Marrying the Captain

by Carla Kelly

“Which I intend to ignore today,” he told her, relaxing further by putting his hands behind his head. “I will remain in all my dirt and whiskers today and, if possible, bathe tonight. The Mulberry has a bathroom?”

  “Next to the scullery.” She wasn’t sure why such a prosaic conversation should make her blush, but it did. “Captain, we can bring a tub up here and haul water.”

  “I won’t hear of it,” he told her. “After a day of relative leisure, I intend to be well enough by nightfall to bathe and eat lamb chops.” He gave her another glance. “And don’t look so doubtful!”

  She went to the door, but he called her back. “Miss Massie, perhaps you can find a copy of Robinson Crusoe at the library, too. And if you and Matthew and I have some spare time, you could read it out loud to us.”

  She nodded, pleased at his interest in what must be the lowliest member of his crew. “Is there anything else, Captain?”

  It was his turn to look shy. “I don’t even know how to ask this.” Then he said, “I’d like to eat with you and Gran and Pete tonight, if it’s allowed.”

  Nana thought of Miss Edgar, and her years of solitude. “It’s allowed,” was all she could say, and drat if her eyes didn’t start to fill with tears, thinking of how pleased Gran would be.

  “What did I say to make you melancholy?”

  His voice was soft, and she called on all her resources not to fling her arms around him and give him a hug he wouldn’t soon forget. “I’ll tell you sometime,” she replied, and left the room.

  My God, what a lady, he thought, as the door closed behind Nana Massie. I wonder if she had any idea how close she just came to getting a hug from a whiskery man with a bad throat.

  He would have asked Nana to eat breakfast with him, when she came back, but before he could ask, she assured him she had already eaten; he believed her. She didn’t leave until she had appropriated all of his shirts and smallclothes. She had that same “I dare you to say no” look on her face from yesterday, so he did not argue.

  “I couldn’t help but notice the rash on your neck, Captain, when I applied the poultice,” she told him, her cheeks red. “I am certain that comes from washing your clothes in sea water.”

  He had no plans to ever enlighten her about the merry hell smallclothes washed in brine played with his crotch and thighs. “Freshwater laundry is one of my chiefest delights on land, Miss Massie,” he said. “I trust you are assigning this task to your scullery maid.”

  “I am,” she said. “That way you can pay her a little something for her efforts.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She sucked all the air of the room when she left, which made it hard for him to concentrate on the leather box of ship’s papers she had taken from his sea trunk under his direction and brought to the bed. Once he resigned himself to solitude, he spent the morning catching up on paperwork, stopping occasionally for short naps.

  He was napping when his powder monkey knocked on the door. His eyes wide at seeing his commander in a nightshirt and in bed—something unheard of on the Tireless—Matthew nearly forgot to knuckle his forehead.

  Oliver, keeping his expression serious, gave Matthew a moment to collect himself, before holding out his hand for the papers the boy carried. He gestured toward the chair and Matthew sat down on the edge of it, his cap tight in his fingers.

  The news from Childers was bad. The damage to the stern was greater than he suspected, and several crossbeams in the hold would have to be replaced. Oliver stifled a groan and kept reading. However, he read silently, I know the urgency. I will pull workers from the frigate going up in the ways and assign them to the crossbeams. I don’t think we’ll lose much time.

  “Bless you, Mr. Childers,” Oliver said out loud. He beamed and looked at the powder monkey. “This is good news, Matthew.”

  The boy knew better than to address his captain first, especially when he hadn’t been asked a question. His eyes brightened, though, as he looked at Oliver.

  “Are you ready for some errands?”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Before Oliver could continue, Nana knocked at the door, then came in, carrying two books.

  He could tell from the trees swaying outside the window that it was a blustery day. The red bloom on Nana’s cheeks confirmed that it was also cold. He watched her, marveling again at how flawless her skin was, except for the disarming freckles across the bridge of her nose. He happened to glance at Matthew, and noticed the little boy was staring, too. Yes, Matthew, that is what a lady looks like, he thought. We don’t see many in the Channel Fleet, do we?

