Georgana's Secret (Proper Romance)

by Arlem Hawks

  “Now there’s a man who will do his duty,” George said.

  A chuckle escaped from Dominic’s throat, earning him a harsh glare from George. “You sound like the captain.”

  “My father was in the battle at Trafalgar.” George let go of the deck and folded his slender arms across his chest. Sometimes the boy seemed much older than the fourteen years he claimed. A mature soul trapped in a boy’s body.

  “As a lieutenant?” Dominic asked. If George’s father had died a master and commander, he would have been an old lieutenant at Trafalgar.

  “No, as a . . . Yes, a lieutenant.”

  Dominic couldn’t blame him for not remembering. George would have been only nine years old at the time of the battle.

  “England expects that every man will do his duty,” Dominic said, reciting the message Admiral Nelson had sent to the fleet that fateful day.

  George pushed back from the rail. “And this is how they are rewarded. A watery grave.”

  Dominic watched him trudge off to attend the captain. He wanted to attribute the boy’s despondency to his being unfit for sea, but he couldn’t just now. He had seen that George could be as good a sailor as any man. If only Dominic could show the lad the wonder of living on the waves.

  Though he didn’t think he could muster the enthusiasm just now.

  Georgana leaned over the desk, forehead in her hand. The captain’s log sat before her, the last two days missing from the account. She needed to write about the battle, record the fallen. But all she could think about was how close she’d come to giving herself away to Lieutenant Peyton for the second time in as many weeks.

  Her fictional father hadn’t been at Trafalgar—her real father had. And she’d almost said he had been a captain even though their Mr. Taylor had never reached that rank. Sitting on the gun deck, she’d also let slip the year of her mother’s death.

  Her stomach churned at her missteps. Something about talking to the lieutenant made her forget. Was it his easy smile? His kind eyes? The way he looked at her as if she said important things, even though she was a third-class boy who could hardly climb the shroud? If he knew her true identity, he might not think her words so important.

  The little happiness that sprouted in her chest withered. No, he most definitely would not treat her the same way if he knew she was the captain’s talentless daughter.

  Georgana dipped her pen and began updating the log. She didn’t have to look at Papa’s penmanship anymore to copy it.

  11 September 1810

  Merchantman attacked by French corvette St. Germain of twenty-eight guns. Engaged just after five o’clock p.m. Some damage sustained, but repairable. Five dead, twelve wounded. Privateer retreated to the southeast and has not been seen since.

  Georgana dropped the pen and moaned. She’d forgotten to mention the weather. Her father had not told her the wind’s exact direction yesterday, and she hadn’t reminded him. Another failure.

  Mistake! Grandmother screamed.

  Stiff wind from the east, clear skies, Georgana wrote in small print above the entry, pushing her grandmother from her mind. That would have to do for now. But before she began today’s entry, she would need to consult him. Georgana stood, then wiped the quill and capped the ink, in case the ship decided to pitch in her absence.

  And it was afternoon watch, which meant . . . Georgana sat down hard. No, she would not accomplish her duties based on which officer kept watch. She would wait until her father returned and leave space at the top of the entry for the blasted wind.

  Shoulders hunched, she readied the pen again, making a valiant effort to not think of what the wind was doing to a certain lieutenant’s brown hair.

  Chapter 11

  Stiff winds turned into powerful gusts two days later. The ship rocked to starboard, nearly knocking Georgana off her feet as she pulled herself onto the upper deck. Lieutenant Peyton hadn’t come down after his watch, so her father had sent her to find him.

  Waves threatened but hadn’t spilled over the deck yet, or else her father never would have let her above. She shielded her eyes, sweeping the quarterdeck and forecastle. Where was he?

  Ominous clouds gathered in the southeast, moving ever swifter toward the Deborah. A figure moved at the bowsprit, cast in shadow by the setting sun. He had no bicorn, but the longer Georgana watched, the more convinced she was she’d found the lieutenant. One hand on her cap so as not to lose it, she staggered up to the forecastle, fighting the wind that wished to blow her off the deck.

