by Beverly Adam
She stared at him, blinked, almost afraid to breathe lest he should stop.
“I’ll call you as you wish . . . ,” she whispered, trying to focus, a haze of desire fogging her vision. “We are supposed to be betrothed. It would be, um . . . proper, Robert.”
“It would indeed,” he said, and bending towards her placed his other hand behind her back, pulling her closer to him.
He lowered his head and his mouth descended on hers.
It tasted of the fresh salt sea air and the sweets he had consumed during the celebrations. It piqued her hidden desires to be with him again and again. The gentle pressure of his mouth against her own felt oh, so wonderful. She leaned into him, wordlessly asking for more.
He tightened his hold.
It warmed her, making her head swim and all of her senses come alive. To be kissed, like this as a betrothed couple would, in front of all the crew and their families, by the man she had been yearning for these past few weeks, left her heady with happiness. The sobering recognition that he found her as attractive as she did him made her almost giddy.
He must have developed some tender feelings for her. She thought with a flutter of a butterfly in her stomach. And was he referring to her when he spoke of his future wife’s interests? Or was it wishful thinking on her part?
Oh, how she wanted to ask him. Such intimate confidences made her hopeful. She wanted to love again. And be loved.
The gold ring was a constant reminder of her first love. She remembered the moment he’d given it to her. It had been when John Maxwell in his sweet fumbling way, asked her to be his wife.
There had been a purpose behind giving her the ring. And she knew it had nothing to do with a love charm. It was to remind her that she had loved and was capable of being loved in return. Although John was gone, and she grieved his loss, she knew she was able to go on living and feel those wonderful, tender emotions with someone else.
She no longer had to be alone. She did not have to live with only bittersweet memories to warm her. She could be part of the present and feel those heady sensations for another.
As Robert reached for her once more, to embrace her with another tender kiss, she knew in that moment all those wonderful hopes and promises a woman could have for one man. She placed her head against his shoulder and let him kiss her.
She was comforted by the thought that he had grown to care for her. Her feelings were not one sided. Maybe his affection for her would grow into something upon which they could build a future together. Perhaps he would ask her to continue to be by his side after they uncovered the identity of the murderer.
She put her hand on top of his. The ring shone in the moonlight. At that moment she felt safe with him and believed anything was possible between them . . . even love.
* * *
Suddenly, they heard a howling cry of feminine grief. It effectively broke the feeling of calm well-being to those celebrating aboard. A young woman cloaked in a long black ermine cloak stood at the top of the ship’s gang-plank.
Robert groaned inwardly. She had arrived.
Several officers of various ages were heard trying to dissuade her from coming aboard. But to no avail . . . she brushed them aside with forceful determination.
The young artist, Fiona Foxworthy, was famous for having tantrums at the slightest provocation. Sensitivity of feeling, an artistic temperament embraced by Lord Byron and his poetic friends, took on an entirely new meaning when the mercurial dancer was near. The young dancer could make an old slattern seem placid by comparison.
Robert grimly remembered a past encounter with one of her hairbrushes. Fiona had thrown it at him after he’d bluntly turned down her offer to become one of her many admirers. He had other plans for his life and his money. The modest investments he’d made, he hoped would carry him through into old age. As a result of maintaining a tight-fist on his earnings, he’d earned the sorry reputation for being a tea-drinking-sober-sides. A man disinterested in wine, women, and song. That wasn’t entirely true, though. There was one woman who had occupied his mind a great deal of late. He looked over at Sarah, who was watching the dancer’s approach with great fascination. Sarah could make a man forget his very own name.
“I must see where my beloved Captain Jackson breathed his last—where he spent his final days . . . ,” wailed the young woman, disregarding the fact that she’d already been told he had died upon a small island off the shores of southern Ireland.
“Step aside,” she said imperiously to one of the young seamen who tried to dissuade her. She placed a hand dramatically across her brow and pushed him away with the other.
