by Arlem Hawks
“A little late to report for duty, I would say.”
The lad, who was perhaps seventeen, winced. “I’m very sorry, sir.”
Talbert stepped forward. “Mrs. Kinsley allows him to sleep later.”
“But does Mr. Kinsley?”
A glance passed between the brothers. “He...doesn’t mind,” Cyrus said.
“I expect promptness in the morning.” Kind but firm. Teach the boy. But not in the way Collin had been taught. “If you would—”
A white cap caught his eye as its owner swung up onto the rail on the port side of the ship. Mrs. Kinsley. She balanced, grasping the lines of the shroud as though preparing to climb up the mast.
His face drained of warmth. “What is she doing?” Of all the immodest things for a woman to do, standing aloft with a whole crew of seamen watching below...
“One of the buntlines is caught,” Talbert said.
“But she’s... She can’t...” Colin started toward her. Had she lost her mind? Never mind that her husband was ill, she should not be putting herself in so compromising a situation. She should make Cyrus do such things. Or anyone in breeches.
“She’s wearing trousers,” Cyrus called after him.
Collin halted, turning. “Trousers?”
The boy shrugged. “Under her skirts. She always does in case she needs to go aloft.”
Mrs. Kinsley had already ascended halfway up the shroud. Sure enough, the hems of brown pantaloons peeked out from under her flapping skirts, hiding her legs. Somehow he’d missed that detail of clothing the last few days. She moved steadily, but with a grace he’d never seen in someone climbing the mast. What husband in his right mind would allow his wife to practice so dangerous a task?
“I told you I trusted her work, Captain,” Talbert said behind him.
Collin blinked, then pulled his gaze back to the deck. How long had he been staring?
The carpenter saluted before walking purposefully away. His brother, lips twitching and eyes downturned, headed for the base of the shroud. Collin followed him, head spinning.
He had a female bosun risking her life and her decency to keep his vessel moving. This was not what he’d imagined on first getting news of his command. One mistake on her part could force them back to port early, if the Teaspoon’s decrepit state didn’t do the job first. The Admiralty wouldn’t look kindly on that or on his decision to allow a woman to act as his bosun while her husband was ill.
Collin leaned against the rail, tearing his eyes once more away from the woman aloft. He should at least introduce himself to Kinsley. The wife had been incredibly protective of her husband in the four days they’d been at sea, not allowing any visitors to their cabin. Collin would have insisted, but thus far Dr. Emmerson had supported her in it. One could hardly cross a doctor’s orders, especially when he insisted that the more Kinsley was left alone, the sooner he would be well enough to return.
The sun had cleared away most of the mist by the time Mrs. Kinsley descended from her work in the rigging. Collin cleared his throat as she hopped lightly back to the deck, face flushed and eyes sparkling from the exercise.
“Mrs. Kinsley, I must object to this display.” Her blue eyes hardened, and he faltered. “It is…It is most improper.”
“Display?”
“Yes, this…” He swept his hand upward toward the mast.
Her arms crossed in front of her. “Doing my work is a display?”
“When it means going aloft, yes. Even with your…” Heat crept up his neck. “Your trousers. It is indecent.”
Mrs. Kinsley made a show of surveying the deck. No one in the crew was looking in their direction. “It would seem, Captain, that you were the only one staring.”
Collin gulped.
“I think that would make it your problem, not a problem for the crew as a whole. Perhaps you should amend that.” She brushed past him in the direction of the hatch.
His problem? It was all Collin could do not to shrink back from her suggestion. He knew his face was already aflame. This crew needed its bosun back, and soon. He needed the bosun back, if only to avoid another confrontation. “How is your husband?”
The young woman paused, stiffening. “He is not well,” she finally answered.
“I should like to meet him, if you—”
“That is not possible at the moment.” She didn’t look at him, but her head bowed slightly.
Collin opened his mouth to insist, but she slipped through the hatchway before he could speak. He drew in a breath. It would work out. Mr. Kinsley would recover soon. But perhaps there was another way to get past the overly protective wife to meet the man. And discuss the impropriety of a woman acting as bosun.
