My Saving Grace

by Harmon, Danelle

  “My dear Lady Grace.” It was Captain Ponsonby, smiling and handsome in his uniform as she stepped onto his gleaming decks. “I trust you had an uneventful ride back from Hampshire?”

  “Unremarkable,” she said. “And Captain Lord is going to be fine. His brother said so himself.”

  Was it her imagination that Sheldon Ponsonby’s mouth tightened ever so slightly, and what looked to be annoyance suddenly shadowed his eyes? “That is good to know,” he said briskly. “Too many naval officers dying in duels these days if you ask me, Navy can’t spare ’em, either. Some refreshment for you before we get underway, perhaps? You’ll want to retire to your cabin, I should think. Wind’s picking up, ’twill be a wet run down to Portsmouth, I daresay.”

  “I would feel better up here on deck, I think. Captain Lord says the fresh air is better for a person with seasickness.”

  “Did he, now?” Again that flash of irritation, unmistakable now. “Well, you do as you wish, my dear, but I’d worry less about you if you went below. You are rather, shall I say, accident-prone, and you’re much safer in your cabin than up here where you could be hit by a block or ogled by my men or be swept overboard.” His smile was tight. Insincere. A clamp-down on some inner vexation. “Besides, you’ll be in the way up here, especially if you’re sick. I won’t have time to see to you.”

  She felt her own irritation beginning to rise in response. “Is that the captain of this vessel speaking, or the man who has asked me to marry him?”

  “Both.” He leaned close and touched her cheek, grinning, and she felt a sudden and inexplicable revulsion. “Now be a good girl and go below. I’ll see you and your uncle’s family at dinner.”

  Ned joined her as she was about to angrily shove open the door to her tiny cabin.

  “I don’t know why you put up with that,” the boy said. “He’s insufferable. He doesn’t love you, you know. I’m not sure he even likes you. What do you see in him anyhow? He’s nothing but a peacock who’s constantly preening his feathers.”

  Grace reached up, put the pads of her fingers against her eyes, and pressed. “Ned, please.”

  “It’s true and you know it.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “You should marry Captain Lord. He loves you.”

  “Go away.”

  “You’re making a bad choice. Captain Ponsonby is ambitious and proud, and the only reason he wants to marry you is because it will advance his career. You’re worth more than that, Grace. You deserve someone who will love you. Who will cherish and adore and want to be with you. You think you’ll have that with Ponsonby? Why, you’ll be nothing more than an ornament to him. Captain Lord, on the other hand—”

  “Stop it, Ned! Just stop it!”

  “I’m not going stop it because you know it’s true!”

  “I can’t think with you tormenting me so!”

  “You’d better start thinking or you’re going to spend the rest of your life knowing you made the wrong choice and picked the lesser man!”

  “It’s expected at this point! It was expected all along! Now go, and leave me alone!”

  Ned, mercifully, turned and left her then, and Grace threw herself on the small bunk and punched the blanket in rage and frustration. Beneath her she felt a sudden lurch, a dizzying sway, and knew the anchors had left the sea floor and that the ship was now back in its element, free of the land. She thought of Captain Ponsonby somewhere up on the deck above her, handsome and proud in his uniform, overseeing the safe departure of his vessel and felt nothing but cold anger— not toward him, but toward herself for being girlishly seduced by the man she wanted him to be, and not the one he actually was.

  I want my friend.

  Her stomach swam with the motion of the ship, and she reached for her reticule and fished out the little jar of ginger root that Captain Lord had given her.

  I want my friend with me. Now. Always. I want Captain Lord.

  The ginger root was quick to do its job, but there was no cure for the hurt in her heart, no cure for the agonizing torment of her thoughts. She sat up and heard voices somewhere above her head. Lady Falconer’s. The Falconer children.

  Why were they up on deck but she was forced to all but hide down here?

  Indignation began to swell within her.

  Captain Ponsonby may be my betrothed, but he is not my husband. Not yet. And he may be captain of this stupid vessel but I’m no seaman and his authority does not extend to me. I’m not staying down here. I am not!

