Rondo Allegro (33 page)

He indicated the stout commander of the ship’s Royal
Marines, whose bristling red eyebrows clashed oddly with his neatly powdered
hair.

“No, no,” Lt. Abrams said genially, hands upraised. “I grant
you more than that. I do, and no mistake. But the element of
sensibility
, now that, I think it fair
to say, no, mathematics cannot touch. You cannot make a claim upon the point of
sensibility, one might say emotion. There is no equation for that, is there,
gentlemen?”

“On the contrary, if you will forgive me, Abrams,” Lt.
Sayers said mildly. “On the contrary. If one wishes to evoke sensations of
sorrow, of reflection, what better than the
andante
count, which is to say, a numerical—mathematical—quantity?”

“I cannot agree,” the marine lieutenant exclaimed. “A
sprightly song played slowly is lugubrious. A dirge played fast becomes a
farce. These counts are incidental, that is to say, more than mathematical
quantities. They are bound to emotions: no matter what language, or even if a
man cannot count, he understands that ‘allegro’ means merry, that it raises
sensations of joy, of cheer, in the breast.”

“Allegro,” Lt. Sayers admonished, “is a strict count, 120
beats to the minute.

Anna knew nothing about mathematics; in ballet ‘allegro’
referred to the steps of elevation, the
sautes, soubresauts, changements,
and
echappes,
and
so forth, but she remembered Philippe’s admonishments to lift the heart, to
express joy.
It is universal
, he had
said.
The emotion raised when ballet is
done well is universal.

She would not speak. She listened to the ensuing debate with
a fair assumption of interest, her smile entirely due to her sense of triumph.
They were talking again. If not with their former ease, at least they were not
sitting mumchance, laboring to find topics suitable for the intruder into their
wooden world upon the sea.

She stayed long enough to eat a bread-and-cheese, and at the
first pause in the conversation, rose to excuse herself.

Instantly the constraint was back. “Is there anything you
need?” Captain Duncannon asked. “You have only to mention it.”

The impulse came from nowhere; she hadn’t really thought
about it. “Actually, there is,” she said slowly, and viewed the waiting faces,
the curiously blank faces. What did they expect her to demand?

She smiled. “You will say, I am frivolous, and I will not
deny it. But when we were aboard the
Victory
,
I saw that the other ladies all wore hats. In Spain, we did not.”

Captain Duncannon said with a conscious air, “I beg leave to
apologize, but the tender will not be returning to Gibraltar.”

“Yes, so I was told, and I remember, me. But I was thinking
that nothing would make me happier than to make one for myself. I saw some men
working with sennit earlier, and I wondered if there might be a little extra. I
would pay for it, if that is the custom—I would not ask for anything to be
given me that is not my due. I could plait the brim myself, and the rest is
easily got from my own things.”

The waiting faces all relaxed and smiled once again.

“Why, nothing would be easier,” Lt. Sayers exclaimed
heartily. “First thing in the morning watch I’ll have a word with Mr. Gates. We
will rouse you out whatever you need. We carry plenty of sennit, more than
enough for our needs.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Say-
airrrs
,” she said, doing her best to get his name out right,
without being aware of how delightfully her accent fell on English ears.

The men rose and bowed. She curtseyed and left.

There, she thought as she let herself into her cabin. The
men’s voices, punctuated by laughter, carried on, the words muffled by the
intervening wall. They were enjoying themselves, clearly. Perhaps the better
without her there?

She shifted the lantern to the hook above the bed, and
paused, distracted. This was
his
place of rest. She wondered if the captain must regularly read himself to
sleep.

It was strange to think that this was his bed, that he
regularly looked out this window, or up at the deck just there. What did he
think when he saw those scratches? Did he think about her climbing into his
bed, she wondered as she settled herself and pulled the hangings to admit the
lantern light, but shut out the rest of the cabin. There was a curious sense of
intimacy in it all.

She read until the flicker of light caused by the constant
movement tired her eyes. She blew out the light, shut her eyes and slipped into
dreams, as in the next cabin over, the guests departed and Captain Duncannon
dealt with the last of the official post that had been brought by the tender.

