The Maid and The Cook

by Eris Adderly

  “Remind me of the navigator’s name again? That’s him with the blond hair, isn’t it?” She nodded in the direction of the man she meant.

  “That’ll be Mr Osbourne, and yes, that’s him.” The cook seemed amenable to her questions and she favoured him with a light kiss to his cheekbone for it.

  “And who’s that man talking to Mr Hawke now? The one he was throwing dice with?”

  “That’s Mr Reeve,” he answered, “He and Hawke are always up to some bit of trouble or another. You’ll see. Those two could have us run aground in the middle of the bloody Atlantic if they were left in command.” Bone shook his head and she stifled a giggle at his assessment of the pair. Reeve was as stout as Hawke was lean. Hawke and Reeve, Stout and Lean. That was how she’d remember their names.

  Or is it the other way ‘round?

  The leg she sat on began to bounce a bit as the cook took up tapping his foot in time with some melody which had sprung up from a pipe. She turned her head in the direction of the airy notes to see who was making the music. It appeared the cooper had given up on serious talk, and his one-man audience, Mr Winters, had produced a flute from Heaven knew where. He was now sending up a festive tune, to which Mr Adams was clapping and singing.

  Hmm. He is rather good, isn’t he?

  The man’s voice was fine, as the cook had told her, but the words to the song, once she paid them more attention, were quite bawdy. A few of the men joined in for the parts of the chorus they knew, chief among them the dirty bits.

  Pirates.

  Brigit grinned again and kissed John Bone more soundly on the cheek. She was beginning to enjoy herself in this sort of company.

  He turned his face to her then and, with a merry glint in his eye, stole a kiss from her lips instead. They were nearly at eye level with each other now, the differences in their height shifted by her sitting on his lap. Her mouth was only just above his, arranged as they were.

  Those blue eyes of his caught her up and weren’t letting go, and she found her fingertips tracing up along his neck. His free hand came to lace together with the other he’d been holding at her waist, and he pulled her closer, the warmth of his arms a welcome respite from the growing chill of the March evening. Brigit’s lips brushed his again and her eyes closed as something fluttered in her belly. They began to kiss as if they weren’t surrounded by noisy, gaming sailors.

  His jaw tilted into hers and in a moment their tongues were trading places. She felt him then, quite hard against the back of her thigh, and suspected he’d be glad for the concealing drape of her skirts. Her teeth nipped at him and he responded in kind, each vying to steal the other’s breath. The whole world swam about them as they enjoyed the taste and hum of the moment.

  It came to her between kisses, though, as something out of a fog. The night air of the deck had gone quiet. Adams wasn’t singing. Winters had put down his flute. No one was yelling or laughing.

  Brigit rolled her face to the side, blinking back into the present with her cheek to the cook’s, to find the entire gathering staring at them. Bone’s attention came into focus again as well, and he, too, turned his eye back to the men.

  An explosion of knowing cries and jeering male laughter went up. Fingers pointed and knees knew the hearty slap of palms. It wasn’t every day, it seemed, that the crew of The Devil’s Luck saw their cook carrying on this way, and they were keen to let him know about it.

  “Oi! See here, lads!” crowed Mr Grey, lifting his mug with his voice to be heard over the other men. “Now we know why Mr Bone don’t bother to come whoring with the rest of us! He may have a wooden leg and his purse tied shut, but look which one of us has a girl on his knee! Tell us your secrets, John Bone, that we may all be so lucky!”

  Brigit blushed at the gunner’s words, but she was neither uncomfortable, nor shamed. The arm closest to the cook that she’d draped around his shoulder stayed in place, and for his part he did nothing to release her from the circle of his own arms about her waist.

  “The first secret, Mr Grey,” he said, grinning across the circle of sailors, “is for a man to learn to use his mouth for more than boasting.”

  More snorting laughter and salty gibes flew back and forth among the crew at this, and the cook was content to watch them go on as men did once they were warm with drink and trying to best each other with rude remarks.

