Aching for Always

by Gwyn Cready

  She could hear the waves breaking beneath her like the snapping jaws of alligators, and she closed her eyes and began to cry.

  When she opened them again, she was over decking. An able-bodied seaman lifted her free, and she was handed into the custody of two men with guns.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Then one day the mapmaker fell ill, and she knew she was going to die.

  “I have no money to leave you,” she said to her princess-daughter, “but you do not need to worry. Men will come from far away to court you. But you must save yourself for the knight who will share with you all he possesses—and I do not mean gold. I mean his help and his heart. For that is the man that will put everything to right. Beware all others.”

  —The Tale of the Beautiful Mapmaker

  At dawn, Roark tapped on her door and announced himself. She had been brought stew, bread and beer, and been given a set of sailor’s togs and a small hanging cot on which to sleep, but she had not been allowed to leave her tiny room. The ship hadn’t moved since she’d boarded, which is to say, the ship hadn’t made forward progress, for it pitched and rolled on the water like an out-of-control roller coaster at an amusement park. The only unusual sounds she’d heard had been several bloodcurdling cries that she hoped had been Hugh’s, as it might mean he wasn’t dead.

  Throughout the night, she had turned over various scenarios that might explain their appearance in this remote place, though nothing had emerged from this exercise except a throbbing headache and the sickening sense that whatever mess she found herself in now was both serious and irreversible.

  Needless to say, she had not eaten or slept, and as she went to the door, she had to struggle to keep from tripping over the rolled-up ends of her borrowed pants.

  “I wonder why you’d bother knocking,” she said, “since you hold the key.”

  Roark ignored this. “You sent for me?”

  “No, I sent for the captain.”

  “The captain is otherwise engaged. How can I help?”

  “How is Hugh?”

  His lips pressed into a thin line. “You have an unusual interest in his health.”

  “I’m his friend.”

  “I’m afraid that remains to be seen.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that until the patient wakes, we have no idea what relation you are to him. Someone, after all, fired that pistol. If that is all, I must take my leave. We are quite busy on deck.”

  “It is not all. I demand to see the captain.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to address your concerns to me, madam, for the time being.”

  “What are my rights here?”

  He looked at her as if she had spoken this question in Finnish.

  “My rights,” she repeated. “Doesn’t the Geneva Convention apply? May I send the captain a note?”

  He sighed. “I am unfamiliar with Swiss law, but if you insist, I will deliver what you write. However, I cannot guarantee it will be read or acted upon.”

  He found a pencil and a dingy piece of brown paper in his coat—she was certain she smelled lard on it—and she dashed off a fiery screed, demanding, among other things, the return of her clothes, a report on the state of Hugh’s health and access to her phone.

  She stuffed it into Roark’s hand and gave him the finger after he closed the door.

  In a quarter of an hour, a closemouthed Roark reappeared.

  “Follow me, please. And take care not to speak to any other crew members.”

  He led her down several sets of steps into the bowels of the ship. The tossing had lessened, which made walking considerably easier, but the passageway was narrow and dark and smelled like dirty, wet athletic socks.

  A short, elderly man in a long black coat and little rectangular glasses who reminded her vaguely of Benjamin Franklin stood at an open doorway. “You may have a moment or two, no more.”

  She peered into the room expectantly and saw Hugh. She ran to his side, nearly knocking over a bedside stool. She wanted to throw her arms around him, but the care with which he had been tucked into his cot and the ashy pallor to his face made her stop. He was very still, and for a moment she thought he was asleep, but he opened his eyes and smiled.

  “Joss.” A single word, but it made her heart sing. His shoulder was bandaged and his arm had been wrapped with linen to hold it close to his side. There was linen around his head as well.

  “Oh, Hugh. What happened? Are you going to be all right?”

  “I was shot,” he said. “But that’s not why I passed out on the islet. I must have hit my head. Mr. Lytle, the surgeon, removed the ball. He says the wound is clean. He has given me laudanum.”