  To Oliver’s delight, Matthew leaped to his feet and managed a rustic bow. Nana curtseyed back, her eyes full of fun.

  “You must be Matthew, whom Captain Worthy is trusting with his messages,” she said.

  “Aye, sir,” Matthew said, then stopped, confused.

  It has been a long time, Oliver thought. “You should say, ‘Aye, miss,’” he said gently.

  She set the books by the bed, then turned to Matthew, who was watching her every move, to Oliver’s amusement. “Before he sends you on errands, there is at least one meat pie in the kitchen. If the captain will permit it, I will take you down there.”

  “Only if you will bring one back for me,” Oliver said, putting aside the papers.

  “Perhaps, Captain,” she replied, which caused Matthew’s eyes to nearly pop from his skull. “I would rather you had clear soup and perhaps some applesauce.”

  Matthew couldn’t help himself. “Gor, miss, for contradiction, he’ll have you flogged!”

  “He wouldn’t dare,” Nana replied.

  Matthew stared back at him, the color draining from his face.

  “You have to understand something about ladies, Matthew,” he told the boy, as he observed the glee on Nana’s face. “They think they know best. On land, perhaps they do. I would not for the world cross Miss Massie.”

  Matthew gulped. He inched closer to the bed and whispered, “Pardon me for speaking out of turn, sir, but doesn’t she know who you are?”

  “I don’t think she precisely understands, Matthew,” he whispered back. “I am humoring her.”

  The boy could think of nothing else to say. He bowed to Oliver and left the room. In another moment he was clattering down the stairs.

  Nana watched the powder monkey go. She turned to Oliver. “Who terrified him most, you or me?” she said.

  Oliver leaned back on the pillows. “Probably me. He’s never even seen me sit down before, and here I am, sprawled in bed. And in a nightshirt yet.”

  “You don’t sprawl,” she said, and then blushed, realizing, perhaps, it wasn’t an observation she should mention.

  He looked at her, a question in his eyes.

  “Maybe it’s all your years swinging in a hammock,” she explained. “You sleep very straight.”

  He hadn’t ever thought of that before. “I suppose I do,” he murmured. “You’re an observant lady.”

  She only smiled again, knuckled her forehead in perfect imitation of Matthew’s salute and left the room.

  Don’t observe me too closely, Oliver thought, as the door closed. You might discover I can’t take my eyes off you, either. He pulled the leather case onto his lap again and took out a sheet of paper. He had nothing more than a pencil at hand, but it would do. It was time to compose a letter to Lord Ratliffe, to let him know how his daughter was doing.

  My dear sir, he began, and got no further. His High Exalted undersecretary at Admiralty House had asked for some word of Nana, to find out how she was faring, after she had bolted from his protection five years ago. It would be a simple matter to tell Lord Ratliffe, a concerned-if-absent parent, that times were harsh at the Mulberry, and Nana deserved better. If she were my daughter, I would want to do more, Oliver thought. Surely Lord Ratliffe is of the same mind.

  Strangely, every instinct told him not to spill it all out. He could not dodge the uneasy feeling that there was more to the story than Lord Ratliffe
was revealing. He had no evidence of anything, but Oliver knew his intuition was sound. It had saved his life and his ship on many occasions, and there was no reason to think things had changed, now that he was temporarily stoved up and cast ashore in a shabby inn.

  If she were my daughter, he thought, and picked up the pencil. He set it down again, allowing himself the luxury of an errant idea. If she were my wife, I could take care of her. The idea was so absurd that he chuckled. Nana had more sense than to leg shackle herself to a captain in the Channel Fleet. And he had more sense than to ever suggest it. Still, the idea intrigued him enough to write “Captain and Mrs. Oliver Worthy” on a scrap of paper, then ball it up and pitch it into the fire.

  My dear Lord Ratliffe,

  As you can imagine, in this season of blockade and war, times are a little tough in Plymouth. Let me assure you, however, that your daughter, Eleanor Massie, is doing very well. The Mulberry continues to enjoy the custom of the trade. It could use more, certainly, but I would assure you that Miss Massie is in good hands.