  She got to her feet and swaying drunkenly as the ship began to heel in the breeze, headed topside.

  The wind hit her immediately, the sunshine bouncing like a thousand little balls off the crests of the racing waves, the great sails above blotting out the late afternoon sun. She shaded her eyes against it. Nearby, a group of seamen hauled on a line that led to a sail high above, their efforts directed by a young lieutenant who was unable to focus on his duties once he caught sight of Grace. She smiled. He flushed, turned back to his task, and Grace moved to the rail.

  The ship was gathering speed now as the sail above was finally trimmed. Grace had no idea what that sail was called, and her awareness of her own ignorance brought her to the even more painful awareness that she still knew next to nothing about sailing, and she was about to marry an up-and-coming naval officer.

  From what direction is the wind coming, Lady Grace?

  Lessons on a pond, lessons on a deck, with a man who was far, far away from her now.

  The frigate plunged, and hissing spray lashed her face. As it slid down her cheek in a trickle of salty foam, she reached up to finger it away, unsure whether the saltiness she tasted on her fingers was from the sea itself...

  Or her own tears.

  39

  Del was young and strong, determined and dutiful.

  He recovered quickly from his nephew’s gift of childhood illness, caught the stage down to Portsmouth, and with nothing but a lingering cough that was easily quelled by the jar of homemade sweets with which his mother had sent him off, returned to HMS Orion to await his admiral.

  He knew Sir Graham well. The admiral would be restless, eager to end this English holiday, and Del would not be caught languishing in Hampshire when Sir Graham would expect him to have the flagship provisioned and waiting for him in Portsmouth.

  Truthfully, Del couldn’t wait to leave, either.

  England had dealt his heart a mortal blow. He was keen to see the last of it for a while.

  The stage stopped at a coaching inn somewhere in the chalky downs, where Jimmy Thorne retrieved Del’s uniform from his traveling trunk. It had been brushed and pressed, none the worse for wear despite being stored for the last fortnight. Del shrugged into it, the gold epaulets of his rank standing proudly atop his shoulders. Having the uniform back on restored him somewhat. He was Captain Lord again, a man with an identity. Authority. Purpose. The return to familiarity and routine, to a certain anonymity of service was just what he needed to try and put the past two weeks behind him. By the time he stepped out of the stage and onto Portsmouth’s damp, cobbled streets, he was the taciturn flag captain once more, master and commander of the most formidable ship in the harbor— and eager to get back to work.

  He mustered a grin as his ship sent a boat, the tars rowing in perfect unison, all spit and polish, not a thread out of place in their clothing, each stroke of the oars precise and true.

  Routine.

  Familiarity.

  Order, with no surprises, nothing to trip him up.

  He scaled the tumblehome and boarded through the entry port, where bosun’s calls shrilled and a well-turned-out side party awaited him, a captain returning to his ship and receiving the fanfare that was his due.

  His officers as well as his clerk, Cooper, were there, wizened hazel eyes smiling behind his spectacles. “Glad to have you back, sir. Word has it you nearly died in a duel. May I say it’s a relief to see you looking hale and hearty?”

  “I nearly died
from a cold given me by my young nephew, Mr. Cooper.” He grinned. “Or rather, it felt that way. Childhood illnesses are best reserved for the young, as they are far better equipped to handle them than we adults.”

  Cooper inclined his head.

  “Any news from Sir Graham?” Del asked, heading for the quarterdeck.

  “Aye, sir. He sent word... expects to arrive tomorrow, God willing.”

  “In that case, I got here not a moment too soon then, eh?”

  “Well, we both knew he’d be itching to get back at sea.”

  “As am I.”

  His first lieutenant fell into step beside him.

  “Ship provisioned and ready to go, Mr. Armstrong?”

  “Been taking on water all day, just expecting another two dozen barrels of salt pork and several bushels of peas and we’ll be ready for sea.”

  “And a good store of spirits in for the admiral?”

  “All set, sir.”

