She returned the belaying pin to the pinrail.
"It's because he's poor and we're not." Staunton's eyes flickered up again, returned to the uninspiring waves, and his lips twisted in a grimace. "I mean, of course it's obvious you're a lady of means, and while I might not look it—"
"You mean act it, surely."
"—I'm the youngest son of the Baronet of Cargins, Galway."
That explained much. "The botanist?"
Staunton sighed. "His son, the orientalist." His youthful buoyancy seemed to have deflated. "And while I don't know for certain, it's rumored Chandler is the son of a pig farmer from Captain Fleming's brother's estate."
And that explained even more. The rollers slid from beneath the Topaze and reformed beyond, a never-ending stream of waves. The rocks and sand would be warm on the invisible Portuguese beaches. "Smelly animals, those."
One snigger, quickly suppressed. "And when Chandler rebelled against tending them, the captain took him to sea. He'll never be the best sailor, I mean, he started so late in life, not going to sea until he was close on fifteen years old. Can't call him a natural. He didn't even have a lot of mathematics, much less sines and cosines."
"So he's had to fight for everything he could learn."
"And he's got no influence within the Navy." The rousing wind tossed Staunton's curls from behind, and he combed them back with his fingers. "He'll have to fight for every promotion and ship he'll ever receive." His sideways glance was apologetic. "So he's an awkward lout and he blames us for not being him. And for him being him, most likely."
Yes, Staunton's words made Chandler so much more understandable. But that night in the hanging cot, when images of massive, sleek grey creatures weren't swimming through her head, Clara found herself considering, not the midshipmen, not the relationship she'd have to establish with prickly Chandler, not even her perfect Phillippe — had he watched those rolling waves today, as well? — but Captain Fleming and the brilliant, shining moment they'd shared on the quarterdeck, that one moment when she'd understood him perfectly.
And that explained nothing at all.
Chapter Fifteen
The steady westerly wind swept Topaze, tack upon tack, past the Bay of Biscay and the Portuguese coast, without demonstrating any of those terrible storms for Clara's further education. Dutifully she smiled when Staunton crowed about their swift passage and excellent luck, keeping her disappointment secret. Not that she wanted them to fail at their appointed mission; that marauding French frigate had to be stopped, of course. But she'd have liked to test herself on a storm-tossed deck, nonetheless, just to feel what it was like.
Around Spain's corner, past the Mediterranean's mouth, into the Atlantic proper, and never a glimpse of land did she catch. Each day after the noontime ceremony, Captain Fleming and Mr. Abbot pored over maps in the great cabin, marking the ship's position on the chart, and each day the midshipmen puzzled over the spherical trigonometry necessary to duplicate that feat. And with the invisible coast of mysterious Africa now off their port beam, the deeper they delved into tropical waters, the hotter it became, until she welcomed the spanker's shade rather than wish it didn't block her view.
* * * *
The anchor splashed into the water and disappeared, and Topaze crept to a halt off the northern coast of La Palma. The sail-trimmers hauled the clewlines and buntlines while others eased the sheets, and the bosun called out one last order in a sort of whispered shout that hopefully wouldn't carry to the shore. Clara let the now-accustomed sounds drift past. Nothing was going to distract her from her first sight of a foreign country.
A foreign enemy country.
A bold headland, scalloped into a half-circle of small bays, fell vertically from a commanding height into narrow, rocky beaches, in some places straight into the line of creaming surf. The deeper water, beyond the surf, glittered the most incredible shade of blue — almost the same indigo as her sweet little sailor dress. In the midst of the bay, some untidy giant had dropped a massive boulder, almost an island in itself, and its dark, streaming layers cut the waves rolling past into choppy crosscurrents and little whirlpools.
It looked remarkably dangerous, and a chill hovered near her spine, just out of reach.
She should have advised Staunton to be careful. But his pint-sized scraper had already disappeared below the ship's side, and a muffled thump announced he'd at least landed in the small boat rather than in the drink.
"Give way, Ackers." His soprano piped above the booming, sucking surf. A splash, another, and then the large blue cutter shot past, the banks of rowers pulling together toward shore. A moment later the small red cutter followed, slicing the wake, the purser's paunch weighting its stern. Both boats were piled with barrels.
Left of the massive boulder, several smaller ones clustered, waves churning between them. Beyond that, a tiny beach anchored the headland's layered cliff. A ravine above dripped a slender thread of clear water into the maelstrom.
Clara held her breath as Topaze rocked like a cradle outside the coastline's influence. Surely even Staunton would treat that brooding devil's cauldron with respect. Surely Ackers, that sensible, experienced coxswain, wouldn't let him do otherwise.
The two boats swept nearer and nearer the shore, edging toward the boulder with every flash of the oars. Her head began to swim in sympathy. The purser's red cutter angled away. But Staunton and Ackers held their course, sliding past the boulders, dipping through the crosscurrents, and swooping out the far side with a roar of crashing waves. The rowers paused, oars raised, and the blue cutter shot up onto the beach, quivering to a halt below the cliffs. The sailors piled out and Clara exhaled with a whoosh.
She waited for the shiver that tickled her spine. But it never came, instead fading away, and a taut intensity within her shoulders replaced it. What a thrilling ride that must have been. The dark horror of the boulder looming overhead, ever closer, the booming of the surf, and the coxswain's steady hand on the tiller guiding them through. It required no imagination for the bottom to drop beneath her in the maelstrom's heart, then for the thrust of the waves to hurl her toward shore, up and forward, like a bounding stallion.
