A Different Sort of Perfect (17 page)

"Good morning, Mr. Abbot." Another yank, little loops
of thread unraveling link by link, and the lace pattern was back to
where she'd started an hour ago. She began rewinding the thread
back onto the spool, whipping the two around and around each other.
"I must say, your patience with the landmen is impressive and
highly commendable. So many educated men would have lost their
tempers partway through that exercise, yet you never snapped."

He glanced at her again. Wheels of thought turned
behind his considering expression. "How have I given you the
misperception that I'm educated?"

That deserved no answer, and she told him so with her
most severe look. His penmanship mightn't be the tidiest, but he'd
never misspelled a word nor a sailor's name.

Mr. Abbot cleared his throat. "Lady Clara, these men
are fighting a war for us. They're risking their lives on a daily
basis. I admit that on some ships, they're treated like dogs and
worse. But not on any ship where I have influence. I believe they
deserve better."

He stopped, flustered, his cheeks darkening as if
embarrassed by his own passion. Without another word, he touched
his scraper and stalked away, descending the ladder to the gangway
and vanishing among the press of sails and crew.

The thread and spool hung in her hands, unnoticed.
She'd never expected such depths nor compassion from this fighting
officer.

Amazing.

An hour later, she again ripped out two rows of
lopsided flowers, and this time she put the lace-making away,
somewhat ashamed of her relief. Honestly, she wasn't getting any
better at it, no matter how much practice she put in. Instead she
pulled out the boring old wrap with its larger yarn and hook, where
her fingers wouldn't fumble. The sedge stitch wasn't anything
impressive, not now that she'd become accustomed to it and the
novelty had worn off. But she could at least produce it
creditably.

The rows mounted steadily without becoming a
humiliation, and she completed several inches before something
scraped against
Topaze
's side.

"Mind the paintwork, Mr. Staunton!" The fussy first
lieutenant's voice, delivered in a resounding snarl.

Perhaps he wasn't as patient as she'd presumed.

The bosun piped his call and a working crew of
sailors raced on deck. They attached whips to the yardarm, nets to
the whips, and soon the cumbersome barrels of fresh water came
heaving and creaking aboard. The hands rolled them down a ramp to
the hold with a rumbling racket that made any form of conversation
or even coherent thought impossible. But the captain's clerk kept
count of the barrels as they vanished below, and when she reported
her total to Mr. Abbot, his surprised stare sent a delighted thrill
through her.

Once the red and blue cutters had been hoisted aboard
and tied down, Mr. Abbot called for the forecourse and main
t'gallant. Sails unfurled on the yards, one after another. Tack
upon tack,
Topaze
beat into the westerly wind, rounded the
ocean side of the Canary Islands, and the enemy shoreline dwindled
and finally vanished behind.

And she hadn't even had the nerve to request
permission to go ashore with the working party.

Drat it.

Staunton dragged himself to the quarterdeck and
doffed his scraper to Mr. Abbot. Sweat plastered his black curls to
his forehead and nape, soaked through his broadcloth coat, and a
grimy line cut off sharply where the brim of his hat had stopped
its encroachment. "Water barrels stowed below and both cutters
secured, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Staunton." Mr. Abbot nodded once,
briskly, without ever glancing down, as if it were nothing unusual
for a thirteen-year-old lad to perform the work of a man.

Beastly. Utterly beastly. Was a "Well done!" too much
to ask?

But Staunton nodded back, clapped his scraper back
into its proper position, and slouched away for'ard. As if he'd
expected nothing more.

Men. Irritating, aggravating—

Another rumble from below interrupted her silent
tirade, competing with the accelerating rush of water along the
ship's sides.

The hatch still spilled hot sunshine deep into the
frigate. On the gun deck, Chandler ignored the sweat running into
his eyes and coached a motley collection of awkward landmen through
unhitching number fourteen,
Belcher
. With great patience, he
showed them how to cast off the ropes, then he whipped them back
into place, stepped aside, and motioned the brightest-looking
landman forward with an encouraging nod.

His awkward landmen. The ones from his watch. None
from Staunton's.

