The Brazen Woman

by Anne Groß

  They stopped their promenade near the bow of the ship and stood silently, sharing the exhilaration of the ocean spray. Then they returned to their walk.

  “Your husband has been very kind to me. I’m not sure I deserve such charitable treatment,” Adelaide said.

  “Yes, yes,” Mrs. Briggs assured her impatiently, her countenance suddenly changing. “His generosity knows no bounds, especially when it comes to the fairer sex. But I do not believe him to be offering charity. I understand an agreement of exchange was made? That you would petition your family to pay for passage once you were returned to them?”

  “Yes, of course. I merely meant that he has a charitable heart, and a large capacity for trust.”

  Mrs. Briggs smiled at the compliment and excused herself to attend to the cook, who, she said, was sure to burn the roast should she not intervene.

  The reminder of the upcoming dinner caused Adelaide’s stomach to rumble. The previous evening’s repast had been a delicious pairing of leg of lamb, the fat crisped on the outside, the flesh pale pink and tender on the inside, and sliced potatoes drenched in a white sauce of clarified butter and egg yolk, the whole thing seasoned with shallots and tarragon. The night before that had been lamprey boiled in its own blood followed by three roast chickens stuffed with crushed hard tack, chopped onion, celery root, and egg, seasoned with rosemary and sage. Despite Mrs. Briggs’ deprecating tone, her cook had admirable skills.

  Adelaide watched, deep in thought, as Mrs. Briggs headed to the galley. The captain was a resolutely loyal husband, much to her annoyance, and what man wouldn’t be with such a pleasant slip of a woman? But his eyes did wander. She’d felt them on her many times. But even if he did stay constant, at least his countenance gave her the compliment of suffering from suppressed desire. Adelaide noticed how his clear brow had broken out with the worst kind of pustules since the beginning of their voyage, evidence that his beautiful wife wasn’t giving him any aid. It was obvious to Adelaide that any woman who embroiders with white silk thread on white cloth would not be the kind of woman who could satiate great passion.

  She looked down at her own functional, brown travel dress and sighed again. “The man wears the jewel; the jewel does not wear the man,” she recalled Napoleon saying about the dazzling emerald. She wondered if the brown frock wears the woman? If that was the case, it would explain why her clothes made her feel tiresome and colorless.

  Back in her cabin, Adelaide peered into the tiny mirror nailed to the wall. Here was her silk, she thought, running a hand over her rich dark hair. Who needs white roses embroidered onto white dresses when one’s hair has luster, when one’s eyes convey heat? Who needs jewels when one’s conversation sparkled? The thought made her feel better as she ruthlessly pinched her cheekbones to give them a youthful pink hue.

  Out of habit, she closed her eyes and reached for the golem, having done so every day since she’d first called the creature into existence. She felt her mind push against the confines of the small cabin in which she sat, probing every square inch. Then she pushed out further, in concentric rings of awareness, penetrating other cabins, the stateroom, the entire deck, then farther, pressing, pressing. Now she was passing above the waves, breaching the ocean like a dolphin, striving to swim faster than the forward thrust of the ship’s bowsprit. Then out, out until there was nothing but the black void.

  The golem wasn’t there.

  Every day that passed with no contact released some of the pressure. Adelaide blinked into the mirror. What if she was sailing in the wrong direction? The idea both horrified and pleased her.

  The dinner bell tolled. The smell of a lovely roast cut through the sharp sea air. She tucked an errant curl of hair under her bonnet and headed out, all anxiety forgotten for the moment.

  “My dear Mademoiselle Bonnediseuse,” cried Captain Briggs, standing up from his chair as she swept into the dining room. She regarded him with a raised brow and a smile. With the exception of those unpleasant first few days when she’d been indisposed, she’d had every meal with the captain and his greetings had never lessened in their effusiveness. He pulled out a chair and helped her to her seat. Seating himself directly opposite, he looked at her appraisingly. “Wonderful to see you and Gertie taking in the air this afternoon. I apologize I could not join you, as my duties were elsewhere. Perhaps when we reach the Azores, Gertie and I might have the honor of taking in a little concert with you? There’s a Miss Rutherford who plays the piano exceedingly well. Her dinners are most enchanting.”

