by Amy Jarecki
Bria pursed her lips and poured out the contents. “The boy is seasick. Would it be possible to take him above decks for some air?”
“What’s this? Do ye think ye’re on a pleasure cruise? Jesu on the cross, ye’re lucky not to be thrown in the ’old with the other miserable sops. They’re wallowing in the bilges with the rats.”
Cringing, Bria glanced back to Johnny. “Are the convicts ever allowed to go up top?”
“Not usually. Not unless the captain gives leave.”
“Could you please tell the captain the boy is sick? Surely he doesn’t want to lose him to the flux.”
“Oh, aye. I’ll just mosey into his cabin and request a bloody audience. Tell em ’er ladyship is worried about a wee thief who should ’ave been ’ung in Newgate’s yard.”
She crossed her arms. “You, sir, are repugnant.”
“Re-pug what? Don’t be using them accursed words around ’ere. Ye might have been a lady once, but on the Lloyds, ye’re nothing but a condemned thief. And I’ll tell ye true, if it ’adn’t been for the captain’s orders, ’alf the crew would have already sampled yer wares.”
“No!” Johnny hollered from his pallet, trying to push himself up. “Don’t bleeding touch ’er.”
Mr. Baldy smirked. “The ’arlot and the urchin. What a pair. No wee lad will protect ye if the captain has a change of mind.” The sailor chuckled and gabbed his crotch. “And I’ll be the first to claim me due.”
Bria shut the door in his face, not about to tell him she’d never been a lady. Besides, being locked in a tiny closet below decks was far better than listening to rot from such a vile rapscallion.
The man popped his big nose through the barred viewing panel. “Ye’d best watch yerself, wench.”
Before she could answer with a retort, the sailor’s footsteps clomped away.
“I won’t let him touch you.” Johnny curled over. “As long as the sickness doesn’t do me in.”
“This dratted boat will not get the better of either of us.” She resumed her seat, smoothing her hand up and down the child’s shoulder. “I swear it.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
AFTER SEVERAL DAYS of bad weather, Drake stood on deck, looking out over an endless sea. He’d traveled to the Continent, but never had he been on a voyage of such length, nor had he ever desired to do so. And there he stood on the deck of a ship heading for some ungodly place called Jamestown on the isle of Saint Helena, traversing a quarter of the globe while Britannia suffered unconscionable circumstances.
He would never forgive himself if she were to perish. Over and over, he’d replayed the incident with Gibbs. He should have acted more quickly, he shouldn’t have worried about the second horse. Damn it, if he had put her on the back of his mount, they could have hastened to the inn in Guildford and summoned help from there.
He pulled Lady Calthorpe’s miniature from his pocket. Though there was a likeness, Britannia was prettier. God, he missed her. What horrors must she be enduring on that vile ship? Drake’s gut churned at the thought of dastardly tars and how they could mistreat a maid. The tiny dancer was so frail, she was no match for a mob of convicts or rutting sailors, for that matter.
By God, I’ll court-martial anyone who raises a hand against her.
His jaw clenched as he looked south, praying for a stronger wind.
The heels of Captain Schiffer’s shoes tapped the deck as he moved toward Drake. “Your Grace, it seems the sea suits you. Most passengers unaccustomed to sailing wouldn’t have gained their sea legs as of yet.”
Drake gave the man a sideways glance. “So that explains the roiling in my gut.”
“Well, we did set sail in a nasty squall. Even some of the crew fell ill.”
Schiffer obviously knew that Drake had kept to his stateroom for the first few days and his comment about sea legs had been an attempt to be kind.
“Have your men all returned to good health?”
“They have.” The captain leaned on the rail. “And you? The fresh air and smooth seas ought to be a welcome respite.”
“No respite will be welcomed by me until I find Miss LeClair.”
Schiffer pointed to the miniature. “Is that her portrait?”
“It’s a rendering of Lady Charlotte, Miss LeClair’s mother.” To remain ambiguous, Drake used Lady Calthorpe’s title before she became a baroness. There could be any number of Lady Charlottes but only one Calthorpe. He held up the painting.
