A Different Sort of Perfect (11 page)

Fleming's heart tugged again. But beyond the old
hands with their silly smiles, the younger men held back, staring,
their expressions leery and unhappy. Fleming sighed.

As that rebellious captain said during the last
American war, he'd only just begun to fight. He might sink, but the
devil take him if he'd strike.

In the great cabin, reassembled at the close of
quarters, Fleming poured off a tot of whatever Hennessy had ready
in the decanter and slugged it down. Aged tawny port, he discovered
as soon as it passed his lips, and the light, sweet flavor imparted
comfort more through its rich texture than its alcohol content. The
setting sun filled the cabin with a golden glow, echoed by the
satin on the hanging chair — where the entire fiasco had begun —
and a pool of brilliance splashed across the little rug Hennessy
had woven from strips of sailcloth.

Peace.

Peace at last.

And someone knocked on the door.

He sighed and set down the sherry glass. "Come."

Abbot entered. It would have been an exaggeration to
describe his face as purple. But not by much.

"Captain." In a convulsive movement, as if realizing
his negligence, Abbot yanked off his scraper. "Forgive me. But this
cannot continue."

He should have seen this coming. The lovely port's
influence faded and what felt like a hand began squeezing the nape
of his neck. Best to get it out in the open. "Speak your mind, Mr.
Abbot."

His first lieutenant's mouth worked for a few mad,
soundless moments before he straightened and hauled in a deep
breath. "That's my quarterdeck—"

Fleming's eyebrows shot up.

"—well, of course, it's not mine, not exactly, but it
is, too, because it's my responsibility." Another deep breath, as
if Abbot paused and sought the proper words to convey his meaning
without infuriating his captain, a distinct possibility. "The
ship's upkeep, its management. Its appearance. Sir, we all want a
ship we can be proud of, and — and that's not going to happen if —
if events such as this continue to occur—"

Fleming grabbed a second sherry glass, poured another
tot, and handed it over. Abbot slugged the port back and a beatific
expression spread across his face. Even his determined chin
relaxed.

"Better?"

"Somewhat." Abbot inhaled the last few drops. "That's
awfully good."

That sounded like the sort of hint his first
lieutenant considered subtle. Fleming topped up both glasses. "Mr.
Abbot, I agree we're in a difficult situation. We're stuck with a
silly, spoiled debutante. Our orders forbid us to touch any
shoreline until La Palma, and then only to take on water with the
express instructions not to be seen. So we can't simply unload her
and ship her home, not until we reach the Cape—"

Abbot spluttered and lowered his glass. A drop of
garnet-colored liquid drooped from his nose. He reached up a hand
and dashed it away. "Sir—"

Fleming raised his voice and plowed on. "—meaning we
must find some way of dealing with the situation." He sipped his
port. It really was too good for slugging; hopefully it would have
a salubrious effect on Abbot before he burst something. "Some
constructive way that doesn't involve murder, mutiny, or damaging
the paintwork."

"We could send her back in the launch—"

"And who should man it?"

"Staunton's sufficiently responsible—"

"They're already thick as thieves. With her winsome
ways, she'd charm him into taking her wherever she wished to go,
not where his orders stated, and we might never recover them nor
the launch."

"She couldn't charm Chandler—"

"Chandler's more mature and responsible, yes. He's
also performing a man's work. Who's going to cover his duties while
he's gone?" Fleming sipped again. "And would you really risk a
woman, even a spoiled and silly one, in an open boat?"

Abbot fell silent. Judging by the expression on his
face, he desperately yearned to say,
Yes, that one.
Instead,
he downed another swallow of port. This time, it didn't soften his
chin.

Not a good sign. Fleming needed to end the argument
quickly or he risked losing his first lieutenant's support. "My
plan is to make Lady Clara a functioning member of the crew."

Another splutter, followed by a cough. At this rate,
he'd choke. Abbot threw him a disbelieving, appalled look.

