Regency Debutantes

by Margaret McPhee

  ‘Oi, dopey!’ The rough-edged voice sounded across the deck. ‘Have you got cabbage for brains or what?’ The fat gunner’s mate delivered a hefty slap to Georgiana’s ear. ‘Get this bloody place cleaned up before Mr Pensenby arrives. If he sees it in this state, you’ll be on reduced rations again. Now get a bloody move on.’

  In the two weeks that had passed since the Pallas’ departure from Portsmouth harbour, Georgiana had managed to avoid the worst of trouble and had retained her disguise. All trace of seasickness had vanished thanks to her daily consumption of grog. It might have tasted foul, but it had settled her stomach when she thought it would never be settled again. Her hands still bore some open blisters, although most had healed to calluses upon her palms. Her hair was matted and itchy beneath the dirty black woollen cap that she permanently wore and her feet were rubbed and sore from clambering barefoot over the slippery decks. As if that were not bad enough, she seemed to be covered from head to toe in a layer of filth from her newly appointed position of gunroom servant. Heaven only knew quite how scrubbing floors and tables, washing plates and glasses, and being at the beck and call of every officer and young midshipman, as well as waiting at their dining table, could have got her into such a state! It was not an easy job, but it was infinitely preferable to that of the ‘Captain of the Head', young Sam Wilson, who had the unenviable task of cleaning the lavatories at the head of the ship. Sam was only eight years old and she had taken the little lad under her wing.

  She saw little of Jack and the others except at the odd meal time, when his hearty laughter allowed her to find him amidst the rows of rough wooden tables and benches set between the guns that transformed the upper deck into a mess each mealtime. As Georgiana grew accustomed to daily routine on board ship, she began to think that perhaps she might just survive the voyage in the guise of George Robertson, but she had reckoned without the interference of the second lieutenant, Cyril Pensenby.

  ‘Lieutenant Pensenby, sir!’ The gunner’s mate straightened and saluted the poker-faced young gentleman who had just strolled into the room.

  ‘Holmes.’ Georgiana watched as the officer’s snowy white breeches brushed inadvertently against one of the narrow wooden benches. The lieutenant glanced down and stopped dead still. He raised his eyes and looked accusingly at Georgiana, whose own gaze remained riveted to the discoloured smear that now sullied the material stretched across the gentleman’s leg. ‘Master Robertson,’ his cultured voice lisped, ‘you will scrub this room from top to bottom until it has not one grain of dust, not one smear of dirt. And when you’ve finished you shall scrub yourself clean in a similar fashion. There is a bathing cask up on deck. See that you make use of it. I shall return before the first dog watch to inspect the work you’ve undertaken. I hope for your sake, boy, that it meets with my approval.’

  Georgiana stared wordlessly at the retreating figure.

  The gunner’s mate eased his corpulent frame on to the bench. ‘Best get started, lad. The lieutenant ain’t a man to be trifled with and he won’t cut you no slack on account of your simple-minded ways. Gunner won’t be best pleased either.’

  Three hours later the gunroom was shining like a new pin. Please don’t let anyone mess it up before he sees it, Georgiana prayed, before setting about cleaning the worst of the ingrained muck from her face and hands in a small wooden basin. Most of the dirt had been brushed out of her blue culottes and jacket before Lieutenant Pensenby returned.

  He perused the gunroom down the end of his long thin nose, saying nothing, before turning his scrutiny to Georgiana herself. ‘Roll up your sleeve, Robertson,’ the curt voice commanded.

  Georgiana did as she was told, holding one grubby arm up for inspection.

  ‘You have not bathed.’

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant, sir, but I cleaned myself just as you told me.’ Georgiana tried to retrieve her arm from beneath the gentleman’s fingers.

  Cyril Pensenby’s thumbnail scraped against her skin, releasing a layer of blackened grime. ‘The evidence speaks for itself, boy.’

  ‘No, sir, you’re mistaken, sir,’ Georgiana mumbled in as low a tone as she could muster.

  Mr Pensenby’s brows lowered and he thrust Georgiana’s arm angrily away. ‘Are you calling me a liar, Robertson?’

  What had started as a small matter was rapidly escalating out of control. ‘No, Lieutenant, sir.’ She bit at her bottom lip and focused on the decking around Mr Pensenby’s feet.

