A Certain Latitude

by Janet Mullany

  “Mr. Pendale, if the arrangement—” Blight stepped into their path.

  “What arrangement?”

  “Of the cabins, sir.”

  Clarissa noticed the flush of embarrassment on Blight’s face.

  “Don’t be a fool, Blight.” Alan pulled the neck-cloth off and stuffed it into his pocket. “I’ll wish you a good night.”

  He followed Clarissa down the steps so fast he almost trod on her fingers, and pushed her into the cabin. “Get your skirts up.”

  “How—” how do you intend to do this? She wanted to ask, but her unspoken question was answered as Allen shoved her into the corner created by the wall and the end of the berths.

  Cursing, he unbuttoned, hoisting one of her legs around his waist, and drove into her. She anticipated his urgency—what she didn’t expect was her own readiness—the long, delicious wet slide of penetration, her cry of pleasure and alarm. She grabbed at his shoulder, his hair, to steady herself before gripping the edge of the berth with the nearest hand. The wall scraped her back; Allen panted, thudding into her like a battering ram, groaned, and then laughed.

  “Thank you, Miss Onslowe.” He broke his hold on her, withdrawing in a warm gush.

  “You came?”

  He grinned, stepped back and buttoned his breeches. “Don’t sound so outraged, my dear. I’m preparing you for what most men will provide for you in the way of pleasure.”

  “Indeed? So I can only assume you pleasure me from—what? A sense of duty? Because you said you would?”

  He withdrew a cheroot from inside his coat. “It was my whim. It pleased me at the time.”

  She glared at him. “I trust you plan to smoke that on deck.”

  “Of course.”

  He left, with hardly the pretense of a bow. Clarissa dropped onto Allen’s box, not pleased and somewhat astonished. This man, who had revealed his loneliness and vulnerability, now seemed determined to prove himself as boorish as any male. And he’d made the decision, with his usual aristocratic high-handedness, about the future disposition of the cabins. He had not even thought to consult her. Not that she would have said differently—at least, not then—but she the indelicacy of his decision had possibly embarrassed the Blights.

  She stepped out and knocked at the door of the Blights’ cabin. There were some thumping, rustling sounds, and then Blight, a scowl on his face, opened it. He was half-undressed, in shirtsleeves and breeches, revealing a lean, muscular body she’d never noticed before.

  “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to make sure you and Mrs. Blight are well and that the arrangement regarding the cabins is to your liking.”

  “Indeed.” He leered at her, leaning against the doorway. “Quite the grand lady, aren’t you, Miss Onslowe.”

  “I meant no disrespect, sir.”

  “You’re no better than me or Mrs. Blight, Miss Onslowe. Whatever you were before, or fancy yourself now, you’re Lemarchand’s servant. It makes no difference who fucks you.”

  “You—”

  He leaned forward, close enough for her to catch a whiff of rum on his breath. “You’re a pretty piece, Miss Onslowe, if a bit long in the tooth. When his lordship—” he jerked his head upward “—tires of you, I daresay you and I could entertain ourselves well enough. Mrs. Blight would have no objection.”

  “Yes, sir, but you forget I might. Indeed I am sure I would have not one, but many objections.” She backed away. “Goodnight, Mr. Blight.”

  God rot the whole male sex. She slammed her cabin door shut, absolutely determined that she would be asleep when Allen returned.

  “Allen!”

  He sought to free himself from the sorrow that dragged him down, the fathomless waves of despair.

  “Allen!”

  There was no way to hide the fact that he was weeping—blubbering, to tell the truth; his nose was running, too. Making a fool of himself in front of Clarissa Onslowe, as usual.

  “What troubles you so?”

  “A bad dream, that is all.” He resisted the temptation to clutch at her, drive his face into her shoulder for comfort. He rubbed his hands over his face, shamed by his own weakness.

  “Pray, do not use the sheet.” She shoved a handkerchief into his hand.

