One week, he thought. Just seven days. Then his passengers would have disembarked. They could take in the sights and look at the evidence of ancient wars fought by long dead Greeks and Romans, while he and his men fought real battles against living barbarians.
Chapter Six
Wherefore, Publius Africanus, when he had destroyed Carthage, adorned the cities of the Sicilians with the most beautiful statues and monuments, in order to place the greatest number of monuments of his victory among those whom he thought were especially delighted at the victory of the Roman people. Afterwards, that illustrious man, Marcus Marcellus himself, whose valor in Sicily was felt by his enemies, his mercy by the conquered, and his good faith by all the Sicilians, not only provided in that war for the advantage of his allies, but spared even his conquered enemies. When by valor and skill he had taken Syracuse, that most beautiful city, which was not only strongly fortified by art, but was protected also by its natural advantages—by the character of the ground about it, and by the sea—he not only allowed it to remain without any diminution of its strength, but he left it so highly adorned, as to be at the same time a monument of his victory, of his clemency, and of his moderation…
Sophia closed the translation of Cicero’s In Verrem. She thought there was very little chance of finding the many treasures the great Roman orator mentioned in his speech, but the opportunity to walk the cobbled roads of Syracuse, a city already ancient when the Romans built their temple to Apollo, would be reward enough for her.
Based on the translations of Cicero and Appian, Sophia painstakingly traced out a map of the ancient city onto fine onion paper and laid it over a map of the modern city.
She put down her pen and watched a boom swing across the deck at speed. The crew yelled instructions back and forth as the Calliope’s sails were adjusted.
Uncle Jonas was convinced undiscovered antiquities were buried somewhere beneath the rubble of the seventeenth century earthquake which devastated the city.
“How can you be so sure?” she asked him. “The earthquake of 1693 razed Syracuse to the ground. There will be nothing left of the city apart from old foundations.”
“Don’t be too certain of such things, my dear. Our navigator says we should be in Lisbon tomorrow morning. I want to see if I can find an escort to take me through the underground Roman city. That, too, had all been but forgotten until the earthquake of 1755 when they discovered it as they rebuilt the capital.”
Uncle Jonas stood, his prominent belly becoming even more so when he pulled his shoulders back to stretch. Several pages of his journal flipped over in the breeze. He closed the book and paced in the shade.
“Lisbon?” Laura looked up from her novel, aghast. “Why would the captain bring us to such a dreadful place? It’s full of Inquisitors. Women are concubines, people are murdered, and the city itself is full of pestilence and ruin! I shouldn’t like it there at all!”
Sophia frowned and looked to Uncle Jonas. He also frowned, so she turned back to Laura.
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s in my book,” answered Laura, raising the volume to show the front cover. Sophia ventured closer to read, Candide by Voltaire.
Sophia flipped the book around and scanned the open pages. She felt her eyes widen, heat rose up her neck and cheeks and came out in explosive anger.
“This is obscene! Where did you find such a thing?”
Laura’s eyes were wide open and innocent.
“In our library. You spend so much time in there, I’m surprised you haven’t come across it. It was in one of the old, locked cabinets behind grandfather’s accounting ledgers.”
Sophia dropped the book as though it were tainted.
“I would never read anything so depraved!”
She turned to Uncle Jonas only to find him conveniently disappeared. It didn’t help her temper at all. She should not have to deal with this. This should have been a job for Laura’s mother, rest her soul, or Samuel…
Laura shrugged her dainty shoulders before picking the book off her lap and closing it over a bookmark.
“Oh, don’t go on, it’s only a story – the way you carry on, you should have been a nun after all.”
“Just a moment ago, you were worried about being ravished by slavers!”
“Well, I’ve thought about it now. I’m sure the captain and his men will prove adequate protection as long as there is no earthquake.”
“No wonder they put hysterical women in asylums for reading novels,” Sophia muttered before snatching the book. “If this is going to give you such silly notions then you shouldn’t read it at all. What else did you bring for your entertainment?”
“I brought my painting equipment,” Laura sniffed. “And another book… and don’t look at me like that, it’s a biography.”
“Whose?”
“A woman – Fanny Hill. I’ve not heard of her before, but if her life story was worth writing about, she must have done something noteworthy.”
*
A rapid series of knocks woke Kit from sleep.
He snatched the eye mask from his face with one hand and had the dagger in his other even before he gained his feet. His cabin was in semi-darkness, meaning it was no longer afternoon but early evening.
Kit barked an order to enter while he oriented himself. He slipped the knife into his belt and lit a couple of the wall-mounted lamps with care. Yellow flame filled the glass chimneys with light. When he turned, Nash and Afua had shoved his uneaten midday meal to one side on the oval conference table while they spread out maps and kept the parchment from rolling back up with small glass paperweights.
“It’s half past seven,” said Nash to Kit’s unanswered question. “We thought it best to let you sleep while you could, Captain.”
So, his insomnia of the past few weeks had not gone unnoticed by his first officer. This had been the longest he had gone without assistance from laudanum – or a stronger decoction. Then again, he had always slept better at sea. Kit slid his eyes to Jonathan whose eyes flickered past his and to the maps under his hands.
