Ransome's Crossing (10 page)

I
t was only hair.

Charlotte swiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks and took up the shears again. The curtain of silky brown hair hugged her shoulders and flowed down her back. Her crowning glory, as Mama would say.

“It will grow back,” she whispered to her own image in the accusing mirror. She pulled a thick lock forward, wrapped her fist around it close to her scalp, held her breath and…

Shrrrrrrp.

Laying the section of hair on the dressing table before her, she released her breath. Slowly, she raised her eyes to the mirror. The short ends remaining looked vulgar and unseemly. She glanced down at the other item on the dressing table.

Henry’s letter.

Resolution stopped her tears and steadied her hand. To keep from having much of a mess, she quickly plaited her remaining hair into two long braids—and just as quickly hacked them off. She tied the cut ends with twine. Madame Rousseau owed her a guinea.

Not quite sure what she was doing, and more by feel than sight, she trimmed the back and bottom until she could barely pull it a finger’s width from her scalp. She left the top long enough to part at one side and comb both sides down almost to her ears.

Her head felt strangely light, her neck bare and exposed. But when
she looked into the mirror, Charles Lott stared back at her, wide-eyed with uncertainty.

She still had time to back out, to go to the country with the Fairfaxes and then go home to Gateacre to see Philip and let Mama take care of her as she’d always done. With Lady Rotheram’s baby having come yestereve, just before Charlotte took her leave of Brampton Park, Lady Dalrymple’s attention had been understandably distracted when Charlotte had bade her benefactress farewell. Distracted enough to not notice that Charlotte’s large trunk was not in the carriage, only a much smaller chest.

The boy at the Yateses’ home had taken the sea chest up the back stairs to Charlotte’s room, so they did not know she hadn’t had her trunk sent straight on to the Fairfaxes’. Staying her last night in Portsmouth at Collin and Susan’s home in town had been Charlotte’s idea—along with hiding her trunk, filled with the beautiful gowns Lady Dalrymple had commissioned for her, in one of the rooms in the closed, unused portion of the east wing of Brampton Park.

But now, could she go through with it?

She closed her eyes and searched deep within the recesses of her mind for an image of Henry. He was tall—about as tall as William, perhaps taller than Ned Cochrane. She shook her head, trying to erase the vivid memory of Ned in his uniform as he’d danced with her just a few nights ago. Henry. Henry had blond hair and mysterious hazel eyes. Yes. Mysterious and fathomless—not gray and searching like Ned’s.

Frustrated with her inability to keep Ned from her thoughts, Charlotte set about the task of cleaning up the signs of her haircutting. She dusted herself off first and then the chair, which she then picked up and set aside. Thank goodness she’d remembered that Mama had always put an old sheet down on the floor before cutting Philip’s hair when they were young. She picked up the corners of the spare sheet she’d found in the trunk at the foot of the bed and carried it to a window and shook it out—thankful for no wind.

The mantel clock chimed five times. Her heart jumped. She’d calculated she needed to leave no later than half-past five to walk to
Madame Rousseau’s to collect her guinea and still be at the dockyard in plenty of time to report in to Lieutenant Howe aboard
Audacious
by seven thirty. She’d made her farewell to the Yateses last night. They believed she would be walking early to High Street and meeting with Penelope Fairfax there, so they would not be surprised when no carriage came to collect her.

Once she arrived at the dockyard, she would need to arrange to have the note delivered to the Fairfaxes—

The note! At the desk, she scrabbled for a piece of stationery and then sat for a long moment, trying to determine how to word it to raise no suspicion. With their intended departure at eight o’clock, they would have no time to corroborate her story with Lady Dalrymple, but she needed to be certain they would not—in concern for Charlotte—send a note to Brampton Park for her.

Finally, she dipped her quill into the inkwell.

She tapped the end of the quill against her chin as she read and reread the note. By disclosing the news of the arrival of Lady Rotheram’s baby, Charlotte hoped that Penelope’s—and her mother’s—attention would be so focused on receiving knowledge of it before anyone else in Portsmouth that they would not think twice about Charlotte’s absence. The rest of the note…well, she’d been as honest as possible
and bought herself a few days before the Fairfaxes would start wondering why they had not heard from her. By then the convoy would be at sea. She would post a letter to Mama explaining everything when they put in at Madeira to resupply.

She hoped everyone would forgive her for making them worry about her for a few weeks.

The clock showed she’d managed to fritter away fifteen minutes. She grabbed Henry’s letter off the vanity and tucked it into the back of Mr. Geoffrey’s journal, which she returned to the sea chest. With one spare uniform, two sets of everyday tunics and trousers, and the smaller sundry items she’d need, the chest was barely half full. But since she had to carry it herself down to the dockyard—three miles—the less weight it contained, the better.

