The Maid and The Cook

by Eris Adderly

  The Maid and the Cook

  A Devil’s Luck Vignette

  by

  By Eris Adderly

  * * * *

  Text copyright © 2014-2015 Eris Adderly

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  I

  Honey and Bone

  “Man cannot spend all his time doing evil, and even in the company of pirates there must be some sweet moments on their sinister ship when you feel as if you were aboard a pleasure yacht.”

  – Honoré de Balzac, The Human Comedy

  “It is a mistake to think you can solve any major problems just with potatoes.”

  – Douglas Adams, Life, the Universe and Everything

  * * * *

  Bristol, England, 1716

  “Brigit, if you’ll return to our room, please, to wait for our things? I’ll join you again as soon as I’ve spoken with the captain.”

  “As you wish, Ma’am.” She moved to obey Mrs Collingwood’s words, though her reluctance to return to the tiny cabin below decks must have showed on her pitted face. Brigit wasn’t sure whether the widow speaking with the captain alone was such a good idea.

  The steps to the lower deck marched away under her feet again as she made her way back to the dark little room. She kept her eyes averted from the considering glances she received from passing sailors as she went, but what Brigit most hoped to avoid seeing was any more of that greasy surgeon.

  She and her employer, the Widow Collingwood of Bristol, had been shown their cabin by an oily lizard of a man claiming to be the surgeon aboard The Mourning Dove. Brigit had grown an immediate dislike for the man, though he’d only said a handful of words in her presence, and she was quite relieved to see the back of him once he’d left her and the widow in their cabin.

  The cabin, she thought, slipping back through its narrow door again, was close and dark, and made the backs of her hands itch just sitting in it. She’d never been on a journey by sea of this length, and the weak glow of an oil lamp fastened to the outer wall did nothing to reassure her it would be a pleasant trip. Neither did the widow’s company.

  They’d be at least six weeks at sea before making port in Boston, and the prim daughter of one Richard Symes—House of Commons, if you please—was from a world so far removed from Brigit’s own she had no idea how to begin to interact with the woman, despite her stuffy attempts at conversation.

  The widow had tried to engage her in light chatter, but much of what she’d said had gone over Brigit’s head. The maid from Cork suspected the stiff-backed blonde, several years her senior, could stand to have her demeanour improved by a bit more time with her legs in the air instead of with her head in a book. Of course, thoughts of that nature could never be uttered aloud. She’d have been standing in Bristol port right now, unemployed, if she’d said each cheeky thought that came to mind.

  Brigit hoisted herself up onto the slim bunk that lined one side of the cabin and leaned back against the wall behind, her legs dangling at the knee over the edge. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine which might be worse: more than a month at sea, stuck with the widow in this dark cubby hole, where it appeared she’d have to sleep on the bare floor, or remaining at home, with her five younger siblings, an abundance of noise and complaints, and a frequent lack of both meals and peace.

  She was still undecided on the matter as she began to doze.

  * * * *

  A sharp rap at the door was all the warning Brigit had to start her awake before a man’s head popped into the cabin. A blond sailor about her same age with a narrow beak of a nose aimed a question at her, but she was still rubbing sleep out of bleary eyes.

  “I’m sorry?” she said, squinting at him, readjusting to the dim light.

  “I said, you’re the lady’s maid, yes?”

  “I am.”

  “Cap’n wants to see you.”

  “What for?” she asked, still confused as she straightened her skirts and stood. Where was the widow?

  “Didn’t say. Only told me to fetch you.” He stood in a casual lean against the doorframe as if this were the most normal request in the world, and when she didn’t move he prompted her with a loose gesture of his hand. “Come on, then.”

  He didn’t seem to have any intention of leaving without her.

  She pushed a breath out through her nose and screwed up her lips as she made to follow and, seeing her doing as he asked, the young sailor turned to go.

  Why would the captain need to see her? A lady’s maid? What had happened when he’d ‘had a word’ with the widow? In all likelihood the woman sliced him with that sharp tongue of hers and now they would both be in hot water. Brigit sighed in resignation as she picked her way along behind the crew member leading her. There was no way this was heading for anything pleasant.

  The bright daylight made her eyes water as soon as they stepped back up onto the main deck, and it took a round of blinking to clear them. Her quick glances around told her they were already well out to sea. There was no sign of land in any direction.

  The blond man’s smart steps carried them aft to a doorway leading below again. A shorter set of steps than the first she’d descended brought her and the sailor into a large room dominated by a long table at its centre.

  Chairs surrounded the heavy table on both sides and at one end. The cabin felt as though it might be meant for meetings or perhaps formal meals, but Brigit couldn’t be sure; she’d never seen this part of a ship before today.

  The man who’d exchanged blunt words with the widow occupied the seat at the head of the table.

  Mrs Collingwood was nowhere in sight.

  The sailor cleared his throat. “Captain,” he said. “The lady’s maid.”