  He put down the pencil again, wondering if he was referring to himself. Hadn’t he ordered victuals for the Mulberry? He could do more. He picked up the pencil.

  He heard Nana on the stairs—probably bringing him soup, and another of Pete’s draughts—and put the letter away. He would finish it that afternoon and send it with Matthew, with orders to give it to Mr. Ramseur, who would post it. He thought about what he had written, knowing most of it was a lie. The Mulberry was in desperate shape, and Nana was too thin.

  Why was he lying to the one person who could do the most good for his daughter? I wish I knew, he told himself as Nana knocked on the door. All he knew was that his instincts had never failed him before, and he couldn’t see why they would now.

  Another thought occurred to him, and he didn’t even try to brush it away. He had assured himself for years and years that he knew better than to fall in love and inflict some poor female with a husband who had no idea how long he would survive the sea and a war that had outlived one century and was wearing away on another.

  That was the biggest lie of all.

  Chapter Six

  After another bout of misgivings, Oliver sent off the letter.

  Sal outdid herself. There was a freshwater shirt, slightly damp under the arms, ready for him to wear to dinner that night. At Nana’s command, Sal and Pete had heated and hauled water to the tub in the bathroom, where he enjoyed a lengthy soak.

  Upstairs in his room again, he scraped away at his face, wishing there was something he could do to eliminate the myriad lines around his eyes, the product of years at sea, standing on a weather deck. She would never believe I was thirty, even if I swore on a pile of Bibles, he thought as he frowned into the tiny mirror. And I declare I have only seen thinner lips on a Scotsman, Lord help us.

  At least he didn’t have a paunch, like any number of high-fleshed landsmen he had noticed on his rapid journeys to and from Admiralty House. He couldn’t think of any captains in the Channel Fleet who had a superabundance of flesh. He didn’t think he could still fit into his midshipman’s trousers, though. Parts of him had grown since those days, which was only to be expected. At any rate, none of the hired women he had serviced in various ports had ever complained.

  And that is enough of that, he told himself, as he buttoned his breeches. Why would they complain? He paid them. He couldn’t help but think of his father, and all his admonitions about cold baths and rigorous discipline of the mind. All baths at sea were cold, and no rigor of mind could ever compete with the combination of long months at sea, followed by a few weeks in port, where women were eager to please.

  Think of something else, he ordered himself, as he tied his neckcloth and tried not to look himself in the eye. He stared at his throat as he finished with the neckcloth, grateful it wasn’t giving him much trouble. The boulders and rocks were gone, and there were only the smallest of pebbles now. His head still felt stuffy because of the ache in his ears, but he was used to that chronic ailment of the deep-water sailor.

  There wasn’t any reason he couldn’t return to dry docks tomorrow, and make Mr. Childers’s life miserable. Oliver knew he should have felt more highly charged at the thought, but it was accompanied by the reality that he would only see Nana Massie in early morning and in the evening. He left his room, not even bothering to remind himself that he was impervious to females. That was a humbug.

  Matthew waited for him at the foot of the stairs, springing up at once when he saw him.

  “Matthew, are you wearing a new shirt?”

  “Aye, sir.” The boy paused, wondering if he should say more.

  “And?” Oliver prompted.

  “Mr. Ramseur got it from the slops chest for me,” Matthew said, his eyes bright. “He thought I should look more presentable.”

  “He was right,” Oliver agreed, touched to notice how many times Matthew had rolled up the sleeves to accommodate his small size. “I will tell him to charge it to me.”

  With Matthew walking behind him at a proper distance, Oliver went through the sitting room and the deserted dining room and into the corridor. He knocked on the door at the end of the hall, and Sal opened it, beaming up at him and curtseying.

  He bowed in return, which set her giggling. “Sal, my compliments,” he told her. “You took all the brine out of this shirt, which places me forever in your debt.”

  He had struck her dumb. Her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide, she could only bob another curtsey, then whirl about and run away. “Sal! You are supposed to usher us in,” he called after her.