  He spoke slowly, and she thought of the awful screams in the night. How far from land were they that they’d attempt such a thing themselves?

  “Was that man going to rob you?” she asked. “Is that why you were shot?”

  He closed his eyes, and the muscle in his jaw flexed. “Probably. It’s likely that your arrival scared him off. I expect I’m alive because of you.”

  She thought about what she’d seen in that alley. She’d been so intent on Hugh and that circle of blood, the rest was a blur. All she remembered were a few pedestrians—an older couple, a man in a green stocking cap—and Hugh yelling “Go!”

  “I am given to understand you are displeased with your situation,” he said.

  “I am not displeased. I am furious. I’m being held as a prisoner. I don’t know who the asshole is running this ship, but when we get back to land I’m going to slap him with a lawsuit so fast it’ll make his head spin.”

  “His head is spinning already. I’m certain of it.”

  “Have we been drugged? That’s the only explanation I can think of. This is a really old ship, like out of a movie or something. I’m not even sure it can make it back to land.”

  He licked his parched lips and gave her a steady look. “This ship can make it anywhere there’s a draft of eighteen feet. She’s the most able creature on the seas.”

  “Jesus, you sound like you’re the captain of this thing.” Then she spotted the dingy sheet of brown paper under a washcloth at his side and sunk slowly onto the stool. “Oh my God. You are the captain, aren’t you?”

  His chest rose and fell in what she assumed was a laugh.

  “I have passed your rather indelicate recommendation for Roark’s court-martial to our first lieutenant, by the way,” he said. “I’m afraid he is reluctant to begin proceedings, however. Feels the accusation is unjust.”

  “Because Roark is the first lieutenant.” She felt dizzy.

  “Aye.”

  How could Hugh be a captain? How could they be at sea? What had happened inside that bizarre invisible dome?

  “But in the alley—and here . . .” Dry-mouthed, she tried to bring something—anything—into an understandable focus in her head. “The world shook, and there were sparks and heat.”

  “You are not the first to characterize the effects of my embrace so, but you are the first to do so dressed as one of my men. ’Tis an interesting variation, I must say.”

  “Hugh.” She had known something was out of sorts from the moment she’d seen the sparks falling from the Gulf Tower, but to have the world rebooted like this, everything she thought she’d known about him tossed out like a half-eaten quesadilla from Taco Bell . . . “You’re not a tailor?”

  “No. I told you I wasn’t.”

  He had. But he had also told her so many other things that had proven to be untrue, she hadn’t even believed him when he said he’d been lying. And still there was the troubling matter of the year.

  Ask, a voice inside her said, but she was afraid of the answer.

  “And this is your ship?”

  “I am the captain, if that is what you ask. I am a captain in the English navy, and while my orders are to prowl the Atlantic for French ships, I have stretched the spirit of the orders almost to the breaking point in order
to get us to where we stand right now.”

  Ask.

  “As far as I know,” she said voice shaking, “we are not at war with France.”

  “’Tis 1706, Joss. We are most certainly.”

  She felt the floor beneath her sway, and for once, it was not the ocean, the invisible dome or the feel of his arms around her. It was shock, pure and simple.

  “It’s not 1706,” she said, unbelieving, though she knew it explained everything she had seen.

  “Joss, listen to me. Our time here is short,” he said. “Mr. Lytle, the surgeon, will return presently, and neither I nor you may speak of what’s happened with him.”

  “What has happened?” There was dried blood on Hugh’s forehead. She spotted a basin of water and dipped the washcloth in it.

  “There is a time hole that leads from the islet in 1706 to Pittsburgh in your year. That is how Fiona, Nathaniel and I arrived, and how you and I left. Roark knows, but he’s the only person on the ship who does.”

  She dabbed at his forehead, and he tried to pull away. “Let me,” she said.

  He submitted.