  He blew his nose and mopped at the tears running down his face and soaking the pillow. “There’s a ship. A monstrous ship. Huge. A ship for giants. And someone on it—someone I seek but can’t find.” He paused, remembering the steps he climbed with the greatest of difficulty, since each tread was at the height of his thigh. Miles of steps, it seemed, while he sought the unknown in growing despair and panic.

  “And that makes you so sad.”

  “Yes.” A wave of misery washed over him, fresh tears springing from his eyes. “I’ve dreamed this for as long as I remember. I realized it was of a ship only when I went to the Continent, but that was the first time I sailed, so how …? I am sorry I woke you.”

  “No matter.” She patted his arm and yawned. “Will you sleep again?”

  He nodded.

  She ducked out of sight and he heard the rustles of her settling back into her berth.

  He rolled onto his side, dropping one arm down to touch her hair, craving the closeness he sought in his dream. Her fingers laced in his and he slept.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Do you think we shall die?” Clarissa gripped Allen’s hand.

  “We’ll die drunk.” He passed her the bottle of rum.

  She was thirsty and knew the rum would make her more so, but she took a swig anyway.

  After five weeks at sea, they had run into a storm. The ship bucketed and plunged. On the cabin floor, stinking water sloshed and gurgled and she was glad she couldn’t see what else swilled around in it. They’d been below three days—she thought it was three days, she wasn’t sure—the hatch battened shut. Before entombing them, one of the crew had thrown down a sack containing two gallons of cider and some ship’s biscuit. Allen had produced the rum when they’d drunk their cider. He had grudgingly given the other gallon of cider to the Blights, grumbling that they might as well pour it straight onto the floor. This was a storm, a roaring, terrifying storm—Clarissa knew the sails were tightly furled, the ship hurtling where it would.

  They lay trapped in their berths, as timbers creaked and groaned, and she feared the ship would split apart.

  “What will you miss when you’re dead?” It was an absurd question, childlike, and with anyone else, or any other time, she could not have asked it.

  “Fucking. Fucking you. My sister. My land.”

  “Your land?”

  “A few acres between Bristol and Bath. Small hills. Sheep. A little gray stone house.” He hiccupped. “Pretty. I inherited it from my mother’s family. It’s not entailed. Mine. The place I like best.”

  “My place is—was—the Blue Room at Thelling’s. Queen Elizabeth slept there. I’d go in there, lie down and look at the canopy all embroidered with stars and the moon. Solitude was very precious. And I’d dream of getting away.”

  He chuckled. “You did. To this. What will you miss?”

  “The sky. Music. The smell of rain when it first falls.” She gave a maudlin sniff that was only partly because of the rum. “That I could not make peace with my family.”

  “Ah, don’t cry, Clarissa.” She wished she could see him. His thumb stroked her wrist.

  “I must tell you something.”

  “Ah.” His thumb stilled on her wrist.

  “I am here under false pretenses. I have to tell someone and I should tell you, since it involves your family’s fortune.”

  He laughed. “Oh, I know you’re an abolitionist. You made no secret of that when we were first aboard. It’s a necessary evil, my love. Consider the children who labor long hours in factories and in mines in England. Are they of less value than Negroes plucked from Africa? End the slave trade and families like mine, or Lemarchand’s, will continue to prosper. But the poor men and women whose livelihood d
epends on the trade—those who make the chains and ropes and sails, and the million other things needed—will sink further into poverty, should it end.”

  “Yes, I know it is true, what you say.” She gripped his hand. “But the trade is wrong, Allen. Can you not see that? I intend to write a report of conditions on the island, of how the slaves are treated. I shall betray you by writing the truth about how the Earl of Frensham’s hands are stained with blood.”

  “It’s been done before.”

  “Not by a woman. And then—then my family will forgive me. I will be redeemed. But if we sink, I shall be only the name struck out in the family Bible, a shamed daughter guilty of impurity and of throwing in her lot with the slave traders.”

  “Ah, Clarissa, my love.” His voice was quiet amid the cacophony of the storm. “Sweetheart, it can be only a very little consolation to you, but there is no one I’d rather die with. No one.”