  “Well done, Mr. Armstrong.” He shot a last glance at Portsmouth’s distant chimneypots. “Sir Graham isn’t the only one eager to get underway. Carry on. I’ll be below if needed.”

  Del headed for the great cabin that was his seafaring home, office, and retreat, desperate for a further push into the familiarity of routine and the only place on the ship that was truly his own. A Royal Marine greeted him and opened his cabin door. Del returned the greeting, passed his cot hanging suspended above the black-and-white-checkered deck, passed the big guns, passed the polished mahogany table where he took his meals, mapped out his courses, entertained his admiral and officers, and finally arrived at the great gallery of windows at the very aftermost point of the ship. There he finally sat, taking off his hat and running a hand through his helplessly wild and unruly curls. No sense trying to tame them; nobody here to impress with tidiness, nobody here but himself.

  Outside, a gull winged past, its shadow chasing it across the harbor as the sun began to sink into the western sea.

  Del watched it until he could see it no longer.

  Familiarity. Routine. Duty.

  He leaned his cheek against the glass, slid a hand beneath his lapel, and into the inside pocket of his waistcoat where the little paper packet lay close to his heart.

  His fingers closed around it. It was tightly folded on each end to ensure the safety of its precious contents.

  A hair.

  A single long, dark hair... from the woman he loved.

  * * *

  He did not know how long he’d slept.

  It might have been ten minutes, it might have been an hour. Maybe even two. But a hand against his shoulder jerked him awake with a start and blinking, Del straightened up, automatically tucking the talisman deep into his pocket as he did.

  “What is it, Mr. Jellicoe?”

  “The frigate Mars has been sighted standing in for the harbor,” said his manservant. “She’s flying Sir Graham’s flag. The admiral has returned, sir.”

  A more benevolent God, Del decided, would have sent the admiral back to him in a coach, in a private yacht, hell, even in a damned wheelbarrow. But no. His superior had returned earlier than expected and in Ponsonby’s ship besides, and where Ponsonby was, remained also the reminder of Grace.

  Del raked a hand over his face, trying to wipe away the fatigue and despair and feeling the slight scratchiness of emerging bristle.

  “I expect Sir Graham will be aboard by nightfall,” he said wearily. “I need a shave. My best undress uniform, as well.”

  “I will see to both, sir.”

  Efficient as always, the steward bustled about the cabin, laying out the razor, fetching hot water, soap and a towel. Shedding his coat, Del took a seat and put the towel around his neck. From where he sat, he had a commanding view of the harbor, Portsmouth, and the mud flats.

  And Ponsonby’s frigate, heeling smartly in a brisk westerly, already dousing its topsails as it skillfully threaded its way between vessels of all shapes and sizes. Del bit back an uncharacteristic and savage wish that the thing would hit something, but his wishes went unheard. By the time Jellicoe had finished his shave and wiped the lather from his jaw, the frigate’s anchor was splashing down and he could see the side party already mustered, could hear Lieutenant Armstrong calling for Orion’s own men to welcome their admiral back aboard the flagship.

  At least he wouldn’t have to face seeing Lady Grace Fairchild. There was no reason for her to be aboard Ponsonby’s warship, no reason for her not to have been sent back to her mother’s home to await her nuptials.

  But as Del shrugged into the freshly-brushed uniform that Jellicoe laid out for him, picked up his hat and headed topside with it tucked smartly under his arm, his senses began to prickle.

  For there just across the water, a group of people were already in the boat to be rowed across to HMS Orion.

  The admiral and his family. Captain Sheldon Ponsonby and Lieutenant Akers.

  And oh, God help him, Lady Grace Fairchild.

  * * *

  Grace wanted to die.

  She had also wanted to be sent immediately to Sussex to wait out her engagement at her mother’s home where, she hoped, she would find the fortitude to end it. She did not want to accompany Ponsonby here in Portsmouth, to go aboard Sir Graham’s flagship with him as he insisted she did— an act surely meant to rub his conquest in the nose of the man who commanded it, Captain Lord. She did not want to subject Captain Lord to further pain.

