A Different Sort of Perfect (31 page)

And Captain Fleming. Aggravating, infuriating
man.

She sighed and flattened the pages with one hand,
stroking down the paper's inner fold. When she'd fled below after
the battle, she'd checked the repeater and found it to be ten
minutes before nine o'clock. Allow a few minutes for her
floundering at the match tub, drinking the water, coming on deck,
and retwisting her hair, and it seemed the entire battle, from
first gunfire to last, had taken less than twenty minutes. She
found herself unable to accurately describe the battle itself, but
she could note down the timeline and piece together the rest,
perhaps with input from Staunton or Mr. Abbot. Asking Captain
Fleming was out of the question; the less they spoke for a while,
the more peaceful the frigate would be. She loaded the pen.

The door opened. Only one person would barge into the
great cabin without knocking and she didn't wish to speak with that
one. She leaned over the book and wrote, forming each letter and
number carefully. Best if she didn't look up.

"Lady Clara."

Not
captain's clerk
. She closed her eyes for a
moment. "Yes, Captain Fleming?"

But he didn't speak. If he awaited her glance up,
he'd be waiting until the tropics required woolen innerwear.
Finally he cleared his throat. "Might I trouble you for the muster
roll?"

Of course; he'd need to detail part of the crew to
sail the prize home, and perhaps to assist Captain Lamble with the
Flirt
. "Certainly." Setting her pen in its stand, she
rummaged for the muster in the desk drawer.

When she handed it to him, unfortunately she forgot
her anger and glanced up. A brief, polite smile touched his
unusually narrow lips. Perhaps his face was pale; perhaps it was
the strong midmorning sunlight, blazing through the stern windows.
He accepted the papers, bowed, and left.

Their poor little friendship might never have
been.

* * * *

She managed to avoid him the rest of the day, eating
a sandwich at the desk and brushing crumbs from the book after the
ink had dried. Through the stern windows,
Armide
slowly
resumed the appearance of a frigate ready to sail, although a
closer look showed more twice-laid stuff and Irish pennants than
was attractive. At
Armide
's stern, Lamble and the two
carpenters replaced the
Flirt
's shattered foremast with
Topaze
's spare mains'l yard, and re-rigged the brig without
a main topmast. It would reduce the brig's ripping turn of speed,
but likely
Flirt
could give
Topaze
and
Armide
the advantage and still match them.

Not that she'd ever admit
Topaze
wasn't the
Royal Navy's most superior vessel in all possible ways.

But when orange and gold painted the western sky
Topaze
moved, swinging from
Armide
and
Flirt
and beginning her susurrating whisper to the waves. For an uneasy
minute the stern windows overlooked only the empty sea, then
Armide
tacked into the frame, a cable's length astern, and
beyond her the
Flirt
, sliding into position with only her
maincourse and fore tops'l. They were underway with the blazing
sunset to larboard; they sailed north-northwest, for England.

Avoiding Captain Fleming was unadulterated cowardice;
she knew it, but the thought of facing him made her quail deep
inside. Why, she wasn't certain. They'd enjoyed an open, steady
relationship since her first full day aboard, and while it had
ended with a flash of temper on his part, followed by the stiffest
reserve of which he seemed capable, she hadn't come aboard
Topaze
seeking his friendship. It shouldn't matter if she
lost something she hadn't sought.

Speaking with him, speaking of Phillippe, and perhaps
being asked to explain his despicable behavior — just the thought
drove her back into cowardice.

She could retire to her little sleeping cabin; it
would smell of burnt gunpowder and the gunport would be open to the
sea, but the hanging cot would be back in its usual place and she
could lie swinging to the breeze, cooling her tropic-heated skin
and overactive thoughts. But when she considered doing so, her body
refused to leave the window seat and something told her that even
if she convinced it to rise, her feet would mutiny next, leaving
her in the great cabin without the option of pretending she could
move.

She could go above to the quarterdeck and observe the
repairs made to their own dear
Topaze
. But with Mr. Abbot
commanding the
Armide
— and she hadn't seen him return —
likely
Topaze
's officer of the watch was the officer she
wasn't certain she wanted to see. Previously it had taken
Lieutenant Rosslyn a week to recover from his seasickness.

