A Different Sort of Perfect (6 page)

Someone knocked at the outer door.

Oh, heavens, it truly was an emergency and some brave
soul had come to warn and rescue her. Clara flew across the cabin
and wrenched the door open, ready to run for it.

The child who'd stood on the quarterdeck earlier
leaped back like a startled horse. One hand grabbed his tall black
hat, anchored it to his head, then quickly doffed it. "Crickets,
but you surprised me." His hatchet face relaxed into a smile, thick
black hair falling to the shoulders of his indigo coat's white
collar tabs. "My name's Staunton, by the way. Mr. Midshipman—" he
seemed to grow an inch where he stood "—Richard Staunton, at your
service, m'lady." He leaned forward and his whisper turned
conspiratorial. "His Nibs told us your name."

If they were in a death-or-glory situation, the child
hid it well. Clara sucked in air. "Mr. Staunton, how pleasant to
meet you. What's the to-do?"

"Oh, the hands have just been piped to breakfast,
that's all. They eat half an hour before the officers, you know."
Staunton's casual, friendly air reminded her of Harmony's younger
brothers, the pests.

Without thinking, Clara slumped in relief, gripping
the doorframe. At the edge of her sight, one of his buckled shoes
tapped its toe, rocked on its heel, and swung back and forth, his
plain canvas trouser leg flopping along behind the motion.

"No, you didn't know." Staunton grinned again. She
glared and his grin redoubled. "They usually make a lot more
racket, but His Nibs has issued orders for everyone to be as quiet
as mice."

The sounds of several hundred unconcerned men eating
rose through the aft ladder. Clara shuddered.

"Or at least rather monstrous rats." He grinned
again.

This was ridiculous. She'd been yanked about by her
own nerves for the last time. "Mr. Staunton, do you happen to have
a book describing the naval life, one I can borrow?"

He paused, brown eyes sharpening. The gathering
intensity within him blew all comparisons with the young male
Barlows from her memory. They all might behave in a casual manner,
but even relaxed and bantering, Staunton radiated a confidence that
surpassed anything she'd seen before in someone so young.

"I've got
Norie's Seamanship,
" he said, "but
that's more about hauling lines and tying knots, and that's not
what you mean, is it?"

She shook her head. "I want to better understand
what's going on so I'm not constantly jumping from my skin."

"Or clothes." At her scowl, he grinned again. "I tell
you what, you can read my journal." He clapped that silly stovepipe
hat atop his head and started walking backward. "Wait here; I'll be
right back." He turned and ran, ducking through the handles of some
sort of mechanical equipment and vanishing from sight, his steps
clattering down unseen stairs.

With his lanky form out of the way the gun deck
opened before her. Various bits of machinery stretched down the
center, some protected by wooden half-walls, and the massive shafts
of the mainmast and foremast rose through the confusion to the low,
open-raftered ceiling. A long line of bowsed cannons curved along
the bulkhead, groaning and edging beneath their ropes like tied
beasts yearning for release. A powder horn hung above each long,
brown-painted cylinder, a rack of cannonballs within reach but out
of the way. Brightening sunlight pouring through the open gunports
pooled around them, lapping at their feet and leaving the upper
edges of the machinery darkened. She'd slept beside one of those
guns, as if it were a piece of furniture, like a chair or dressing
table, barely noticing it. But seeing them in a pack… Clara
shivered.

Her feet refused to stay still. Hesitantly she walked
along their restrained ranks. Heat warmed her ankles when she
stepped into a pool of sunlight, and as she passed each open
gunport, the sea's whispering grew louder, then fell away again.
Even the ocean didn't wish to attract their attention, it seemed.
The cannons smelled of gunpowder and lard, as if their wheels were
greased with the cook's leavings.

And coffee. Heavens, someone nearby was roasting and
brewing coffee. It smelled like paradise. A small frigate was well
enough outfitted for such luxury? She'd had no idea.

Each cannon sported a name, painted at the bottom of
its cradling rack. And such names!
Real Terror. Belcher. Widow
Maker. Old Trusty. Biting Bruiser.
She'd slept beside one of
these? Did it, too, have a name?