  Pensenby turned to the gunner’s mate. ‘See that this boy is scrubbed clean in a cask bath. Immediately, Holmes.’

  ‘Aye, Lieutenant Pensenby, I’ll see to it personally, sir.’

  Georgiana’s eyes widened in terror as she realised what was about to happen. ‘No!’ She made to run past the two men, but fat fingers closed cruelly over her wrist and dragged her back.

  ‘Come along, Master Robertson, ain’t nothin’ so very bad about havin’ a bath. Let’s be havin’ you up on deck, lad.’

  Georgiana wriggled and squirmed, but nothing, it seemed, could dislodge the gunner’s mate’s firm grasp. By the time they had reached the deck she could scarcely catch her breath.

  ‘Hoist up the cask!’ the gunner’s mate instructed, and attempted to remove the simpleton’s jacket.

  Georgiana yelled for all she was worth, her voice rising higher in her panic. ‘Jack! Jack!’ She plunged her teeth into the fat man’s hand and kicked as hard as she could at his shins.

  ‘Ouch! You little bugger!’ Holmes released the skinny arm to deliver a weighty cuff to the lad’s ear.

  It was the opportunity that Georgiana had been waiting for and she needed no invitation. Before the gunner’s mate could recover, she legged it straight up the rigging of the main mast. She didn’t dare look down, just kept on climbing up towards the topgallant mast. The wind blasted cold and icy, contriving to knock her from her precarious perch, but she clung to the ropes until her fingers hurt. Voices murmured from far below, their words lost to the wind. Her heart pounded in her chest and she watched with rising misery as the light diminished in the surrounding sky.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ The men scattered before Captain Hawke.

  Lieutenant Pensenby stepped forward. ‘Ship’s boy Robertson disobeyed a direct command, sir. He attacked Holmes here when he tried to effect that order.’

  ‘And what exactly was the command, Mr Pensenby?’

  Pensenby’s thin face flushed. ‘The boy and the gunroom were filthy, Captain. Indeed, it wasn’t possible to enter the place without soiling my own uniform. As I am adverse to having such a dirty specimen serve the food upon my plate, or, indeed, to sup in unclean surroundings, I instructed that he clean both himself and the room. He complied with the room, but is most reticent to bathe himself, sir.’

  Nathaniel groaned to himself. This was the last thing he needed. That half the ship’s company was lacking in personal hygiene could not have escaped Pensenby’s notice. Indeed, most of the men saw bathing as something undertaken only by eccentrics. But flouting of any order was not something that could be taken lightly, especially when it had been issued by the second lieutenant. ‘And where is the boy now?’

  All eyes looked up into the rigging.

  ‘Ah,’ the captain murmured by way of understanding. ‘Fetch able seaman Grimly.’

  Someone was coming up to fetch her. She dared a look and saw Jack not far below.

  ‘What the ‘ell ‘ave you been doin'?’ the gruff voice queried. ‘Pensenby’s got his dander up about you and no mistake and I ain’t gonna be able to stop ‘im.’ Burly Jack sighed. ‘Bathin’ ain’t exactly my delight, but couldn’t you ‘ave just ‘ad a quick duck in and out?’

  Georgiana’s hands wove themselves tighter through the ropes. ‘No, Jack. Don’t make me go down. I won’t have a bath. I can’t.’ The words were barely more than a hoarse whisper into the wind.

  ‘If you don’t come down with me they’ll just send someone else to get you. Come on, lad, do
n’t make it worse than it already is.’

  He was right. Pensenby would never leave her be. There was nothing else for it, she would have to throw herself upon Nathaniel Hawke’s mercy and hope for the best.

  Chapter Four

  ‘Master Robertson, no man or boy on this ship is exempt from the line of command. To disobey an order from an officer is an offence, and one that merits disciplinary action.’ A chill wind blew hard across the deck, carrying in its wake the damp smell of rain. Darkness was closing in fast, and the lanterns were being lit. Nathaniel felt a pang of sympathy for the lad; nevertheless, it was the first direct contravention of an order and his response was likely to set a precedent amongst the men. ‘Lieutenant Pensenby has instructed you to bathe and bathe you shall. See to it, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’ The boy was so pale he looked as if all the blood had left his body. Holmes quelled the thought, he had a job to do. ‘You ain’t got nothin’ different from the rest of us, lad. Let’s get on with it.’

