The Bright and Breaking Sea

by Chloe Neill

  “I do,” Kit said. “But that I believe it doesn’t make me feel any less miserable for having been unsuccessful in saving him.”

  Grant nodded, stared mournfully at the empty bed.

  “We’ll meet in the officers’ mess to discuss our next steps,” Kit said, and turned for the door to give him time to find balance again.

  “Brightling.”

  Kit stopped, looked back.

  “Thank you.”

  She nodded, and left him to his grief.

  * * *

  Kit checked with Cook, learned Louisa had followed her promise and stayed in the hold until he’d fetched her again. Kit found her in a chair in Tamlin’s small quarters, both of them sitting cross-legged on the bed and looking at a book.

  Although no sailor was expected to be on duty at all hours, Tamlin rarely left the top. Kit couldn’t recall a time she’d seen Tamlin in her room to do anything but sleep. And she’d never seen anyone in Tamlin’s quarters; companionship wasn’t something Tamlin often sought out.

  But Tamlin read the pages aloud—a story about pirates, it seemed—and looked absolutely enthralled in the tale.

  “Ladies,” Kit said, and they both looked up.

  “Captain,” Louisa said gravely. “I’m working on my letters and learning about a pirate queen.”

  “Is she?” Kit asked, glancing at Tamlin.

  “Best to stay below until all business was done above,” Tamlin said.

  “It’s always good to improve one’s mind,” Kit said. “I love to read, especially romances.”

  Louisa’s nose wrinkled. “Stories with kissing are disgusting.”

  “Hmm,” Kit said noncommittally. “I’m told you did very well during our battle.”

  “You’re my captain now, so I have to do your orders.”

  “Very well done,” Kit said. And now that their mission was done, and they’d be returning to New London, she thought she ought to talk to Louisa about her future.

  “Louisa, I wanted to speak to you about where you’ll live when we return.”

  She caught Tamlin’s raised brows, but kept her gaze on Louisa.

  “I’ll live on board with you and Cook and Tamlin and Lieutenant Hobbes.”

  “None of us will be staying on board. When we’re between missions, we go to our houses or our families. I know you told me you don’t have a family, but is there someone whom we should tell that you’ve made it safely home?”

  Louisa’s expression shuttered. “I don’t have anyone.”

  “No mother or father?”

  “My mother is dead. My father ran away to hell and damnation. That’s what the nun said.”

  “The nun?”

  Louisa pressed her lips together, but that was enough information for Kit. She surmised Louisa had lived in a foundling house run by the Unified Church. She’d have been well cared for, and taught rudimentary reading and writing, but would have been subject to strict rules that Kit imagined didn’t sit well with Louisa. But still . . .

  “When we get back to New London, shall we take you back there?”

  “No.” Her answer was quick and hard. “They’re mean. And I have friends outside.”

  Literally outside, Kit thought, where children huddled together in make-do shelters and searched the Saint James mud for bits of coin or things to sell.

  “Hmm,” Kit said. “What if I knew of a different place that you could stay? A place where other girls without families lived.”

  Louisa looked utterly suspicious. “Like where?”

  “Like the Brightling house, where I live.”

  “Where the wee fairy lives?”

  “She’s not a fairy, just a bit more wee than you or I. And yes, she lives there with me and our housekeeper and my other sisters.” Kit leaned forward conspiratorially. “There are lots of us.”

  “Would I get to go on the ship and still be a sailor?”

  “We’d have to discuss that.”

  Louisa looked away, blinked as she appeared to diligently concentrate. “Could I maybe meet them and decide?”

  “I think that could be arranged.”

  “All right, then.”

  One question answered. Now, to speak to Hetta.

  “He died,” Louisa said. “The man you tried to rescue.”

  She didn’t want to have this discussion with a child, even as she suspected Louisa understood tragedy as well as any adult. But Kit thought everyone deserved honesty.