  “Lieutenant, you’re needed in the wardroom.”

  He stood with one foot on the bowsprit, as if he intended to walk out onto the spar extending over the rolling sea. “Isn’t it wonderful, George?”

  No sense falling for this one, she could almost hear her father say. He’d get himself killed in no time. She wanted to grab the lieutenant’s arm to ensure he didn’t step out. Whatever siren song the ocean sang, he was the only one who heard it.

  “Can you truly say you enjoy these winds, sir?” The gusts pulled at her jacket, and she hurried to button it over her waistcoat.

  He grinned through a spray of snowy foam. His eyes gleamed in the peach light streaming across the Deborah. “They haven’t sunk us yet.”

  Belowdecks, a few men had already succumbed to illness caused by the rocking ship. The crew members on watch walked carefully. Rain would start soon, as would the deck-pounding waves, and they needed to decide a course of action now, before the storm was upon them.

  Lieutenant Peyton took her arm and pulled her in, resting his arm casually across her shoulders. She felt the beating storm move from without to within as she stood against his side.

  “What do you think is out there, beyond that horizon?”

  Had he been at the grog before his watch? She cast her eyes on the sliver of sun that was still visible. A few clouds ringed the spot of fire, sweeping purple against the gold.

  “More water?”

  Peyton lightly jostled her. “No, try again.”

  “Antigua?”

  He sighed.

  “Your senses? What is it?” She had to admit, staring into the sunset amid the raging wind sent a little thrill up her spine. The longer she stood with his arm around her, the more intense the thrill became.

  “A world of possibilities, George. Adventures you have never dreamed of. People you can’t imagine. Lands and discoveries and secrets waiting to be unlocked.”

  The corners of Georgana’s mouth begged to pull upward at the boyish joy in his voice. He wasn’t the experienced lieutenant just now but the lovesick lad jumping headfirst into the navy. A thought tickled her mind, a secret she wouldn’t have to sail into the horizon to unlock.

  “If you ever pick a woman,” Peyton said, “choose the sea.”

  The surge of strange emotion deflated, just as the surge of waves increased. Water pelted them in the face, making Georgana sputter and the lieutenant laugh. She seized the arm over her shoulder and lifted it above her head. Untended, her cap flew off. The lieutenant snatched it before it dove over the side. He pulled it neatly down over her cropped hair, then ruffled it.

  “If you wish to not be drowned by your dear lass, I suggest you get down to the wardroom,” she growled, grabbing the brim of the cap to both steady it and salute.

  He gave one last glance to the bursting waves. Then he turned and bounded across the forecastle, leaving her at the prow with the jeering and triumphant sea.

  Dominic hurried down the ladder after midnight, shoes slipping over the rungs. The ship had caught the edge of the gale, but it wouldn’t be long before it cleared the winds. He could feel it.

  Soggy, weary forms stumbled down to the messdeck in the limited light. Jarvis handed him the sole lantern when the men had cleared the gun deck, then mounted the ladder to take his turn above. Water splashed through the hatch then cut off abruptly as they battened it down.

  In an hour and a half, Dominic would be back up there at the mercy of the storm. Th
e watches had been shortened to give everyone an equal turn in the gale. “An equal turn to be swept overboard,” Jarvis had complained earlier. Dominic chuckled as he made his way to the captain’s quarters to give a report.

  Captain Woodall had gone below just before the end of the watch for a moment’s rest. The captain stood near his hanging cot, wiping seawater from his face. His great coat still dripped as much as Dominic’s did, forming a pool of water on the deck floor.

  Across the room, George huddled under a pile of blankets in his hammock, many more blankets than the average seaman owned. Perhaps the captain had given up his blankets, knowing he wouldn’t be using them. The lantern reflected off the boy’s eyes, showing that despite the late hour he was still awake. The little sketchbook sat atop the blankets.

