Rags to Romance

by Killarney Sheffield

  The captain nodded. “Very good, we are right on schedule, my lord.”

  The first mate jogged up the gangplank with a small sack in his hand. “There are letters here that just arrived on a French vessel from England, Lord Dowell.”

  “Ah, probably another missive from my sister, bless her heart. I will send my cabin boy back up with the rest once I sort them.” Devon took the sack and retreated to his cabin. One by one he went through the envelopes until a small pile was set aside for himself and the rest of the stack for the crew. After he sent the cabin boy above with the crew’s he opened the first letter.

  Dear brother,

  I trust this letter finds you safe and well. Things at home are as usual. My husband has left on a lengthy tour of the French vineyards in order to learn techniques to improve our own wineries. I do not mind so much that he is gone, as I have quite enjoyed spending my time with your new bride, and of course our dear stepmother. Finny is a delightful girl and is trying very hard to fit in and adjust to our lifestyle. She is looking very much forward to your return as am I. I do hope you will cut your trip short and return as soon as you are able.

  Your loving sister, Kat

  Devon set the letter down and rubbed his eyes. Of course his sister wished him to cut short his trip and return. Their stepmother was probably having a daily fit of the vapors and as for Finny, well, who knew what kind of disaster she was turning out to be. Finny, delightful? He snorted. Was that a polite way of saying noddy as a bed bug? Probably, although, he never knew Kathrine to mince words before now. Perhaps she wanted him home only to set his head upon a pike, God only knew his stepmother must by now. Chuckling he picked up the second letter and opened it.

  August 20th, 1858

  Dear Lord Dowell,

  I hope you are doing well. It must be dangerous sailing the seas. Bettie and I have been busy. We have been having tea each afternoon in the garden. Lady Swanson too. She has been most helpful. Bettie enjoys munching the rose bushes more than the tea I suppose. I must go now. It is time for bed.

  Yours truly, Lady Josephine

  Devon frowned. What kind of lady ate rose bushes? Perhaps it was just as well I married someone like Finny. It appeared the well-bred ladies pursuing him weren’t that great a catch anyway. The handwriting was rough and the sentences rather unrefined too. It was almost as if the first few letters and this letter were written by a different person. He tossed it aside and opened the third letter.

  August 29th, 1858

  Dear Lord Dowell,

  I hope you are doing well. Lady Swanson says you are probably getting close to China by now. I looked it up on the big map in your study. It sure is far away. Bettie and I often wonder what it’s like on a ship. I bet you eat a lot of fish. I must go now, Lady Swanson and I are going shopping today.

  Yours truly, Lady Josephine

  He glanced at the date on the letters. Each was scarcely a week apart. It seemed Lady Josephine was quite determined to show her interest in him. What harm could it do to write back? He could gently dissuade her interest in him without hurting the poor dear. It would be the right thing to do, after all.

  He scrounged for a quill, ink and some parchment paper to write back.

  My dearest Lady Donelly,

  I am doing very well, in fact we are right on schedule and will be weighing anchor here in Cape Town at first tide. I am well pleased you have found a friend in my sister and are keeping her company. It seems she has her hands full these days though I am happy she has taken my new wife under her wing. I am pleased to say I have no need for communication with any other ladies since my marriage. Thank you for your kind letters,

  Lord Devon Dowell

  There. He addressed the envelope and then put the writing materials in the desk. After sealing the missive with a blob of wax he pressed his crested ring to it. Well pleased with himself for letting the young woman down gently he handed it to the returning cabin boy. “See this note makes it on an England bound vessel post haste.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The young man left to do as he was bid.

  * * *

  “My lord, the cap’n would like to see you on the port bow.”

  Devon set down his book and rose from his chair. He followed the first mate from his cabin and up onto the deck. A stiff breeze filled the sails as the schooner cut through the waves. “Is there a problem, Captain?” he asked the older gentleman.

  “Aye, my lord, that ship that’s been trailin’ us has suddenly increased her speed and is rapidly gainin’ on us.”