  “Yes, he did,” Kit said. “He was hurt when we found him, and although we brought him back and took care of him, he didn’t survive. We’re going to have a memorial on board, and he’ll be given to the sea.”

  Louisa looked toward the hull. “Isn’t it cold down there?”

  “Deep down, it’s cold. But he won’t feel it, or any pain. Not anymore.”

  That was for the rest of them to bear.

  * * *

  Dunwood was sewn into canvas; by Isles tradition, a small pocket had been sewn just above his heart for a golden coin to give him safe passage. Hats were held in hands, Jin said the necessary words, and when it was done, silence fell across the deck again.

  Afterward, Kit made her way to the officers’ mess, sat down at the table. Jin joined her, took a seat in silence. Cook came in, gave them both a dour look, and put cups and a teapot on the table. With a curl of his lip, he turned on his heel and stalked away.

  Kit looked down at the pot, sniffed the air cautiously. The steam that wafted from it smelled of roadside weeds and shoe leather. “He’s angry we lost the tea.”

  “He’s angry we lost the tea,” Jin agreed. But they both needed the boost, so by unspoken agreement, he poured “tea” into the cups.

  Grant came in. Seeing him again in his pirate gear, arm bandaged, reminded Kit that she was still dressed as one. She hadn’t had time to clean up or change.

  He sat down heavily.

  “Tea?” Jin asked, sipping from his own cup, and barely hiding his wince.

  Grant sniffed the air. “Is that tea?”

  “It’s been referred to as tea,” Kit said.

  He paused, then shook his head. “I prefer a more identifiable beverage, thank you.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Jin said, and Grant nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  “You didn’t expect to fight again,” Jin said, and Grant looked at him, surprise obvious in his face.

  “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

  Jin nodded, sipped, grimaced. “Every soldier and sailor has a limit. And I imagine how quickly we reach it depends on the things we’ve seen, the things we’ve done. The things lost while we were away.”

  “That’s very wise,” Grant said, and looked at Kit. “And not the first wise thing I’ve heard today.”

  Kit took that as Grant’s version of an apology, and thought there was something lighter in his voice.

  “I’ve heard there’s a hole in the hull,” he said. “Can we make it back to New London?”

  “Yes,” Kit said, sipping her brown water. “If the weather cooperates, and the sea cooperates, and the patch holds, and the condition of the injured doesn’t deteriorate.”

  “And if the gun brig doesn’t get free and find us,” Jin said.

  “And that,” Kit agreed.

  Grant cleared his throat. “I think I may be able to assist.”

  Kit looked up at him. “Assist?”

  “Rather than sailing straight to New London, we can make for my home, Grant Hall. Queenscliffe is a small village, but there’s a harbor, and there was some shipbuilding activity during the war. The shipwrights could repair the Diana, or at least enough to make the trip home, and I could arrange for a physick for the injured crew members.”

  Kit considered it. They weren’t too injured, too
broken, to sail safely back to New London. She didn’t have permission to delay her return. But if the pirates gave chase—or if the Five sent another squadron—they wouldn’t have a chance.

  “There’s an inn?”

  “There is,” Grant said.

  Kit nodded. “The sailors, those who aren’t injured, can sleep on board, or at the inn if they’ve money to spare. And we’ll need a horse to send a message to New London. To the queen.”

  “I’m sure we can find a horse.”

  If the horse, she thought, didn’t find them first.

  Fifteen

  The Diana moved slowly, her gait off balance, the sea pressing hard at her hull. But they eventually made it to the high cliffs that marked the Saxon Isles’ southern shore.

  On the deck, in a cool breeze and pale sky, Kit and Jin made plans. They decided Jin would stay with the ship and oversee the repairs. Kit would accompany the most severely wounded to Grant Hall. Louisa would stay on board until they reached New London, assuming Hetta agreed to the idea of meeting her.