"Oh, think, man!" Fleming set his empty glass on the
table and stalked past the rudderhead cover and the gleaming row of
sparkling glass panes. The stern windows weren't open, which should
lessen the speed with which his words would fly through the ship by
a few seconds, at least. "If the sailors look upon her as one of
them, a mature, capable crewmember, it might counterbalance the
unluckiness of having a woman aboard. It would do away with the
novelty factor and prevent those strange, twisted superstitions
that form in the night watches, the ones that foster unease and
dread among the crew." He wheeled around and stared Abbot down. "I
plan to keep the crew happy because, as you know, the luckiest ship
is often the happiest one. The hands give more of themselves, and
more willingly, when they're content with their lot. And with the
Armide,
our quarry, carrying more than double our broadside
weight in metal, Mr. Abbot, we need — no, we desperately need a
happy crew. Am I wrong?"

Abbot swallowed the last of his port. "Captain, of
course you're — I mean, there's no question that—" Words seemed to
fail him. His mouth opened, closed, produced nothing. The
hopelessness of their situation had finally struck home. His eyes
cut sideways to the decanter.

Not taking the hint a second time. "May I count on
your assistance, Mr. Abbot?" Of course he felt like an idiot while
he said that; Abbot's staunch support hadn't been lacking since the
first moment his shoe touched the deck.

But this time, Abbot's expression turned dour. "With
your permission, Captain, I'll return to my duties." He clapped his
scraper atop his head, ducked his tall frame through the doorway,
and carefully closed it behind him.

Banging his head against the nearest bulkhead was
tempting, in a mad sort of way. But his crown still ached from the
drubbing it had received when he'd stood straight in the great
cabin without thinking, and perhaps adding to his misery wouldn't
be the wisest move. Maybe another drink before dinner… no, he
shared the table now. He'd need all his wits about him for this
plan to come to fruition.

* * * *

"Do the sailors really wash the entire deck every
morning?"

Across the dinner table, Captain Fleming lowered his
fork, the bite uneaten. Clara rolled her lips together. She should
have timed that better.

But he showed no sign of impatience, a little smile
gracing his face. He'd brushed aside her apology over the inkhorn
incident with a similar smile and a comment that such an accident
could happen to anyone, and while it was difficult to believe him
utterly, his words had soothed the worst of her embarrassment.

"Every morning. The bosun and his mates rouse the
idlers from their hammocks at four bells in the morning watch—" He
paused, gull-winged eyebrows swooping higher in challenge, and this
time successfully got the fork into his mouth.

Yes, she should know this; she'd read through the
first pages of Staunton's journal after changing from her
hopelessly stained grey sarsnet to the sweet little indigo sailor
dress, which fit so well she couldn't believe it hadn't been
tailored by an expert mantua-maker. In the journal, Staunton stated
that each bell marked the passage of half an hour, and all but the
afternoon dog watches were four hours each and therefore a total of
eight bells. And there was the first watch beginning at eight
o'clock at night, followed by the middle watch, the morning—

That couldn't be right.

"They start work at six o'clock each morning?" Normal
people slept at such an hour.

His lips curled and his blue-grey eyes gleamed in
that wicked manner. "As you discovered this morning."

He wasn't going to let that go. Evil man. The next
question she timed deliberately. "Why is the midships battery
called the slaughterhouse?" When he glanced up, eyes still
gleaming, she added, "That is the term you used, is it not?"

He took the bite and chewed, thoroughly, before
answering. Surely it was rude, keeping a lady waiting? Finally he
swallowed. "Not all captains teach their crews proper gunnery,
preferring not to waste ammunition or, as they put it, 'to throw
cannonballs into the sea.' This includes French ships as well as
English ones. So the gun and battery captains on such ships, to
ensure the cannonballs strike their target, aim for the enemy's
center — the ship's waist, which is also generally the widest part
of the ship, increasing their odds of hitting something. Therefore
that's where most of the casualties in battle occur."

"And so the slaughterhouse." It was a sobering
thought. Wake had swabbed number sixteen, the cannon called
Old
Trusty
, in that very place. She'd hate to see anything happen
to that sweet man.