  “Oh Howard,” exclaimed Mrs. Briggs. “Perhaps Mlle Bonnediseuse has previous commitments? We shouldn’t impose! Although,” she smiled at Adelaide, “it would be delightful to continue our friendship. Do excuse my husband. He can be overly direct—a result of too many days at sea and not enough in society.”

  The captain patted Adelaide’s arm affectionately. “I am every bit the barbarian my wife accuses me of being.” He turned to his other guests and explained in English, “I saw this lovely woman promenading on deck with my wife in the rain, of all things! I assure you they were quite oblivious to the weather! We have a lover of the sea in Mlle Bonnediseuse, that much is apparent. Had she been born a man, she would have been an Admiral in La Royale, I’m sure of it. Some are not meant for life on land, and grow old and die without ever knowing it.” He turned to Adelaide, who was quite befuddled by the captain’s English. “Land, dear. Land. Le terrior. Dreadful stuff. Fortunately, it’ll still take a while to reach the Azores.”

  “Zat eez wonderful,” Adelaide gushed, without understanding. A particularly scraggly looking sailor leaned over her shoulder to ladle a lovely potage into the bowl in front of her. He took the liberty of his position to peer down her dress. Adelaide discretely whipped his shins with her napkin and he moved on to serve the captain’s wife where he had better luck, but unfortunately for him, a lesser view. A basket of ship’s biscuit, wrapped elegantly with a linen napkin as though it was cut bread, was passed to her. It’d been such a long time since she’d eaten a good baguette.

  “Gertie tells me you’ve read her palm,” the captain said, switching back to French.

  “It’s nothing, a parlor trick. Just a distraction from the tedium.” Adelaide smiled. “I thought I might show her how to make lace as well.”

  “What fun to have such a talent as palm reading. Perhaps you might look at my hand tonight? No?”

  “I could not possibly bother you with such trivialities. It is a meaningless parlor trick. My nurse showed me the art when I was quite young. But really, one shouldn’t take stock in these things.” Adelaide was alarmed. She hadn’t meant for anyone but Mrs. Briggs to know her talent, as the mere suggestion of a French prophetess could point a finger towards her real identity.

  “At the very least, show me where my love line is. You must indulge me.” He offered his hand across the table for Adelaide to see. “Our lovely Mademoiselle Bonnediseuse is a palm reader,” he said to the other guests in English.

  “This one.” She reluctantly pointed to a line that cut across his palm.

  “Isn’t that interesting?” He snatched his wife’s hand. “That’s just what Gertie told me. Then she changed her tune when I noticed hers was much shorter than mine. How can it be that my wife’s love line is shorter than mine?” Captain Briggs roared in English to his guests. His wife blushed, although it was hard to tell whether from anger or from embarrassment. “Which one of you rakes is taking advantage of my Mrs. Briggs in these close quarters?”

  “Give me your hand, Mademoiselle Bonnediseuse,” the captain demanded, “I too have talents. You will be amazed.” He snatched Adelaide’s hand and held it tight, locking his eyes to hers. “See here? This line? This is your line of vitality—” His whisper-light touch on her open palm sent a chill through her arm and down her spine.

  “My dear husband,” interjected Mrs. Briggs, “If you continue to stroke our guest’s hand, I shall become very angry.”

  “If I were to point
from this height, would that put your mind at ease?” He lifted his finger six inches from Adelaide’s palm. “But now there’s no point in pointing at all. From this height I could be speaking of any number of lines.” Adelaide tried to withdraw her hand altogether, but it was held tight. “Oh look. Isn’t this interesting? Mademoiselle Bonnediseuse’s love line matches my own, long and true.”

  “And you persist in ravishing her palm!”

  “Ravishing? I’m merely stroking it.”

  “I assure you this talk of lines and fortunes is meaningless.” Adelaide waved dismissively with her other hand while the dinner guests loudly sucked soup from their spoons and pretended nothing was happening.