Even his navigator was concerned about him, although the quietly-spoken man would not say so. Instead, he turned to business.
“We sighted land a couple of hours ago,” he said, his voice soft, but deep. “We’ll be in Lisbon early in the morning.”
“There is so much we’ve missed over the past six months,” said Kit. “Find out if there have been any recent sightings. We have no idea where Kaddouri has been plundering. We’ll start with what we do know of him and his previous movements. We’ll be at Palermo about the fifteenth. That will give us time to pick up on local intelligence. We were a little too successful last time, so we have to be on our mettle; he won’t let us get away with the same tactics again.”
Kit looked at his two trusted officers. “This will be the last roll of the dice. When we next meet, we’ll send him to the fiery hell he deserves.”
*
Bright morning summer sunshine lit Lisbon’s port district of Alcantara like a jewel. A surprising number of modern buildings in the neoclassical style emerged from rolling hills, funded by the wealth the tiny nation of Portugal extracted from the ground in their territory of Brazil.
Sophia stood at the rail alongside Laura and Uncle Jonas, idly turning the shaft of her pale blue parasol. Her attention was caught by a building under construction. One half was faced in stone, the other, a cage of crisscrossed timbers mimicking the shape of the to-be-completed structure. She could see right through it – even through to the stairs that zigged and zagged up three stories. She drew Uncle Jonas and Laura’s attention to it.
She had heard of the Pombaline Cage and seen drawings in books, but it was only seeing for herself that she could appreciate such ingenuity – a wooden cage to protect the inhabitants of the building during an earthquake.
While her uncle and cousin discussed the unusual architecture, Sophia became distracted by a loud call from the dock.
<
br /> “Bomdia, Capitao Hardacre.”
“Bomdia Paulo, o que e a noticia?”
She didn’t speak Portuguese but, thanks to her childhood at the convent, she did speak Spanish, French and Latin. It was enough to roughly translate.
Captain Hardacre asked after news. Not so unusual if he was a regular in this port. But there was something about the way the man furtively glanced their way as he climbed the gangplank towards them that made her watch him carefully.
This Paulo, aged in his forties, she guessed, was small and wiry, his skin nut brown, his face wizened by the sun. He bowed in their direction then addressed Hardacre in English – obviously for their benefit.
“Nothing so urgent, my friend, that it cannot wait until you have seen to the comfort of your passengers.”
“Until this afternoon then,” answered Hardacre. “Our usual place?”
Paulo nodded. Hardacre inclined his head to the bridge.
“In the meantime, see Mr. Afua. He brought something for you from our previous trip.”
The man’s eyes lit up and hurried past them to the quarterdeck.
Hardacre turned his full attention to his guests. “Ladies,” and then a bow to Professor Fenton, “and gentleman, I’m at your disposal today. I don’t tell my crew this, but they are so expert at what they do, they hardly need me here.”
“Too late, Captain! We all ready know,” one of them yelled, and the crew roared with laughter. Kit grinned, too.
“Back to work with you or you’ll be kissing the gunner’s daughter!” Elias’ sharp rebuke was met with hearty laughter and a renewed attention to their tasks.
Sophia had only been onboard for two whole days. Indeed, this was the beginning of the third day, but already she knew it wasn’t the threat of punishment that kept the crew of the Calliope in trim. It was respect and, dare she say it, a deep regard for their captain.
Laura stepped past her and looked pointedly at the gangplank bridging the Tagus River between the ship and the dock, and then up at Hardacre.
“Captain, your gangplank concerns me still. Will you escort me down?”
The man gave Laura a most charming smile before taking her hand and bowing over it. Reflexively, Sophia rolled her eyes and shook her head. She knew Laura wouldn’t stop until every man fell under her spell – and it was most annoying to see her cousin’s conquests happen so effortlessly.
Hardacre folded Laura’s arm in his. He steadied her while she placed a very tentative foot onto the plank. The captain looked at Sophia and gave her a wink and a smile like the one he bestowed onto her cousin.
“It would be a pleasure to take your arm, too, Miss Sophia,” he said. “If we stand close, we can go three abreast.”
The gangplank wasn’t as wide as all that and he well knew it. Sophia lifted her chin.
“I shouldn’t bother you, Captain. I can make passage on my own.”
There was a slight change of expression, Sophia thought. Mocking flirtatiousness disappeared from his eyes. The grin, which seemed almost comical, softened a touch and became somehow more genuine for it. His expression was one she struggled to identify. If she didn’t know better, she would say it was a little like admiration.
The markets were crowded and people seemed to be in a hurry to finish business before the heat of the midday sun made the cobbled plazas even more unbearable. The multicolored awnings did little to stop the penetrating heat.
Not for the first time during their excursion, Sophia was glad for the captain’s escort – not that she would flatter his ego by telling him so. Their lack of familiarity with the language and their distinct English dress marked them as foreigners from the outset. The market vendors were particularly aggressive, but his snarl and a few sharply spoken words put them in their place.