  “At least the cook’s mate here looks as though she wants to sit on his knee,” the navigator put in. “Perhaps Mr Bone should be telling all his ‘secrets’ to the captain, and give the man an easier time of it.”

  Platt and Hezekiah had taken up the dice now, but Bone paid little attention.

  “What do ye mean, Osbourne?” He leaned a bit to one side to see around the standing pair at their game. The blond man leaned also, elbow on his knee, to elaborate.

  “Till sent me to Blackburn’s cabin this afternoon to update him on our heading. He had that fine widow right square on his lap, and she looked none too pleased to be there. She wouldn’t look in my direction to save her own life.”

  Brigit tried to picture Mrs Collingwood sitting still on Black Edmund’s lap while the navigator had a conversation with the man, and could see the prim widow doing no such thing.

  “Did she not stand when you arrived, Mr Osbourne?” Brigit was not timid about joining the conversation herself, and the navigator moved to sit on the crate vacated by Platt, where he’d be closer to her and Bone and not have to shout across the circle.

  “Let us say,” he replied, fingers smoothing over the angle of his chin, “that your widow and the captain were … otherwise engaged at the time, Mrs O’Creagh. And I don’t think he was of a mind to let her up, either.” The man tilted his head towards her in implication. Bone grunted.

  “Are you telling me you saw them …?” She made a vague gesture with her hands. Brigit was, if not appalled, then surprised at the least. Osbourne shook his head.

  “Oh, her skirts had everything properly covered up,” he said, “but come now, Missus, a man can tell what he’s seeing.”

  “Are ye so sure, Osbourne?” Bone asked, his voice laced with a note of frustration, more likely over the navigator going further into crude detail in front of Brigit than for any doubt on his part of the veracity of the account. “Maybe ye only thought ye saw.” She wasn’t nearly as offended as the cook imagined.

  “No, Bone, I’m sure,” he said, grinning. “And do you know why?”

  “Why?” Brigit was the one eager to hear, and she shifted on the cook’s lap.

  “Because I stood there and gave him my report, and at the end of it I said to him—my exact words, mind you—‘Give her one for me, Captain!’ ” The navigator chuckled at this, but continued. “I only thought to leave after that. I was in there Josephus Rex, of course. Meant to say it as a laugh. But Blackburn says to me—listen to this, Bone—he says”—and here the navigator took pains to imitate the captain’s formal tone—“ ‘I’ll give her several Mr Osbourne, if you care to stay and watch.’ Can you even imagine such a thing?”

  “Hardly sounds like Blackburn at all,” Bone muttered. Brigit, however, was knee deep in the delicious scandal.

  “And did you?” she pressed him. “Stay and watch?”

  The leer all but split the blond man’s face in two. “Stood right there by the door until the end of it.”

  It was beyond imagination. The Widow Collingwood Brigit was accustomed to could teach the word ‘prim’ itself lessons in modesty. For her to sit there and … and … In front of a stranger, as well?

  “And she said nothing, Mr Osbourne? The whole time?” Her curiosity was worse than that furry King George. She saw Bone running his beard through his fingers at all this, in that way she was learning he did when in thought.

  “Not a word, Mrs O’Creagh,” the navigator said, “but I’ll tell you this: the look on her face told a man all he would need to know—though she might’ve thought she was hiding it. That widow of yours was more than enjoying her we
lcome aboard The Devil’s Luck.” He tipped down the front of his hat at this with a lecherous wink, confident he’d made his meaning clear.

  The cook grunted at this and Brigit was baffled.

  Well I’ll be damned.

  Mrs Hannah Collingwood was up to all sorts of things without a chaperone.

  “Do ye think then, Osbourne,” Bone returned to the conversation, “the captain will be keeping the widow aboard after Nassau?”

  “Oh, I do think so, Mr Bone,” he said. “Do you know that after I left, I heard he sent for Mr George and had the carpenter bring the widow an entire bucket of fresh water?” The blue-grey eyes glittered as he leaned in. “For her to wash up. Sent in Ellis George.”

