by Carla Kelly
‘You and who…?’ she began, then drifted to sleep.
He stood there another long moment, watching her sleep, dumbfounded by her resiliency, and not totally sure what had just happened. ‘I’d have looked for them in that foul basin, I hope you know,’ he whispered, then left his cabin.
He spent the next hour cleaning Miss Brandon’s cabin. Before Private Leonard went off duty and was replaced by another sentry, he swore him to utter secrecy on what had passed this evening.
‘Sir, I would never say anything,’ the Private assured him. ‘She’s a brave little trooper, isn’t she?’
Hugh would have spent the night in her cot, except that it was wet with vinegar and he didn’t relish the notion. He could put his greatcoat on the floor in his cabin and not disturb Miss Brandon at all. He put her nightgown to soak in the bucket with sea water, and poured in the remaining vinegar. He found his way to the orlop deck, where the surgeon, eyes bleary, was staring at a forefinger avulsion that gave Hugh the shivers.
‘He caught it on a pump, if you can imagine,’ the surgeon murmured. He patted the seaman who belonged to the finger. ‘Steady, lad, steady. It looks worse than it is, as most things do.’
While the seaman stared at his own finger, Hugh took the surgeon aside and explained what had happened to Miss Brandon.
‘Poor little lady,’ the surgeon said. ‘I hope you were gentle with her, Colonel.’
‘I did my best.’
The surgeon shook his head. ‘Only two days out, and already this voyage is more than she bargained for, I’m certain. All’s well that ends. Give her some porridge tomorrow morning and a ship’s biscuit, along with fortified wine, and all the water she will drink. That should take care of the dehydration.’
Hugh walked thoughtfully back to his deck, after looking in on the unconscious foretopman, with the surgeon’s mate sitting beside him. A howl from the orlop told him the surgeon had taken care of the avulsion. Give me Miss Brandon and her troublesome seasickness any day, he thought with a shudder.
Counting on his rank to mean something to one of the captain’s young gentlemen, he asked for and received a blanket and returned to his cabin. He looked down at her, asleep in his gently swaying cot. Poor little you. The surgeon was right; you didn’t bargain on this, he thought.
Surprisingly content with his lot, Hugh spread his overcoat and pulled the blanket over him. He woke up once in the night to check on her, but she was breathing deeply, with a small sigh on the exhalation of breath that he found childlike and endearing. Feeling charitable, he smiled down at her, and returned to his rest on the deck.
A fierce and nagging thirst woke Polly at sunrise, rather than the noise of a ship that she had feared last night would sink at any minute. She stared at the deck beams overhead, wondering where she was, then closed her eyes in total mortification when she remembered. Maybe if I keep my eyes closed, the entire world will move back four days. I will remain in Torquay with my sister Nana and none of what I know happened will have taken place, she told herself.
No such luck. She smelled of vinegar because she had been doused in it, then pulled from her nightgown and—horror of horrors—been set right by a Royal Marine of mature years who would probably rather have eaten ground glass than done any of the duties her care had required.
If she could not forget what had happened, perhaps Lieutenant Colonel Junot had transferred during the night to another vessel, one sailing to Australia. Failing that, hopefully he had suffered amnesia and remembered nothing past his tenth birthday. No such luck. She could hear someone snoring softly, so she rose up carefully on her elbow and peered over the edge of the sleeping cot.
There lay her saviour, a mature man—not a Midshipman—with curly dark hair going a bit grey at the temples, a straight nose, and chiselled lips that had caught her attention a few days ago, when she was still a reasonable being. He lay on his back and looked surprisingly comfortable, as though he had slept in worse places. He had removed his shoes, unbuttoned his dark trousers, and unhooked his uniform tunic, so a wildly informal checked shirt showed through. The gilt gorget was still clasped around his neck, which made her smile in spite of her mortification, because he looked incongruously authoritative.
He opened his eyes suddenly and he smiled at her, because she must have looked even funnier, peering at him over the edge of the sleeping cot like a child in a strange house.
‘Good morning, Miss Brandon. See? You’re alive.’