  When she woke next everything had changed. Water still sloshed on the floor, but there was less movement, much less—and light. Blessed light. If only she were not so thirsty and her head did not ache so.

  The cabin stank. She supposed she did too, and Allen, whose hand hung on her shoulder. He gave a soft snore.

  She was warm, and that was remarkable, since the candle, their only source of heat had burned down hours, days ago. This must mean…her befuddled brain fought to make sense of it. They had been at sea some five weeks, more or less—she had lost track.

  Above her the berth creaked, and Allen landed with a splash, and an expression of disgust, on the floor. He looked dreadful, eyes red-rimmed, face covered with stubble.

  “Clarissa,” he said in a hoarse voice. “It’s calm. We can get on deck. Surely…”

  She lifted her skirts to her knees and tumbled out, legs weak, into his arms.

  “Oh, damn! My stockings!” Too late she realized she should have taken them off.

  “Never mind about your stockings. What’s important is that you don’t puke,” he said. “Remember, I have money on you.”

  She pushed past him, opened the door, and took a deep breath of fresh air—the hatch was open.

  She was weak and clumsy after days mostly flat on her back and was shaking by the time she got on deck, blinking in hazy morning light. And the smell—a wonderful green smell, heart-breakingly fresh. A seabird wheeled out of the brightness and flew away.

  When was the last time she’d seen a bird?

  The crew, bedraggled and filthy, were at work on deck, mending sails, polishing, scrubbing, putting their ship to rights. They raised a ragged cheer at the sight of Clarissa.

  “Any puking, Miss Onslowe? Mr. Pendale?” Someone called out.

  “Neither of us,” she said with pride.

  One of the men offered her a leather bottle and she tipped it back, and drained it—cider, cool, wonderful—she felt as though she could never drink enough.

  “You could have saved some for me,” Allen said. “What’s that smell?”

  “’Tis land, sir. We’re not far off, now. A few days, maybe. We were blown off course by the storm.”

  Allen, who had received a leather bottle of cider from another sailor, wiped his mouth. He stared at Clarissa.

  “Do I look so dreadful?” She knew her hair hung limp around her face, her clothes were rumpled and dirty, and her stockings were probably ruined. Oh, how she longed to wash, and if only she had some clean linen. But first they would have to swab out the cabins; she didn’t know whether Peter could help them, with so much work to be done on the ship…

  He shook his head. “No. It’s…Shall we visit the galley?”

  Stomachs full of coffee—lots of coffee—and ship’s biscuits, with the promise of the last surviving hen for dinner, she and Allen repaired below to salvage what they could of their belongings and start baling out the filthy water that lapped around their calves. She didn’t think it was the sort of work an Earl’s son might undertake, but he shrugged and baled and mopped alongside her. Elizabeth Blight, pale and shaky, also helped, despite her air of fragility—somehow managing to flirt mildly with Allen while she mopped.

  “’Tis not right, a gentleman doing such work,” she murmured.

  “I couldn’t agree more, ma’am. Where is Blight?”

  “Oh, he’s talking to the Captain, I believe. He went to ask if the boy could help us.”

  Mrs. Blight gave a short scream as more debris was revealed. “Oh, God, is that a rat?”

  “Quite dead, ma’am. You’ve nothing to fear.” Allen picked the corpse up by its tail and tossed it up toward the hatch.

  A cry of disgust and rage came from above.

  “Beg your pardon, Blight. Didn’t see you there.”

  Mrs. Blight shrieked and giggled as the rat descended again, bouncing down the steps and landing with a damp thud at their feet.

  Clarissa tightened her lips. Why was he behaving like a child? Why, for that matter, was he flirting with Mrs. Blight and ignoring her?

  Allen ran up the steps, the last bucket of debris in his hand.

  “A bucket of clean water and some soap, if you please,” she shouted after him, in the sort of voice she reserved for lazy servants.

  She lifted her skirts and knotted them, in preparation for kneeling to scrub the floor. To her annoyance, Blight came down the stairs at that moment. He gave her knees and ankles a long, narrow-eyed stare.