  She didn’t stop until she ran into Nana, who grabbed her, laughed, swatted the back of her dress gently and continued her on her retreat to the kitchen.

  “Are you frightening my crew?” Nana teased.

  “I paid her a compliment,” he replied. “Honestly, I did.”

  “Did he really, Matthew?” she asked, looked around Oliver.

  “Aye, si—Miss.” The boy looked up at him, shock in his eyes.

  “Matthew, if you ever doubted me, I would have had you flogged. But we cannot do that to Miss Massie,” Oliver said. “She is a lady and a landlubber. She doesn’t know our rules.”

  No she doesn’t, he reminded himself, as he followed Nana down the narrow hallway, enjoying the sway of her skirts. She wore a lighter-colored dress, but he could tell she had cinched it tight across the back because it no longer fit her slim frame. How can I get more meat on those bones? he asked himself. There must be a way. Perhaps Gran or Pete would let me help.

  Dinner was everything he had hoped it would be: broiled lamb chops, crusty but still pink inside; small potatoes cooked in a mushroom sauce; and the best navy bean soup he had ever eaten. Gran finished the dinner with a flourish, bringing in a dried plum duff, savory and moist.

  True, a dinner at the Drake would have included more removes and the best smuggled sherry afterward, plus a tray of cheese. All the Mulberry could offer was hot cider and a block of cheddar, but the cider went down easily, and he was quite satisfied with the cheese, which was the same kind issued to ships at sea.

  Oliver looked around the table. They were comfortably crowded together—Sal and Matthew on one side, Gran and Pete at opposite ends, and Nana next to him—and the small space reminded him of his own wardroom on the Tireless. He felt completely at home.

  It was better than the Tireless because Nana sat beside him. At first, he wished that she had been seated across from him, so he could look at her without appearing obvious. He decided that having her beside him was even better. Now and then her sleeve brushed against his because she was left-handed.

  She had apologized the first time she bumped his arm and offered to switch places, but he told her not to worry. She didn’t press the matter or insist, which made him dare think she might enjoy the proximity, too.

  Next to her nearness, Oliver found himself relishing the way Nana conversed with her grandmama. From Lord Ratliffe, he knew that Miss Pym�
��s Female Academy must have trained and fit Eleanor Massie for the most elegant society. And here she was, so at ease and obviously loving the grandmother who probably had no education beyond what came her way from hard living in Plymouth. Common was written all over Gran’s face, same as Pete’s and Sal’s, but there was nothing common in Nana’s regard for these people dearest to her.

  You walk such a fine line, he thought, as he dared a glance at Nana, and you do it so gracefully. He could understand why Mrs. Fillion bullied her into taking pasties, and the wigmaker had overpaid so outrageously for a hank of lovely hair. All Plymouth knew Nana was a diamond in a midden. So did he.

  The only mystery to him throughout the meal was Gran herself, who seemed on the verge of tears. She didn’t seem like a woman easily intimidated by a naval uniform, and he knew better than to use his shipboard voice in the confines of a building. He couldn’t help but notice how she would glance his way and then bite her lip, as though keeping back tears. Maybe he could ask Nana about it later, when Gran wasn’t around.

  Dinner ended too soon to suit him, especially when the women of the Mulberry rose to clear the table. He didn’t know what taboo he might be breaking, but Oliver couldn’t bear the thought of Nana disappearing for a long time with dirty dishes. He cleared his throat, regretted it, then spoke up.

  “Mrs. Massie, since you conn this frigate, may I ask your permission to come aboard in the kitchen, too? And Matthew? If we helped with the cleanup, then perhaps your granddaughter would consent to read to us from Robinson Crusoe.”

  He had startled her. He thought she would burst into full-blown tears then, but she mastered them, and nodded. “We welcome the help, Captain,” she said. “We all enjoy hearing Nana read out loud.”

  Bliss. After Nana insisted he remove his uniform jacket, Gran gave him an apron and set him to work at the sink with Nana. He knew better than to even glance Matthew’s way. The sight of his captain, lord and master in an apron would probably overset him and lead to either a fit of the giggles he would regret, or completely ruin him for the sea.