  A pale arched brow, along with Osbourne’s words, seemed to mean more to the cook than it did to Brigit, but whatever the man had just implied caused Bone to relax, at least enough that she felt some of the tension leave the thigh supporting her. She wanted to ask what he meant, but the navigator turned the questions back to the cook.

  “What’s your worry, Bone? Who cares either way whether he’s taken a fancy to this one?”

  “If he puts her ashore at the next port,” the cook said, “don’t ye imagine he’ll be sending her maid off, as well?”

  Something tiny and brilliant corkscrewed up through her chest.

  He’s worried you’ll be made to leave.

  The men exchanged a level glance and then Osbourne was leaning back in realisation. “Ahh, I see,” he said, slapping Bone on the shoulder as he took to his feet again. “Well I think you’re safe for a while, Mr Bone. Something’s afoot with this widow. He even gave her an entire new dress from the slops. Don’t tell Grey, though,” he said with a chuckle as he moved back to his own crate.

  “Don’t tell me what?” the gunner chimed in from across the circle.

  “Oh, that Bone here’s been dunking his balls in the stew for the past two weeks. He didn’t want you asking for more than your share!”

  Simon Grey shoved the navigator at this, but the sailors were roaring with laughter. “I thought it was a bit saltier, lately!” the gunner fired back, playing along. The cook’s shoulders shook with mirth and Brigit leaned in to whisper a private tease at his ear.

  “He doesn’t know I’m the one who’s had more than my share, does he, John?”

  Bone squeezed her hip at this and rumbled up into the curve of her throat, stopping for a nibble as he went. “Careful, girl, or I’ll take ye back down to the galley, right now.”

  “Will you?” she asked, as though it were a favour rather than a threat.

  “Knives!” Osbourne called out, interrupting their saucy exchange. “Knives! Which one of you lot would like to go a round? Come on!”

  There were groans from several of the men, and Brigit turned her attention to see what the navigator was on about.

  A sleek throwing knife shone in his hand, and he made a series of flourishes with it, making it glitter over his fingers as he tried to cajole the other sailors into a game. Mr Winter was hauling the central crate that had served for dice out of the circle now, as Osbourne tried for an opponent. The first hint of a smile curled the corner of Brigit’s mouth.

  “Mr Bone! I’ve never seen you throw! Maybe you’ve some skill with those hands to make up for that leg of yours?”

  “My hands are busy, Osbourne,” he lobbed back, taking a familiar squeeze at Brigit’s thigh. She gave a warm chuckle at this and nipped at the top of his ear.

  “Mr George?” The navigator turned to the carpenter, trying his luck there instead. “You’re good with a blade! Three out of four into the mast; that should be an easy wager for you!”

  The silver-haired carpenter leaned back on his palms and shook his head with a cool smirk. “Blades are tools, Mr Osbourne, not toys. We have this conversation every time.” He had the amused look of a man who had indeed said this same thing on a great many other nights.

  “Bah!” Osbourne turned from him, waving him off with a hand, “What about you, Hawke? You almost had me last time!”

  The deckhand sighed from where he sat, and Brigit could see none of these men wanted to throw knives with the navigator.

  He probably wins every time, and they’re tired of handing over coin.

  “All right, Osbourne, one round,” Hawke said, rising resigned from his crate.

  “There’s a good man! Someone lay out a line!”

  Already standing, Winters uncoiled a length of line and drew it out straight, several paces back from the mast, behind which the men were meant to stand and throw.

  The rest of the men moved out of the way, although she and the cook were able to remain where they were, as their crate was already the furthest from the path where blades would be flying.

  “Would you like to go first, Mr Hawke?” Osbourne extended his hand towards the man. Three additional blades had appeared in it, offered to the deckhand now, handle first.

  “No, go on, Osbourne. You go.” The tone of his voice told her the younger man had already accepted a likely defeat.

  How good could this Osbourne be, really?

  “Very well.”

  The navigator stepped back behind the line and hefted a knife in his hand, the others tucked at the ready into his belt. He held it by the handle, thumb aligned to the blade, she noted. Her eyes narrowed at the placement of his feet, just so.