The captain looked closer. “She’s lovely.”
Drake pocketed the miniature. “Yes, and her daughter is lovelier.”
“I understand you left London quite hastily.” The captain rubbed his chin. “Your beard is looking a bit primitive. I have a spare kit I could lend you.”
“Thank you, but I swore I wouldn’t shave until I found Miss LeClair.”
“Oh my, you could end up looking quite un-duke-like, if you don’t mind me saying, Your Grace.”
Drake shrugged, resting his elbows on the rail. “This far from civilization, I doubt it matters.”
“Well said.” Schiffer, who wore a tidy beard, pulled a compass out of his pocket and gave it a tap. “With the wind in our favor, we ought to be able to make up some time.”
“Then I hope it continues for the duration of the voyage.”
“One thing about the sea, it never stays the same. No one knows what Mother Nature has in store on the morrow—or even the next hour for that matter.”
“Comforting,” Drake said, looking up to the crow’s nest and wishing he were up there with Buggie the cabin boy who spent his days scouring the seas.
“If I may be so bold to ask, would you tell me about this woman you’re after? It does seem rather odd to see a duke drop everything and commandeer a vessel in the king’s navy with two hours’ notice.”
Drake cracked his thumbs. True, he didn’t ask the king’s leave to chase after Britannia, but this was a time of peace. Besides, if he was questioned upon his return to England, he’d beg forgiveness and that would be the end of it. “You haven’t anything better to do?”
“Not at the moment.”
May as well tell a good tale.
“Well, I suppose it all started when I contracted La Sylphide to premiere at my new theater in London...”
There was really no reason to keep the story under wraps. Most of it a man could uncover just by asking a few questions in London.
“I’ve heard of Walter Gibbs,” said Schiffer after Drake had divulged most of it. “Always thought he’d fall victim to his own skullduggery one day.”
Gripping the rail, Drake’s knuckles turned white. “It would give me great satisfaction to watch that man swing from the gallows.”
“I’d think you’d want to shoot him after giving you that scar.”
The gash still throbbed. “A musket ball to the head would be too merciful.”
“Perhaps you’re right. ’Tis a pity drawing and quartering has been banned.”
Drake almost smiled. “I think you and I will get along well on this voyage, providing you ferry me to Saint Helena whilst the Lloyds is still anchored in James Bay.”
BRIA HAD LOST TRACK of time. The dim light in the cell didn’t change much between day and night, though her eyes had grown accustomed to it.
She drew the letter P through the dust on the floor. “What words start with P?”
Johnny twisted his lips, his face contorted in thought. “Potato, parrot—do you think there might be parrots in Australia?”
“Perhaps. I’ve seen drawings of Australian birds. They’re very colorful compared to European ones.”
“I think I’ll catch one and train it.”
“Good idea. With your confidence, I’ll wager you’ll have a pet parrot in no time.” Bria rubbed out the P. “Now, show me how to spell John.” She’d taught him John first to keep it simple.
The boy slowly drew a J and an O. “But why is the next letter an H? I don’t hear H when I say it.”
&nbs
p; “The H is silent.” Bria drew the letter for him. “Then which letter makes the nnn sound?”
He sat there tapping his fingers for a moment. Then he hung his head. “I can’t remember.”
“Not to worry. Letters take time to master.” She drew the N. “Now you do it. Write your name below that one ten times.”
“Ten?” he moaned, sounding as if she’d just asked him to carry ten buckets of slops from the bilges.
Halfway through Johnny’s lesson, Mr. Baldy peered through the viewing panel bars. “Ye lot must be blessed by the water fairies. Captain granted ye a quarter-hour on deck.” He held up two pairs of manacles. “But ye ’ave to wear these.”
“Even Johnny?” Bria asked. “He’s just a child.”
The boy gave her a nudge. “I reckon I’d wear a ball ’n chain for a chance to go up top.”
Honestly, she felt the same. Her entire body was stiff from lack of exercise.