  “I will instruct Lytle that you and Roark are the only people who are to attend me. I have seen men on laudanum and their secrets do not stay secrets long.”

  “Of course.” Her head was spinning.

  “And when you are not here, I ask that you find a map in Fiona’s quarters. I don’t know where it’s hidden. ’Twas done by your mother and is very similar in design to the map I took from you, which Roark has. We are looking for clues about the whereabouts of a map of East Fenwick. ’Tis very important”—he took a labored breath and coughed—“that the map be found.”

  “Why?”

  He hesitated. “It will right a great wrong.”

  “The one you say my father was involved in.”

  “Aye.”

  Mr. Lytle returned to the doorway. “I’m sorry, Miss O’Malley. You must go.”

  “Another moment,” Hugh instructed.

  “Captain—”

  “So long as I possess my faculties, I will run this ship. Another moment.”

  The surgeon made a bow and left.

  “I will tell Lytle my limitations on who may attend me when he returns. Roark will be taking the first watch.” Hugh closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep, she could see that. She laid the cloth on the edge of the basin and turned reluctantly to go.

  “Joss?”

  “Yes.”

  “You can trust Roark. I give you my word. If anything were to happen . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Nothing will happen,” she said.

  “Nonetheless, he will know how to get you home.”

  Lytle had returned. Through the haze of a burgeoning fever and the effects of the laudanum, Hugh heard the scratch of the quill and opened his eyes.

  “Mr. Lytle, I will allow only two people to serve as my attendants until I recover: Mr. Roark and Miss O’Malley. Do you understand?”

  The man’s brows lifted. “There are doses that will have to be given and bandages to be changed.”

  “Then teach Mr. Roark, aye?”

  “As you wish. I will tell the surgeon’s mate.”

  Hugh closed his eyes and returned his labored thoughts to Joss. It was a bad situation, he knew. Reynolds had revealed himself, if not to Joss, for Hugh was almost certain she hadn’t spotted him, then at least unknowingly to Hugh. Every bone in Hugh’s body ached to bring the villain to his knees. The attack showed how dangerous the situation was, and yet one fact could not be denied: the man had had a clear shot at Joss and had not taken it.

  This above all things colored Hugh’s thinking.

  Joss loved Reynolds. Despite the kiss Joss and Hugh had shared at the party, which Hugh had credited only to the wine and excitement, Joss had given Hugh no indication her loyalty to Reynolds had changed. And Reynolds, when given the opportunity, had acted in a way that suggested his heart, too, was engaged. If Reynolds had acted in any other way, Hugh thought with considerable regret, he would have exposed him to Joss in a second. But Reynolds hadn’t, and that had to be enough for Hugh. He must put his own feelings aside. The daughter of Maggie Brand would not suffer at his hands.

  “You need to rest, Captain. I can see your color rising.”

  “I will.”

  The crinkling of paper awoke him several moments later.

  “Allow me,” Lytle said in the dark, extracting the note from under Hugh’s arm. “I shall put it on the shelf here.”

  “Wait. Please. Will you read it again? Just the last paragraph?”

  Lytle adjusted the lamp and brought the paper under the light. “‘Finally, I would willingly forgo my other demands for the chance to see my companion. I am quite concerned for his health, and I find it is exceedingly cruel of you to force him to suffer in isolation, whatever his wounds might be. Until this is resolved, you are a captain unworthy of my respect. Joss O’Malley.’”

  Despite the heated thickness in his head, Hugh settled back onto the pillow and smiled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Joss was pleased to see that no guard awaited her when she exited Hugh’s sickroom. She was less pleased to realize that a guard or two might have been useful in helping direct her back to her room.

  It was 1706, if she could believe it. But why would he lie? And what else could explain the ancient ship, the historical costumes and the stink of athletic socks?

