by Jo Beverley
“Behold, the Grand Panjandrum passes!” Simon declared, waving to a passerby as he swayed down toward the wharf. “Bow down and worship.”
“Stop it!” Jancy hissed at him.
She’d persuaded him that all the men should carry loaded pistols, but he’d clearly thought her demented. “Who could possibly feel strongly enough to try to assassinate me as I leave, especially as they probably all want to see me gone?”
He was proved right. The few people they passed either stared at the display or saluted in farewell, but they reached the ship without incident.
She hadn’t thought to worry about the ship. It was very small and it bobbed against the wharf, already making her feel sick.
“Behold the good ship Ferret,” Simon declared. “Take me aboard, slaves.”
Jancy looked at Hal. “You’ve hired a boat called the Ferret?”
“I sailed on one called the Weasel, which seemed preferable to the Haddock. Ferrets are clever little beasts and skillful predators.”
Jancy wanted to roll her eyes at anyone teaching a Haskett about ferrets, one of the prime tools of a poacher, but mostly she was frightened. After the journey here, she hated ships.
The men were carrying Simon up the narrow, wobbly plank. Once he was safely aboard, she exhaled, but now it was her turn. Reminding herself that this was the only route to safety, she focused on Simon and rushed across the rickety plank.
A black-toothed sailor had to almost catch her, and he seemed typical of the small crew.
“How safe are they?” she muttered to Simon once she reached his side.
“I doubt they have mischief in mind, but if they do, we have five armed escorts.”
She hugged herself. “I don’t like boats. They’re just bits of wood and they go down all the time, even on the lake.”
Captain Norton was already aboard, positively gleaming in his scarlet-and-white uniform. “Hearts of oak and all that, ma’am,” he said.
“If the Ferret’s made of hearts of oak, I’ll eat my hat.”
“It probably is, you know,” Simon remarked. “One thing Canada does not lack is excellent timber. Try to relax, love.”
“I hate the way boats move. What if I’m sick?”
He took her gloved hand and squeezed it. “You’re thinking of your cousin. That won’t happen to you. I swear it.”
“Is Canute one of your ancestors, too? Are you able to control the waves? If God had meant people to go on the water, He’d have given us feathers and webbed feet!”
“Don’t make me laugh.”
She made herself calm down. “I’m sorry.” She looked around. “So this is our domain.”
The men might be right that it was sturdy and safe, but the Ferret had little else to recommend it. The deck was dirty and crowded with boxes, sacks, and even crates of poultry and squealing piglets, so that there was little space for passengers at all. Perhaps the livestock explained the stink, but she suspected much of it was more established than that.
The one hatch in the middle of the deck was open, and the ruffian crew were lowering their luggage down there. She almost wanted to protest, but there was nowhere better. She hoped the Ferret didn’t leak.
A wooden structure at one end probably contained the captain’s quarters. There had to be a captain. She sought the man giving orders and found someone no smarter in appearance than the rest except for a battered old braided bicorn hat.
When the loading was done, he lit a long clay pipe, puffed on it, and came over with a rolling gait. “Angus Lawrie,” he declared in a thick Scottish accent, revealing only a half complement of teeth. “Welcome to the Ferret, sir, ma’am. She’s a sturdy ship, and we’ll have you safe to Kingston within the week.”
“What news of the weather?” Simon asked.
“Aye, well,” the captain said, chewing on his pipe. “The river’s a wee bit ahead of itself this year. But don’t you worry. It’ll stay open for some weeks yet.”
Captain Lawrie turned away to bark unintelligible commands, and his men set about casting off. The plank, their last link to land, was dragged in, leaving them at the mercy of the water.
Mrs. Gunn’s grandsons waved and Jancy waved back, even though bile was rising in her throat. The ship was hardly tossing at all, so if she really was about to be sick it would be from fear of being sick. She focused on Simon. “How are you?”
“In perfect trim.” He was not, however, immediately attempting to stand, so she knew the journey must have been painful.