She was envious.
Envious because Staunton, a mere boy, was allowed to risk his life on that menacing little voyage, while she had no option but to remain aboard Topaze.
Safe and secure.
And ever-so-slightly bored.
Oh, she'd love to go ashore, even if she couldn't meet any of the local population. Just to ride the small boat, feel its interaction with the forces of nature, touch that alien rockface while the waves crashed and roared. But Captain Fleming had seemed so severe, she hadn't dared to ask. His orders, it seemed, forbade taking any chances, and she'd overheard him lecture Staunton like the strictest headmaster before entrusting him with the mission of filling their empty water casks.
A good sailor, a contributing member of the crew, would not have asked.
And so there she sat, sheltered beneath an awning, not the tiniest bit thrilled.
As much as she loved Topaze, as much as she reveled in her life aboard, perhaps she'd fallen onto the wrong ship for finding Phillippe, after all.
Phillippe. No matter how little she'd thought of him during the voyage, she missed him so. Those modern auburn curls covering the nape of his neck and brushing across his creamy forehead. His eyes, so dark and commanding, boring into her soul through the depths of her memory.
The fit of his gorgeous uniform about his graceful, muscular body.
Heat, unrelated to the tropical sun strengthening overhead, surged up her neck and scorched her face. Male bodies weren't something she normally noticed. Of course, everyone was aware of them. Everyone knew they existed. But Diana and Harmony had been the ones to flash their smiles at the owners of broad shoulders and rounded, limned calves. How many times had Harmony elbowed her, and Diana rolled her eyes in mannered disgust?
Perhaps she hadn't paid sufficient attention even
to Phillippe. Her memory of his frame seemed vague, beyond the flush it created within her. Perhaps her mind's image of him had merely been produced by her imagination for the occasion. It was an unsettling thought. Whatever Phillippe's anatomy entailed, surely it was as perfect as the rest of him.
Overhead, male voices laughed. Captain Fleming and Chandler stood together on the mizzentop, their hands tangled in the standing rigging, looking out toward the rocky coast. Captain Fleming dropped one heel over the platform's edge, as if stretching the back of his leg. Drawing the muscles taut and lengthening them.
Giving her an almost indecent view of a nicely rounded, limned calf indeed.
Did Phillippe's calf look so sharply delineated, so strong and capable of walking and climbing and working all day? Embarrassing, how little of his form she truly remembered. Did Phillippe walk, climb, work on his ship, wherever he sailed, as Captain Fleming labored over Topaze? Surely he did; surely the nautical education she was receiving translated easily from one navy to another, from one captain to the other. Surely Phillippe thought of her, hopefully more often than she thought of him.
And perhaps she was starting to notice male bodies. The wrong male bodies. More than she ought. Captain Fleming's leg was not a subject she needed to consider.
Not like she needed to remember Phillippe, her true love.
A gun carriage rumbled below, interrupting her immodest thoughts. The main hatch had been stripped away, flooding tropical brilliance into the gun deck. It highlighted Mr. Abbot and a crew around number twelve, Biting Bruiser, which had been cast loose from among its pack mates. But no, that wasn't any of the established gun crews; it was a motley collection of the most awkward, hesitant landmen, the ones who had to be yanked out of the recoil's path and pushed into position to perform their duties.
As she watched, Mr. Abbot clapped onto the tackle rope and helped them haul the gun in. He guided the sail-trimmer through yanking out the tompion, grabbing it himself at the order with what appeared to be words of explanation, then replacing it and pushing the landman forward. They repeated the single, simple exercise several times, until the sail-trimmer didn't even glance at the first lieutenant before obeying the order. Mr. Abbot nodded as if pleased, said something else, and the landman set the tompion aside, his broad face cracking with a slow smile.
Mr. Abbot took the landmen through the motions of firing. Clara braced for the cannon's report, but it never followed. The impromptu crew merely ran the gun in and out with the tackle ropes, going through the motions of firing and reloading in a sort of dumb show. Again and again the truck rumbled across the deck, Mr. Abbot's voice a gentle, indecipherable murmur beneath it as he coached them on their duties.
In and out, back and forth, rumble and roll. She tried timing her crocheted chain stitches to its background rhythm, but as the landmen picked up coordination and speed, her fumbling fingers were left behind and the poor little flowers sprawled across their lace framework, more shapeless than ever. On the distant shore, little figures thrust empty barrels beneath the trickling finger of water, then rolled full ones down the beach to the waiting cutters.
No, the landmen were learning their lessons more quickly than she, and all she'd gotten from the impromptu competition was a bit more practice. Clara set her hook aside and yanked out the ugly stitches. She'd learn this. Late or soon, she would indeed.
Boot heels thumped on the deckboards and a shadow crossed her work. Mr. Abbot paused in the shade beside her. He squinted toward the beach, then glanced down at her disassembly with raised eyebrows and a blank expression, as if he'd expected to find her doing something useful. She'd been so distracted, she hadn't even realized the noise had stopped.
"Good morning, Lady Clara." If he truly was annoyed at her lack of industry, his unruffled voice belied it.
"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 w
hipped 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?"
A Different Sort of Perfect Page 12