  “It’s not meaningless. It explains everything.” The captain finally dropped Adelaide’s hand.

  Adelaide looked back and forth between the stern faces of her host and hostess, then gazed sadly at the congealing potage of white beans, salted pork and onions in front of her. She had so looked forward to dinner, and there was still the roast to come.

  “If you’re suggesting that my love has ended while yours carries on,” started Mrs. Briggs, swelling with indignation, “I cannot imagine how blind, how self-righteous, how unfeeling, how—”

  A sailor suddenly threw open the door and ducked inside. “Captain! Masthead’s sighted sails.”

  “The first of many, I’m sure,” the captain said to his dinner guests, who shifted nervously in their chairs, “all looking to catch the same trade wind.” Nevertheless, he nodded at his first mate, who excused himself and pushed past the sailor to investigate.

  “She’s making for us with all sails set,” the sailor continued, “she’s faster than we are, Captain.”

  “Has she shown her colors?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  This finally got his attention. He pushed his chair from the table and stood. “No, please,” he protested as his guests rose with him. “Do everyone sit and eat. I’m sure it’s nothing. I shall return presently.”

  The emotion showing on Mrs. Briggs’ pretty face revealed her to be torn between her duty to her husband and her duty to play hostess to her invited guests. Finally, she too excused herself. That gave leave for everyone else to follow their curiosity and head out to see the oncoming ship for themselves. Adelaide stayed. At least now she could eat in peace.

  Five minutes later, she dropped her spoon, startled by a sudden bellowed order of “all hands” and the insistent clanging of the bell. The rushing sound of the second watch of sailors pouring up from below alarmed her. Self-preservation being a stronger instinct than her predilection for gourmet dinners, she finally left the table to see what she might be missing.

  It wasn’t entirely chaos on deck, not quite. The men seemed to know where they were supposed to be, and what they were supposed to be doing, but getting there, and doing it seemed problematic. Some were moving quickly to obey orders, and once finishing their tasks, waited for more direction, which didn’t come from officers fast enough. Sailors stood about in the soaking rain, unable to move under their own initiative. Others moved languidly until the bosun’s baton was felt on their shoulders, only to return to their slow pace once the bosun had moved on.

  The officers who had been guests at the captain’s dinner table had all returned to duty, and were relaying orders across the length of the ship. The passengers, unwilling to stand in the rain, had returned to their cabins. Adelaide joined Captain Briggs and his wife at the rail and squinted into the distance. She wiped the rain from her eyelashes to better see, far out on the horizon, a ship that rose and fell with the churning ocean waves. It was an ominous vision, despite its distance.

  “Couldn’t it just be another merchant ship?” Mrs. Briggs asked her husband.

  “There’s no escort,” replied the captain.

  “But this is a merchant ship and we don’t have an escort,” said Adelaide.

  The captain smiled wryly. “You speak the truth.”

  Adelaide looked at Mrs. Briggs, feeling her alarm grow. “Why doesn’t the Sea Otter have an escort?”

  The captain ignored Adelaide. Instead, he slapped his spyglass shut and squinted up at his sails. “Mr. Hadley, the sails are luffing just a bit, wouldn’t you say?”

  The first mate flushed instantly with shame. He puffed out his chest and bellowed more orders and the bosun sent men to ascend both masts to tighten the canvas as Nigel, who was manning the helm, turned the wheel to bring the ship into a full run.

  Suddenly the wind picked up and the deck pitched under her feet. Adelaide shrieked in surprise and grabbed the rail to keep herself from sliding down the incline to the larboard side of the ship.

  Mrs. Briggs, with the barest of adjustments, remained steady on her feet. “They’ll overtake us,” she said softly to the captain.

  “First let us see if they give chase.” He handed his wife the spyglass when she held out her hand.

  With brass and glass pressed to her eye, she stood there, frozen, watching the horizon. The ocean rose and fell, rose and fell, but she kept the telescope steady.

