A Royal Likeness

by Christine Trent

  “The hospital? What do you mean? Won’t we treat them right here in the sick berth?”

  And did he just say the fleet would be engaging soon? What, exactly, did soon mean? Her stomach fluttered uneasily.

  “My girl, look around you. See all of the cannon pointing outward? This is a gun deck, and soon Captain Hardy will want to take over the sick berth for fighting. We’ll lay canvas down on the orlop deck for the wounded, and have the ones needing surgery put on the midshipmen’s mess tables and chests. Besides, it’s safer for us below the water line.”

  And so Marguerite followed the surgeon to the orlop, where Messrs. Smith and Westemburg were scooping sand out of sacks and sprinkling it on the deck.

  “What are they doing?” she asked.

  “The sand absorbs blood and other fluids from the injured so it doesn’t soak into the deck. There’s more being spread on the gun decks.”

  “I see.” What other response was there?

  Once the sand was fully distributed, she and the surgeon spread out canvas, also intended to capture blood flow and to put some sort of layer between the wounded and the rough deck. Like the other lower decks she had passed through, this one was not tall enough for an average man to stand straight. Even she had to duck to avoid many of the beams spaced at regular intervals along the ceiling. After that, they cleared off the few tables in the midshipmen’s mess on the orlop and spread more canvas sheeting on them.

  Unlike on the upper gun deck, these tables rested on the deck on legs, instead of being suspended from the ceiling by ropes. She asked the surgeon about them, and he told her that tables are suspended from ropes to get them stowed out of the way quickly in a time of battle. The orlop had no guns, therefore the furniture was placed more or less permanently. Dim lanterns dangled above each table, providing little light for what was sure to be intense work.

  Mr. Beatty showed her what instruments and supplies needed to be distributed on the tables, and she helped him and his assistants with getting them all laid out properly. One particular instrument, which resembled a miniature saw with a smooth blade, made her particularly queasy, and she hoped she would not have to watch it in use.

  Afterwards, the surgeon showed her his own cabin on this deck, as well as the locking dispensary next to it. Looking at the crowded shelves in here, Marguerite realized that the small trunk of powders and potions in the sick berth were but a sampling of the treatments Mr. Beatty had at his disposal.

  She slept fitfully that night, her mind swirling with thoughts of Darden, the wax figures stowed in Nelson’s cabin, and the myriad of formulas and procedures Mr. Beatty had stowed into her head.

  And there was to be little sleep for her again anytime soon.

  * * *

  “Lieutenant!” Nelson commanded as Darden passed by the admiral on the quarterdeck. “I need you to take a message to Captain Hardy. Tell him I want Victory to be at the head of my division and he’s to raise a message for the other ships to slow and wait. Collingwood will have Royal Sovereign leading his division.”

  “Yes, your lordship.” Darden abandoned his previous task to obey Nelson immediately. Much of a lieutenant’s life was consumed with the bearing of messages between decks or even between ships. When confidential messages had to be passed, the process was made tiresome by repeated scrambles into launches to row quickly to the designated ship, board the ship, deliver the message, row back, and scuttle aboard his original ship. All instead of using the more common flag signals from atop the deck.

  Darden didn’t mind, though. He knew he was fortunate to be on board Victory and to be considered part of Nelson’s staff on his flagship. A few inconvenient treks to find Captain Hardy, or even to the captain of another ship, were just part of the duty and honor of serving Lord Horatio Nelson.

  But this reminded him that he needed to have Marguerite set into a launch bound for Pickle as soon as they pulled close enough to her. After delivering his message to Hardy, he sought out the midshipman whom he had assigned to look after her. The man was undoubtedly shirking that duty to the greatest extent possible, but as long as she was eating, being escorted to the wardroom for private necessary activities, and getting some opportunity for bathing, that was all that could be hoped for.

  He addressed the sailor. “I need you to prepare Mrs. Ashby for transfer in a launch to Pickle. We should be meeting up with Pickle within a few hours.”