He was finishing that up when Lt. Sayers returned after his
last round of the deck, and asked permission to enter. The lieutenant glanced
at the desk, reflecting once more on how nearly every reading man in the ship
(and some of those who didn’t read) had in expectation of battle been writing
or dictating letters home, except the captain.

Duncannon looked up expectantly, and Sayers gave a succinct
report on the state of the sails and sea. They talked a little of ship’s business,
and the lieutenant prepared to leave.

The captain raised a hand to halt him. He officially took no
notice of his midshipmen’s maneuvering to put together their review, a fact of
which they remained blissfully unaware. When they weren’t squabbling among
themselves, they were a good set of youngsters, attentive to their duty, and
their determination to outdo the other ships’ attempts at theatricals kept them
busy.

But he would not permit them to disturb the lady.

Out of long habit against the listening ears on the other
side of the skylight overhead, Captain Duncannon said, “
Pueri numquid domina fatiga
?”

They both knew that their schoolboy Latin was wretched. But
their former masters were not here to be shocked at their mangled ablatives,
and Sayers understood the captain’s concern that the boys might be pestering
his wife.

“
Eorum antics
,”
Sayers said carefully, as the captain translated to himself,
Their antics
.

“
Oblectandi eam
.”

Amuse her
. And
Sayers nodded firmly.

Very well, the captain thought, he need not interfere. He
was aware of a surge of gratitude toward her, even of good will. No, he had to
be honest, if only within himself: he was beginning to look forward to their
conversations.

That could lead to nothing good. He had been made a fool of once,
and he had vowed to be done with women and their ambitions. He did not know
what this one wanted, but he was certain that if he asked, he would not hear
the truth. Women were never straightforward the way a man was. He would avoid
her at breakfast—easy to do, as there was plenty of ship’s business always
awaiting his attention.

The next morning, Parrette brought in tea, waking Anna.

Parrette said in Neapolitan, “I would have told you that
ladies do not make hats.”

“But my mother taught me,” Anna exclaimed as she rolled out
of the swinging bed. “I remember it so well. We plaited together as I sang for
her.”

“So it was.” Parrette tipped her head to the side. “But only
when you were alone, that no one could see. Her own mother taught her, and she
used that skill to make your hats because money was always so scarce. But the
English at Naples thought she bought them.”

Anna said, low, “I had no notion.”

“Eh,
toutefois
,”
Parrette said as she pulled out a fresh gown and gave it a vigorous shake. “I
have learned that English ladies will sometimes
trim
their hats. And also, there is a lady in the fleet who made
trouble wanting naval ships to go off to buy her new hats, as if they had
nothing else to do. An earl’s daughter? And so, you, making your hat? There is
general approval.”

“I did not look for approval,” Anna said, laughing as she
shrugged into her gown, and the hem fell about her feet. She reached for her
sash. “But I do require a hat, if I am expected to appear properly English. I
wonder if hats are in fashion again in Paris, now there is an emperor?”

“Who knows? We are not in Paris.” Parrette shrugged as she
carefully unwrapped the edging of a hat brim. “I went ahead and started it,
while I was waiting for the hot water.”

“The most difficult part,” Anna acknowledged, and thanked
her.

“Now, let us get your hair brushed out. What if The Captain
expects you for breakfast? You know how they are ruled by these bells,
tingle-r-r-r-ringle, tumble-r-r-r-r-rumble.”

But when seven bells started the tumult of “hammocks up,” Perkins
arrived with a tray at their door. The captain, it seemed, was busy elsewhere
in the ship.

Consequently Anna ate alone, then picked up her sennit and
brim, and made her way to the deck.

The air was cool, the sun’s fiery rim crowning the headlands
above Cadiz in the distance. She could make out the silhouette of another
frigate against the horizon, but they were no longer in that long line of
battleships, as far as she could tell, and she wondered if that meant the
danger of war was over.

