“As you wish. But I’d be sleeping with one eye open every night if you do that, sir.” The hired hand stalked off.
And without even a salute. The cheek of him.
So the ship returned to shore and Nathaniel was forced to pay the men before starting over. His face flamed with the humiliation of it. Obviously he had to look elsewhere for more cooperative sorts of workers.
At least all of the salted and pickled barrels of food and his store of beer would not go to waste. He’d keep them aboard until he got a new crew.
As the days stretched out, Marguerite realized that the men were never left idle. Strict routine seemed to be critical to maintaining morale. She noted that each day of the week required specific activities, whether it be washing decks, performing drills, mending clothes, or submitting to inspections. On Sundays a church service was held on the quarterdeck and the men had free time in the afternoon. The schedule of activities was so unchanging that Marguerite hardly need look at the watch pinned to her dress anymore.
September 28, 1805. An unusual commotion roused Marguerite from her book. Skirting quietly around the sailors busy at work on the deck, she slipped in next to one of the cannon and peered above it through the open port.
They were plowing straight toward a large gathering of ships. Terrified at first that the enemy had found them alone on the open seas, she realized that the ships were flying British colors. She expelled her fearful breath. Soon she would be transferred to HMS Pickle and be out of the way. She had survived yet another potentially fatal sea journey.
Darden stood next to her bed where she was sitting up reading again a few hours later. “Nelson has officially taken over command of the British fleet from Captain Collingwood. I expect in the next few days you’ll be put on a launch over to Pickle. The captain’s first priority will be to wood and water not only Victory, but the other ships that have been out to sea awhile.”
She flipped the open book down on her lap. “Thank you, Darden. Truly. For everything you’ve done for me.”
“I was happy to perform my duty toward you,” he replied stiffly.
“Duty or not, you were kind to me in a situation where you had many other obligations to attend to. I should never have survived this journey if you weren’t here. I guess that’s twice now you’ve escorted me, isn’t it?”
Was that a hint of red in his cheeks?
Darden shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Marguerite, I won’t be able to escort you in the launch to Pickle.”
“I understand perfectly. I’ve no doubt it would be difficult for you to leave your obligations for any period of time.”
“Yes, well, ahem, it wasn’t my choice. Captain Hardy thought that perhaps I was attending to my duty with you a bit too well, so another of the men will escort you. I’ll handpick the man, so you needn’t have any fear on that account.”
Marguerite reached out and patted Darden’s arm. “Lieutenant, I have no fears whatsoever with you around.”
He took her hand and bent over it, kissing it lightly. He rose again and stared at her with those dark, penetrating eyes. They whispered everything and said nothing.
“Fear is something you should always leave in my care, Marguerite.” And without releasing her hand or giving her warning, he bent down and kissed her full on the mouth. His lips were powerfully comforting, and the scarred hand he raised to cradle her neck was warm and work-roughened. He massaged her open neckline with a hidden message of desire, and she could barely suppress her own sigh of longing. He smelled of the coarse shipboard soap that all the men used, as well as the ubiquitous odor of tar that clung to everything. Yet his scent was intoxicating, and she could taste the tang of the ocean, combined with a strong flavor of cloves, on him. She brought her free hand up to cover his, hoping he would not notice her quaking. He stiffened as she lay her palm on the roughened bulge of his scar but relaxed when she demonstrated no repulsion.
Darden moved from her lips to her cheeks, nose, eyebrows, and forehead, planting feathery kisses everywhere before returning once more to draw from her mouth, this time more hungrily, as though he had just realized he was drowning and Marguerite was his life preserver.
He tore away from her as suddenly as he had pulled her close. “Please, forgive my impertinence. It was inexcusable. Good day, Mrs. Ashby.”
“But I wasn’t—” Marguerite tried to stop him, but he had turned on his heel and strode off, taking the staircase two steps at a time back to the quarterdeck.
She put two trembling fingers to her lips. What had just happened?
Darden berated himself over and over. What a complete fool. An idiot. He was letting Marguerite steal her way into his soul. This was completely unacceptable. He couldn’t fulfill his duty and take care of other matters if he was going to allow himself to be befuddled by a woman.
But you did this to yourself, didn’t you? You had to seek her out in Edinburgh, and this is the result of all your mischief. You should have managed it so that Selwyn handled the details of the wax figures—there would have been no harm in it—but you let jealousy override your common sense, didn’t you?
“Lieutenant? Are you all right?” A midshipman looked at him in concern. “You’ve been at that quite some time.”
The sailor nodded down to where Darden sat on a stool, repeatedly knotting and unknotting a length of rope.
And now you look a fool in front of your men.
“I’m perfectly fine. Just working out a small problem.”
The sailor nodded and moved on without a second thought or care as to what his superior’s problem might be.
Enough. I need to have my wits about me, especially if we’re to engage in battle.
Darden resolved that he would not see Marguerite again before she disembarked from Victory. Furthermore, he wouldn’t seek her out ever again. Not while he still had so much to do that could potentially go so very wrong.