Irons secure, once they reached the top deck, Mr. Baldy shook his finger under Johnny’s nose. “There’s water on the timbers and that makes ’em slippery. No running do ye ’ear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Blinking to adjust to the painfully bright light, Bria whispered in the lad’s ear. “Stay close to me.”
“Don’t worry, miss.” Johnny inclined his head toward the helm. “The captain’s on deck. I doubt there’ll be any plundering whilst he’s watching.”
Bria let out a breath. The boy might need a proper education, but his rough beginnings had taught him cunning no one could learn attending lessons. Still, she needed to have a word with the captain, and there was no time like the present.
All across the deck, sailors worked, coiling rope, pushing mops, hauling buckets and dumping them over the side. Every single one of them stopped and leered, though they kept mum for the most part.
A man tossing something rather foul over the rail gave her a scowl. “I can smell ye clear across the deck.”
“Surprising,” she whispered so few could hear. “The stench from your bucket is so overpowering, I’m surprised you can withstand it.”
The man lunged toward her and grabbed her arm, his fingers, vise-like and rough. “I ought to give ye—”
“Mr. Cunnington, unhand the prisoner,” said the lieutenant who stood beside the captain on the quarterdeck.
The cur released his grip, giving Bria a glower before sauntering off.
Bria hastened aft. “Captain, if I may have a word.”
The lieutenant moved to block the stairs. “Convicts are never given leave to speak to the commander of the ship.”
“Very well, Lieutenant, then I shall address you.”
Johnny tugged her sleeve. “Sh. Else we’ll never be given leave to come up again.”
She ignored the boy. “Master John’s clothes are so small, he’s about to burst the seams. If anyone has castoffs, I’m skilled with a needle and thread and can tailor them to suit.”
“You want clothing for the boy?” asked the lieutenant, flabbergasted as if she’d just requested a three-course meal.
“And a blanket. The child needs a blanket.”
“Is there anything else, Your Highness?” The lieutenant puffed out his chest while the captain pretended to be preoccupied with the calm seas ahead.
“Niceties would be a basin for washing and a comb, though by your tenor, I am highly suspicious this lowly convict’s requests for a child have fallen on deaf ears.” There was no time like the present to stand on her own two feet. She didn’t have a duke to protect her and never would again.
Mr. Baldy shoved her in the back. “Move on, wench. No one gave ye leave to speak.”
Johnny hastened along beside her. “You shouldn’t have said anything. Now they’ll cut our rations or worse.”
But the lad was wrong. The next day, Mr. Baldy presented her with a pair of canvas trousers and shirt for Johnny, needle, thread, a pail containing an inch of clean water, a sliver of soap and a wooden comb.
“Ye’d best wash good,” said the sailor. “Captain Sands expects ye in his cabin for supper this eve.”
Johnny caught Bria’s eye, his face scrunched in a cringe.
Though trepidation clawed at her insides, she needed to put on a brave front for the boy. “Not to worry. I can manage an entire theater filled with hundreds of patrons. I ought to be able to handle one measly ship’s captain.”
“Aye, but that was afore. Now you’re a convict.”
“Never you mind.” She reached for the shirt. “Put this on. I’ll make a few tucks and it will be like new.”
Chapter Thirty
BRIA FOLLOWED MR. BALDY to the captain’s cabin, trying to convince herself to be optimistic. What motives could the man have for requesting an audience? Perhaps he wanted to converse in French. Perhaps he wanted her to thank him for the soap and the clothes for Johnny. She’d sewn all day and her fingertips were rough, but the boy now had trousers and a shirt with a bit of growing room.
Regardless of soap or clothes or any comfort the captain might provide, Bria was bereft with worry. The only thing that had kept her sane throughout the endless days was Johnny. And when she wasn’t helping the boy, Drake consumed her every thought. And by God, she would do anything to be in his arms again.
There was no escape from the hold. Even if she could overpower Mr. Baldy, she’d fall into the hands of abhorrent sailors, most of whom looked at her as if she were a prostitute, waiting for their chance to spirit her into the shadows and have their way with her. At sea in the middle of the ocean, she couldn’t run, hide or beg for mercy.