  She picked up her pant legs, trying without much success to keep them above the water sloshing across the floor. “Ablest creature on the seas,” eh? She made her way up one set of steps, past a knot of sailors who jumped to attention as she passed, to the place where she thought the next staircase was, only to find a small wire pen holding a cow, a goat, three pigs and a cat.

  “Miss O’Malley?”

  She turned. Roark was hurrying toward her, ducking under each beam as he passed. For an instant, she was afraid there was some bad news about Hugh, but the tentative smile on his face dispelled her concern.

  “Would you accept my apologies, m’um?” he said. “Mr. Lytle made it clear Captain Hawksmoor was not to be disturbed, and confinement is standard practice with an unknown. The captain was quite beside himself when he heard what I’d done.”

  “Certainly.” She extended her hand and her pant leg dropped in the water. “I was probably a bit hasty myself. I believe my request for a court-martial can be withdrawn.”

  “Put on hold is all the captain has promised.” He took her hand and bowed. “Thank you. I will endeavor to earn your continued allegiance. In fact,” he said, clearing his throat uncomfortably, “those are my orders.”

  “Excellent. Perhaps you can start by pointing me toward Fiona’s room.”

  “Miss McPherson, do you mean?”

  “I guess. Tall, blond, legs that reach up to about my—”

  “Aye, ’tis Miss McPherson,” he said, and smiled nostalgically.

  He led her up two flights of stairs to a passageway. At one end was a door flanked by two red-coated men with guns. It was not to this door but to one immediately to its left, however, that he took her.

  “This is her room,” he said, and in a louder voice added, “I certainly hope the transfer went smoothly.” He unlocked the door and ushered Joss inside. “The men are under the impression the captain, Miss McPherson and old Nate were met by another ship after we left them on the rock—the same ship from which you and the captain recently returned.”

  “Ah.” Always good to know the story if you were expected to lie through your teeth. She thought of the story about her own made-up illness Di was feeding Rogan as well as the story about a fling with Hugh she’d led Di to believe before that and felt a stab of guilt. She didn’t usually lie, let alone juggle quite so many at one time.

  Fiona’s room was more spacious than hers but filled almost to capacity with a hanging cot, a trunk, a desk and a chair. There was a door to what she supposed to be a closet in the adjacent wall.


  “I believe you are in want of this.” Roark pulled her mother’s map of London from his coat and handed it to her.

  A young boy ran by the door, stopped, turned on his heel and stuck his head in the door. “Mr. Lytle’s compliments, sir. You are wanted in the sick bay. Your watch.”

  Roark made his good-byes and agreed to let Joss know if anything changed.

  Joss looked at the map. What part could a map of London play in righting a wrong done by her father? She closed her eyes and thought of her mother and the golden hair she wore tied up in a knot. She remembered the stories her mother had told—always so vivid and engaging—and how on the very best days, her mother would stop what she was doing, pull Joss into her lap and begin to spin some fantastical yarn. Joss thought of The Tale of the Beautiful Mapmaker and the handsome knight and felt a wave of nostalgia. Ah, Rogan, what a knight you seemed that day outside the hospital. . . .

  She smiled, but the internal smile wasn’t quite in line with the outside one, and she couldn’t figure out why, apart from her worry for Hugh. Then she remembered the visions she’d seen on the islet. Why did that figure in the green stocking cap make her uneasy?

  She sighed and looked around. Where would Fiona put a map? Joss began with the usual places—the desk and its single drawer, which yielded little but paper and ink, and the trunk, which contained gowns and shoes. Remembering detective novels she’d read, she even checked the sides of the trunk and desk drawer for a false panel. Nothing. And, in any case, why would Fiona have to hide a map?

  Joss checked the closet next, only to discover it wasn’t a closet at all. It was the door to a much larger room whose far wall was lined with diamond-paned windows, through which the disappearing wake was visible. She scanned the low, wide cot, far larger than her own, and the long table with its richly upholstered chairs, thinking, Cripes, for a barely afloat ship from the 1700s, this is space fit for—