  The water soothed as they slipped into the bay, then sailed across it to Queenscliffe. The small village of pale stone and mortar buildings perched above a narrow harbor lined with more stone. The wind faced them now, so they threw a line to a man on the docks and winched their way toward them.

  “Make anchor,” she ordered when they’d reached their destination, and then dropped onto the dock with Grant.

  A man, short and bowlegged, came toward them. He wore sturdy trousers, a vest over a linen shirt, and a cap with a low bill. His skin was suntanned and windburned, his hair a frizzle of gray that poked in tufts beneath the cap, which he tipped as he approached them.

  “Mr. Bailey,” Grant said.

  “M’lord.” He and Grant exchanged small bows.

  “This is Captain Kit Brightling of the Crown Command,” Grant said.

  “Jefferson Bailey at your service, Captain.” He shifted his gaze back to the Diana and winced at the damage. “Looks like you’ve run into a spot of trouble.”

  “We did, and we’re on an urgent mission for the Crown. We need as much repair as can be done, and quickly.”

  “Of course. M’lord,” he said again to Grant, then walked to the edge of the dock, scratched his stubble as he looked over the ship.

  “I’m going to send a message to the house,” Grant said to her, “make the arrangements for the wounded. I’ll meet you back here when I’m done.”

  Things were so easily arranged, Kit thought, when one had money and position.

  She nodded, watched him stride up the stone steps that led from dock to street and smile at the townspeople who’d gathered, curious at the commotion. Then she walked to where Mr. Bailey crouched, gaze narrowed at the hull, her own footsteps ringing across stone.

  “Took some shot, did you?” he asked.

  “We did,” Kit said. “Fourteen-pounders.”

  Surprise widened the man’s eyes. “Are we at war again?”

  “We aren’t supposed to be,” Kit said dourly.

  “Aye,” he said. “And you can’t go bumping through the waves with a hole as big as that. Lucky she’s above the waterline. Any damage beneath?”

  “Not that’s caused an unusual leak.”

  “We’ll see,” he said, his tone growing absent as he reached out, stroked a hand across the hull. “She’s a good ship. Tide goes down, we’ll see more of what ails her.”

  “How long do you think the repairs will take?” She braced herself, thinking he’d say several weeks, and fearing she’d have to leave Jin and the Diana here and travel back to New London by land.

  “How solid do you want it?”

  “Solid enough to return to New London with all hands against a fighting sea.”

  “Two days? Maybe three?”

  That would have to be good enough. Kit nodded. “And the Crown will see you fairly compensated for your work.”

  His nod was absent now, as he was peering again at the hull. Time, Kit thought, to leave him to get started.

  * * *

  A wagon arrived for the wounded, and a horse for the lieutenant who’d send Kit’s message to the queen. The carriage that came for Kit and Grant seemed timeworn, the black paint chipped, the gilt gone dull. Not what she’d have expected of a viscount’s transport, although the horses seemed sturdy enough. Which was the only compliment she was willing to give a horse.

  “I’ll be back in the morning,” Kit assured Jin. “Although I don’t like to leave the ship.”

  “Captain’s prerogative and punishment,” he said with a grin. “You get to sleep in a softer bed. But you have to be mannerly in the meantime.”

  Kit’s lip curled. “I know.”

  “And you’ll sleep better if you know your people are being cared for. We probably won’t sail back to New London without you. Probably.”

  “Insubordination is also unattractive in a commander.”

  “Again, agree to disagree,” Jin said, and squeezed her shoulder. “Beware the lady’s maid. She might add fripperies to your coat or ribbons to your hair.”

  Kit shuddered, and resigned herself to discomfort.

  * * *

  Kit had seen thousands of miles of the Isles, but mostly from the deck of the Diana. She knew shorelines and harbors and fjords. She didn’t know much about the countries beyond their ports, but she was fairly certain Grant Hall would be considered magnificent even by a seasoned overland traveler.

