H. M. S. Cockerel (42 page)

“You mus' . . .
espouse une chaton pour nous,
” Sophie giggled.

“Mademoiselle la vicomtesse, she tell me, wan you dine viz 'er
famille,
you say you 'ave
le chat, le garçonet.
Guillaume
Peet? Mais,
you read 'e
nous a quittes?
” Phoebe teased. “
Pardon,
eef zat mak' you sad
mais
. . . Mademoiselle Sophie, she 'ave
les chatons.
An'
le chaton
new,
peut-être,
'e mak' you 'appy,
n'est-ce pas?
”

“Well, I'll be . . .” Lewrie said softly, kneeling down to look at them, knowing his face had gone all soft and goose-silly. But he could not help himself. “
Oui,
I love cats.
J'adore les chattes.
”

He stuck a tentative hand into the basket, wiggled his fingers at them. Two of the kittens were girls, he discovered as he toyed with them, mostly white, with pale tannish stripes or blotches. They shrank back to a corner, behind each other, little tails so very erect, and blue kitten-coloured eyes wide in fright. There was a male, mostly gray-tan tabby, just as scared. And there was the black one. There was white on paws and chest, white whiskers on his brows and chops. His chops were white, though his nose and under chin were black. And a white blaze tapering upward along the bridge of his nose to terminate between his bright yellow eyes. He was the only one intent on Lewrie's fingers, shifting his eyes and head back and forth faster and faster to follow, until with a manly little
mew
of delight, he pounced, tiny teeth and claws sinking in, holding on as Lewrie rolled him on his side, so he could break away and awkwardly pounce back.

“Ow, you little bugger!” Lewrie chuckled. “I dare you to do it again. Like the finger? Want a wood shaving to play with, hey?”

The kitten sat back on his haunches, front legs splayed clumsily, and licked his mouth, glancing up into Lewrie's face.

“Il ne comprend pas
you, Alain,
”
Phoebe chuckled, kneeling down with him, as did Sophie.
“
Eez
le bon chaton Français
. 'E
ne parle pas Anglais.”

“
Oui,
you 'ave to teach eem,” Sophie laughed.

“You
adore les chatons,
” Phoebe coaxed.
“Quelles chatons préféréz-vous?”

Lewrie gently lifted the kitten from the basket and sat him on his upraised knee, atop his cloak, and began to stroke him, which elicited another tiny mew, as the kitten began to scale his cloak, up to bat at a corner of his cocked hat, almost fall off, dig in, and make another swat at it, from Alan's shoulder. He lost interest in that quickly, to nuzzle and prod under Lewrie's hair, to sniff at his neck, and go for an ear lobe as if it might be one of his mother's teats.

“I really can't,” Alan sighed wistfully. “Once I rejoin my old ship, my captain . . . I shouldn't be tempted.”

“
Notre chat vieux,
ze mozzer cat?” Sophie de Maubeuge told him as the kitten leaned far out to rub noses with him as he turned his head. “
Elle
'ave 'er
portée,
uhm . . .
comment,
Phoebe?
Merci bien, ma amie
. . . 'er
litter, deux
mont' ago? An'
maintenant,
ve 'ave ze families to fin' for zem.
Plais, m'sieur Luray? Vous espouse
eem? You see? 'E eez
déjà très affectueux à vous.
‘E . . .
like'
you!”

Alan almost relented, as the kitten rubbed his little chops on his chin and nose, pressed his side against his cheek and began a purr. “Well, we'll see. If he . . .”

The kitten slipped and fell, catching himself by one paw, deep-sunk claws into the rough wool of the cloak, turning a somersault.

“For now, I think he's best back with his brothers and sisters,” Alan laughed, prying him off his cloak and putting him back in the basket.

“
Le garçonet,
'e choose you, I save eem
pour vous,
” Sophie promised as they all stood again. “'E weel be you's.”

“
Oui,
Alain, you mak' Sophie 'appy, mak'
vous-même
'appy,” Phoebe insisted. “An' mak'
le chaton
'appy 'e 'ave ze 'ome.
Votre capitaine,
phfft!
You
are
un capitaine,
now, you canno' 'ave
le chat
eef you desire?” Her teasing pout took on more suggestiveness as she concluded in a softer voice.
“Le capitaine
'ave
quelque chose
. . .
anys'ing
'e desire,
n'est-ce pas?”

“Ahum . . .” Lewrie frowned, clearing his throat, hands clasped behind his back, quarterdeck fashion, with edginess. Sophie, by this time, had tumbled to his secret and was turning crimson to the roots of her hair, unable to look either one of them in the eyes.

“Pardon, ma amie Phoebe,”
Sophie said, with infinite inborn and noble grace, striving for a gay air.
“
Ve 'ave
un chaton pour M'sieur Luray mais . . . trois bébés de plus.”
Switching to French only, she swore she could explore the lower decks and find some families who might wish to adopt the rest. Graciously, she excused herself, insisting that it would be a matter of minutes only, and that she would catch up with Phoebe later. They curtsied to each other and Sophie departed.

Phoebe tossed back the hood of her cloak to bare her head, and leaned on the starboard bulwark, arms widespread along the rails, to gaze off at the brooding, shrouded northern hills, taking a deep taste of harbour air, her head cocked back in pleasure, all unknowing.

“Uhm, mademoiselle la vicomtesse . . .”
Lewrie began to explain.