  “Drawing tonight?” Dominic asked as he waited for the captain’s attention. George’s head moved from side to side. “I lost my last pencil in the battle.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.” They would have to remedy that in Antigua. Drawing seemed the only solace the boy found in sea life.

  Captain Woodall finally turned. Even in the faint light, deep lines circled his eyes and mouth.

  “Winds have died back down to seven, sir,” Dominic said.

  “Very good. If they hold, we’ll try to run downwind shortly. Get out of the way of the storm.” That didn’t mean deep sleep any time soon, but there was an end in sight. The captain clapped Dominic on the shoulder. “Get some rest, Lieutenant. We have a way to go yet.”

  Dominic nodded a farewell to George, then began his careful climb down to his cabin. The messdeck reeked of too many bodies and sickness caused by the motion. The stench would easily carry through the wooden bars of the officers’ cabins. He wondered if George would mind if he moved his cot up to the main cabin. Dominic snorted. For some reason he imagined George minding that very much, even with their friendship. Peculiar boy liked his privacy.

  Dominic extinguished the lantern then let his great coat drop to the deck and collapsed into his cot. Another storm survived. He could not complain about that.

  Dominic hated recording in his logbook. If he’d accepted the promotion to captain, he could have hired a clerk to do it. But for now he would have to keep his own logbook. He threw open the lid of his sea chest, then braced himself against the wall as the ship swayed. The winds still held strong, but they’d beat last night’s storm. With any luck, the force of the storm would propel them right to Antigua. English Harbour was no paradise, but after eight weeks on the water, everyone on board was ready for land.

  Except him, of course.

  And George, strangely. When he spoke to the lad about it the other day, he had not seemed concerned one way or the other. To be sure, George was not an excitable person, and he had taken on a more somber air since the battle, but Dominic knew few people who cared less about reaching land.

  Dominic pulled the logbook from a corner of the haphazard trunk, where he’d stuffed it after making his last entry. He couldn’t remember when that was. Then he dug around for the box with his pen and ink.

  Perhaps George’s solemnity came from not having his pencils and not being able to draw each night. Dominic popped up at the thought, smacking the back of his head against the lid. Idiot. He rubbed the sore spot and glared at the offending trunk.

  Did he have a pencil to give George? He might somewhere. His mother always shoved random items into his trunk when she thought he wasn’t looking. Usually sweets but sometimes more practical things.

  Dominic pulled out the dress coat George had mended, then breeches, shirts, and stockings. If a pencil was in here, it would be at the very bottom, no doubt. Navigation equipment, a nibbled sea biscuit—no wonder the rat had been in there—and books Dominic hadn’t read in ages.

  He pulled a few of the thin volumes out—issues of The Naval Chronicle from 1807 and 1808. Good heavens, he had forgotten about these pamphlets. They had been at sea nearly as long as George. He thumbed through the collections of articles, amateur poetry, and letters. Nothing of great importance. He’d have to remember to leave these with his mother when he returned to England.

  As he moved to toss them onto his pile of belongings, his arm froze. He had seen lists of lost ships in the Chronicle before, and each issue contained a section of death notices. Was George’s father mentioned in one of these pamphlets? Something like that might interest the boy.

  Dominic sat with legs crossed on the deck and examined the volumes more closely. Nothing in the January through June issue from 1807. He opened the edition for the second half of 1807 to a list of shipwrecks. Pert, Maria, Subtle, Leveret, Prince of Wales, Boreas. Odd. No mention of the Caroline. And when he found the death notifications, there was no one by the name of Taylor, master and commander or otherwise.

  He ran a hand through his brine-washed hair as he closed the 1808 edition. No Taylors. No Caroline. He stared at the little books in his lap. What did that mean? When he’d spoken to other officers about it, they talked about the sloop as though they knew it. Surely a boat so well known among this crew would get a notice in the Chronicle.

  Unless the sloop was only known to this crew . . . and no one else. Dominic fought the urge to go back through the collection again but finally gave in. He could feel a blister starting to form where he used his thumb to flip through the pages. This time he would do a thorough job of it, search every page.