If he had meant to put her at her ease, he had succeeded, even as he lay there all stretched out. He yawned, then sat up, his blanket around him again.
‘Would you like some water?’ he asked.
She nodded, then carefully sat up, which only made her lie down again, because the room was revolving.
He was on his feet in an instant, turning his back to her to button his trousers, then stretching his arm up to grasp the deck beam as he assessed her. ‘Dizzy?’
She nodded, and wished she hadn’t. ‘Now the ship is spinning,’ she groaned.
‘It will stop.’ He brought her a drink in a battered silver cup that looked as if it had been through a campaign or two. His free arm went behind her back and gently lifted her up just enough to pour some water down her sorely tried throat. ‘Being as dried out as you are plays merry hell with body humours, Miss Brandon. You need to eat something.’
‘Never again,’ she told him firmly. ‘I have sworn off food for ever.’
‘Take a chance,’ he teased. ‘You might be surprised how gratifying it is to swallow food, rather than wear it. Another sip now. That’s a good girl. Let me lay you down again.’
After he did so, he tucked the blanket up to her chin again. ‘You’ll do, Brandon,’ he told her in a gruff voice, and she knew that not a kinder man inhabited the entire universe, no matter if he was a Marine and fearsome. ‘Go back to sleep.’
She closed her eyes dutifully, certain she wouldn’t sleep because she was so embarrassed, except that the Colonel yawned loudly. She opened her eyes at such rag manners, then watched as he stretched and slapped the deck beam overhead, exclaiming, ‘I love a sea voyage, Brandon. Don’t you?’ which made her giggle and decide that perhaps she would live, after all.
When she woke again, it was full light and the Colonel was gone. She sat up more cautiously this time, pleased when the ship did not spin. She wasn’t sure what to do, especially without her spectacles, except that there they were in their little case, next to the pillow. What a nice man, she thought, as she put them on.
She looked around. He had also brought over her robe, which she had originally hung on a peg in her cabin. I think he wants me gone from his cabin, she told herself, and heaven knew, who could blame him?
As for that, he didn’t. Colonel Junot had left a folded note next to her robe on the end of the cot, with ‘Brandon’ scrawled on it. She couldn’t help but smile at that, wondering why on earth he had decided to call her Brandon. All she could assume was that after the intimacy they had been through together, he thought Miss Brandon too formal, but Polly too liberal. Whatever the reason, she decided she liked it. She could never call him anything but Colonel, of course.
She read the note to herself: Brandon, a loblolly boy is scrubbing down your cabin and will light sulphur in it. The stench will be wicked for a while, so I moved your trunk into the wardroom. Captain Adney’s steward will bring you porridge and fortified wine, which the surgeon insisted on.
He signed it ‘Junot’, which surprised her. When he introduced himself, he had pronounced his name ‘Junnit’, but this was obviously a French name. That was even stranger, because he had as rich a Lowland Scottish accent as she had ever heard. ‘Colonel, Brandon thinks you are a man of vast contradictions,’ she murmured.
She climbed carefully from the sleeping cot, grateful the cannon was there to clutch when the ship shivered and yawed. I will never develop sea legs, she told herself. I will have to become a citizen of Portugal and never cross the Channel
again. When she could stand, she pulled on her robe and climbed back into the sleeping cot, surprised at her exhaustion from so little effort. She doubled the pillow so she could at least see over the edge of the sleeping cot, and abandoned herself to the swaying of the cot, which was gentler this morning.
She noticed the Colonel’s luggage, a wooden military trunk with his name stenciled on the side: Hugh Philippe d’Anvers Junot. ‘And you sound like a Scot,’ she murmured. ‘I must know more.’
Trouble was, knowing more meant engaging in casual conversation with a dignified officer of the King’s Royal Marines, one who had taken care of her so intimately last night. He had shown incredible aplomb in an assignment that would have made even a saint look askance. No. The Perseverance might have been a sixth-rate and one of the smaller of its class, but for the remainder of the voyage—and it couldn’t end too soon—she would find a way to avoid bothering Colonel Junot with her presence.