“Ah, oui, Alain!”
Phoebe bobbed as she laughed with delight.
“La vicomtesse!
She eez
la
ver' sweet
jeune fille
. Ver'
charmant.
Speak vis me
beaucoup bonté
. . . as eef I am
bien élevé,
uhm . . . well-born as 'er? Ver'
gracieux, mon chou. Avant,
I nevair be
connais
vis someone
si grand,
vis
pareil
. . . to know someone so well-manner.
Figurez-vous!”

“Aye, she is,” he replied, stepping closer to her at the bulwark to speak more guardedly. She took his right hand under her left. “One hopes, though, Phoebe . . . Sophie is a very young girl, fifteen? Out of her convent barely six months, and that . . . forced out. Taken from the oven before she was fully baked, if you will.”

He didn't think he was doing a very good job of this; Phoebe was chuckling at his statement.

“Innocent, Phoebe,” he scowled. “Eager to think the best of anyone. A few moments ago, when you were so familiar with me, calling me Alan, 'stead of . . . well . . . she got an inkling of our relationship. And that's why she lit out, d'ye see. Off on her own. Embarrassed.”

“Mon dieu, j'ai marché dans le merde,”
Phoebe sighed, looking more and more stricken as she gathered his import.
“Quel con, ma!”

“Maybe it's not as bad as that, Phoebe,” he comforted, squeezing her hand on the rail. “Perhaps I took her wrong, and . . .”

“Non,
I mak' ze
emmerdement, encore,”
she groaned, near to crying. “I am ze
paysan . . . un cul terreux.
Wan' to be somebody, someday, an' 'ave
non
ze manners. Ze village girl!
La
putain,
oui?
An' now, you talk
à moi, comme la putain.
Tell me I do wrong.”

“Phoebe . . .” he groaned, wondering if it was really worth it.

“Mademoiselle Sophie 'as tell me
beaucoup concernant vous, mon cheri,
” Phoebe said in a flat voice, her face set against her misery. She turned to cock a brow at him and chuckle sardonically. “Zat you are marry? Zat en Angleterre, you 'ave
le
wife an'
trois enfants?
”

“Uhm, ah . . .” he groaned once more, gut-punched. Two nights in a row, now, they'd bedded together, and their one night aboard ship, crammed into the chartroom and a narrowish fold-down bed cot, had been as maddening, as heavenly as the first, as inspiringly passionate and tender. No matter that he'd fulfilled his obligation, gotten her into a ship, and she could walk away as free as larks, her “debt” paid, too. He was sure he was going to miss that, painfully. “Aye, I do,” Lewrie was forced to confess, slumping moodily against the bulwarks. “Phoebe, I know I have no right to rail at you, I'm
sorry.
I simply wished you might . . . for your own sake . . . be careful who knows about us. It hurt Sophie, I think. And it hurt you, if you wish to be her friend . . .”

“Pauvre Alain, mon chou,”
she laughed softly, half-turning toward him, taking his hand with both of her tiny ones. “You mak'
amour comme le homme français mais
. . . in you' 'ead, you are
anglais.
You are marry?” she said fondly, studying his sea-roughened hand, lifting her gaze to his face, her brown eyes huge once more, mesmerising and besotting. “Zen you are marry.
J'comprend mais, je m'en fous
. . . do not care. Ze
jeune fille comme moi,
she be viz
beaucoup hommes
'oo are . . . marry. I do wrong.
Merci bien,
you correc' me.
En
public,
ne pas encore emmerdements pour vous.
Forgive me, I say you talk
à moi comme putain,
zat ees wrong. You correc' me,
parce que
. . . because you s'ink of 'er embarrassment. An' my embarrassment.
Non
on'y you' embarrassment.”

“Well . . .” he sighed. That wasn't exactly what he'd intended, but . . . if she wanted to take it that way, he'd be more than willing.

“You are good an' kin',
très affectueux
vis me. I feel
aussi à vous,
Alain,” she sighed, turning his hand over to peer into his palm. Then she laid his hand down firmly on the railing, slid half a step to the side, and crossed her arms on the bulwark to peer out, peeking at him from time to time, behaving with seemly public decorum.

“I do nozzing
encore
mak' you feel . . .
honteux?
Shame? But you mus' tell me.
En
private,” she twinkled briefly. “Wan I be viz
pauvre
Barnaby . . . forgive,
plais, mais
. . . 'e waz non
le bon homme.
I mak' eem anger, I ask
concernant vous.
Forgive,
j'sais
'e waz
votre ami, mais
. . . eez
vrai
. . . true? An'
toujours
I weesh I be vis you, zat ees
you
wan' me,
non
eem. You
seulement talk à moi, si gentil.
You laugh, so easy? Mak' me laugh,
aussi,
an' 'appy wan you are zere. Now we are lovers, I know ze
amité
an' affection I feel
au milieu . . . uhm, nous . . .”
Phoebe paused, waving a hand to grasp the right word.

“Between us?” Lewrie supplied.

“Oui,
between us,
merci bien
,” she nodded quickly, rewarding him with another of her radiant smiles. “Zat eez so rare, en ze life I know.
Avant
you
retourne votre ship, avant
I
retourne m'affaires,
” she sobered. “Am 'appy,
now.
'Ow long ve 'ave, Alain
mon chou? Une
week,
deux
. . . ze mont',
une année? Encore, je m'en fous.
Long as you are
mon cher ami.
My loving frien'. An' I am
votre jeune fille,
an'
votre amour.
I
demande
nozzing more. I do nozzing more, mak' you be shame
à moi, promesse!
You weesh ze
jeune dame,
zan I be.
En
public,” she concluded with a softly muttered leer and a shift of her hips.