  Taking the spy glass the captain handed him Devon put it to his eye and focused on the ship. “Is there any reason to be alarmed?”

  “I’m not sure, my lord. There’s still no colors flyin’ on their mast.”

  “Hum….” Devon studied the profile of the ship. It was indeed sailing along at a good clip now. “I think we should be prepared, Captain. I’ve a lot of cargo on board a pirate might think to make his own.” He handed the spy glass back. “If we adjust to the west can we catch more of the wind in our sails?”

  “Aye,” the captain nodded, “But I dare not go west much for the rocky shoals would be our downfall if we get too close to land.”

  Devon nodded. “Adjust west until we are within sight of the coast and then track along it and see if this ship following keeps to the sea.”

  “As you wish, my lord.” The captain bellowed the orders and sailors took to the rigging to capture the wind fully.

  An hour later despite their change in direction the other ship was still gaining on them. Devon fixed the spyglass on the ship which rode high in the water, indicating it was not carrying an abundance of cargo. The absence of such would make it unlikely to be a trade ship. His stomach tightened as he lowered the glass. “Captain, make the guns ready for possible confrontation.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The captain turned away with a grim look and bellowed the orders which sent sailors scrambling to ready for a fight.

  “Ahoy the colors, Captain!” the first mate called from his spot in the crow’s nest.

  Devon raised the spyglass again. “Damn! They’ve raised the Jolly Roger, Captain.”

  The captain looked to the heavens. “May God be with us this day, my lord.”

  Grim and determined to protect his purchased goods, Devon hurried to his cabin to ready his weapons. If it was a fight the pirates wanted, then it was one they’d get. By the time he returned above deck all hell had broken loose.

  “Hard to port bow!” came the call as the ship shuddered under the force of the pirate ship’s first cannon ball which streaked across the bow of Devon’s trading vessel. The secondary mast blew apart into slivers and splinters, scattering across the deck of the ship as the crew hunkered down for cover.

  “Fire the cannons!” Devon screamed above the commotion. “Let’s show these blasted bastards what we’re made of, lads!”

  Men scrambled to man the cannons while the cabin boy loaded guns with powder and shots for those lined between. A howl garnered Devon’s attention. His first mate stumbled off balance as the tail end of the secondary sail still attached by the top rope snapped around whipped around to catch him mid chest. Devon sprinted across the deck and leapt for the flapping heavy material. It flung him from his feet and dragged him to the rail. In desperation he let go of the sail with one hand and tried to snag the rail. His fingers found brief purchase before he was jerked free and launched out over the rough water. Frantic he tried to regain his grasp with the other hand but when the sail reached its full length it snapped back and veered toward the hull of the ship. He collided with the damp wood with so much forced the breath was knocked from his chest. Despite his determination his fingers lost their grip and he dropped into the icy water below. His gasp of shocked filled his mouth with a mix of air and salt water as he plunged under the surface. Lungs burning, he fought to reach the surface, gaining it just before he would have blacked out. Coughing and sputtering he tread water. His gaze locked on the s
teps carved in the hull. Shivering he forced his arms and legs to paddle until he reached the first step clear of the water and clamped cold fingers on it. Trying to catch his breath and muster the strength to climb he bobbed there. A hearty cheer went up from the crew on the ship above and he looked up through the smoke.

  A dirty face appeared and peered down at him. “My lord, are you sound?”

  Devon grinned at the first mate. “As sound as one can be near frozen, Eddie, how fairs the ship?”

  “We set them scurvy devils runnin’ with their tails between their legs, my lord, with nary a wound but a broken mast and two injured.”

  “Well done! Now toss me the lady seat please and hoist me up. I fear I’m too cold to manage the climb.” Teeth chattering Devon waited as the man disappeared and then reappeared, lowering a plank suspended between two ropes. When it reached him Devon hauled himself stomach first across it and clung on tight as it was pulled up the side of the ship. When he reached the rail a couple pairs of strong hands dragged him up and over it to land in a heap on the deck.