"Many captains assign their most useless gunners to
the slaughterhouse cannons, the sailors they can most afford to
lose. But to keep their fire worthwhile, he must also include some
experienced gunners, men who can keep them steady, performing their
duties and aiming at the enemy." He cut again into the roast. "It's
difficult, and that's a job we'll address tomorrow, captain's clerk
— setting watches and balancing the gun crews so there's a mix of
experienced and green hands for each cannon. Mr. Abbot and I will
perform most of the work, but there will be lots of writing
required."

She nodded, pleased in a silly sort of way, and
sipped her wine. "My best copperplate hand shall be at your
disposal, Captain."

The dinner was as excellent as breakfast and served
in the same elegant style. Astonishing, how much she felt at home,
as if she'd been aboard the ship, interacting with the officers and
crew, for much longer than a single day. Amazing. Odd. And utterly
satisfying. Although she missed Harmony's chatter, Diana's razor
wit, and Aunt Helen's sweet soul. Poor Aunt Helen, she'd left no
word and they had to be frantic.

But there was nothing she could do for them now and
worrying would only spoil her evening. Clara set her napkin aside
and leaned forward, over the table. "Are all sailors so handy with
needle and thread? My father was, and I envied him his neat, even
stitches. But I never could match them."

Captain Fleming glanced up again from his plate. The
skin below his blue-grey eyes had darkened in the lamplight and
appeared bruised, as if tiredness dragged at him. But his patience
hadn't wavered. He'd answered all her questions without treating
one with contempt. And while an interrogation had always seemed an
awkward and unamiable form of conversation, and although she felt
thoroughly impertinent, Clara simply couldn't stop herself. There
was so much she wanted to know about
Topaze
and her
crew.

"Proper flats we'd look if we weren't." Captain
Fleming nodded to Hennessy, who began clearing away the meal. "Most
ships don't carry women aboard and so we've learned to take care of
ourselves."

"All of it? Cleaning, sewing, cooking—"

His lips twisted in that sly grin. "Are you
volunteering for scrubbing the decks in the morning? Now that
you've gained experience, of course."

Dratted, evil man. She finished her wine and smacked
the stemware onto the table. Hennessy swooped it up, too, and
carried it away.

Perhaps some people would consider him handsome.
Well, yes. Perhaps.

* * * *

A chair and small desk had magically appeared in her
little sleeping cabin, between the hanging cot and the cannon. The
cannon was named
The Game Chicken
, and likely the magician
was named Hennessy. Content with the world, Clara settled down with
Staunton's journal, reading beneath a steady, clear-burning lamp.
But her eyes drifted closed within minutes and the words formed no
meaning within her mind, conveying no information. The day had been
so full, so active, so incredibly memorable; how could she think
her head would absorb anything more?

She could fight it no longer. Clara turned down the
lantern and climbed into the hanging cot, arranging the delightful
antique-gold satin drapes about herself. Instant comfort assailed
her, and her eyes drifted closed again.

Topaze
whispered through the sea, water
swishing along her sides as if wishing everyone good night. A door
closed nearby, Captain Fleming exiting his cabin, and a moment
later, his footsteps climbed the aft ladder toward the quarterdeck.
The dedicated, responsible captain, ensuring her safety and that of
his ship and crew, while she slept. That aspect of him could not be
misunderstood. But what she was to make of his sudden silences, his
impertinent stares, the following blink and his gaze yanked
aside—

Funny, she hadn't thought of Phillippe in hours. No,
she hadn't thought of him all day, not since breakfast, and had
barely thought of Aunt Helen and Uncle David. What a dreadfully
selfish creature she was. But the thick blanket of tiredness buried
even that guilt, and it couldn't keep her awake more than a
moment.

* * * *

Nineteen steps for'ard. Turn in the mainmast shrouds.
Nineteen steps to the taffrail. Grip the railing, watch the wake.
Watch yourself instead.

Of course she was handsome. Lovely, even. And unlike
most silly, spoiled debutantes, she looked natural, unaffected.
Unspoiled, in the other meaning of the word. And it was sort of
flattering, the way she leaned toward him with wide, dark eyes
reflecting the lamplight, her shoulders back and her curves—