Marah sat between Josias and Cyrus on the upper deck. Light from the lantern at their feet danced up the mainmast. Across their little circle—which consisted of her three brothers and Adam Riley, the gun master—Eliab recounted the repairs he’d done to the hull and his worries about leaks if the Teaspoon should meet bad weather.
She ran her eyes up the shroud, a smirk playing with the corners of her lips as she remembered Captain Boyd’s crimson face at her suggestion that he’d been ogling. Another captain might have chastised her for the disrespect rather than blushing with embarrassment.
Marah liked to think Isabel would be proud of the way she’d put the captain in his place, even though she would laugh at Marah regularly wearing trousers. Especially after Marah had turned up her nose at the suggestion. When she returned to port, it might be time to start writing to her friends again. It had been eight long months.
“Who is on your mind tonight?” Josias asked, nudging her shoulder with his. “Not our handsome captain, I hope.”
Marah glared at him. “Handsome? Hardly. I was thinking of my friends from school.”
“Come now,” Adam said, his deep voice rumbling across the deck. “That’s a little harsh. He’s the sort of commander who could have a lady in every port.”
And yet, Captain Boyd did not seem the type of man to practice such shamelessness. The image of him standing on the quarterdeck, his fair hair ruffled by the wind, invaded her mind. Perhaps denying him any physical beauty was a lie. She could see any of her school friends going starry-eyed for that square jaw and cleft chin. And Daphne would swoon for his kind smile with all its boyish hopefulness if she hadn’t already fallen for Mr. Everard.
“Regardless, I am not thinking of him.”
She turned her eyes back up to the mast. Its rigging swayed gently in the dark. Phoebe, Daphne, and Isabel had already married wonderful men who were better than even their lofty girlhood dreams. Marah had married a wonderful man as well. Stephen had been a dear friend, almost a brother, but she’d never come to love him in the way he’d begun to love her by the end. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders, the chill of the spring night seeping inside her.
“He was certainly thinking of you this morning,” Eliab grumbled, and Cyrus chuckled. Though they looked so similar, with their slender builds and light hair, their demeanors could not be better opposites.
“He’ll get used to the idea of a woman aloft,” Marah said quickly.
“Get used to watching you, no doubt,” Josias said.
Marah elbowed him. “He nearly died of humiliation when I suggested it this morning. I think he’ll keep his eyes on the deck from now on.”
“Or it could endear you to him,” Adam said. “It isn’t every day you meet a woman who knows as much about a ship as you do.”
Marah dipped her head. They didn’t know much about the dark-skinned gunner, only that he’d come from the former colonies and had a family in London. But Adam never gave compliments unless he meant them. She didn’t know nearly as much about being bosun as Stephen had, but she’d eagerly soaked in everything he’d taught her. Despite struggling out of the dockyard, she liked to think she’d run the ship smoothly on this voyage. Adam’s praise stilled some of her worry about this venture.
“Wait until he
sees you command the crew during a battle,” Josias said. “He’ll tumble head over heels.”
Josias! She scanned the deck, then hissed, “He thinks I’m married.”
Her oldest brother shrugged.
“If he suspects otherwise, or that I am being unfaithful to my husband, I’ll be in deep water.”
Cyrus laid back on the deck, motioning around them with one arm. “Aren’t we all in deep water already?”
“That isn’t amusing,” Marah huffed as the men around her laughed.
“Mrs. Kinsley?”
Marah leaped to her feet as a blond-haired figure stepped into the lantern light. Her breath caught in her chest. Captain Boyd.
“Sir.” She gave an unsteady curtsy.
His hands fidgeted around a packet, which reminded her of the one Lavinia had surprised them with the night before her departure from school. The bracelet. She’d stowed it in her trunk and hardly looked at it in the anxiety of putting out to sea without Stephen’s guidance. She should find it, just to be certain of its safety. If she ever lost it…
“I have a blend of herbal tea I purchased in case of illness. I thought perhaps your husband could benefit from its healthful properties.” He extended the packet to her.