  It was two long stories of stone in shades of ivory and umber, a matching row of narrow windows with white mullions on each story, and a portico with four pairs of columns in front. The roof of dark gray slate rose to a gentle pitch, where more white windows and nearly a dozen chimneys made their home.

  “Front of the house was intended to be formal, impressive, imposing,” Grant said.

  “I’d say it’s all three. It’s lovely.”

  “Thank you,” Grant said, his tone softening. “It’s home.”

  Kit sensed Grant meant to give the word its most complex meaning. Not just the seat of his family, the place of his birth, but the place where joys and tragedies and all the things in between had occurred, had soaked into the ground.

  The carriage pulled to a stop, and Grant jumped out, offered Kit a hand, which she declined. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  They walked toward the portico, and Kit could see the flaws that had been invisible at a distance. The stone on the right side of the house was darker than the rest, as if in need of cleaning, and some of the glass in the windows was broken. She didn’t know much about green things or growing them, but the bit of a garden she could see from the walk appeared to need shaping.

  “There’s work yet to be done,” Grant said, and climbed the steps to double doors of paned glass, flanked by windows as tall as the doors, which, Kit guessed, could be opened to let in the breeze. “My father passed during the war, and the estate . . . suffered.”

  Much more there, Kit thought, but wasn’t surprised that he didn’t elaborate.

  Grant opened the door, walked into the foyer. Kit followed him inside . . . and goggled. If her house was comfortable, Grant Hall was palatial. Cherry panels covered the floor, walls, and coffered ceiling of the foyer. The facing wall bore a long cabinet with carved doors topped with candles and crystal, presided over by four portraits of men with long wigs and dark robes above. Light poured in from the windows along the front wall, so the wood seemed to glow from within.

  The sides of the room bore three tall archways. Beyond the archways were atriums with tapestry-covered chairs and crystal and gilt clocks, and winding wooden staircases with carved balusters, the treads covered in thick carpets. More portraits hung on the pillars between the archways; ancestors with white collars and concerned frowns, hands on important books or the arms of velvet-covered chairs.

&nbs
p; Her first country manor, she thought with a smile, and an impressive start for that particular list. She’d expected to see fine things in the home of a viscount, but she’d also expected hard formality. A cold and sterile chill in the air.

  The house smelled of resin and leather and lemon, and the faint scent of Grant’s cologne. There was a sense of history and warmth, and Kit wondered if this was why Grant had been eager to return—and so angry about having had to leave in the first place.

  “Welcome to Grant Hall,” he said, moving to stand in the middle of the room and gazing up at the portraits, their subjects seeming to watch him from their lofty heights.

  “Thank you for the invitation.”

  There were clicks on the wooden floor, and a white blur raced toward them.

  Grant whistled. A small white dog, square and compact, sat and gazed at Grant a few feet away, tail wiggling in apparent delight. For a moment, there was only the dog’s joyous anticipation. Then Grant whistled, and the dog leaped into his open arms and began to make a feast of his face.

  “This is Sprout,” Grant said, but was so obviously relieved to see the little dog that she wasn’t sure he’d have heard any answer she bothered to give.

  Something had relaxed in his face, a tension relieved. She watched with amusement as he scratched the dog behind its ears until its back leg shook with joy. There was something sweet, if strange, about watching a dangerous man giving love and attention to a very small dog.

  A man and woman, probably in their forties, appeared in the doorway. Both had pale skin; both wore servants’ dress. The man was of average height and on the thin side, his hair dark and thick. The woman was shorter, blond hair up beneath a lace cap, her curves tucked into a gray dress with a gauzy fichu.

  Grant tucked the dog under his arm. Its tongue lolled happily, clearly content to be in the arms of its master again.

  “My lord,” the man said, looking equally as pleased to see Grant at home again, if with much less wiggling.

  “Mr. Spivey. Mrs. Spivey,” Grant said. “This is Captain Kit Brightling of the Diana.”