  After a final bit of scratching with a quill on the leaf of paper before him, the captain raised his head to acknowledge their presence.

  “Thank you, Hawke.” He nodded at the man standing just behind her now. “And did you tell Mr Bone I needed to speak with him as well?”

  “Aye, Sir. I went to him first; let him have more time to make his way down.”

  “Smart choice, Hawke. That will be all.”

  Giving a quick nod at his dismissal, the sailor made his way back up into the blinding sunlight.

  Brigit stood there alone with this captain, in his fine coat and hat. She didn’t care for it.

  He slid the paper off to the side and rested his hands on the table, lacing his fingers together. Dark eyes looked up at her. Arrogance and breeding sang from the cut of his jaw and the arch of his brows. She fought an urge to smirk. Of course his kind would be an officer. They all felt the need to order others about, didn’t they?

  “You are Mrs Collingwood’s maid, Mrs …?”

  These people and their silly formalities. He knows I’m her maid.

  “Brigit.” She gave her name as he asked, trying not to be cheeky and make trouble.

  “Brigit with no last name?”

  She sighed to herself. “O’Creagh.”

  “I see,” he said, the lightest dusting of judgement on his tone as he noted her accent. Brigit liked him even less. “Well, Mrs O’Creagh, it seems there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding.”

  Oh dear Lord. What did that woman do?

  She
waited for him to speak again, fiddling with the folds of her apron as she stood there.

  “It is my understanding the two of you were meant to board and sail on The Mourning Dove?” he asked, head cocked slightly and brow raised. She suspected he already knew the answer to his own question.

  “That’s correct, Captain.” She squirmed in place, trying to put herself on her best behaviour.

  “Well, Mrs O’Creagh, I’m afraid that’s the trouble. The Mourning Dove is likely still at port. You’ve been seen aboard The Devil’s Luck instead, and unfortunately I’ve no intention of turning about. I do apologise, but it looks as though you’ll be with us for a time.”

  “The Devil’s Luck!” Brigit heard little after the infamous name. “The Devil’s Luck is a bloody pirate ship! Then that would make you …” She began to step backwards, the reality of her surroundings, and just who this man was, landing on her.

  “Yes, yes, Black Edmund, I see the name precedes me.” He waved her off in irritation. “And I’ll have you mind your tone, Mrs O’Creagh. I’ve tolerance for exactly one woman with a tart mouth today, and your former employer’s already used that up.”

  “My former employer?” she said, incredulous, not sure whether to be incensed or terrified. Brigit held no particular love for the woman, but neither did she want to be alone on a ship full of criminals. “What has happened to Mrs Collingwood?”

  “Captain, ye wanted to see me?” The deep boom of a male voice behind her accompanied several wooden thumps, announcing the arrival of another crew member, and cutting off Brigit’s frantic line of question.

  She turned to the source of the interruption and was faced with perhaps the largest bear of a man she’d ever seen. At least a head taller than her and easily twice as wide, his shadow darkened the room for a moment as his enormous frame filled the door.

  As he made his way into the room, she discovered the source of the thumping: his left leg was missing below the knee. In its place was a dark wooden peg. Life on a ship was far from safe.

  Especially this ship. The Devil’s Luck. How on earth had they ...?

  “Yes, Mr Bone.” The captain ignored Brigit for his new visitor. “You’ve had no help in your galley since we lost Mr James, is that correct?”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  “Then congratulations are in order, Bone. Mrs O’Creagh here will take over, starting today. I trust you know your way around a kitchen, then?” He aimed the last bit at her.

  “If you please, Captain,” she said, straining to check her temper at the complete lack of an explanation for this impossible turn of events, “what has happened to Mrs Collingwood?”

  The man sighed, tossing his hat onto the long table, leaning back in his chair, annoyance with the entire situation plain on his face. “She’s no longer in need of your services, Mrs O’Creagh. Be thankful I’ve set you to work for Mr Bone in the galley instead of allowing you to roam free among the crew.” He arched a meaningful brow her way, and she took his import.

  Pirates.

  Another thought occurred to her.

  “You haven’t…” She stammered, growing more nervous by the moment. “You haven’t … killed her? Have you?”

  “Of course not!” he said, indignant as he sat up straight again. “What do you take me for?”

  Brigit was not going to answer that question, but her mind flung down answers all the same.

  A pirate. A cutthroat. A bloody thief, a murderer.

  She glanced back towards the towering Mr Bone and found him eyeing her, a heavy hand stroking along the twin plaits of a dark red beard that hung half-way down his chest. The big man’s blue eyes considered her from beneath ginger brows and a shaven skull. Brigit tried to make herself small.

  “Mrs O’Creagh,” the captain said, sounding tired, “it’s the galley or be unattended on my ship. Which is it?”

  Brigit swallowed. She’d dealt with crude enough men before, but none such as these. How might she know which would be the least horrible choice?