In only a matter of days, they would hail Oporto, and the Colonel would discharge his last duty to her family by handing her brother-in-law a letter from his former chief surgeon. Then, if the Lord Almighty was only half so generous as both Old and New Testaments trumpeted, the man would never have to see her again. She decided it wasn’t too much to hope for, considering the probabilities.
So much for resolve. Someone knocked on the flimsy-framed door. She held her breath, hoping for the loblolly boy.
‘Brandon? Call me a Greek bearing gifts.’
Not by the way you roll your r’s, she thought, wondering if Marines were gluttons for punishment. She cleared her throat, wincing. ‘Yes, Colonel?’
He opened the door, carrying a tray. ‘As principal idler on this voyage, I volunteered to bring you food, which I insist you eat.’
If he was so determined to put a good face on all this, Polly decided she could do no less. ‘I told you I have sworn off food for the remainder of my life, sir.’
‘And I have chosen to ignore you,’ he replied serenely. ‘See here. I even brought along a basin, which I will put in my sleeping cot by your feet, should you take exception to porridge and ship’s biscuit. Sit up like the good girl I know you are.’
She did as he said. As congenial as he sounded, there was something of an edge in his imperatives. This was something she had already noticed about her brother-in-law Oliver, so she could only assume it had to do with command. ‘Aye, sir,’ she said, sitting up.
He set the tray on her lap. To her dismay, he pulled up a stool to sit beside the cot.
‘I promise to eat,’ she told him, picking up the spoon to illustrate her good faith, if not her appetite. ‘You needn’t watch me.’
He just couldn’t take a hint. ‘I truly am a supernumerary on this voyage, and have no pressing tasks. The Midshipmen, under the tender care of the sailing master, are trying to plot courses. I already know how to do that. The surgeon is pulling a tooth, and I have no desire to learn. The Captain is strolling his deck with a properly detached air. The foretopmen are high overhead and I wouldn’t help them even if I could. Brandon, you are stuck with me.’
It was obviously time to level with the Lieutenant Colonel, if only for his own good. She set down the spoon. ‘Colonel Junot, last night you had to take care of me in ways so personal that I must have offended every sensibility you possess.’ Her face was flaming, but she progressed doggedly, unable to look at the man whose bed she had usurped, and whose cabin she occupied. ‘I have never been in a situation like this, and doubt you have either.’
‘True, that,’ he agreed. ‘Pick up the spoon, Brandon, lively now.’
She did what he commanded. ‘Sir, I am trying to spare you any more dealings with me for the duration of this voyage.’
His brown eyes reminded her of a spaniel given a smack by its owner for soiling a carpet. ‘Brandon! Have I offended you?’
She didn’t expect that. ‘Well, n…no, of course not,’ she stammered. ‘I owe you a debt I can never repay, but—’
‘Take a bite.’
She did, and then another. It stayed down, and she realised how ravenous she was. She ate without speaking, daring a glance at the Colonel once to see a pleased expression on his handsome face. When she finished, he moved aside the bowl and pointed to the ship’s biscuit, which she picked up.
‘Tell me something, Brandon,’ he said finally, as she chewed, then reached for the wine he held out to her. ‘If I were ever in a desperate situation and needed your help, would you give it to me?’
‘Certainly I would,’ she said.
‘Then why can’t you see that last night was no different?’
He had her there. ‘I have never met anyone like you, Colonel,’ she told him frankly.
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. She took another sip of the wine, then dipped the dry biscuit in it, which made him smile.
‘Look at it this way, Brandon. You have a friend.’
What could she say to that? If the man was going to refuse all of her attempts to make herself invisible for the remainder of the voyage, she couldn’t be little about it.
‘So do you, Colonel Junot.’
Chapter Three
‘Excellent!’ he declared. ‘If you’re up to it, I recommend you dress and go on deck. The surgeon found quite a comfortable canvas chair—I tried it out—and moved it to the quarterdeck. Believe it or not, it’s easier to face an enemy, which, in your case, is the ocean. We can’t have that, Brandon. Fearing the ocean is scarcely patriotic, considering that we are an island nation.’