Heartened, she took a turn about the deck and hummed through
her scales. When she reached the prow, the little boy in the overlarge uniform
came her way, grinning. He made a correct leg, lifted his hat, and then ruined
the effect of this debonair politesse by looking around furtively.

“Should you care to hear what we have, ma’am?”

“I would very much!”

Though he could scarcely get out a sentence without his
tortured stutter, for some reason Mr. Corcoran could sing. His high treble was
even true to pitch as he quickly sang “Johnny Crapaud” to the tune of “
Ça Ira
.” The words were typical of
boyish humor, scurrilous rather than genuinely humorous. She had heard the same
sort of song sung on the streets of Paris by urchins there, and took it in much
the same spirit: she wondered what might happen if the boys from either country
met one another in circumstances outside of war. They might find humor, and
games, in common.

She hoped that would happen, that the war would vanish like
the morning mist as she gave him the nod of approval that he was plainly
expecting, before he was summarily elbowed aside by the stout, black-haired Mr.
Bradshaw.

“I wanted to ask, ma’am, have you been in Barford Magna
recently?”

“I have never been there at all,” she replied. “Am I to know
where this is?”

His eyes rounded. “Why, it is the captain’s home. That is,
he lives at the Manor, I mean, his family is from there. The Lord Northcotes
have been barons there forever. But if you don’t know it, how could you be
married?”

She could not prevent a smile. “The marriage happened
elsewhere.”

“Oh,” he said.

His look of acute disappointment was easily interpreted:
this sturdy, rough-and-tumble boy missed his home. “Tell me about Barford Magna,”
she said.

He smiled, but it was soon clear that the question, though
gratifying, was too large to compass. He did not know where to begin. He made a
helpless gesture, and began in an important voice, “It is a very large parish,
ma’am . . .”

“Did you know the captain there?” she asked, hoping to help
him along.

His eyes widened. “Oh, no! He was gone as a middie before I
was breeched. And I wouldn’t be acquainted with the family in any case,” he
added scrupulously, though in a low voice. “My father being a bookseller. But I
live right there on High Street. And I’ve seen the baron twice. The new baron,”
he added. “The old baron being dead now. The new baron is a capital whip. He
drives two pairs of matched bays.” His voice dropped on the word ‘two’ and he
held up a pair of fingers for emphasis. “He drives a curricle, a capital
set-out. Right through the village, at a smashing pace up the middle of High
Street itself, sending dogs barking and chickens cackling!” His blue eyes
widened. “He wears at least ten capes to his greatcoat. You cannot conceive—the
completist thing! In any case, we haven’t had post from home in a thousand
ages, at least a year.”

“Mr. Bradshaw.”

The boy straightened up guiltily, pulling his hands from his
pockets as Mr. Sayers appeared. “It seems you have nothing to occupy you,
unlike the rest of your watch. With your permission, I believe we will remedy
that. The captain wants a party made up to sort the rusted balls.”

“Yes, sir,” was the resigned reply, and Anna was left to
finish her walk. She tucked her cloth-covered package more securely under her
arm, and began to look about for a place to settle down. She had just passed
the waist when she encountered a big sailor. “Might I put a question to you?”

“Yes, mum.” He knuckled his forehead. “Finch, gunner’s first
mate, mum.”

She turned her smile up to his enormous, unlovely face.
“Good day, Mr. Finch. Where may I sit, and be out of the way?”

o0o

It was shortly before noon that Captain Duncannon finished
a long inspection of the shot locker. He emerged on deck to find the lady
sitting decorously on a cheese of cannon wads. She had chosen her spot on the
lee side of the quarterdeck, well away from the holy weather side, reserved to
the captain or his representative when he was not on deck. So quickly she
seemed to have grasped the invisible but iron-clad rules.

She sat quietly working on plaiting her hat, her fingers
slow and careful as she smiled up at little Mr. Corcoran. From the sextant in
his hands, and his gestures up toward the sun and out at the horizon, the
captain surmised he was stuttering his way through an explanation of the noon
sighting, the most important part of the ship’s day.

He moved away to the windward rail, and lifted his telescope
to sweep the headland.