  “Most blades in the mast wins,” Osbourne said, glancing at Hawke, “If we land the same number, then we’ll see who sticks them in the neatest. Agreed?”

  Hawke gave a nod and the navigator went straight to work.

  The first knife came back to his ear before following the long arm forward in an arc and spinning out of his grip towards the mast.

  Thock.

  The tip of the blade bit into the wood, handle angled slightly down. Some noises of approval went up from the other men, and the navigator took up the second knife. Back it went, arc, release.

  Thock.

  This one landed a foot higher on the mast, and further to the right, the handle still angled down. Brigit saw what she was dealing with.

  The third blade bit, but lower than the other two, the handle straighter this time. Osbourne took a moment longer readying for the fourth and final throw, but this one didn’t stick, and clattered to the deck to hooting jeers from the audience.

  Hezekiah moved in and picked up the fallen blade before yanking the other three free of the mast and handing them off to Mr Hawke. The lanky sailor moved into position behind the line and Osbourne stepped out of the way.

  The deckhand held his shoulders rolled forward in that way some men have who feel awkward being tall. He fumbled a knife into his hand, no stance to speak of, and eyeballed his target. The watching sailors were quiet.

  Thock.

  His first throw caught, but only just. It was low on the mast and the knife point looked as though it would lose purchase if the wind were to blow. Hawke rolled his eyes and took up a second blade, lobbing it towards the mast with what Brigit would call a sloppy throw. This one spun wide of the mark. Platt and Grey hissed, while she cringed, glad no one else was milling about on the other side of the mast.

  Hawke let out a frustrated blast of air through his nose and stood up straighter.

  Now he’ll try to concentrate.

  Thock.

  It worked, and the third knife sank in true, centred on the mast. Cheers went up, but Osbourne still smirked from off to the side, fingers laid aside over his lips. Hawke was loose now, with the final knife in his hand.

  Ah, but we’re too sure after that last one.

  A lunge forward and a release, and there went his last blade, bouncing away from the target to meet the same fate as the navigator’s fourth throw. He’d made two hits to Osbourne’s three.

  “Cock and pie!” the deckhand swore, while Osbourne clapped him soundly on the shoulder to the laughter of the rest of the men who knew better from the beginning. Side wagers changed hands and Hawke gave over the
coin he’d lost to the victor before flopping back to his seat and taking a long pull from his mug.

  “Who’s next then?” The navigator brandished the knives in the air again, turning about. “Come on! Hawke can’t be the only one with a pair!”

  The bridge of her nose crinkled and Brigit popped a knuckle.

  “Do you trust me, John Bone?” she said into the cook’s ear.

  His eyes searched her face in brief confusion before he gave a single nod. “Course I do.” There was still a question on his features, but it would do.

  “Good.”

  The maid from Cork rose from the pirate’s lap.

  “I’ll throw against you, Mr Osbourne.”

  * * * *

  John Bone’s eyes tried to pop out of his skull.

  “What?”

  He was not the only one who said it, either. Osbourne and at least a couple more of the crew all blurted the question at once. There was a split second of silence before most of the male portion of the gathering burst into laughter. Sailors thumped crates with palms and the deck with boots, and it was no short time before the navigator could get them all quieted down again.

  “You’re going to throw against me, Mrs O’Creagh?”

  “I’m fairly certain that’s what I said, Mr Osbourne.” John looked from the incredulous blond man holding the knives back to Brigit, but she was still and calm, hands at her sides.

  “What did you put in her drink, Bone?” Osbourne asked, turning to him. “I think it’s gone to her head.”

  “Don’t look at me,” John said.

  What is she playing at now?

  “That is, of course, unless you’re afraid to game with someone you’ve yet to best.” The maid was nonchalant, yet John could see something afoot. But what?

  “Ohhh! Hear this, you lot!” the navigator called back over his shoulder, rounding again on the gathered crew to gain support for his disbelief. “And have you brought coin to wager, then?”