Footsteps clattered and she turned. Staunton bounded
up a ladder nestled between mechanical devices and the huge base of
the mainmast. Grin as broad as ever, he handed her a small
leather-covered journal, a brass plaque on the front engraved with
his name. "Here you are, m'lady. Hope it helps. And I'll answer
'most any question, promise faithfully." He raised one grimy hand
and touched it to his forelock, as if saluting her.

"Mr. Staunton, why do the cannons have names?"

He shrugged, his grin twisting into a smirk. "I don't
know that. But you know, they've always done it, give the guns
names, I mean. The sailors."

"The sailors do it?" That seemed odd. "They kill
people with these cannons. They're not toys. And yet they give them
names, like pets?"

"Even the meanest fighting dog has a name, Lady
Clara."

A point, perhaps. But it still seemed odd, even
distasteful. She shook her head.

"In any case," Staunton said, "I came down and
disturbed you on orders of Mr. Abbot. The upper decks are priddied
now and fit for a lady's presence, if you'd care to go on
deck."

No one had laughed at her, she reminded herself. But
she didn't feel ready to face them all yet. Hedging, she asked,
"Who's Mr. Abbot? Is he the officer who stood by the wheel
earlier?"

"That's him, our first lieutenant. You'll like him,
he's awfully keen."

"I don't know—" she started, but cut off as footsteps
clattered down the aft quarterdeck ladder. They turned
together.

Captain Fleming stepped from the sunlight into the
gun deck's shadows. His face was calm, but again his eyes gleamed.
"Lady Clara. I see you've met our resident scamp."

Staunton's grin never seemed to diminish. "The trials
of naval life, Captain."

Something about that dratted man made her spine
stiffen at his approach. But it would be rude to display such an
emotion, as rude as his behavior last night and his teasing this
morning, and he hadn't yet driven her to that point. Or if he had,
she wasn't going to admit it. "Mr. Staunton very kindly offered to
help me learn nautical customs."

"A worthy endeavor." Captain Fleming's gaze flickered
to the journal she clasped to her side. "Would you lay long or
short odds on his chances of success?"

Her spine stiffened without her permission. "I'm a
quick study."

"Excellent. Keep that in mind, Mr. Staunton, when the
betting pool gets underway."

"Oh, yes, sir." Staunton eyed her and grinned. "Don't
take it that way, Lady Clara. Our midshipmen's berth and warrant
officers would bet on paint drying or two snails racing."

"And in any case, that strong scent of coffee means
our breakfast is ready." Captain Fleming offered his arm. The
amusement in his pale eyes softened, as if he'd never tease her
again. "May I escort you to the great cabin?"

Prickles of nervous energy tickled her skin from her
belly outward. Something about the man… As Staunton tilted his tall
black hat, she placed her hand gingerly on Captain Fleming's arm
and allowed him to escort her toward the stern. For breakfast,
she'd brave far worse. After all, how bad could he possibly be?

Fleming led his uninvited guest through his impromptu
bedchamber — he'd no intention of entering hers — past that
aggravating hammock, to the great cabin, at
Topaze
's stern
end. Hennessy and his mates had moved the dining table and chairs
from the coach to the great cabin's larboard side, and it was set
for two when they entered. Beside him, Lady Clara gasped.

"Is something wrong?"

"Oh, no." Her eyes were wide and round. She fingered
the Sheffield silver, the snowy napkin, the pewter plate glistening
in the misty light peeking through the stern windows. "This is
beautiful. I'd no idea a small ship could keep such an elegant
table."

And now that he looked more closely, Hennessy had
laid the table with the best plates and silver, rather than the
stuff kept for everyday use. So like a sailor; they might not want
her aboard, but if she was already there, by gimbals, they'd do
their utmost to impress her. "
Topaze
is rather a wealthy
ship, you know."

Her gaze rose to his and a spark of something flared
within her eyes. Interest, respect, appreciation? Invitation? No,
she'd said she was hunting for the man she loved. Mrs. Fleming's
little boy would be far down on her list of priorities, surely. But
the notion was flattering and there was no harm in being pleased,
regardless of how little it meant.