“Can you breathe properly?”
He inhaled in and out. “If I’d rebroken the rib and punctured my lung, I’d know it. Help me up.”
She wanted to protest but summoned Oglethorpe to help, for if Simon started to fall, she couldn’t catch him.
Halfway upright he hissed, but he made it, and after a moment, he said, “That’s better.” He made it to the rail, which gave him some support.
Jancy glanced at Hal and rolled her eyes, but she didn’t blame Simon for wanting to be on his feet. She joined him just as the sails caught the wind, and the Ferret shuddered, as if excited to be off. The water between ship and shore lengthened. They were now truly at the mercy of untrustworthy water.
“I’ll miss the colors,” Simon said.
She looked at him, astonished that he could be so calm—but then everyone was, from the pipe-puffing captain to the crew member who was coiling rope. She was the only one panicking. She clutched the rail and fixed her gaze on a scarlet tree.
She even began to appreciate the beauty. The rising sun broke through clouds, highlighting the town and garrison set against a glorious patchwork of greens, golds, yellows, and flaming reds. As they moved farther from shore, the scenery was reflected in the lake, creating a rippling tapestry.
“Better now?” he asked.
She smiled for him. “Yes.” She asked Hal, “Where are our accommodations? Simon can’t go below.”
“If I have to . . .”
“Don’t worry,” Hal said. “The captain has surrendered his cabin. It’s not much, but it’ll do.”
“Happy to oblige, ma’am,” the captain called in so cheerful a voice that Jancy was sure he’d been paid a ridiculous amount.
Hal opened a warped door that led to the hut, and Jancy went in, ducking slightly. She didn’t need to, but the beams were low enough to make her feel her head was threatened. On shore, this space would count more as a hovel. It had two windows, both dirty. She tried them, and one actually opened. Thank heavens. The room had a sour, stale stink.
“It’s not much, I know,” Hal said, “but the Ferret was the only possibility, and despite appearances it’s said to be a sound ship and Lawrie to be a good seaman.”
“This room can be reached without a ladder and has fresh air. It’s perfect.”
“You’re very gracious. The Eweretta will be a grand improvement. She’s famous for her comforts.”
He went back on deck and Jancy took stock of the room.
Much of the limited space was stacked with cargo, but at least there was no livestock in here. Some of the smell could be coming from the barrels and boxes, but she thought most was simply long-term lack of cleanliness. Regretfully, she closed the window. A black metal stove was providing heat and they’d need that.
She was tempted to roll up her sleeves and scrub, but it would be a labor of Hercules, and anyway, she was sure Mrs. Simon St. Bride wasn’t supposed to scrub her own floors.
Remember your Haskett days, she told herself. Then this will seem like luxury.
At least they’d brought their own bedding. And the bed would fit two—just. She pulled back the greasy gray coverlet, thinking things were looking up.
Someone tapped on the open door.
She turned to see Treadwell ducking in. “I’ll do that, ma’am.”
Jancy stepped back, aware of a faux pas. She must learn to use servants, to assume they would do things rather than doing them herself. When he’d stripped the bed, howe
ver, she stared at the stained mattress. “I wish I’d brought our own bed.”
“Indeed, ma’am. Excuse me.”
He left and soon returned with a roll of canvas. He spread it over the mattress and tucked it in on either side. “A little trick I learned, ma’am. Ships always have extra sailcloth.”
Perhaps using servants would be wise. They were, after all, professionals. Jancy left Treadwell to his expert work and went back on deck to join Simon. “Shouldn’t you sit again?”
She had expected a fight, but he agreed. Yes, he was in pain. The cabin, for all its shortcomings, would be theirs alone and quite far from others, but clearly there’d be no lovemaking yet.
“I feel like a decrepit ancient,” he complained as he sank carefully back into his chair.
“Consider yourself to be a Turkish pasha.”
He grinned. “What an intriguing idea. A pasha would have a hundred wives.”