“I must commune with the air where he breathed his last words . . . I must touch where my beloved captain once laid his head to rest and be with those who knew him. Yes, I must be allowed to share my grief with all of those who served so valiantly with him!”
The beautiful young lady paused in her tirade. She looked about the top deck, trying to locate one of the ranked officers. It was evident she had come aboard to pay her respects. And she was not to be deterred from her mission.
She was in fact, looking for an officer to take Captain Jackson’s place as her protector. It would be a gentleman who would be as accommodating as her dear departed lover. He would therefore have to be someone who already knew of her whimsically demanding ways, someone who was close to the late captain and felt guilty for having survived . . . aye, someone like the handsome first mate.
She spied the newly appointed Master and Commander Robert Smythe.
Her painted lips pursed into a frown. A comely young woman with long guinea-colored hair had her hand clasped with the first officer’s. This fact Fiona chose to ignore. She had heard rumors about his unconventional match with an Irish wise woman. No matter—she’d already decided upon her target.
“Yoo-hoo . . . Lieutenant Smythe!” Fiona cried, waving her handkerchief.
She effortlessly pulled away from her group of admirers, trailing behind her, and hurried up the steps to the officers’ quarter-deck.
Robert gave a low groan of dismay and muttered a curse under his breath—the sort an officer did not utter in mixed company. But in this case, Sarah excused him. She thought of a few choice words of her own in Irish.
Their perfect evening had come to an abrupt end.
He gently disengaged himself from her and stood to politely greet the new arrival. It was sadly his duty to be kind to Captain Jackson’s mistress in this, her hour of mourning.
“Mistress Foxworthy,” he said as a short way of introduction for Sarah’s benefit. “And this is my betrothed, wise woman Sarah Duncan.”
Ignoring the young woman seated next to him, the dancer threw herself into the master commander’s arms. She began to sob loudly, pushing her pretty face into his wool coat.
“My heart is broken.” She sniffled into his chest. “Completely broken . . .”
Robert tried to gently extricate himself. But she was not to be moved. She clung to him, like a tenacious barnacle with sharp nails.
“He’s gone, Lieutenant—left me all alone!” she cried out. “How could Captain Jackson leave me this way? How could he die, Lieutenant? And how shall I ever be comforted by his loss? I am so utterly alone in this cruel, cruel world. Whatever shall I do?”
By now a small group of her admirers stood at the bottom of the quarter-deck, looking up in adoration at the winsome vixen. A few of them, moved by her speech, softly uttered pledges to help her, to support her in her hour of grief.
“Darling Fiona, I’ll take care of you,” said one.
“Miss Foxworthy, you need never be alone again, Reginald dearest will provide,” cried out another. One young fellow even went so far as to boldly declare, “I’ll make you my wife, Fiona, and we’ll live happily together, my dear!”
But this more serious declaration of love was met with outright anger. Several of the more senior admirers, who were married, gave the lovesick swain a hearty shove. In return, the offend
ed young dandy delivered a perfectly aimed facer.
Sensing that a riot might occur and ignoring the fact that some of Fiona’s admirers were higher ranking officers than him, Robert said loudly, “The next man to raise a hand will be put in the brig for a week! There’s to be no fighting aboard this frigate.”
Meaningfully, he eyed the gentlemen below.
“You are all my guests here. I will come after the first Jack man of you who puts a single toe out of line!”
He nodded to the two marines who were standing sentry by the captain’s door. They descended and stood by the brawling gentlemen. Spirits quickly calmed at the sight of the bayonets the marines held.
Sarah directed her own attention at the cook. “Get the gentlemen some punch, Mr. Baker. They must be thirsty and in want of some hospitality. We must make them feel welcome with some good cheer.”
“Aye, aye, Mistress Duncan.” The old seaman grinned, winking up at her as he saluted her. He went off in search of some spirits for the lovesick gentlemen.
Fiona, as if all this attention and fuss were perfectly normal, dabbed her eyes with a white handkerchief. She sniffed prettily and patted one of her blonde curls back into place. Slowly, she removed herself from Robert’s person. Her scene was finished.