  And in the same way Darden dropped anything he was doing to obey Nelson, so did the midshipman instantly obey his command.

  20

  Claudette ground her fists in her eyes in frustration as she and William left the inn at Guildford in their carriage.

  “So they have a record of Marguerite staying overnight here with some other female passenger, but they don’t know that she was necessarily going to Portsmouth the next day.”

  Across from her, William patted her knee. “It’s not likely that an innkeeper cares much about his guests beyond their ability to pay and not cause trouble. I’m sure Marguerite paid her bill promptly and was no nuisance, so why would he notice her?”

  “I know. I’m just frightened out of my wits as to what could have happened to her.” She reached out and took her husband’s hand for comfort.

  “We’ll learn more at Portsmouth. You need sleep. Come over here with me.” He pulled his wife over to his cushioned bench, wrapped an arm around her, and with his other hand pulled her head to his shoulder. “Rest, sweetheart. We’ll find her, I promise.”

  But now even William was becoming concerned. How could Marguerite have simply disappeared like this?

  Brax was energized. Royal Sovereign and Victory would be entering battle together. So he and Hastings would be side by side until they split through the French and Spanish fleet. The two divisions of ships were racing parallel to one another in order to smash the enemy’s line in a perpendicular cut. Nelson’s goal was to slice through and damage the enemy’s fleet beyond repair before it had a chance to begin tacking its ships around to point its guns at the British ships.

  And everyone knew Nelson was a naval genius beyond compare. His plan would work.

  And surely, being at the front of the line, Brax would get an opportunity for derring-do. Captain Braxton Charles Selwyn. Perfect.

  Was Hastings also made of the substance necessary to earn a promotion? Brax’s competitive spirit whispered the question softly as he issued an order to an underling.

  “I haven’t noticed a launch depart yet. Has Mrs. Ashby been removed from the ship?” Darden was tapping his fingers impatiently on the outer rail of the quarterdeck. He needed to know Marguerite was out of danger before he could focus on the tasks ahead. It was past dawn, and engagement with the enemy would occur today. Soon.

  “No, sir, she said she was staying.” The man was sweating from the exertion of battle preparations, as they all were.

  “She what? What do you mean, staying? I issued an order and I expect both you and Mrs. Ashby to follow it.”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant, but she was quite insistent that she had permission to stay.”

  “Permission? From whom? For God’s sake, why would she want to stay aboard this floating arsenal?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but she refused to come with me to the launch. She said the surgeon would vouch for her, but I couldn’t find him at the moment and, sir, I’ve got my hands full with other duties. I didn’t know the woman meant that much to you.”

  “Well, she does!” Darden slammed his fist down on the rail. “I mean, she doesn’t. Only in that Nelson will have my guts for garters if I don’t see her off this ship.”

  “Yes, sir.” The midshipman waited expectantly for further instruction.

  “Never mind. I’ll deal with the woman myself.”

  The sailor scurried away gratefully, far more interested in preparing for battle than worrying about some random female trapped on the ship.

  Darden gritted his teeth for the confrontation ahead. He took the steps to the
upper gun deck two at a time, not stopping to acknowledge any of the men who tried to ask questions of their superior officer. All of the sick berth hammocks had already been stowed away and the deck made ready for battle. He went farther down and found Marguerite standing on the orlop, already at work. She was examining the contents of a stoppered bottle among a collection of several such vessels on one of the makeshift surgical tables. She looked up at him and smiled warmly.

  “Why, Lieutenant, it’s nice to see you again.”

  Damn the woman. Her eyes sparkled mischievously as though at some secret knowledge. And he knew that knowledge was of his absurd weakness for her. And her hair was still full and unruly, even after weeks of washing it in buckets of sea water. He wanted nothing more than to dig his fingers into that mass of curls and pull her to him—

  Enough.

  “Mrs. Ashby, I gave my midshipman specific orders to have you taken to Pickle. Yet somehow you are still standing here, playing with the surgeon’s potions. May I ask why?”