  Panic constricted Georgiana’s breathing. ‘No! Wait!’

  Holmes’s hand clamped upon her shoulder and Captain Hawke made to walk away.

  ‘Captain Hawke, please wait, sir. I can explain.’ Her usual hushed mumble was forgotten. She lashed out at the man beside her. ‘Leave me be!’

  It was imperative that he remain indifferent to the boy’s pleading voice. Such scenes were always difficult for Nathaniel, but he could not back down. He continued towards the forecastle.

  ‘You will not address the captain, Robertson, it is not your place to do so,’ Pensenby interrupted.

  Her jacket had been removed and Holmes was tugging at her culottes. Georgiana bellowed as loudly as she could, and tried hard to maintain the slight edge to her accent. ‘I must speak with you, Captain, sir. Please, sir!’

  Still she saw only the receding view of his deep blue coat, his shoulders squared, his golden epaulettes glinting in the lantern light.

  ‘It concerns Farleigh Hall, sir.’

  Nathaniel ceased his measured steps and swung round. Surely he had misheard? ‘What did you say, boy?’ He drew his brows together in perplexity and walked slowly back to where the gunner’s mate held the boy in a neck lock.

  ‘Farleigh Hall,’ Georgiana managed to choke the words out.

  Something was most definitely amiss. How did a simpleton third-rate ship’s boy know of his brother’s house? An uneasy feeling was gathering in his gut. ‘Release the boy, Mr Holmes. I would hear what he has to say.’

  With considerable relief Georgiana lurched forward, her hand pressed to the bruising on her throat. ‘It’s private, Captain, sir. I must speak with you alone, sir.’

  If Nathaniel observed that his previously tongue-tied ship’s boy had suddenly developed a clear and coherent manner of speech, he forbore to mention it.

  Pensenby’s countenance was growing tarter by the minute. ‘How dare you?’ he spluttered with the indignation of a man who could not quite believe what he had just heard. ‘I’ve never seen a more audacious manner in a boy.’ The second lieutenant’s temper was wearing dangerously thin. ‘You will be punished for this insolence.’

  ‘Make ‘im kiss the gunner’s daughter,’ a coarse voice added from the background.

  The prospect of being bent over one of the long guns and caned on the backside was enough to make Georgiana’s hair to stand on end. ‘Lady Mirabelle,’ she squeaked in defiance, and, ‘Lord Frederick,’ just for good measure.

  Nathaniel’s mind was decided in an instant. ‘I’ll interview the boy in my cabin. Have him brought down immediately.’

  Georgiana’s knees almost gave way with relief as Holmes dragged her along in the captain’s wake.

  ‘But …’ Lieutenant Pensenby’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Pensenby. Continue with your duties.’ Captain Hawke’s clipped tones floated back to reach him.

  The captain’s cabin, positioned at the rear of the gun deck, was incredibly large in comparison with the cramped conditions endured by the rest of the crew, and furnished well, if not luxuriously. As well as a desk, captain’s chair, dining table, six dining chairs and a small chest of drawers, there was a large and very fine oil painting depicting Lord Nelson’s victory against the French Admiral Brueys at the Battle of the Nile. Amidst the elegance of the décor were two large eighteen-pounder long guns, shone to a brilliant black finish. Nathaniel Hawke leaned back against the desk, stretching his legs out before him. The cocked hat was removed and positioned carefully on a pile of papers to his left. An errant lock of hair swept across his forehead and his eyes glowed deep and dark.

  ‘Well, young Robertson, tell your tale.’

  Georgiana felt the tension mount within her, and quickly slipped on the torn jacket that Holmes had replaced in her hands. An extra layer of protection against what was to come. And what was to come? She had no notion what Captain Hawke’s reaction would be. No notion at all. She licked her dry, salt-encrusted lips and began. ‘Thank you for agreeing to my request for privacy. I’m sure that you’ll agree to its necessity once you’ve heard the truth.’

  ‘Indeed?’ One winged eyebrow raised itself. ‘You suddenly have a most eloquent turn of phrase, Master Robertson. The prospect of a bath seems to have overcome your tendency to the whispered mumbling of a simpleton.’

  Georgiana cleared her throat and clutched her hands together. How did one go about imparting such a revelation? ‘Quite,’ she muttered softly.