It was maddening. But none of her choices were good
ones. Sooner or later, of course, she'd have to speak with him; she
had her job as captain's clerk to perform, after all. But before
any conversation with Captain Fleming could move forward, she'd
first have to speak, really speak, with Phillippe.

And the one thing of which she was absolutely certain
was, she had no desire whatsoever to speak with Phillippe.

Phillippe. Saying his name, picturing him in her
mind, had previously reduced her to reveling in his dashing glory
and dreaming of its reflection upon her. She'd yearned for him,
yearned shamelessly for him to touch her hand, left home to find
him. Left everything and everyone she loved on a desperate, wanton
search for the husband she'd chosen and needed.

Outwardly he hadn't changed. The uniform was somewhat
different from the one he'd worn during the Amiens peace, but his
hair, profile, forehead, cheekbones, skin tone, all were the same.
His voice. His touch. The fascinating shock his hand delivered to
hers, the one that traveled straight to her quivering knees.

Had he changed inside? Or had she never truly known
him at all?

Love was supposed to be immortal, an ever-fixed mark,
so high and steady that a wandering navigator could apply a sextant
to it and find his precise latitude. Love could withstand the most
fearsome storm and shrug off any change discovered in the
beloved.

So why did she cringe from any future possibility of
Phillippe's touch? Why didn't she proclaim their love to the
crosstrees? Why had she so thoroughly washed the hand he'd
clasped?

The glorious colors intensified beyond the larboard
stern windows, darkened, faded, and finally collapsed beneath the
onrushing tropical night. Clara waited as the stars came out,
prickling the luminous blue-black sky with thousands upon thousands
of brilliant shot holes, as if the sun's rays peaked through each
one. She waited until her eyes would remain open no longer, until
she saw the stars through her closed eyelids.

But he never came below decks. Never came to see
her.

* * * *

They met at breakfast, of course.

Captain Fleming's eyes, normally the same blue-grey
as the gentle Atlantic rollers, were shot through with
painful-looking red streaks and bracketed with swollen skin. He
still wore the stained Guernsey frock and ragged old trousers that
he'd worn during the refitting and the battle.

"Forgive me for not dressing more appropriately," he
said as he joined her at the table. Exhaustion roughened his voice;
he sounded like a rumbling hay wagon on a paved road.

"Have you been to bed at all?"

He shook his head and rubbed a hand over his bristly
chin. "Not since before the storm. But with your permission, I
intend to remedy that situation as soon as our repast is complete.
Lieutenant Rosslyn has forced himself erect and while he's not in
the best shape, he's at least no longer comatose."

"By all means." She passed him the bacon and served
him another egg.

He didn't look up, just as she hadn't looked up the
day before, when he'd entered the great cabin while she'd copied
out her notes. His hands moved mechanically, cutting the chop,
raising his coffee mug. His shoulders drooped as if the weight of
the epaulettes were too much to bear.

Her worries and inexplicably hurt feelings melted
away. She'd wanted to be dignified, to explain she'd need to speak
with Phillippe before she could chart her course forward. So
concerned with her own petty little nothings, she'd utterly
forgotten his more serious and very real problems. Her immaturity
humiliated her. She couldn't conceive of putting her desires before
his physical needs. Not now that she'd seen his bloodshot eyes.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

He glanced up, surprise clearing his weariness. For a
moment his gaze sharpened to its usual cutting edge and he examined
her in return, eyebrows drawn together into a gull-winged knot. She
held herself still and allowed his assessment. Hopefully he'd read
her sincerity as clearly as she read his exhaustion.

A tired smile flickered across his face, softening
his expression. "If you could gather the information for the log
today, I would be able to sleep with a clear conscience."

Of course; with Mr. Abbot aboard the
Armide
,
there was no one on
Topaze
to keep a record of the frigate's
day-to-day operations. She couldn't keep a watch, not even as a
midshipman, but the administrative functions of a first officer
hardly required years of seamanship. Staunton's indoctrination and
lessons should serve.