The audience, with the exception of the commander and his betrothed, had responded exactly as she’d desired. It had all been most satisfactory.
She gave a smug smile to Sarah. She preened, thinking of how she would have her choice of protectors to choose from on the morrow. In a few weeks she would take off the mourning colors of black and gray, and once again become the fetching Venus of the Royal Naval Officer’s Club.
Robert let loose a small sigh. What he did not need now was for one of these admiring senior officers to take it into their head to become jealous of him. He had enough trouble as it was. He didn’t need to be labeled a seafaring Casanova and be connected with the hot-tempered, grieving vixen. Gently taking Sarah by the arm, he strategically placed her between himself and the calculating minx.
He planted a possessive hand about the wise woman’s waist. It was a clear indicator as to where his affections lay. He was interested in one woman only, the winsome lady he wrapped his arm around.
The crew and group of admirers below noted this. Aye, it wasn’t the late Captain Jackson’s mistress, the master and commander of The Brunswick would be spending his shore leave with, that was fair certain.
Fiona peeked around Sarah and looked at him. As if reading his thoughts, she made a face and whispered aloud, “Coward.”
The vixen flounced over to the quarter-deck railing, surveying her small group of admirers. Deliberately, she released her handkerchief into the air and watched with a smug smile of satisfaction as it floated gently down to the deck below.
All eyes were upon the small white piece of cloth.
Mayhem ensued and an all-out brawl broke out.
Officers, regardless of rank, jumped upon other gentlemen, trying to elbow the others out of the way, seeking the small prize. Grunts and loud curses filled the air . . . until, with a howl of delight, a victor emerged.
A sprightly senior officer with almost six decades on him crawled out of the pile of flailing arms, legs, and hands. His white wig sat askew on his balding head. He stood up and brushed off his clothes and walked purposefully towards the quarter-deck with the sang-froid of a man used to doing battle.
He carried the white handkerchief aloft in one hand.
Eyeing the steps, he ascended them with the vigor of one half his years. Ignoring the venomous stares of the other gentlemen, he presented the handkerchief to the lovely Fiona.
“Oh, Rear Admiral, how gallant of you.” The beauty simpered, placing a hand upon her heart. She batted her lashes at him, rewarding him with a gloved hand for him to kiss.
“It was nothing, my dear. Nothing at all.” The elderly officer smiled, wiping his brow, before bending over the proffered hand. “May I escort you back to your carriage, Miss Foxworthy? I do believe the soiree here has come to an end.”
“Please do, sir,” the vixen said in an exaggerated grateful tone. “I am afraid I shall faint away if I stay here much longer. All of this attention has been most trying on my sensitive nerves.”
She took his offered arm, calculating in her head how she might get the gentleman to help her. Perhaps he would be willing to cover the rent on her townhouse for the following two months? She did not know how it had happened, but all the money Captain Jackson had left to provide for her had seemingly slipped through her fingers.
Before parting, she turned and quickly planted a kiss upon Robert’s cheek. Her eyes flashed triumphantly over at Sarah, her delight at having done so. Knowing full well it might cause an argument between them.
Fiona boldly added, “It was most excellent meeting you again, Lieutenant Smythe. I do hope you remember to send me anything that my dearly departed Captain Jackson might have bequeathed me. Perhaps he left some jewels, silk, silver, or blunt? If so, do send me word. I eagerly look forward to meeting you again, sir. And I hope it is very soon.”
Sarah raised her eyebrows at that assumption.
The devil, she says! I’ll scratch her eyes out first if she ever lays a finger upon him. She balled her hands into fists, ready to jump on the trollop if she came any closer.
As if reading her thoughts, Robert hugged her tightly to his side.
“If there should be something that comes to my attention, I’ll have . . .” He paused giving it a moment’s thought, looking down at the unmarried officers. “I’ll have my second mate, Lieutenant Litton, bring it to you, Miss Foxworthy.”
She in turn gave the second mate a sly smile.