While Laura chatted gaily with the captain, pointing out various trifles that took her fancy, Sophia stopped to run her fingers down a set of elaborately pierced tortoiseshell hair combs including one with a high crown. A peineta, her memory supplied. She used to have one which she wore to Mass every Sunday when she was a little girl.
Draped over a length of suspended dowel were waterfalls of delicate lace in black and white. She would need a mantilla to go with the comb.
Sophia looked up. Laura and the captain were two stalls down looking at dress fabric and decided she’d better join them before Laura completely wore out the man’s patience. On impulse, Sophia purchased a white lace mantilla – she would save it as a gift to Laura – and hurried to join the others.
With only a half-glance to her, Hardacre pulled out a length of silk in Prussian blue. “I think you should buy this.”
“I beg your pardon?”
The infuriating man quirked a half-smile.
“It’s a good color on you.”
He pulled a bolt of fabric of claret red, examined it a moment and handed it to her.
“And some of this one, too.”
Sophia blinked rapidly, processing the shock of his impertinence. She looked to Laura for support except she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress giggles.
“The drab you’re wearing does nothing for your complexion.”
“Are you in the habit of advising ladies on their mode of dress, Captain?”
“Let’s just say I’m a connoisseur of the finer things, and a jewel needs a setting worthy of it.”
Following a rapid conversation in Portuguese, it was evident Hardacre had beaten the stallholder down in price. “I’ve saved you the equivalent of a guinea, Miss Green,” he said in a stage whisper.
Laura couldn’t contain herself; the giggle became laughter. Sophia glared at both of them, not trusting herself to speak.
At the sound of his name being called, Hardacre’s head lifted. His first mate, Nash, and the man from the pier this morning waved him over. He acknowledged them before turning back to her. He took in her still shocked expression and one side of his mouth lifted in another half-smile.
“You’d better pay the woman and go to be measured. She’s promised to have the garments cut by six o’clock. The tide turns at eight.”
Sophia watched him stride off with the Portuguese man, leaving Mr. Nash as their escort. He nodded and remained a discreet distance away.
“Venha! Venha, menina teimos,” urged the stallholder. And, with surprising strength, the old woman grabbed her arm, hustled her into a curtained alcove, and curtly gestured to a young apprentice who wore a fabric tape measure around her neck.
Sophia’s face was aflame, an uncomfortable mix of anger and embarrassment.
“What a cheek!”
“Que?” asked the girl.
“Non importa.” Sophia answered in Spanish, hoping it was close enough to Portuguese. It wasn’t, judging by her confused look. She shook her head briefly. That, at least, was understood. Sophia stood there fuming while enduring the indignity of being touched and prodded while the girl called out measurements to the old woman.
“Are you all right in there?” called Laura, mirth still evident in her voice.
“I’m not sure I want to speak to you right now.”
“Why not?”
“You laughed while I was being humiliated!”
“Don’t be such a goose. Captain Hardacre was just being helpful.”
“It’s not his place to be helpful.”
“Perhaps he fancies you.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous.”
The seamstress’ assistant stepped to one side, and Sophia stalked away. The look of kind sympathy Laura offered was not enough to blunt her anger.
“Perhaps Captain Hardacre shouldn’t have said anything. But sailors are strange men. Maybe it’s all the time he spends at sea. But… he’s right, you know. Those fabrics would suit your coloring better. In fact, you could actually look pretty if you made a little effort.”
Sophia halted mid-stride. “I beg your pardon?”
Laura sighed. “I’m sorry I spoke. Let’s pretend this unpleasant conversati
on never took place. Can we be friends again?”
It wasn’t just men who fell at Laura’s feet to do her bidding – not even Sophia was immune. She hesitated, then relented with a nod. Laura laughed, knowing she had been forgiven – of course she had – although the sting of her thoughtlessness remained.
Chapter Seven
Sophia stared in the mirror for what seemed like hours.
Laura was right – she had never given much through to her appearance. Such thoughts were, at worst, vanity – a sin – and, at best, an expensive, time-wasting indulgence. She had never adorned her face with paint or powders – she didn’t even know how they worked.
In the reflection, she saw Laura on her bed, fast asleep, exhausted by the heat and their morning excursion. Sophia had tried to rest herself and had even closed her eyes for an hour, but she could not sleep.
What was wrong with her clothes? They were clean and presentable. What did it matter what color they were? Could that be the reason for Samuel’s indifference? Sophia furrowed a brow. Did he care for such superficialities? Surely his head wouldn’t be turned by merely a pretty face or a fair figure?
Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain…
Surely, accomplishments mattered more than her face or the clothes she wore. She examined her reflection critically. Her eyebrows were not as highly arched and well-shaped as Laura’s. Her cheeks were not round and rosy. Her skin was noticeably darker than English girls’. Her figure was what it was – no better and no worse than anyone else’s, she supposed. The most important thing was she was whole and in good health.
The more Sophia looked in the mirror the more dissatisfied she felt. The cabin, which had been dim and cool against the heat of the day, now seemed oppressive despite the breeze through the open porthole.
The clock in the town square chimed three o’clock. The sound of it, rich and full, echoed off the buildings and hills, momentarily subsuming the noise of the dock.
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels Collection Page 142