  “I thought ye was shark bait fer sure, my lord, when I saw you sailing over the side like the tail on a kite,” the first mate snickered handing him a rough wool blanket.

  After wrapping the towel around himself Devon chuckled. “That’s a stunt I’ll never try again. Man wasn’t meant to fly.” Getting to his feet he headed for his cabin. “I’m getting too old for this. Perhaps my stepmother was right and it is time to settle down with some nice girl.”

  Chapter Eight

  Finny wrapped her arms around her knees, keeping a careful watch on her pet as it frolicked in the layer of red, orange and yellow leaves under the tall oak in the garden. The fall air was crisp today, carrying a hint of winter’s frost looming. Except for sporadic letters from her husband and Lady Swanson’s almost daily visits her life had fallen into a boring routine of lessons and avoiding the dowager as much as possible.

  A flock of geese above garnered her attention. They called to one another as they flew in their organized “V” and for a moment she envied their group. How nice it would be to have a place in the world, a spot she belonged. Once they flew out of sight she looked back to the base of the tree. Bettie was gone. A sense of panic bubbled up in her chest and she scrambled to her feet scanning the garden for any sign of her pet.

  “Bettie? Bettie!”

  She hurried to the tree not caring when the shawl slipped from her shoulders and landed in the damp dirt at its base. A movement by the garden gate caught her eye and she turned in time to see the rodent slip under it.

  “Bettie! Come back.”

  Fearing for her pet’s safety, she ran to the gate and made to open it but it was locked. “Damn! Bettie? Bloody hell, Bettie, you come back ’ere right now!”

  “I beg yer pardon, miss?”

  Finny froze at the deep baritone coming from the other side of the gate. “Wot? I mean, what?”

  “Were ye speaking t’me, miss?”

  Pressing her face to the crack between the edge of the door and the wall she peered out. A young, simply dressed man stood in the alley beyond with a puzzled look on his clean shaven face. “I’m sorry, I was callin’ fer, for, my pet, Bettie. She escaped under the gate.”

  He glanced around and then ran off in the direction of the street beyond out of view.

  She listened to his footsteps retreat before stepping away from the crack. Getting down on her hands and knees she peered under the gate. “Bettie? Here Bettie.”

  A pair of black boots appeared in her line of vision, then a trouser-clad knee and finally the young man’s face. He shoved her errant pet toward the gap. “Is this rat what yer lookin’ fer?”

  “Her name is Bettie and she’s not a rat, she’s a chilla,” Finny snipped, snatching the furry bundle from him and easing it under the gate. “Thank you,” she added, not wanting to appear ungrateful for his help.

  “Ye’re welcome.” The face vanished along with the knee but the boots remained. “What’s yer name?”

  Cuddling Bettie to her chest Finny rose and leaned against the gate. “Finny, who are you?”

  “I’m Peter, Peter Pickens.”

  Finny couldn’t help but giggle at his name.

  “Ye work fer the dowager?”

  “Naw, I live ’ere. My husband is Lord Dowell.”

  The young man whistled. “’Is lordship? Ye’re jestin’ right?”

  “No.” Finny frowned and put an eye to the crack between the door and the rock wall. “He married me to stick it to the ol’ lady.”

  Peter chuckled. “Bet that frosted the ol’ bat’s britches all right.”

  “You know the dowager?”

  “Eh, she’s a miserable ol’ soot, she is, sour and nasty as she looks. No errand boy worth ’is salt’ll do any errands fer ’er.”

  “You’re an errand boy?” Finny studied the young man.

  He shook his head despite the fact she couldn’t see through the door. “Naw, used to be, now I clean brushes fer Master Reno.”

  Finny gasped. “You know Mr. Reno the painter?”

  “Sure do.” The boy puffed out his chest with an arrogant expression. “I’m ’is right-hand man I is.”

  “Gosh.” Finny peered closer. “Do ye think ye could give me some painting pointers?”