He wished to help? A lump formed in Marah’s throat. She took hold of the packet, but he didn’t immediately let go.
“Thank you. My husband will appreciate your kindness.”
“I hope he recovers very soon. I am eager to meet him.” No aggression or impatience marred his voice. He seemed to genuinely wish for her husband’s convalescence.
“I hope so as well.”
The young captain nodded and released the packet, his fingers brushing against her calloused hand. A strange tingle ran over her skin at his touch. When he’d gone, she felt the gazes of the others, who had risen to salute on the captain’s approach.
Marah stared after Captain Boyd, her stomach turning. They’d thought this mission would last only a couple of weeks. How was she to keep up this lie for five more, especially under the threat of such genuine thoughtfulness from the very person to whom she lied?
Chapter 3
Collin ducked down the hatchway after checking to ensure Mrs. Kinsley was occupied above deck. More than a week had passed since setting sail from Chatham, and still he’d seen no sign of his ill bosun. The wife and the doctor assured him Mr. Kinsley was yet too weak to be seen.
His conscience protested as he let himself down the ladder to the messdeck. He needed only five minutes with the man. Kinsley would have to be more dead than alive if he couldn’t speak with his commanding officer for so short a time.
Collin slinked toward the bosun’s cabin, feeling like a rat in the storeroom rather than a commander of a brig. The window in the door for ventilation had been covered with a cloth on Dr. Emmerson’s orders, so he could not see through. Collin had tried to move it back once to catch a glimpse of the sick man, but someone had tacked all sides of the curtain down so it could not be moved.
Squaring his shoulders, he tapped softly on the door. He had every right to enter this room. He was in charge here, not Mrs. Kinsley.
When no answer came, Collin pushed the door open. “Mr. Kinsley?” The small cabin was too dark to see more than shadows of trunks and a hanging cot, which swung softly in the motion of the ship. A form covered in blankets lay nestled in the cot. “Good day to you.”
No movement. No sound. Blast. He must be asleep.
Collin glanced over his shoulder to be certain no one watched him. The gun master, Mr. Riley, mounted the ladder and disappeared in a moment. The few crewmen not above were engrossed in their cards. He inched into the cabin, partially shutting it behind him. “Mr. Kinsley, I’m sorry to bother you.”
The sleeping form didn’t stir.
“Mr. Kinsley.” He raised his voice slightly. This man must be very ill. Collin’s stomach sank. He shouldn’t have listened to Mrs. Kinsley and Dr. Emmerson about hiring another bosun. What if Mr. Kinsley didn’t recover during the extent of their voyage? Collin would be stuck with that woman the rest of his command. “Forgive me. I must speak with you.”
He crossed the tiny room to stand beside the cot. Mr. Kinsley had pulled the blanket up over his head. Poor man. Perhaps Collin should return another time. He rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. If he couldn’t wake him, he would have to find another time when the wife was preoccupied.
Little bumps pressed into his fingers through the blanket. Collin furrowed his brow. He squeezed, and the bumps moved out from under his fingertips like…beans?
Collin grabbed the blanket and jerked it back. The little light filtering in from the messdeck showed four sacks of varying sizes snuggled in the cot.
Sacks of beans. No human in sight. Collin stared, mind racing to make sense of the scene before him.
“Captain!” came a panicked cry.
Collin turned, the empty blanket dangling from his hand. The woman’s outline blocked the light from the mess. “Where is Mr. Kinsley?” he asked slowly.
“My husband is below. With Dr. Emmerson.”
“And what, pray tell, is the benefit of sleeping with beans?” They’d lied to him. They’d let him go to sea without a real bosun, one of the most essential members of any ship’s crew. Collin kept his stance firm, but inside he was reeling as though he’d been punched in the jaw.
“The…the doctor prescribed it to…”
Collin let the blanket drop to the floor. “No more lies, Mrs. Kinsley. Tell me the truth. Where is your husband?” What if she’d never had a husband? Had he stupidly walked into ruination? An unmarried woman was trouble on board, and an unmarried woman who claimed to know enough to serve as a warrant officer could jeopardize the whole mission.