He never glanced toward the quarterdeck. Never
fumbled a rope as if self-conscious. And with the sun blazing down
upon him, he showed no sign of an embarrassed flush.

As he doubtless would, if he knew he was being
watched.

Unless he'd planned the moment. Intended to catch
Staunton unaware when he returned to the ship, tired from the
tropical heat and exhausted from rolling barrels on the rocky
shore. Chandler knew the work roster as well as she did. He'd know
that when Staunton returned he'd be ready to go off duty, to wash
off the sweat, collapse into his hammock, get some well-earned
sleep.

Sleep he wouldn't get if he had to exercise his own
awkward sailors during his off-duty watch.

Staunton drooped on the quarterdeck ladder. Heat and
a dispirited tiredness radiated from him. The angle of his head
showed his attention riveted to the exercise below.

An ache for him started in Clara's middle and seeped
up her neck to her cheeks and clenched jaw. Chandler had to have
timed it deliberately. Mr. Abbot's lesson had been over for several
hours; the senior midshipman had had plenty of time to conduct his
own training session and be done with it before Staunton returned
to the ship.

A challenge, a dig, some petty revenge—

Only a man would have done it. Only an awkward
lout.

Surely.

Staunton straightened. He yanked forth an already
smeared handkerchief from his breast pocket and swiped it across
his forehead. "Brearley, you know the gun crews in the port watch,
don't you?"

The bald fo'c'sleman finished flemishing down the
line in his hands. "Aye, Mr. Staunton."

"Well, we'd better work them while we can. Call the
ones we've been having to push into place and let's teach them
their jobs proper now."

"Aye, aye, Mr. Staunton." Brearley rolled away
for'ard.

A challenge accepted, a dig returned, some petty
revenge thwarted.

One lout deserving another.

Clara couldn't have been more proud of him. She
settled her crochet in her lap and closed her eyes. The wind swept
her along with the frigate, stirring the loose hair around her
face, and she gloried in the warmth.

Lady Clara had shown herself the mistress of all
sorts of social situations for closing in on a month now. So
precisely why Fleming felt increasingly disturbed, as their
entertainment with the wardroom approached, was difficult for him
to pin down.

The moon, a day past its prime, washed the Atlantic
rollers and the deck to a brilliant silver sheen, until it felt as
if he waded rather than paced through its suds. Rigging cut spider
webs into the boards, and dark spaces beneath the cannons, not
distinct enough to be called shadows, nevertheless wavered as the
frigate heeled to the swell.

It certainly wasn't Abbot who gave Fleming pause. His
first lieutenant wasn't the most sociable of men, but he made a
gracious wardroom host and could be depended upon to foster a
convivial dining room atmosphere. Besides, while Abbot's occasional
sideways glance made it clear he thought the plan underway was
lacking a few details, mainly sanity, he'd never go against his
captain and his support if not active assistance was a given.

Nineteen steps for'ard, through the moonlight and
into the mainmast shrouds, ducking his chin rather than let the
rigging snatch off his scraper. Nineteen steps astern.

Nor was Staunton a concern. The little mid had become
good friends with Lady Clara and sometimes their young giggles,
radiating from the quarterdeck, spread smiles for'ard and aloft, at
least amongst the older, settled Topazes.

Those experienced hands, the heart of his crew, were
proving to be remarkably tolerant of her presence aboard ship, and
sometimes even indulgent. The only hands who now looked askance at
her were the sea lawyers and awkward coves he'd inherited from the
Plymouth port admiral during the refit, and not even the most
clumsy landmen paid much attention to them any more. Her position
aboard seemed secure and by this time, almost normal.

Water splashed against the ship's side, rippled from
the stern, boiled behind. The wake stretched fifteen miles to the
horizon, and almost three thousand five hundred miles back to
Plymouth.

Despite his weak stomach, Lieutenant Rosslyn was far
too urbane to create a scene and too intellectual to carry any
discussion into the emotional entanglement of discord. And the
Marine Lieutenant Pym, while dashing in his scarlet coat and keen
as a foxhound for blood, confined his assaults to the battlefield,
never bringing them to table.