18
Hevington, October 10, 1805. “William, I think something may be very wrong.” Claudette looked up from her letter to her husband, who had just entered the library. Little Bitty lay at her feet in a most unladylike fashion, making a sketch of her most recent acquisition: a tiny red squirrel whose front leg had been injured by one of the dogs. Bitty had stuffed a pillowcase with old rags and perched the little rodent on it as though it were Cleopatra on her barge.
William Greycliffe smiled indulgently at his favorite daughter before kissing his wife and settling down in the King James Monstrosity next to her.
“Has Edward dashed another ball through a window? My poor boy has never quite learned how to manage a stick properly.”
“No, nothing like that. It’s Marguerite.”
“Is that another letter from her? How is she? How was her journey to Portsmouth?”
“That’s the trouble. This is from Marie Tussaud. She says Marguerite hasn’t returned to Dublin yet, but it’s been more than three weeks since Marguerite wrote and told her she was headed out to deliver the figures.”
William gently took the letter from his wife’s hand and scanned it, frowning.
“Is it possible that she decided to visit friends in the south?” he asked.
“Her whole life was in London with the doll shop, although I suppose it’s possible she knows someone down that way.” Claudette was doubtful.
“Or maybe she decided to have a rest along the coast. Or perhaps she decided to return via Bath, to take the waters there. Didn’t you say Mr. Pitt recommended that highly to her?”
“Yes, but it’s not like Marguerite not to send word. William, I’m worried that something happened to her. Maybe her coach was attacked before she reached Portsmouth and she … she …” Claudette couldn’t finish the thought.
“We don’t want to assume the worst just yet.” William went to his desk and searched through a stack of old newspapers. He selected a couple of them and brought them back to his beloved chair.
“Let’s see,” he mused as he scanned
the papers. “Nelson departed Portsmouth on September fifteenth. What was the date of her last letter to you?”
“September tenth. A month ago.”
“And she left after that? She must have flown on the back of a falcon to reach him in time. Hmm, looks like Nelson was planning to take command of the entire British fleet somewhere off Cádiz.”
“Where is that?”
“On the southwestern coast of Spain, near the entry to the Straits of Gibraltar. I believe our brave lads in the navy have been blockading Bonaparte’s French and Spanish ships ever since they stopped at port there to obtain more supplies.” He shook his head. “Did the Spaniards learn nothing from the Armada?”
“Well, if Nelson has sailed off to Spain already, either Marguerite never made it to Portsmouth, or something happened to her on her return. I remember how vile the port of London was when I came here from France. If Portsmouth is the same, maybe she’s been robbed, or maybe even forced into prostitution.” Claudette heard the terror in her voice but couldn’t help herself. “William, we must do something.”
“The first thing we must do is not panic. I’ll write a letter to the Admiralty office to see what I can find out. Actually, why don’t we go to London directly and visit together? I’m sure we can find someone who can help us.”
“That’s an excellent idea. I’ll have Jolie prepare my things immediately. And I don’t plan to return until we’ve seen Marguerite with our own eyes.”
And so Little Bitty remained behind in the library, feeding the little squirrel mashed up bits of fruit as a reward for being such a good model for her drawing.
Fourth lieutenant Brax Selwyn stood almost alone on the deck of Royal Sovereign with his right hand on the ship’s wheel as he guided the ship on its southward course toward Cádiz. He enjoyed taking on the quartermaster’s job at nighttime. Three other men were stationed around the great wheel, which reached from deck to ceiling, and could require great strength and coordination of movement to steer. But the other three were in as little mood for conversation as he was. Brax threw perfunctory glances toward the lamp-lit compass set in its wood post mount, but otherwise stayed preoccupied with his own thoughts.
The clear sky was brilliant with stars and the air was breezy and crisp. The moon, hanging low on the horizon, was full and glowed so bright it seemed to reflect celestial glory. This ship sliced easily through the water. Most of the activity on the ship was finished hours ago, so the only sounds came from the few men on duty, most of them on a watch shift.
Brax sniffed the air cautiously. Men had tarred the masts again yesterday to ensure protection against rot and salt, and the pungent odor lingered. The smell of tar was the only thing about navy life Brax didn’t like. Unfortunately, it was a major part of sea life, since masts and most other exposed areas of a ship were tarred regularly. Some of the men even tarred their pigtails to keep them waterproof. But he would never complain. Not when there were opportunities like tonight to be at peace with nature.
It was a perfect place for a man to be in private to reflect on things.
Tonight his thoughts had started with his duties and the upcoming engagement with the French and Spanish fleet. But, inexplicably, his mind drifted off to the clever little waxworker, Mrs. Ashby. She was obviously not married, so why the deception? Even if she was widowed, she was too young to still be so reserved. So stately.
He couldn’t quite understand the woman, and that made her a puzzle. And Brax Selwyn enjoyed nothing more than solving an amusing puzzle.
She was full of spit and fire underneath that matronly facade, he was sure of it. He was equally sure that Hastings knew more about her than he let on.
Brax wanted to know more, as well. He shook his head and the breeze lifted his pale, rope-colored hair. His thoughts shifted with the gentle wind.