  The bell rang from the forecastle far above. Seven chimes. He had thirty minutes until the start of his next watch.

  He reached the last page of the 1808 issue. Nothing. Dominic sat back and rubbed the nape of his neck. There had to be an explanation. An oversight perhaps by the Chronicle staff.

  Or . . . there was no HMS Caroline.

  But that made no sense. Why would George lie about such a thing? And if the captain was a distant relative, surely he would know if his cousin was in the navy and if his boat had gone down. If the Caroline was a myth, the captain would be in on the deception—a deception that could lead to a court-martial under the wrong circumstances.

  “What are you doing, Peyton?” Jarvis’s thick face appeared through the bars of Dominic’s cabin door.

  Dominic glanced around. Personal items lay scattered about the floor and cot. “I . . . lost something.” A boat, to be exact.

  “You’ll need the boy’s help to get that mess cleaned up.” Jarvis pushed off the door, rattling the flimsy structure.

  “Jarvis, a moment. Did you know the sloop Caroline?”

  The second lieutenant shrugged. “I’ve heard of it, of course. Taylor’s father commanded it.”

  Dominic pursed his lips. “But you never saw it?” Something told him he’d receive the same answer from each crew member.

  “No, I’ve never sailed on a sloop.” The man straightened his waistcoat. “Never paid much attention to them.”

  Some men reached the rank of captain without commanding one of the smaller boats, but Dominic doubted Jarvis would ever have the recommendations to take that esteemed path. Or if he would ever find a captain willing to nominate him for advancement.

  The second lieutenant wandered off, leaving Dominic to stew over the meaning of his discovery. Suppose George’s father wasn’t actually in the navy—maybe the boy fabricated the connection to help his advancement. Plenty of boys joined crews with false credentials to make them seamen. But George’s relation to the captain should have sufficed. And neither Captain Woodall—nor indeed George—seemed intent on his advancement.

  Dominic got to his knees and tossed the books into the trunk. He didn’t have a pencil for George, but he did have a multitude of questions.

  When he had shoved everything back into the chest, his eyes fell on the logbook. Drat. He forgotten all about that.

  Eight tolls of the bell. Time for his watch.

  Dominic pushed his bicorn under his arm. He felt out of breath, as though he’d run from the orlop up to the quarterdeck. George and Captain Woodall had something they
weren’t sharing with the rest of the crew. And Dominic knew it would eat at him until he got to the truth.

  Chapter 12

  Seawater made poor wash water. What Georgana wouldn’t give for a little lavender to freshen up the clothes. She dipped her father’s shirt into the bucket and scrubbed it with harsh soap that stung her hands. Someday they wouldn’t all smell like seaweed. At least she wouldn’t.

  Her hands stilled in the water. Papa would always smell like the ocean. She imagined Lieutenant Peyton would as well. And they wanted it that way.

  She shook the thought from her mind. The lieutenant was not a man she could afford to think of. She could not fall for a naval officer or anyone attached to the sea in any way. She had spent eighteen years waiting on the tides and the whims of the Admiralty. She would not live the rest of her life that way.

  After rinsing the shirt in another bucket, she hung it on a line strung from one side of the captain’s cabin to the other. Then she turned to her last article, the waistcoat she’d worn the day of the battle. They had spent the day after the battle fixing and cleaning, including clothes and sails, but she still hadn’t managed to completely remove the rust-colored stain on the side.

  The cabin door opened and shut rapidly. Papa’s set jaw made her stomach sink. Something must have happened. She guessed it was something with Jarvis, since that man enjoyed irritating her father in ways Papa couldn’t combat.

  “Mr. Marion said you weren’t in the powder room during drills this morning.”

  Color drained from her face. Georgana focused on the stain, scraping the soap vigorously across it.

  “Why weren’t you there? Were you drilling with the powder monkeys, George?”

  “They were missing one,” she mumbled. Locke.

  “The other boys can divide the extra duties. You were assigned to the powder room.”