  Watching her watch the horizon made Adelaide queasy. Her scalp itched. Her left eyelid twitched twice. That was no merchant ship on the horizon, she was sure of it. She tried to remember what it was the Sea Otter was carrying. Had she ever been told? She pictured the wooden crates she saw being loaded aboard the day she’d fled her room at the Dancing Bear. They had been long and narrow, and took two men to carry each one. “Surely they’ve no use for a merchant ship.”

  “Only if that brig is English,” Mrs. Briggs said. “Don’t forget, Napoleon decreed all trade with England to be illegal. I would not be surprised if the French were patrolling.” She looked up at the sails and shook her head. “There’s too much slack. We should be traveling faster. Damn this crew.”

  “But the French fleet is so diminished. How—”

  “Privateers, that’s how.”

  The word sent a chill of fear through Adelaide: Privateers. “Then we’re doomed. They’ll murder us all,” she said quietly.

  The ocean rose and fell a few more times before Mrs. Briggs turned to look at her. “Not necessarily,” she said. “Should we fight, they’ll be unmerciful. Should we surrender, they’ll merely take us into their custody.”

  “And should we run?”

  “Our little Otter is weighed down; she’s a pack mule in a thoroughbred’s contest. We cannot outrace them. But if we manage to keep them off until after dark, we stand a chance to lose them in the night.” She wiped the rain off the lens of the telescope before placing the glass back up to her eye and locking her gaze on the horizon. There would be no sunset. In this weather, the world would go from pale gray to grayer to black as night descended upon them. All lights on board would be extinguished. All voices hushed. Yet, Adelaide knew the strange ship would stubbornly hold a course straight for them as though drawn magically.

  “Report.” The captain returned to issue the order to his wife.

  “They’re gaining,” she said with the glass pressed to her eye. “We must prepare the guns.”

  “Prepare the guns?” Adelaide gasped. “Whatever for? You just said we might hide from them after dark. Cannon fire will only serve to make them unmerciful—you said so yourself. Just give them the cargo.”

  “One needs to prepare for the worst, and hope for the best,” Mrs. Briggs said. Her tone was exaggeratedly solicitous, verging on insulting. A change had come over her—not fear, but solidity. She seemed to take up more space. “Do not ask my husband to lay himself out without allowing him the dignity of drawing his sword.”

  “We should have been given an escort,” Adelaide whispered.

  “Perhaps you are right,” Captain Briggs said. “It was a risk either way, to draw attention to ourselves with an accompanying ship from the Royal Navy, or to slip across the ocean without escort and risk attack. We chose a middle ground. The Sea Otter is well armed and we shall put up a grand fight if called upon to do so. We cannot allo
w France to take our cargo. In any case, we still don’t know if that ship is French.”

  Captain Briggs’s eyes told a deeper story, and suddenly Adelaide knew she was on no ordinary merchant ship. “Oh,” was all she could think to reply.

  “Try to be brave, there’s a dear. We’ll need you and Gertie to run the powder. I can’t spare a single man here on deck.”

  “Run powder? Oh dear God,” Adelaide whispered as Mrs. Briggs drew her away.

  She followed the young woman away from the rail and across the deck as though following an executioner to the guillotine. In the captain’s chambers, Adelaide sat despondently on the narrow cot and watched Mrs. Briggs rummaging through trunks. If the French were to capture the ship, she thought to herself, it would only be a matter of time before the minister of police discovered her and returned her to prison. She could be sure that Fouché would not show her any kindness—especially after having embarrassed him by escaping his grasp.

  “I cannot be taken,” Adelaide breathed.

  Mrs. Briggs pulled out two pistols and handed one to Adelaide. “Should it come to that, you can negotiate the terms with this to protect your maidenhood. Do you know how to use it?”

  “Of course not,” Adelaide snapped. “Who do you think I am?”

  Mrs. Briggs rolled her eyes and snatched the pistol back from Adelaide. “I’m offering you teeth and claws to fight, but if you prefer to use the charms of your sex for protection, you can stand in front of me. I’ll try to shoot around you.”

  “What a thing to say,” said Adelaide, shocked. “Fine. I’ll take the pistol.”