  The light went out of Marguerite’s eyes. “Mr. Beatty asked me to stay aboard. I helped him care for the men who were lashed for drunkenness—”

  “Yes, yes, I heard about it.”

  “—and he thought I might be of some help to him during the battle.”

  “Mrs. Ashby, have you any idea of the danger involved on a first-rate man-of-war like Victory?”

  Marguerite put the bottle down slowly, as though gathering up her temper and storing it away in the container before it reached the table.

  “Actually, I do have some idea of it, based on my experience with those poor men’s flayed-open backs.” The new, dark glints in her eyes should have warned him that this was not going to go well for him, but he was too angry to care.

  “You know nothing. Those injuries were like flea bites as compared to what happens in battle. Men were brought down in simple pairs. They had wounds that were easily treatable. The ship was not under attack and the noise deafening. You don’t have a man screaming and begging for you to take a knife to his throat so he can avoid the pain of the three-foot wood splinter protruding from his chest. Or his leg. Or his eye.”

  “I assure you, Lieutenant, that I am fully capable of managing myself and assisting the surgeon.”

  “The only thing I see you to be fully capable of is disobeying me.”

  “Disobeying you?” she gasped, incredulity on her face.

  He knew he had gone too far, but he couldn’t help it.

  “Yes. I told you that I was arranging for you to be transferred to Pickle at the soonest possible moment. You deliberately defied me by telling my midshipman some ridiculous story about how the surgeon wants you to stay aboard. Now it’s probably too late to shift you over.”

  Marguerite folded her arms across her chest. “Well, since you haven’t given me a moment’s thought in quite some time, thinking so little of me that you delegated me to others, I hardly think it’s any of your concern what I do.”

  “Believe me, Mrs. Ashby, what you do is very much my concern. And I now have to figure out what to do with you so I don’t have to report a dead woman under my care.”

  “I hereby absolve you of that responsibility. Besides, Captain Hardy gave his permission for me to stay.”

  Darden grunted. “Not likely. Nelson wants you off, therefore Hardy does, too. Except you’re not gone, and you’re my responsibility, so I have to do something with you to keep you safe.”

  “You’re not listening to me. Captain Hardy did say I could stay on board to help the surgeon. Ask him. Ask Mr. Beatty.”

  “I knew I should have escorted those wax figures to Portsmouth myself. You’ve been nothing but trouble for me since you came aboard.”

  Marguerite froze before him, and he knew she was remembering their last encounter.

  Nothing but trouble? Hastings, is this your best romantic line? And I’m accusing Marguerite of appalling conduct?

  “Well. Lieutenant. It would seem there’s nothing you can do about it now, since we’re too far from Pickle and the fighting will start soon.”

  Darden’s sense of duty washed over him in a wave, followed by another bursting dam of anger at this stubborn, willful, heavenly woman.

  “You think so? My dear Mrs. Ashby, you have no understanding of how much I can do.”

  And with that, he strode over to her, bent down, and swept her up in his arms before she had the wherewithal to react.

  She was as light as a hammock. The weeks of ship food had taken their toll, despite her inactivity. But it hadn’t reduced her obstinacy.

  “Where are you taking me?” Her eyes glowered as she hissed the question. At least she had enough sense not to struggle against him.

  But just as quickly as her temper flared it simmered down again. He nearly stopped in his tracks when she wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled him.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, plaintive and beseeching.

  He nearly came undone at her words.

  “Busy,” he replied gruffly. She remained buried in his neck as he stayed bent over, carrying her across the deck and to the stairs to the next deck.

  He maneuvered, as gently as he could with her in his arms, down to the hold and straight into a room full of bags stacked at various heights and marked “Hardtack.” It served as storage for the ship’s biscuit, a tasteless but rot-impervious blend of water, flour, and salt that was baked until all of the water had been removed. The biscuits were a commonplace part of everyone’s shipboard diet. The dim lighting from behind them through the open door provided the only illumination.