‘I believe you are right, Colonel,’ she said, amused.
He lifted her out of the sleeping cot, set her on her bare feet, and walked next to her, his hand warm on the small of her back to steady her, across the short space between his door and the door to her cabin. She could smell sulphur fumes behind the door, and was glad he had moved her trunk into the wardroom.
She shook her head when he offered further assistance, even though she did have trouble standing upright.
‘You’ll learn,’ he assured her, then bowed and went up the companionway.
She took what clothing she needed from her trunk, pausing a time or two to steady herself against the ship’s movement. She hadn’t even crossed the small space back to Colonel Junot’s cabin when a Marine sentry came down the companionway, the same Marine who had stood sentinel last night.
‘I want to thank you, Private, for alerting the Colonel to my predicament last night,’ she told him.
‘My job, ma’am,’ he replied simply, but she could tell he was pleased.
That was easy, Polly thought, as she went into the cabin and dressed. Her hair was still a hopeless mess, but at least it smelled strongly of nothing worse than vinegar. ‘My kingdom for enough fresh water to wash this tangle,’ she murmured.
She cautiously made her way up the companionway to the deck, where she stood and watched the activity around her. No part of England is far from the sea, but she had spent most of her eighteen years in Bath, so she felt herself in an alien world. It was not without its fascination, she decided, as she watched the Sergeant drilling his few Marines in a small space. Close to the bow, the sailing master was schooling the Midshipmen, who awkwardly tried to shoot the sun with sextants. Seamen scrubbed the deck with flat stones the size of prayer books, while others sat cross-legged with sails in their laps, mending tears with large needles. It looked endlessly complex and disorganised, but as she watched she began to see the orderly disorder of life at sea.
She looked towards the quarterdeck again and Captain Adney nodded to her and lifted his hat, indicating she should join him.
‘Let me apologise for myself and all my fellow officers for neglecting you,’ he said. ‘Until Colonel Junot told us what was going on, we had no idea.’
Hopefully, he didn’t tell you everything, Polly thought, even though she knew her secrets would always be safe with the Colonel. ‘I am feeling much better,’ she said.
‘Excellent!’ Captain Adn
ey obviously had no desire to prod about in the workings of females, so there ended his commentary. He indicated the deck chair Colonel Junot had spoken of. Clasping his hands behind his back, he left her to it, resuming his perusal of the ocean.
Polly smiled to herself, amused by the workings of males. She looked at the chair, noting the chocks placed by the legs so the contraption would not suddenly slide across the quarterdeck. She tried not to hurl herself across the deck, wishing she understood how to ambulate on a slanted plane that would right itself and then slant the other way.
‘Brandon, let me suggest that, when you stand, you put one foot behind the other and probably a bit farther apart than you are used to.’
She looked over her shoulder to see Colonel Junot on the steps to the quarterdeck. He came closer and demonstrated. She imitated him.
‘Much better. When you walk, this is no time for mincing steps.’ He smiled at her halting effort. ‘It takes practice. Try out the chair.’
She let him hand her into it, and she couldn’t help a sigh of pleasure. Amazing that canvas could feel so comfortable. I could like this, she thought, and smiled at the Colonel.
He smiled in turn, then went back down the steps to the main deck, where the Sergeant stood at attention now with his complement of Marines. A word from Colonel Junot and they relaxed, but not by much. In another minute the Sergeant had dismissed them and he sat with Colonel Junot on a hatch.
Polly watched them both, impressed by their immaculate posture, which lent both men an ever-ready aspect, as though they could spring into action at a moment’s notice. I suppose you can, she told herself, thinking through all of the Lieutenant Colonel’s quick decisions last night. He had not hesitated once in caring for her, no matter how difficult it must have been. And he seemed to take it all in stride. ‘You were my ever-present help in trouble,’ she murmured.
She gave her attention to the Colonel again, after making sure the brim of her bonnet was turned down and they wouldn’t know of her observation. While Colonel Junot was obviously a Scot, he did look French. She realised with a surprise that she wanted to know more about him.