  “Maybe.”

  The door to the patio opened and a maid appeared. “’Tis tea time, miss.”

  “I gotta go,” Finny whispered. “Meet me here tomorrow at this time.” Without waiting for a reply she stuffed Bettie back in her basket and hurried in to change for tea, happy she had made a friend.

  * * *

  The last few weeks of autumn passed too quickly for Finny and before she knew it, it was soon too cold to visit Peter through the garden gate. Though she missed his easy companionship an hour each day, she was pleased to have learned a few technics which made her paintings come alive on the canvas. Though at first she doubted the bits Peter taught her after she mastered the simple ideas, she had to admit he did know a little of painting, it appeared.

  Finny turned from the window back to her painting of fall leaves swirling in the cherub fountain frosted with a light dusting of snow. The idea had crossed her mind many times to invite Peter for tea, but each time she got up the courage to she reconsidered knowing the dowager would surely deny her request. The dowager rarely agreed to anything Finny wanted and her sharp tongue would surely scare off Finny’s friend, that is if the woman actually permitted one of Peter’s ilk to even cross the threshold of her fancy house. Wrinkling her nose, Finny added the last brush strokes of shadow to the underside of the snow and smiled with satisfaction. She jumped when the door was flung open.

  The dowager marched in with a scowl. “Just what do you think you are doing in here, girl?”

  Finny bowed her head. “I’m painting.”

  “In my son’s study? Humph! I’d be more apt to say you are probably snooping through his things, trying to find out how much money you can get your greedy little hands on.”

  Finny flashed the dowager a dirty look. “I don’t care how much money ’e—he—has.”

  The dowager rolled her eyes. “A likely story, we both know you talked him into marrying you so you could climb out of the gutters from whence you came.”

  Biting her lip, Finny struggled to still her tongue. No good would come of refuting the dowager’s claim.

  “I’m leaving on tour of Italy for the winter months in a week.” The dowager cast a critical eye over Finny’s painting and then gave a small snort. “I expect you to be gone from my door when I get back this spring.”

  “Gone?” Finny gaped at her. “Gone where?”

  “I do not care, back to the gutters, moved to a brothel to earn your keep. It matters not to me, as long as you are out of my son’s life by the time I get back.” With a toss of her head the woman sailed from the room, slamming the door in her wake.

  Cringing Finny stared at it. The battle lines were drawn,
and Finny Donelly never backed down from a fight.

  Chapter Nine

  Finny skipped down the stairs but made sure to slow to a demure walk as she approached the parlor. There was no sense in giving the dowager any reason to pick at her this day. After all she only had to bear the oppressive woman for a few more days and then she would have the house to herself. Besides, she fully intended to charm the stockings off the elder woman today, and when Finny Donelly set her mind to something it got done. When the butler opened the parlor door in her wake she took a deep breath, stood tall and sailed into the parlor with as much grace as she could muster. The dowager frowned as she entered.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Dow-ell. I trust you slept good. It’s—it is—a lovely day outside.” She pasted a shaky smile to her lips, curtsied and then sat, taking special care to keep her ankles together and her posture straight as a board.

  The dowager lifted a thin eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, I did not sleep well last night.” With a tip of her nose she reached for the teapot on the table between them.

  “Oh, let me.” Finny hurried to snatch up the teapot. In her haste she splattered some of the hot liquid onto the lily white tablecloth. “Oh, bugger.” At the dowager’s gasp she set down the teapot and covered her mouth. “Excuse me, my lady.”

  With a groan the dowager shook her head. “You can try and affect all the pretty manners you want, girl, but you will never be a lady fitting of a title.” Taking up the teapot she poured her own, added a spoon of honey, and raised it to her lips. The icy look she shot Finny over the rim said it all.

  Blinking back her tears Finny held her ground and poured her own tea with a great deal more care. Nasty stuff but after adding three spoons of honey to it she decided it drinkable. “Lady Swanson says there is nothin’ wrong with improving oneself.”