  The silence stretched between them.

  Nathaniel’s hands stretched flat upon the desk and he leaned forward. ‘I believe that you have something to tell me.’

  Such long strong fingers, so representative of the power within the man himself. An image of those fingers stroking her cheek popped into her mind and she flushed with guilty anger. How could she think such a thought, and at a time like this? A warm blush rose in her cheeks and she rapidly averted her gaze.

  Nathaniel did not miss the emotions that flashed so readily across the boy’s face, nor the telltale rosy stain beneath the dirt-stained cheeks. He waited, curiosity rising.

  ‘I…You …’ She paused, unable to find the words. Oh, heaven help her! Taking a deep breath, she launched into the story. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Captain Hawke, so I’ll strive to be brief and to the point. Please remember throughout that I…that I never intended the position in which I now find myself. Such a possibility never entered my mind.’ She looked up at him suddenly, her eyes wide and clear, her voice elegant and polite. ‘The fact of the matter is that I’m not who I appear to be.’ She paused, her breathing coming fast and furious, almost as if she had ran the length of the ship.

  ‘I’d gathered that much. And you’re now about to do me the honour of revealing your true identity.’ His tone was dry, but there was an encouraging gentleness in his eyes and Georgiana knew that Nathaniel Hawke was a fair man. The knowledge gave her the confidence she so desperately needed to continue.

  ‘Yes.’ The single word slipped softly into the silence of the cabin.

  Nathaniel experienced a reflexive tensing of his muscles and an overwhelming intuitive certainty that the next words to be uttered by the ragamuffin boy standing so quietly before him would change his life for ever.

  The boy’s chin forced up high. The grey-blue eyes met his without flinching. The narrow chest expanded with a deep breath. ‘I am Miss Georgiana Raithwaite, recently of your acquaintance at Farleigh Hall.’ Still the breath held, tightly squeezed within her lungs. She waited. Waited. And never once did her gaze wander from those dark eyes that were staring back at her with an undisguised disbelief.

  Silence.

  The blood ran cold in Nathaniel’s veins and a shiver flitted down his spine. It was not possible. The ragged boy, Miss Raithwaite. ‘You cannot be Miss Raithwaite. You’re a…’

  Georgiana endured the roving scrutiny of his eyes without moving. ‘Now you understand why I couldn’t comply with Lieutenant Pensenby’s
command.’ She raised her eyebrows wryly and bit her bottom lip.

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ Nathaniel cursed and stood upright. A horrible sinking sensation was starting within his stomach, for beneath the grubby urchin face he could see what had previously eluded him—the fine features of the young woman he had pulled from the River Borne. ‘Your hair…Have you—?’

  ‘Naturally,’ replied Georgiana. ‘It wouldn’t have been much of a disguise otherwise.’ She whipped the cap from her head to reveal her sheared and matted locks.

  ‘Dear God!’ Nathaniel could not suppress the exclamation.

  ‘Yes, quite. It’s in a horrible filthy state, as is the rest of me. How ironic that my present trouble has arisen from my refusal to bathe when that is one of the things I’ve longed so ardently to do these two weeks past.’ She smiled then, a smile that lit up her face.

  Nathaniel stared, and stared some more. Inadvertently his eyes dropped lower, as if he would see what lay beneath the torn blue jacket. ‘You show no external signs of…of, um…’

  ‘Bindings. Terribly uncomfortable things to wear, if you must know,’ she said stoutly.

  Captain Hawke’s swarthy complexion flushed. ‘Yes, quite.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t have done at all for Burly Jack or the others to have discovered otherwise.’

  ‘Burly Jack?’ Nathaniel’s brows knitted.

  ‘Able Seamen Grimly, sir.’ She sighed. ‘He’s been looking out for me, you see, since we became acquainted on the mailcoach to Fareham.’

  There was a definite pain starting behind his eyes. The tanned fingers rubbed at his forehead. ‘No, Miss Raithwaite, I don’t see at all. I think you had better explain all that has happened since I saw you last.’ He gestured towards a wooden chair and said politely, as if they were both in the drawing room of Farleigh Hall, ‘Please be seated.’ He then lowered himself into the red leather captain’s chair and prepared to listen.

  Georgiana started to talk and, with only the occasional interruption from the captain, continued to do so for some considerable length of time.