  How is this happening at all?

  “The galley then.” She settled for what seemed the lesser of two evils, resentful.

  “Very well. Mr Bone—”

  “Captain, wait!” she said, likely overstepping her bounds once again. “I don’t understand! How is it we were seen aboard your ship and not The Mourning Dove? Your surgeon said—”

  “My surgeon,” he said with a sneer. “I assure you, Mrs O’Creagh, you’d prefer not to know the how and why of it.”

  “Try me,” she said, folding her arms, mildly defiant again. She would be the judge of what she might want to know.

  Careful, Brigit, you’ve already annoyed him once.

  Her tiny challenge for information earned her a mild snort of amusement from Bone.

  “I see you won’t leave well enough alone then,” the captain said. “Do remember it was you who insisted.”

  A right bastard, this one is.

  “It seems,” he continued, “that my surgeon wanted your Mrs Collingwood aboard for a bit of sport, and so he led her to believe she was safely boarding The Mourning Dove, when in fact she—and you—were not.”

  “A bit of sport? He didn’t …” Brigit’s stomach dropped once she took the captain’s meaning. That surgeon had been … sickening.

  “I see that you follow. Be grateful you were discovered right away. And that I won’t be handing you back to him.”

  She pressed her lips together. This man likely deserved whatever tongue-lashing he’d received from the widow, and Brigit disliked the woman a trifle less now for it.

  Wherever she is.

  “Questions, Bone?” The captain turned his attention back to the other man.

  “None, Captain,” he said, shifting his weight onto his good leg. He then appeared to think better on it, though. “Well … maybe. Where should I have her sleep?”

  The captain gave his cook a half-smirk as he took his quill up again. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out, Mr Bone.”

  Brigit caught the tall man’s eyes at that comment. Where would she sleep? What about the cabin that—

  Oh.

  That had been the surgeon’s cabin, she realised, and not a cabin set aside for her and the widow. This wasn’t The Mourning Dove, after all. No, she was most certain she didn’t want to go back there to sleep. Not any more.

  Bone inclined his head towards the captain, accepting his instructions, or lack thereof, and turned to Brigit with a shrug, shouldering his new charge as though it were every day Black Edmund assigned him young maids to help him with his duties.

  “It looks like the galley for ye, then. Follow along.” He turned to mount the steps again, not even looking back, already expecting her to do as asked. It appeared every man aboard this ship would be ordering her to come here and go there.

  She squinted at the captain and gave him a final harrumph of distaste, though his eyes were back on whatever he’d been writing. There was nothing to be done for it. Brigit would have to deal with this cook.

  For now, at least. They have to make port somewhere else eventually.

  Turning on her heel, she stalked off after him.

  * * * *

  Brigit caught up to the bald man without much effort, his wooden leg keeping him from too brisk a pace. He must have had a keen ear, because he heard her steps behind him without having to turn his head and see her fall in.

  “Have ye spent much time on a ship, Mrs O’Creagh?”

  “Not as long as this trip was expected to be,” she said to the back of his head. “And just ‘Brigit’ will do.”

  The constant use by this crew, these pirates, of her family name was both unfamiliar and out of place. She hadn’t been raised among the sort of social circles which held to that level of formality. Unlike her employer—her former employer, Brigit reminded herself—her family and their friends hadn’t bothered awfully much about ‘Mister’ and ‘Missus’. The titles didn’t go well with the stockings that needed darning and
the bare cupboards so common in her part of town.

  And these rough men, sailors all, to persist in addressing her this way? It seemed a means of mocking her. She knew what she looked like.

  The cook grunted at her request to be called by her first name, but continued his purposeful stroll along the deck.

  He brought them to a set of stairs leading below and, with a surprising amount of skill for a man with a false leg, descended without a pause, calling to her over his shoulder: “Mind yer step on the way down.”

  Brigit took in a breath and hoisted her skirts several inches, steeling herself to follow this enormous man she’d barely met down into the bowels of the galleon.

  The Devil’s Luck. She shuddered to herself.

  That inn back in Bristol seemed like a corner of paradise now.

  The galley was darker and cooler than the open air of the main deck and again her eyes needed to adjust as she stepped down into it. She’d just managed to brace herself to cope with her new situation when the cook’s casual warning became a tidy little prophecy.

  Brigit put her foot wrong on one of the narrow steps and went tumbling headlong into the dim space below her.

  * * * *

  John Bone turned back around just in time to hear a startled cry and what may have been a curse out of the young maid as she evaded his cautionary words and followed a turned ankle and loss of balance down into the galley, face first.

  A swift step forward and thrust of his hands caught her up under her arms, and he spared her the rude introduction to the deck, hauling her upright once he had her in a sure grip.

  Still off balance, her upper body fell against his, and she clutched at his shirt, his belt, to try to remain standing. He moved his hold out from under her arms and caught her about the waist, steadying her. As urgency faded, a new problem struck him.