"Certainly, Captain. With pleasure."

He nodded but didn't speak again, and she let him
finish his breakfast and retire in peace.

Clara grabbed her book and inkhorn before climbing
the aft ladder to the quarterdeck. A huge disk of peaceful sea
surrounded the three ships, the horizon farther away than ever and
always receding into the distance ahead. A quarter mile behind the
taffrail sailed
Armide
and presumably
Flirt
; not a
scrap of the brig's canvas showed through the French frigate's
massive courses. On
Armide
's forestay flew the French
tricolor with the red ensign above it, signifying her capture, and
the flags aimed their thin edges of flapping cloth at her. The wind
was perhaps a degree or two off dead astern, going in the same
direction as the three ships and traveling at the same speed. All
the sails set were drumhead taut and well bellied, illustrating
their movement through the water; but it felt as if the wind barely
breathed across the ship and they all danced in place. Nothing
stirred the day's strengthening heat, floating above the deck and
keeping pace.

She made notes of the date and time, the frigate's
course and speed, the sails set and the weather. The position she'd
fill in later, after the noon observation. On
Armide
's
fo'c'sle, Mr. Abbot waved, one tired lifting of his hand, and she
waved back. He spoke with an older midshipman, like Chandler a
master's mate, someone she didn't know. Without thinking, she
approached Staunton, standing in the watch officer's position.

"Who's that with Mr. Abbot?"

At her first step toward him, Staunton's expression,
usually so open and cheerful, stiffened into cautious lines. He
glanced over his shoulder toward
Armide
and didn't turn back
around. "I don't know his name, but he's from the
Flirt
.
Armide
struck to both of us, so we supplied the commander
and crew to sail her to Plymouth, and Captain Lamble sent over some
of his older midshipmen and mates."

His words carried no understandable meaning; all she
recognized was his demeanor. Staunton, reserved? Preposterous.
Clara opened her mouth to ask him what was the matter. But her
mouth closed before she managed to produce a single word.

Of course Staunton was reserved. Everyone had
observed her reaction to Phillippe, his reaction to her, even if no
one had overheard Captain Fleming's indiscreet question. And a
closer examination of the crew on deck showed more than one sailor
turning too quickly aside, as if avoiding her eye.

It wasn't just Staunton. The entire crew must be
waiting for her to declare her position.

Oh, how she yearned to go below and hide in her
little cabin. But she had a job to do and that option was no longer
open. She'd have to tolerate their sideways glances, Staunton's
reserve.

And they'd simply have to tolerate her.

Clara folded the unfinished sheet of floral trellis
lace back into her canvas bag. She'd made two half-flowers, her
stitches as uneven and untidy as ever. But it now seemed a quixotic
task, making a clumsy bit of lace for a wedding ceremony that would
never be.
Should
never be. So she shoved it out of sight and
instead dug out the boring old sedge-stitch wrap; that at least she
could do competently.

But her fingers refused to stay busy and she found
herself staring at the
Armide
, still sailing a cable's
length astern. The awning kept the worst of the heat from her
little outdoor office on the poop deck, but the wind hadn't varied
from the southeast, it seemed to be barely moving across the
frigate's beam, and the temperature was just shy of unbearable. It
had been fun during the outbound journey, withstanding the
scorching heat. On this leg of the journey, all the fun had leaked
from the tropical sun. She didn't feel the same blistering
excitement now, only miserable heat.

The little three-ship squadron had made excellent
time past the invisible East African coast in the weeks since the
battle, logging one hundred and fifty miles each day and removing a
fair-sized chunk from the distance between them and Plymouth.
Within a day or two, they'd plow back into the doldrums. Captain
Lamble had said the equatorial region of calm had been narrowing
even as
Topaze
weathered it, and the
Flirt
had only
needed days rather than a week to slog through. Hopefully that was
true and they'd get past it again swiftly. In this mood, she didn't
think she could bear sitting through another week of
Topaze
rolling her guts out.