“Which I’m sure would be a great relief to them, pashas being pashas.”
“And what do you know about pashas?”
“Nothing, but I assume they are all Grand Panjandrums.”
“With horses’ tails instead of little round buttons,” Hal said.
“What?” Jancy and Simon said it in unison, turning to him.
Hal was leaning against the rail nearby. “I served for a while in the eastern Mediterranean. The importance of a pasha is shown by the number of horse tails hanging from his pennant. If I’d known you were going to take this fancy, Simon, I’d have raided the stables.”
Suddenly everything felt brighter. They were away. The threat of York was shrinking with the town, and if the crew were ruffians, they wouldn’t take on Hal, Norton, Treadwell, and Oglethorpe, not to mention Simon, who was probably up to a fight now if necessary.
Even nature smiled on them. There was just enough wind for steady travel without choppy waves and the sun came and went. And after days of terror and urgency, suddenly there was nothing to do. Soon, she suspected, she’d be bored, but for now, idleness felt like luxury.
The Ferret had an eating area belowdecks, next to a crude galley, but as Simon couldn’t get down there, they ate picnic style on the deck and enjoyed it. They were all warmly dressed, and the simple food was surprisingly good.
Breakfast was strong tea, bread and butter, sliced ham, and hard-boiled eggs. For the midafternoon dinner they were served bread and stew, but good bread and stew, with apple pies and cheese for dessert. As the sun set, they were offered bread, cheese, and ale.
They’d brought their own supplies, so they had fresh fruit, wine, and coffee as well. Simon offered coffee to the crew, but they declared themselves happy with tea, ale, and grog—watered rum.
That evening, Jancy sat on the hatch by Simon’s chair, sipping coffee and watching the sky pale as the sun disappeared. “It’s like mother-of-pearl.”
“Nature’s magnificence.”
When she turned to him, he was looking at her. “Don’t.”
“You are magnificent, Jane. What remarkable courage and strength you’ve shown.”
She looked back at the sky. “I’m nothing out of the ordinary.”
“There’s nothing out of the ordinary about the setting of the sun. It happens every day, yet people are regularly brought to awe by it. Like love.”
She turned back to him. “Nothing out of the ordinary?”
“It’s common enough coin, there for the beggar and the king, the sinner and the saint. Yet wondrous.” He took her hand and carried it to his lips. She wasn’t wearing her gloves.
“You’re cold,” he said. “Do you want to go inside?”
To their private room with their private bed? Longings vibrated between them, but they couldn’t. Not yet. “Of course. Do you want to walk there?”
“I believe I can manage that.”
Jancy gave him her arm and they made the short, unsteady journey. She knew Hal and Norton were standing by in case. They made it, however. Simon was getting stronger all the time. Was it possible?
Treadwell was waiting to prepare Simon for bed. Of course, servants.
Jancy backed away. “I’ll return in a few minutes.”
Norton went down the ladder, but Hal came to join her at the rail. The last trace of light had faded, making a mystery of the universe. A sailor lit a lantern hanging on the mast, and the Ferret rattled down an anchor for the night.
“I’m not used to servants,” she confessed, tucking her hands in her muff.
“You will be. It’s like a clean, warm bed—easy to take to.”
Remembering her transformation from vagrancy to middle-class comfort, she was soothed.
“You came here for such a little while,” she said. “Was it worth it, all this traveling?”
“To assist Simon, yes.”
“Did you come to find him, then?”
He was leaning his left hip against the ship, facing her.
“In a way. I had reasons for making the journey, but Simon’s parents asked me to seek him out and bring him home.”
“What if he hadn’t wanted to?”
“Guilt is a powerful weapon.”
“Why guilt?”
“They want their wandering prince home.”
“Prince?”
“You know that St. Brides tend to stay close to the hive, as Simon puts it?”
“No.” Next to being with Simon, talking about Simon was her most precious delight.
