men did when delighted. Then David Mayne pointed ahead and they all turned, she with them. Clouds blocked their path, building and darkening; they had caught the first breath of the southeast trades below the equator, they were truly through the doldrums and in the Southern Hemisphere.

  And perhaps she had time to pin up her shameless hair before anyone grew sufficiently cool to notice.

  But before she'd scrabbled up half her hairpins, Captain Fleming bounded up the ladder to the quarterdeck, laughing with triumph. Thankfully his head was turned, watching as Mr. Abbot directed the crew through adjusting the sails. The wind reached the deck and swept her hair from her restraining hands, whipping the tail across her face and then blowing it aside when she turned into its blast. Oh, it was like waking up after a long, draining illness, like coming back to life with a magical jolt, and where on earth were the rest of her hairpins?

  She
twisted her hair into a quick knot and jammed in every pin she could find, twisting her head back and forth as the wind backed and veered. Finally her mop was all decently contained.

  "Me lady?"

  She turned. "Mr. Wake, how delightful to see you." As if she hadn't seen him every day since the voyage's beginning. As if he hadn't seen her moments ago, too baked to breathe. Well, she could be forgiven for being startled, under such circumstances.

  He touched his gnarled fingers to his forehead. "Me lady, it's been a long, hot, nasty week, it has indeed. Now, if you'd like to cool off proper like, you come on wi' old Wake and he'll take care of you."

  Tempting offer — far too tempting to resist. She grabbed his offered hand and followed him along the sloping, rocking weather-side gangway. Past the hatch and rigging. Dodging through the crowd of jostling sailors. David Mayne turned, touching his forelock with an awkward, lopsided smile; Brearley also saluted her. All of them pulled aside to let her pass, once they'd seen her.

  Into the foremost beak of the ship, and Wake's hands on her shoulders guided her between the nine-pounder starboard bow chaser and the pinrail. The bowsprit with its curved line of jibs and stays'ls stretched ahead, swooping and jostling as it pointed along their pathway, and directly below their perch danced the cat-head, its carved face leering at the rising Atlantic swell.

  Within seconds, Topaze lifted her shoulder into the first true wave. The deck tilted further and rose slanting beneath her. Clara grabbed the pinrail between the belaying pins and held on. Up and up rose the railing, until she faced into the southwestern sky, then the frigate fell over the wave's top and crashed down the other side into the trough. Water broke below the cat-head, splashing her and the entire bow with delightful spray.

  The droplets, cooler than the air, soaked through her sweat-drenched and sadly drooping sailor dress to her waiting skin. She gasped, then squealed — she really couldn't help it — as it dripped into the sweltering, secret nooks of her body.