The second mate, Lieutenant Litton, cut almost as dashing a figure as the master and commander in his uniform. And more importantly, his pockets were almost as well lined. He might do very well as a replacement for Captain Jackson.
“Yes-s,” she lisped affectedly. “Please do send Lieutenant Litton, Commander.”
With one final swish of her ermine trimmed cloak, she left the frigate.
Her small court of admirers trailed behind. When she reached the gang-plank, the men jostled for a better position near the beauty and in all the excitement, one of the swains fell into the harbor—a rope and barrel were tossed down so that he might not drown. It was, some said, a fitting end to the night’s boisterous festivities.
Chapter 10
The next day the crew of The Brunswick was dismissed. Robert and Sarah left for the town of Portsmouth. The port was heavily protected by surrounding stone walls and cannons situated on top of high battlements.
The Royal Naval base was one of the most important in the British Empire, also one of the seediest, full of dens of iniquity. It was a typical seafaring town. Drunken sailors on leave and harbor trollops met openly on the cobbled streets in front of taverns.
Portsmouth was filled with the typical debauchery one would expect from seamen who had been too long contained in tight spaces without female companionship, or any other recourse of entertainment. Despite its air of open rowdiness, it played an important part in Britain’s empire building. It was from this port that the fleet commanded by Lord Horatio Nelson went out and defeated Napoleon at Trafalgar.
But not all of the port was low-brow. There were, Sarah noted, on the High Street, several handsome new houses with shiny well-kept windows. Local vendors and shops were located nearby, catering their wares to the middle-class seamen and merchants.
Their carriage traveled away from these more elegant quarters, where officers and admirals dwelled. It ventured into one of the dark narrow streets, a place where abject poverty reigned. Sea harbor prostitutes and grog taverns plied their trade in the bowels of the poorest part of town.
It was in one of these narrow streets that they located number thirty-one, North Port Street. Here they found the rented rooms of the mysterious Mrs. Jemima Kaye.
“She came back from one of her
wanderings a few days ago, Lieutenant,” said an old woman, wiping her nose with the back sleeve of her blouse.
She wore a dirty dust cap with tattered lace that dangled down one side of her graying hair. As Robert and Sarah drew closer, the old woman’s rum-soaked breath threatened to overwhelm their nostrils. The woman took a gulp from a flask dangling from her hip and gave them a speculative look.
“She takes off for months at a time, ever since that wretched husband of hers died. But then she always comes back ’ere in good time. She recommended Old Nancy’s place to you two, did she? Ye want to rent a room?” she asked. “Mine are plenty clean enough for an hour or so of fun . . . that is for them who desire to be alone with a pretty gel, such as you have there, guv’nor.”
She gave them a suggestive toss of the head towards her establishment. Greasy, streaked windows looked down upon the street. A sooty alley cat lazily meowed as it rolled over on the dirty stoop. The house looked to be on the verge of collapse. It leaned to one side with large wooden beams propped beneath the walls on the right to brace it.
“I’m thinking maybe I could even give you a cut-rate price. That is, if you was to let the young lady ’ere walk the streets tonight with me gels. Why, I’d even promise to take care of her once you got back to your ship, Commander.” The whoremonger beamed. “I’d make right certain she’d be safe and dry whilst you were gone. And if anything should happen to you . . .” She left a significant pause, eyeing the ring Sarah wore. “Well, to be sure, I’ll see to it myself that she’d find another husband to watch out for her, Lieutenant.”
“I have no doubt,” said Robert dryly.
He glanced upwards at a group of women who were of all ages, standing by the windows in various stages of dishabille. These ladies of the night worked for Old Nancy and hung out the different windows of the establishment, displaying their exposed flesh.
One or two of the women, without any great enthusiasm, lifted their light skirts to show him their shapely legs and garters. Another, a blonde woman of Rubenesque proportions, was so bold as to pull back her paisley shawl and thrust forward her tightly corseted bosom. It was a wonder her breasts did not spill out of the garment, the strain on the laces being so great.