Why must her life always be one battle after another? She’d been lost and alone after the death of the LeClairs. In Paris, with nowhere to go, she thought she’d hit the lowest of lows. But she’d been wrong. The voyage to Australia took three months, and it had only begun. She shuddered. What if something happened to the captain and she no longer had his protection? Things might grow worse—oh so very much worse.
If only Bria could convince the captain to turn the ship around and head back to England. But that was as likely as the Duke of Beaufort embracing her as his long-lost granddaughter.
Mr. Baldy opened the door at the end of the corridor. “Her Ladyship...ah, Miss LeClair, sir.”
“Ah, yes. Show her in.”
Bria stepped inside cautiously. The captain of a convict ship did very well for himself. Her gaze was first drawn to the arcing row of windows overlooking the ship’s stern, each one framed with red velvet curtains. The cabin was paneled in teakwood with a small library, a berth, an elegant writing table and chair, and in the center of the room stood an ornate dining table. That it was set for two didn’t escape Bria’s notice.
She startled when the door shut behind her.
“How has the voyage been thus far? Has Mr. Baldy been treating you fairly?” asked Captain Sands with a wry smile, as if he knew conditions below decks were deplorable yet expected her to offer a respectful reply.
Not about to mince words, Bria stood proudly as if she weren’t still wearing the costume of the Sylph, covered only by her muddied cloak. “Mr. Baldy is a vile scourge.”
“I’ll admit it isn’t easy recruiting sailors to man a convict ship heading for Australia. Unfortunately, the crown doesn’t see fit to offer wages high enough to entice the cream of the crop.”
“Clearly not.”
Standing not much taller than she, Sands gestured toward the table with stout, pudgy fingers. “Will you sit? Cook has prepared a fine meal for us.”
“A fine meal? I should like to take a parcel below for Johnny. He needs sustenance more than I.”
The captain held the chair. “You’ve grown fond of the boy, have you?”
“He’s a lost child.” Before sitting, Bria glanced toward the door. Nothing felt right about being in the captain’s cabin with the table set for two. Though, only four months ago she’d done the same in Ravenscar’s town house and that hadn’t turned out badly. Perhaps if she remai
ned vigilant, she might win the captain’s favor. “Any boy Johnny’s age should be attending lessons and flying kites, not fearing for his life in the bowels of a convict ship.”
“You’re quite opinionated, are you not?”
“A woman in my position must be forthright.” She reached for the serviette, unfolded it and placed it in her lap. “Please allow me to share my meal with the child.”
“I suppose there’s no reason you couldn’t slip him a few morsels. If...” Giving her a licentious glance, the captain’s winged eyebrows shot up. He wrapped his thick and hairy fingers around a squat bottle of wine and poured, first for Bria then for himself.
Her stomach roiled as she picked up her glass and sipped, trying not to imagine the captain’s vile conditions.
Sands followed suit. “It’s not customary for me to invite convicts to my cabin let alone to dine.”
“But I haven’t been convicted of anything.”
The captain swirled the liquid in his glass. “Your paperwork is in order, and it claims you are a thief.”
“I stole nothing.”
“Oddly, I believe you.”
“Oh?” Could she hope? “What drew you to your conclusion?”
“Firstly, Mr. Gibbs’ admission that you had no trial made me suspicious. Your situation stinks of underhandedness. And then there was your reaction when he said you were accused of stealing.”
“I see.” Is this why she’d been put in a solitary cell with Johnny and not in the hold? By the way the captain’s beady eyes shifted, the sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his tongue repeatedly licked his bottom lip, no matter how much she wanted to believe a captain of a convict ship might be her salvation, Bria questioned his benevolence.
“Many prisoners profess their innocence, but you clearly had no idea the extent of the charges laid upon you. Furthermore, Gibbs looked the guilty party as he slithered off my ship.”
“If you deduced all that, why did you not send me ashore? You could have handed me over to the magistrate and allowed me to plead my case.” And try to escape. Hasten back to Drake’s side—sit at his bedside and tend his every need.