He tucked her chair in to the table, carefully not
brushing her silken sleeve with his fingers, before seating
himself. Lady Clara had approached the table directly, with the
straightforward interest of a child, and so he'd seated her as he'd
intended, with the sunlight from the stern windows falling fully
onto her face, without having to finesse things. He'd be able to
assess his guest with no need to guess at her reactions.

Hennessy poured coffee, set the little creampot of
goat's milk in the table's center, and served chops, eggs, and soft
tack.

"But this looks wonderful," she said.

The note of puzzlement in her voice raised his
eyebrows. "'But'? Does that mean you considered us savages before
the bacon hit your plate?"

She had the grace to redden. "Of course not. But one
hears stories of the naval officer's hard lot, and bad food always
claims a place of prominence in such a tale."

"If we have to round the Cape in chase, without time
to stop for fresh provisions, you may yet experience those tales."
He paused for a sip of coffee. He'd long ago made certain Hennessy
knew his next breath depended upon the captain's morning coffee
being served hot and hot; there were times when life was good,
being the captain. "But early on in a voyage, we manage to scrape
out some reasonable style."

She turned her attention to her plate and flushed
again, a soft pink that glowed like the misty sunlight beneath her
delicate, translucent skin. She'd pulled her hair into a simple
twist, tightened until it looked painful, but already the first
wisps drifted free and gathered about her ears and cheeks. Its
color was so light, too pale to be called flaxen, more like the
blooms of the acacia tree outside his bedroom window at home. It
looked softer than a setter puppy's undercoat.

And far more inviting. He needed to keep his mind
where it belonged — on his plan. Until he could return her home,
she was his responsibility and he'd have to remember that.

And only that.

He cleared his throat and eased it with more coffee.
He'd eaten half the chop, but so much of his attention had been on
her, he couldn't recall a bite. Hopefully they weren't tough or
stringy; poor food was a sad way to welcome any guest, even an
uninvited, spoiled debutante. "I regret discussing business over
our meal, but the first full day out is generally a busy one and
this may be all the time we have until late."

Her head shot erect. The sudden ferocious intensity
made him straighten. Her hair was pale but her eyes were dark, such
a dark brown they were next to black. At that moment, it required
little imagination to picture sparks flying from them and igniting
the table, the cloth, and the remains of their meal.

"Business?" she asked.

He nodded. "I thought we might work a trade."

Make that the entire ship. Her intense response
astonished him. Did she imagine he meant something dishonorable?
He'd never allowed bawdy talk at his table, nor did he encourage it
amongst his officers and midshipmen, and he'd certainly never
intended to imply—

No. He hadn't. And he
hadn't.
The widening of
her eyes was surprise, not outrage. She hadn't delved into murky
physical depths when considering what she might have to trade. Her
reaction could only stem from something else entirely, and prickles
of unease crept up his arms, overlying his unworthy disappointment.
Impossible to decide which was worse, his impure assumptions or her
unknown possibilities.

He took a deep, soothing breath. The delicate part of
his plan approached at stu'nsail speed. "The problem is, Lady
Clara, I must carry you on the books in some manner."

She shook her head. "On the books? I don't
understand."

"Every ship maintains accounts. The purser mainly
keeps the books, but the captain holds the final responsibility.
There are ledgers for each consumable aboard — food, water,
gunpowder, the different types of shot, sail-maker's goods, ropes,
everything."

Her shoulders drooped and the intensity vanished with
extraordinary suddenness. She pushed her plate aside. "And you must
account for my consumption."

"Exactly." It wasn't precisely true, of course. Every
captain had the right to carry a guest aboard and not even the
notoriously parsimonious victuallers could quibble over the morsel
she'd eaten. Besides, during their hurried refitting in Plymouth,
he'd sent Hennessy ashore with letters of credit and currently the
captain's storeroom in the hold was packed so tightly with quality
provisions, he couldn't possibly work his way through them even if
they did miss restocking at the Cape. Even if he invited the
midshipmen to dine with him every night of the week. He could carry
her from here to Pulau Pinang and flip the books.