  But fate had other ideas. As did Sir Graham, who’d hoped that she might linger in Portsmouth for a day or two so as to help manage the children. Their nanny was down with the same debilitating cold that had moved through Colin’s children, and now little Anne was hot with fever as well.

  “I’d really prefer to go back Sussex, Uncle Gray. It’s only a short trip by coach...”

  “And so you shall, but if you wouldn’t mind helping out a bit until I can get us all safely settled aboard Orion, I’d be in your debt, Grace.”

  She had complied. Not because she’d wanted to, but because she’d been asked. Or maybe she really had wanted to— if only to see Captain Lord one last time.

  Traversing the side of a massive hundred-gun ship of the line in a bosun’s chair made for a far longer, higher, and more frightening trip than it did in Ponsonby’s frigate, and as the rope sling swung dizzily on its ascent, Grace shut her eyes and told herself that the butterflies in her stomach had nothing to do with the anxiety of seeing Captain Lord again, and everything to do with the staggering height of the chair itself.

  Absolutely nothing.

  Such a falsehood was cruelly exposed for the lie it was, however, as the chair deposited her on the deck and she stepped onto the gleaming deck and saw him.

  Him.

  Her throat went dry. Her lungs quit working. She tried to swallow. Couldn’t.

  “Lady Grace,” he said with stiff formality, and took her hand over a bow.

  There was nothing in his cold gray eyes. No shared intimacy. No sorrow. No pain, no flicker of interest, nothing but a chilly remoteness that pierced her heart more than she would have thought possible.

  The pain caught there and spread. Grace began to tremble. And looking at him for the first time in his uniform, she wondered how on earth she could ever have thought Sheldon Ponsonby the finer of the two men. How she could ever have set her cap for a man who seemed shallow and superficial by comparison to this one. How she could ever have thought this man, garbed in his fine blue coat and cocked hat, a sword at his hip and the fine gold epaulets at his shoulder catching the sun, could have been a mere seaman, a mere man, with the authority he wore as naturally as he did the very uniform that proclaimed it.

  How he could have been anyone but the man standing right here before her.

  Ponsonby paled in comparison. For if Delmore Lord was dashing and handsome in everyday civilian clothes, the figure he cut in his blue and white and gold-laced uniform that showed off the proud span of his shoulders, his long legs and powerful phy
sique, was enough to take Grace’s breath away and stingily refuse to give it back.

  “C-captain Lord,” she replied faintly, the back of her hand tingling, even through the glove, where his lips had so briefly touched it.

  “I must say, I was not expecting to see you again... so soon,” he murmured, his voice still empty and cold, almost accusatory, every emotion she had ever known him to have now carefully contained and withdrawn.

  And why not? He had found refuge here on his ship, in his world, and she had invaded both.

  “I was not expecting it, either.”

  “And where is your... betrothed?”

  His face was tight. Hard. Stony.

  “He is on his way. With Sir Graham.”

  A muscle twitched in that hard face. “I see.”

  “Captain Lord... I... I’m sorry. I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me to be here. I only came because Uncle Gray asked me to help him out... the twins are sick with the same thing you had and so is their nanny, and Lady Falconer also isn’t feeling well.”

  “Noted.”

  “I’ll stay out of—”

  “Captain, sir! Launch approaching from starboard. It’s the admiral.”

  “Muster the side party, Mr. Tremain. And prepare the ensign to be run up.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Grace felt an urge to wring her hands. “As I was about to say, I will try to—”

  “Captain?”

  “Yes, Mr. Edwards?”

  “Purser says five of the casks of beef we just brought aboard have a smell of rot about them and wants to know if we should send them back. It will delay our departure as we’ll need to find a different supplier.”

  “Send them back.”

  The junior officer moved off.

  Grace took a deep breath. “I guess now probably isn’t a good time to... to talk.”

  “Indeed, it is not,” snapped Captain Lord and with a short bow, turned on his heel and stalked off, just as the side party assembled at the entry port began to form and moments later, the shrill of pipes pierced the air.