The figure in the door seemed to shrink into herself. “He died August last,” she said, voice small. “Typhus.”
Collin clapped a hand to his face. Strings of curses spiraled through his head, and it was all he could do to keep them from slipping out. His stomach heaved.
“Please. We needed the money.” She stepped toward him.
“Is Emmerson in on this lie?” Of course he was. Collin constantly caught them whispering to each other, and whenever he happened upon the warrant officers’ nightly tradition of meeting for conversation at the mainmast, he had often noticed her sitting far too close to the surgeon than was proper.
“Yes.”
“If you’ll excuse me.” Collin stormed toward the door, still blocked by the young widow. She didn’t move out of his way.
“Captain, please. Let me finish the voyage.”
He took her by the arms to pull her aside. Her fingers dug into the sleeves of his coat, halting him before her in the narrow doorway. Wide, upturned eyes made him pause. Fear had replaced the tantalizing hope he’d seen in them his first day on board.
“Please.” Her grip tightened, and the already minuscule gap between them diminished. Her hands trembled against his arms. With lips parted, she looked as though she wished to say more, but she remained silent.
The dank air of the lower deck suddenly wasn’t enough to fill his lungs. He let go and tore himself out of her grasp. Head swirling like a morning mist through a harbor, he hurled himself up the ladder to the safety of his cabin. He needed to consider his course of action to salvage this mission and somehow banish her glistening blue eyes from his memory.
Marah leaned against the cabin wall trying to breathe. Only a special breed of dullard would have believed she could succeed at this ruse. She’d wanted the wages. She’d wanted to keep her employment, unlikely as it was. She’d wanted to stay aboard the Teaspoon.
A mirage of a little white cottage in the country shimmered through her tears. It was a foolish dream, and yet the thought of letting it slip away slashed at her heart. How often she’d imagined her family all together, running through the little garden and tending to fruitful fields. It was the life Mama had known in her first marriage, before her husband’s
untimely death had left her with a young son and nowhere to go. Mama and little Josias had found a place with Papa and the hope of a modest fortune from Papa’s cousin, but that had also been taken. Now Marah had failed her again.
She could almost imagine her mother’s arms wrapping around her. My sweet girl, I only want you to be happy. That was what she’d said when Marah explained her intention to marry Stephen.
The sacks of beans swung gently in the hanging cot, evidence of Marah’s keen ability to ruin everything. For all her efforts to not be a burden to her mother, and even to help her mother, she had a talent for choosing incorrectly. Now she’d forfeited her chance at securing what small help a pension would grant them. Captain Boyd wouldn’t keep silent. He wasn’t the sort of man who could tell a lie, and he had no good reason to do so in her behalf.
“Marah?” Eliab’s tall form took up the doorway.
“You were right,” she groaned, burying her face in her hand. “We shouldn’t have tried to keep this a secret.”
His arm extended stiffly around her shoulders. Eliab wasn’t usually one for physical affection. “What did he say?”
Strengthened by his unexpected embrace, awkward as it was, Marah lifted her head. “Not much of anything.” She gnawed on her lip. “What should I do?” What would the commander do? Outside of her brothers and Adam, she didn’t know of many men who would allow a woman to continue serving in so high and demanding a rank as bosun. He could face trouble with the navy for that. Though he didn’t seem the vengeful sort, no one would blame him if he withheld her wages.
“Don’t do anything yet.” Eliab patted her arm and withdrew. “Carry on as though nothing has happened. Show him you are qualified for this work. He’ll recover from the shock, and then we can only pray he’ll act reasonably.”
Marah picked up the blanket from the floor where Captain Boyd had dropped it and hugged it against her chest. “I hardly think him an unreasonable person.” In fact, she thought him a very kind one. Officers put in command of the Teaspoon in the past had sought to establish their superiority and prowess with harsh punishment and overly strict adherence to rules. Captain Boyd governed the brig with fairness, for which Marah was grateful. The bosun was in charge of doling out punishment. Flogging was one of the things Stephen had hated about his work.