  “Very nice, Miss Onslowe.” His comment was so fast and soft, she almost might have imagined it. He turned to his wife. “My dear, you should come on deck for some fresh air. A ship is approaching—we believe it to be an English warship. I am sure Miss Onslowe can spare you.”

  They jostled awkwardly in the small space as the Blights went up on deck and Clarissa, scrubbing brush in hand, waited for Allen to appear with the water and soap.

  He set the bucket down and looked at her.

  She knew that look. After all these weeks of fucking—and, she had to admit it, their days and nights contemplating death—his closeness affected her more than she cared to admit. She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry Mrs. Blight isn’t here to entertain you. I’m sure she would have appreciated your presence.”

  “And you don’t?” Cocky, arrogant, he placed one hand on the timber near her head. “Oh, I think you appreciate it, just as much as I appreciate … this.” With the other hand he pulled the drawstring at the bosom of her gown.

  Her breast tumbled into his hand, the nipple tightening against his thumb. “Would you like me to fuck you now, Clarissa?”

  “Certainly not. I have a floor that needs scrubbing, and you’re in the way.”

  He leaned forward, his breath warming her hair. “You’re in a very bad mood, for one who has experienced death and resurrection. And speaking of rising from the dead…”

  His cock stirred against her, pushing against her skirts, her thigh.

  Well, two could play that game. “Allen,” she breathed, almost persuading herself that she was feigning surrender. “If only I did not have to get down on my hands and knees to scrub this floor.”

  She stroked one hand down his flank, wondering just how much she should tease him, while his hand on her nipple, pulling and circling, sent hot sweet darts to her quim.

  His lips, cracked from their recent ordeal, brushed hers. “Woman’s work is never done.”

  She glanced down at his sizable erection pushing against his breeches. “Very true. You know that as one rubs—so—there is just more to do.” She slipped her tongue into his mouth, delighted at his groan, his thrust against her hand.

  And she stopped, reached for the scrubbing brush, and pushed him away. She made her voice brisk and practical. “A passable attempt, Allen, but I’m busy.”

  “What?” He stared at her.

  She tightened the drawstring on her gown. “Maybe you should find something useful to do.”

  He scowled. “You’re lucky I’m a tolerant man, Clarissa.”

  “Of course.” She dropped to h
er knees, and rubbed the lump of soap against the brush. No lather, of course, not with this soap and seawater. But she hoped the salt would cleanse and, hopefully, lessen the stink.

  He stalked into the cabin and hit his head on the lantern as usual, while she didn’t even bother to stifle a giggle. He muttered to himself as he picked through his possessions, complaining of damp and damage, lifting a shirt to sniff it. Of course it stank. At this point, all of their clothes did.

  She scrubbed, regretting her teasing, but thinking, with a smile, that she would make it up to him later. And she could. She knew how to make him moan with pleasure, how to drive him wild with wanting, push him to the edge and then rein him in for her own gratification.

  “You know,” he said, “this is not how a mistress behaves. You’re here for my pleasure.”

  “You’re not my protector.”

  “Indeed? What do you think we’ve been doing all this time? It’s not just a question of bed. That’s important, but…oh, the devil with it.” He produced a small knife and sharpened a pen. “This other ship is quite close. I expect it’s going to England. Do you want to write a letter to anyone?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He grunted and began to write rapidly on a small sheet of paper from his portable writing-desk. “As you will. I’m writing to my sister.” He scribbled a few lines more. “What about your family?”

  “I’ll write to them when we arrive.”

  “Very well.”

  She scrubbed and listened to the small scratching sound of his pen.

  “Captain Trent told me we’d probably be invited over to the ship. Since they’re a few days out from the island they’ll have better food.” He folded the letter. “Just the gentlemen, but I suppose Blight will come too.”

  “Why don’t you like him?”

  “Like him? He’s a jumped-up servant.”

  She sat back on her heels and wiped the back of her hand over her forehead. “So am I.”

  “You’re different.”

  “Why?” She rubbed the block of soap onto the boards.

  “Because you’re a lady.”