And that only left Chandler, which was ridiculous.
Fleming knew the lad, had watched him grow from a rebellious child
to a rebellious teenager back home, until his poor beleaguered
parents had begged him to take their child to sea. On the previous
cruise, he'd shown Chandler how to channel his energy and
excruciating drive to succeed into becoming a good, fit officer.
While Chandler wasn't a phoenix nor the most natural of seamen, he
was too deeply inured now into the role of a
don't-attract-negative-attention midshipman to cause trouble during
an entertainment with the captain.

Besides, surely Chandler knew that if he did, Abbot
would have his hide for the embarrassment. There were rules to
follow whenever the first lieutenant and ship's officers invited
the captain into the wardroom for a meal, just as there were rules
when the captain hosted any of his officers in the great cabin.
Both were special occasions, formal ones that required everyone's
best behavior and most pleasant smiles. If such complaisance
couldn't be achieved, the captain needed to stay out of the
wardroom, his officers' retreat and the only place they could be
away from his august presence.

After all, he could correct an errant officer in the
great cabin. Not even the first lieutenant could correct the
captain, not even in the wardroom.

Nineteen steps astern. Pause, brush the taffrail, and
turn. Past the six pounder, the wheel and quartermaster, the
binnacle, the hatchway, the skylight, the capstan, the other six
pounder. Into the mainmast shrouds. Turn. It was a wonder his
footprints weren't worn into the deck.

Unless Lady Clara herself was the mental itch
disturbing his rest. But no. That was ridiculous.

Utterly ridiculous.

Of course.

He couldn't wait for this blessed entertainment to be
done.

* * * *

Planning her toilette for a dinner engagement had
never been easier. Nor less thrilling. Despite freshwater soaking
and lemon juice, the ink stains hadn't entirely come out of her
grey sarsnet walking dress, which wasn't suitable for a formal
dinner, in any case. That left her with the cute little watchet
blue sailor dress Wake and Mayne had stitched up for her. It wasn't
particularly stylish, but it would at least blend in with the
officers' and midshipmen's uniforms.

Clara eyed herself in the little looking glass and
sighed. Discouraging. Her appearance seemed so… ordinary. Everyday.
If she did something with her hair… but a Sunday chignon would be
too severe and she was hopeless at curling. She could pin it up and
leave the tail down to brush her collar, but without ribbons, it
would look so very plain. Why couldn't she steal Harmony's thick,
naturally curly hair, even if only for a day? A few hours?

Come to think of it, she still hadn't gotten the
white gown Wake had promised to sew for her. Perhaps she should
ask. Or would that seem demanding? Yes, it felt so. Wake and Mayne
had many other, more pressing duties besides serving as her own
personal mantua-maker. She'd have to be patient, whether she
enjoyed it or no.

A knock sounded. She turned. "Yes?"

The door cracked open and Hennessy peered around its
barrier. His eyes danced with more than his usual good humor, as if
he'd just heard a very good joke. "My lady, Wake's here to see you.
Brought you somewhat, he has."

The gnarled fo'c'sleman stopped in the doorway,
smiling like a Dutch uncle, and knuckled his forehead with his free
hand. His left held a folded bundle of indigo, white — and rose
pink.

Her pulse quickened, dancing in her ears. "Mr. Wake,
how are you this evening?"

She would be gracious and go through the rituals of
polite conversation. She would.

No matter what it cost her in anticipatory
tenterhooks.

Wake nodded and smiled, but unlike Hennessy, he
didn't enter her private cabin. "Thank you, me lady, we'ems all in
excellent health afore the mast. Well, old Brearley's got a bit of
a cough, but nothing to worry about, that. He's always had it, see.
And you? I hope you're blooming?"

Her grin had started with his first sentence, faded
with the beginning of his second, and renewed its advance as he
brought his rambling to completion. There was a childlike
contentment beneath Wake's garrulous sharpness that bespoke a kind
and generous nature. She found it impossible not to like him, no
matter how rough his manner, words, and clothing.

"Blooming indeed, Mr. Wake. I believe the sea air
must be a universal tonic for a lady's appetite and complexion, and
I intend to recommend all my friends spend as much time aboard one
of His Majesty's warships as they can connive."