  “What is this place?” Marguerite asked.

  “It’s the bread room. It’s lined with tin to keep the rats out, which means it will also help to keep the shot out. It’s also way below the water line, so that you will be safe. And drat you, Mrs. Ashby, you have to be safe at all costs, do you hear me? I couldn’t bear it otherwise.”

  She reached up and cupped his cheek. “Am I no longer Marguerite?”

  And at that he was broken.

  “You are,” he said hoarsely, and did exactly what he knew he shouldn’t, his mouth seeking hers with the desperation known only to the condemned. In just a couple of hours he would be in the throes of a battle. Anything could happen. He could be directly hit by cannon-shot, or torn apart by a splintering deck, or fired upon by a French sharpshooter. Marguerite responded in kind, sliding both hands around his neck again and pressing against him as though to meld into him and thereby derive some of his essence into her own body.

  But duty murmured to him.

  He tore himself away from her yet again. “No,” he said. “I cannot. This is too … much. It ruins everything.”

  He averted his face from the bewildered look in her amber eyes and set her down atop a stack of hardtack bags four feet high. He disengaged from her, but she grabbed his injured hand. He jolted at her touch.

  “Ruins what, Darden? Why am I a cause of your distress? I did not mean to get caught on board Victory.”

  “It’s not that. I have a specific future, and it doesn’t contain—doesn’t have room for—an entanglement.”

  “An entanglement? I see. I didn’t realize how inconvenient I was to you, Lieutenant.”

  She dropped his hand and crossed her arms over her chest again. She was back to being defiant. “You are the strangest, most inconsistent man I have ever met.”

  Her words sliced through him like a freshly sharpened cutlass. Duty and loyalty were what he valued most, and to be accused of unpredictability was a deep blow. But there was nothing to be done for it now. He lit the single lantern hanging from the ceiling.

  “Perhaps one day I can explain it to you. But for now, you must remain here. Promise me you won’t try to leave the bread room until I come for you. Or until someone does.”

  She stared at him steadily, giving him no response.

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “Marguerite, promise me.”

  She wrenched
away from him, distaste evident in her flaming eyes and the grim line of her lips. He let his arms hang limp at his sides.

  “Promise me. Promise me, you rebellious little minx.” He hoped an attempt at humor would soften her.

  No such luck. She cocked her head to one side, pursed her lips, and gave him the briefest of nods.

  “Blast you, Marguerite, you’ve no idea what you’ve done to me.” Without waiting for what was sure to be a scathing response, he left the bread room, slamming the metal-backed door behind him.

  Marguerite spent nearly an hour nursing her fury. Fury at Darden for locking her away in this dark, cramped room. Even more angry at herself for her own self-imprisonment on this ship. At least the weather had been mostly calm so she hadn’t experienced any seasickness. And her only headache had been the one brought on by her fall in the admiral’s cabin.

  But at her first chance to be useful, she was thwarted by the one man on board she assumed cared about her. What was wrong with that man? He floated capriciously between admirer and adversary. And what were these secretive “plans” he seemed so obsessed with? Why couldn’t he share them with her? Was he up to something illicit?

  It was time to build the wall around her heart again. It would not do to expose it any further to Lieutenant Darden Hastings. No, he was simply not to be trusted.

  Having spun through her anger and concluded that Darden was no longer to be a part of her own future plans, either, she set about to more thoroughly disobey him by escaping from the bread room to join Mr. Beatty back on the orlop.

  She stood up with resolve. Her first move would be to try to break through the bread room door. She turned to one side and ran against the door, intending to slam into it with as much force from one side of her slender frame as she could, in hopes of loosening the door’s hinges. Her body made impact with the door and it flew open effortlessly, sending her hurtling to the floor and landing on her shoulder. The shock hurt her more than the impact. What had just happened? Why, Darden hadn’t even locked the door. She laughed despite herself. Her captor had done little to confine her.