She pulled off the chemise she’d slept in and stuffed it, along with the dress and other articles she’d worn here, into the very back of one of the deep drawers in the wardrobe. She watched herself in the mirror as she donned the midshipman’s uniform she’d purchased at a secondhand shop, as Lieutenant Howe had ordered. It looked almost new. The trousers were slightly too short, but she’d been around the dockyard enough to know that trouser length was arbitrary.

The black neckcloth, while concealing her bruises, gave her a little trouble; but once she put on the white waistcoat with its high collar, it hid her ineptness with the neckwear.

Stockings and shoes, and then the coat. Once she had it on and buttoned, she marveled at how it hid her figure completely. Though the rest of the clothes did a good job of masking the slight curve of her hips and the smallness of her waist, the coat did what no other garment could—made her broad at the shoulders and straight everywhere else.

The clock struck the half hour.

Excitement, trepidation, and nausea struck her like successive tidal waves. She took a few deep breaths. Though her heart would not settle down, her stomach did. She tucked the heel of bread and chunk of cheese she’d swiped from the kitchen an hour ago into her pocket,
snuffed the candles, clapped the tall, round hat on her head, and hoisted the sea chest.

If Susan and Collin were not awakened by the creaking of the floorboards, surely the sound of Charlotte’s pounding heart would be loud enough to wake the dead. But she made it to the service stairs with no incident. At this hour, only the cook would be stirring, and as she lived in quarters beside the kitchen, she never used this staircase. Still, Charlotte paused often to listen for footfalls or other telltale signs she was not alone.

None came. As she had so many times before, she sneaked out the back of the house into the garden. In less than twenty feet, she would be in the alley.

Ned sauntered around to the area where Howe oversaw the delivery of supplies for
Audacious
. “Any sign of Lott yet?”

Howe grunted. “Not yet. I will be very put out, Cochrane, if after waiting all this while I have to secure another midshipman when I could have had one a week ago.”

Ned pressed his lips together. He was usually a good judge of character, and Charles Lott had struck him as someone he could take a risk on. Actually, Charles Lott had struck him as something entirely different than any other midshipman Ned had ever met, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. There was something so familiar about the lad, yet Ned knew he’d never met the boy outside of the few times he’d seen him here at the dockyard.

Matthews signaled him from their entrenchment on the quay, so he left Howe, trying to not feel betrayed by the young midshipman.

He turned at the sound of pounding feet. Down the quay ran a slight figure in a midshipman’s uniform. Lott. The boy stopped a few paces from Ned and dropped his sea chest onto the stones beneath their feet.

Ned grinned and pulled out his pocket watch. “Five minutes to spare. Well done, Lott.”

Panting, Lott bent down and braced his hands on his knees. “Would have been here earlier…had to find a messenger…send a note. Let them know…” He waved his hand and took a few gulping breaths, and then he straightened and touched the brim of his hat. “Midshipman Charles Lott reporting for duty.”

Ned cocked one eyebrow. “Don’t report to me.” He used his thumb to point over his shoulder. “Your commanding officer is over there. But I’d suggest you wipe the bread crumbs off your jacket before you see him. He’s a stickler for those things.”

Lott turned even redder than he already was, looked down, and frantically brushed away the remains of his breakfast.

“Better hop to, Mr. Lott. You only have about a minute and a half to report in before Lieutenant Howe gives away your spot.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Lott whisked away a few more stray crumbs, and then he bent down and picked up his sea chest with a grunt. “Thank you, Lieutenant Cochrane.”

Ned inclined his head to the junior officer, and then he made his way down the dock to rejoin his own crew, unable to shake the feeling that he knew Charles Lott from somewhere.

Julia glanced around the room one more time. Memories of the evenings she’d spent in this study with her father over the past year flooded her mind, causing swift tears to sting her eyes, but she refused to give in to them. William had been so stoic two nights ago when they bade farewell to his mother, she’d almost been embarrassed remembering her own outburst upon parting with Papa.

Once she returned to Jamaica, there were so many events, so many people she would miss. Papa. Susan and Collin—and the birth of their child. Lady Dalrymple, who had become a friend in past weeks. The Naval Family Aid society. Admiral and Mrs. Hinds.
Even Admiral Glover and his incessant and repetitive anecdotes of his life at sea.

She closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment until the urge to sob dissipated. Instead of focusing on what she was leaving behind, she needed to think about what she had to look forward to: Jamaica, Tierra Dulce, Jerusha and Jeremiah and the rest of the families who worked and lived at the plantation, the hot days and warm nights, the crystal clear water in her cove…