What was Hastings’s true knowledge of Marguerite Ashby? It was obvious from her familiarity that they knew one another well. Brax would have wagered ten pounds that his fellow officer was pursuing the lady, except that Hastings was so clumsy and grim all the time that any woman’s interest in him would by definition be short-lived. And he hadn’t spoken a word about her since they left her lodgings to get her settled in her coach. Hastings had simply resumed his customary scowl and continued about his duties in preparation for departure to Portsmouth.
Duty.
Hastings perpetually blathered about his obligations and duties. A parroting, miniature Nelson the man was. Brax knew Hastings thought him a wastrel and not serious about his responsibilities, but then Hastings didn’t really know Brax Selwyn and his own considerable commitment to grave and vital matters, did he?
But do I really know Lieutenant Darden Hastings?
More importantly, do I really trust him?
Marguerite hadn’t seen Darden in several days now, but didn’t attempt to find him. Between Nelson’s irritation, the surgeon’s disdain, and the crew’s detachment, she deemed discretion to be her best strategy. And that meant staying put as much as possible, no matter how agonizingly bored she was becoming. She decided it was best to forget what had happened between them the last time they were together. Clearly he regretted it, else why did he stay away from her?
But why hasn’t anyone come to transfer me to Pickle?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the rare appearance of Mr. Beatty. Employing his usual grace, he scowled at her. “All of this going on and we’ve got a bed occupied by the most useless individual ever to sail with the navy.” The man began gathering bandages and other supplies from a small locker bolted to the deck and stuffing them into a small canvas satchel.
Marguerite’s boredom overrode her discretion, so she ignored the surgeon’s derision.
“Excuse me, what exactly is going on?”
The surgeon seemed so surprised by her ignorance that he shared the news. “Ten sailors are getting lashed in the morning for drunkenness. Thirty-six lashes each. Most likely they were just in high spirits over our impending engagement with the enemy, but order has to be kept, doesn’t it?” The man narrowed his eyes at Marguerite. “Even if the rules aren’t always followed.”
“Why are you emptying your supply box?” she asked.
He rolled his eyes at her unwanted pestering. “I have to be present afterwards, don’t I? The men will be a bloody mess.”
“Yes, I see.” Marguerite retreated back to her book, revolted at the thought of such a vile punishment, no matter what the crime. Well, it was no matter of hers to say what proper discipline for the navy was.
But curiosity got the better of her the following morning. She awoke to a hoarse cry of “All hands ahoy to witness punishment!” from the boatswain, and the ship’s bell pealed mournfully.
Noticing that the deck emptied out in a solemn procession at the boatswain’s call, she quietly slipped out of her cot and padded up two sets of stairs to the quarterdeck. She poked her head out through the opening while continuing to clutch the stairs for support. No one noticed her. The scene before her was grim. What looked to be the entire crew stood at a distance from a section of grating that had been removed from the deck and securely fastened upright. Their mood was tense and an air of dread permeated the silence of the morning fog. The thick, sour odor of fear wafted from the crew’s unwashed bodies and encircled Marguerite in her hiding place.
Ten sailors, presumably the offenders, stood stripped to the waist, heads bowed. One poor lad was trembling, and Marguerite found herself shaking sympathetically.
Captain Hardy was in attendance, but Marguerite did not see Nelson. She swiveled her head, looking for Darden, but instead caught sight of Mr. Beatty, holding his sack of supplies. The man had a hint of anticipation on his face, as though he would now finally have something truly useful to do.
As she turned her head back to where the punishment scene continued to unfold, her eye caught a flash of blue coat. Ah, there was Darden, standing off to the side. He was ramrod straight in his focus on what was happening. Althoug
h his eyes were bright and alert, the lines around them were deeper than usual. Funny how not too long ago those same eyes radiated heat and desire for her. Now they conveyed his worry and pain.
Over the lax discipline? Or maybe … for her?
Don’t be foolish. The lieutenant has far more important things to worry about than you.
But her attention was diverted back to the disciplinary action. Two of the ill-fated sailors were motioned to step to the grating with the sides of their faces against it. Their wrists were pulled overhead, spread apart, and strapped to the grate.
Two boatswain’s mates stepped forward, each holding a curious-looking lash. It looked like a whip, with a stiff handle of extra-thick rope, and multiple strands of thin rope protruding from the head of the handle. Each of these strands had about three evenly spaced knots in it. Marguerite held her breath.
Each of these men would take thirty-six lashes from that? Her own back prickled in trepidation.
Really, I should go back down below, away from what is sure to be—
On a hand signal from the boatswain, each of the mates swung his lash over his head and bent his body back to give it full force. The mates then brought their lashes down upon the sailors’ backs. The sailors grunted but did not cry out. The lashes came down again.
And again.
And yet again.
Always in unison with one another.
By the tenth blow, the sailors’ backs were raw and bleeding, and one of them was whimpering. Marguerite could watch this no further.
She inched her way quietly back down the steps and retreated back to her swinging bed, pulling her thin blanket over her head to block the sequence of blows, grunts, and cries that accompanied the floggings. The covering did little to protect her from the noise, even though it was two decks away.
How had she managed to get herself trapped in this stink-hole of commotion, boredom, and malodorous men?
A Royal Likeness Page 29