“They’re famous for it,” Hal said. “They don’t wander. Don’t go to sea or into the army, and if the sons choose the church, there’s always a parish somewhere within fifty miles or so. The daughters marry into local families.”
“They say that isn’t healthy.”
“Not that local, but they don’t go to London, meet a gentleman from Sussex, and make their home there. The boys don’t go far to school. Simon shouldn’t have been at Harrow, but he had wanderlust even then, and his passion for just causes. It really is as well he didn’t join the army. Even at school, he was often in hot water.”
He told some school stories that illustrated Simon’s tendency to seek out adventure and fight injustice. Stories, like Simon’s, full of titles.
Treadwell emerged and went below. It was time to go, but Jancy had to ask, “Simon really is in line for an earldom?”
“Yes. Marlowe. It bothers you?”
“Is that like a clean, warm bed?”
In the weak candlelight she saw him smile. “With rich, heraldic hangings.”
She said good night and went into the captain’s cabin. It was lit by a single, glass-guarded candle, which softened the squalor. Treadwell had hung a sheet around a box that held a basin and washing water. Simon was in bed, lying down normally, with room beside him for her. “Welcome,” he said softly.
This was their first night for going to bed together in a normal way. She smiled at him as she discarded her muff and cloak.
“We should have hired a maid for you.”
“I don’t need one.”
“True. I’ll be your maid on the voyage, and you my valet.”
It was a delightful prospect. She went toward the shielding curtain, but he said, “Will you undress for me?”
Heat rising, she almost refused. It felt so much more deliberate than their mad stripping the night before the duel. But when Simon looked at her like that, she could deny him nothing.
Exposed in candlelight, she unfastened the front of her gown, her unsteady fingers clumsy. Then she untied the lace that tightened the gown beneath her breasts and took it off, aware of how plain her undergarments were. He didn’t seem disappointed.
“You men are easy to please, aren’t you?” she teased.
“Of course, but I’m hoping for more.”
Remembering her play with her garter, she took her time about removing her stockings, but then let her shift drop again. She slowly unhooked the front of her bodice, wondering if an ordinary woman, a decent woman, would enjoy this as she was. Would da
lly, eyes on his, drawing out the moment.
She thrilled to the change in his face as her breasts were freed, even though they were still covered by the shift. When she shrugged off the bodice and dropped it on the floor, his eyes darkened. She covered her suddenly swollen, tingling breasts, not to hide them, but to comfort them.
They couldn’t, could they?
He closed his eyes. “Alas, you’d better blow out the light.”
Swallowing disappointment, she washed behind the screen and hurried into her nightgown. She blew out the candle and then slipped into the bed beside him. He took her hand.
“On the Eweretta,” he said. “But no more games until then. I don’t think I can bear it.”
Commanding her body to calm, she snuggled against him. “This is good, too, though, isn’t it?”
“A small compensation. No, more than small.” He kissed her hair. “To be together, in peace, and on our way to a happy lifetime, is almost enough.”
Chapter Nineteen
Jancy woke the next morning to cold air. The stove had gone out, but she didn’t care. She was warm beneath the covers, and Simon was by her side. He was right. It was almost enough.
They’d talked in the dark, going over events in York, both recent and distant. He’d told her something of his experiences during the war that made her grateful she hadn’t been in love with him then. She gave silent thanks that Britain was now at peace.
She’d told him more of her time in Carlisle, blending her own experiences and Jane’s. If this was to work, she had to overcome her squeamishness about lying. It was all true, just not all about her. Now, in the morning light, she felt more rested and at peace than since before Isaiah’s death. Even the motion of the ship, now clearly under way again, seemed pleasant.
“Sleeping with you is a cure for all ills,” she told him, rolling to kiss his cheek.
Lazily smiling, he asked, “Should I advertise?”
“I’d have to shoot all customers.” She sat up. “It must be late.”
“Late for what?” His fingers played on her back. “We have nothing to do but be carried by the wind.”