A Different Sort of Perfect (12 page)

Not a clever thought, Mrs. Fleming's little boy.
Not clever at all.
He was simply trying to make the best of
this ridiculous hand he'd been dealt. He'd no business, none at
all, looking at—

Nineteen steps for'ard.

It was going to be a long, long night.

Clara gasped, clutching her crochet bag and
Staunton's journal to her chest. But Hennessy and his crabby mate
staggered to the ladder's foot, her table — her fragile, adorable
little desk — still safe between them and not smashed to kindling
against the bulkhead.

"Blo—" The mate shot her an aggrieved glance from the
corner of his eye and swallowed, leaning against the frigate's
roll. Brilliant sunlight fell through the hatchway and splashed
across his face, highlighting the bump on the bridge of his nose
and the turned-down wrinkles lining his mouth. "Blister it,
Hennessy, keep yer end up."

"Keep yours down," Hennessy said, his voice as calm
as if he crossed a level floor rather than a rolling frigate's
deck. Without looking over his shoulder, he backed up the ladder,
balancing against
Topaze
's heel, pausing while she plunged,
and dancing several rungs higher in the lulls between. His boyish
face was lined with concentration. The mate followed, hefting the
table with one hand and gripping rungs with the other, grumbling a
stream of incoherent words that Clara had no desire to hear.

"Don't you mind him," Wake said from behind her. He
carried her ladder-backed chair, one gnarled hand holding Titus
Ferry's account book atop its seat. From beneath level, brindled
brows, he glared at the mate. "Some people jest don't know how to
behave around gentlefolk."

The mate's response remained an indistinguishable
mumble. Clara ducked her chin, keeping her titter behind the canvas
bag Diana Mallory had embroidered for her. As soon as the two
table-carriers cleared the ladder, she flew up after them. The roll
wasn't so lively as to throw her off stride; the mate, despite his
lined face and grey hairs, couldn't possibly have been at sea for
long.

On the quarterdeck, they set her desk beside the
stern rail, at the very end of the ship, and Wake held the chair
for her with a little bow. She thanked them all, awarding a special
smile to the gnarled forecastleman, and he again saluted her before
ambling for'ard.

Not a cloud hindered the sun's enthusiasm, all the
mist burned off or left behind. Glistening white spray flashed
rainbows from the steady Atlantic rollers of deepest midnight blue
that stretched to distant horizons on either hand. Billows of
gleaming canvas filled the masts, and the angle of the stern-most
spanker sail formed a splendid awning for her desk. The morning
couldn't be more perfect, certainly not after the breakfast and
coffee Captain Fleming had shared with her. And especially
considering the cunning little wide-based stand she'd found beside
her pewter plate, courtesy of the carpenter's mate, Hennessy had
said. Titus Ferry's refilled inkhorn fit snugly within its tapered
mouth and couldn't possibly spill out any more of that fine oak
gall ink.

Even the great cabin's elegance couldn't argue with
the splendid view from the stern rail. Clara stuffed Staunton's
journal into her embroidered crochet kit, tucked both beneath the
desk at her feet, and arranged her writing implements. Three
productive strings to her bow; no matter how long the day, she was
prepared to meet it.

The wheelmen never glanced away from their task, but
the master beside them greeted her with a stiff nod and she
returned it, formality for formality. Near the binnacle on the
weather side, Captain Fleming and Mr. Abbot curled over a
six-pounder, a bit of foolscap spread atop the breech, their
conversation as muttered as Hennessy's mate's and almost as heated.
With a stubby pencil, Mr. Abbot slashed across the page then
scribbled away, his lips a thin line and his eyes flashing
irritation.

Captain Fleming straightened. Neither victory nor
temper showed through his composed face as he pressed one hand to
the small of his back. His blue broadcloth coattails flapped in the
wind's gust. But when his gaze, sweeping about the ship and across
the quarterdeck, crossed and meshed with hers, those arched
eyebrows swooped higher, his lips curled both down and up in a
mischievous smile, and he doffed his scraper in a bow. Standing up
to curtsey would be silly, but somehow her nod in return felt
woeful and inadequate.

He carefully tore off half of the well-scribbled
foolscap, excused himself from Mr. Abbot, and joined her.

"Well met, captain's clerk." He slid the half-sheet
across the table's polished surface. "Here's a start on the
starboard watch. If you'll fair-copy this into the account book,
Mr. Abbot and I will finish arguing out the remainder."

Mr. Abbot's handwriting resembled that of a cat; no
wonder his work needed fair-copying. She'd have to compare each
name to the muster roll to ensure her accuracy. But she'd make no
friends by pointing that out, and took a moment to school her
features to smiling serenity before lifting her gaze to meet his.
"Certainly, captain. I'll start now."

Captain Fleming's lips twisted into a wry smile, as
if he knew her precise, appalled thought. He leaned across the
table and whispered by her ear, "
Bonne chance.
"

A shiver rippled up her spine, warm and delicious,
like nothing she'd ever felt before. It struck a surprised and
surprising chord deep within her and flushed warmth all the way
down to her toes. But before she could sort out the enticing
sensation, he cleared his throat and stepped back, a cloud crossing
his eyes. And there it was again, a sudden silence and a long,
wondering stare. Whatever she'd felt, he'd felt it, too.

Interesting.

The cloud across his eyes faded and his expression
sharpened, as if he turned that sensation over in his mind, as
well. Difficult to ascertain what the dratted man was thinking. But
if he experienced the same feeling at the same moment, then perhaps
she'd learn to understand him better before
Topaze
touched
the tip of Africa.

And perhaps then she could convince him.

He settled his scraper into its proper place, saluted
her with a wary glance, and returned to where Mr. Abbot still
scribbled away. His coattails waved as he walked, like the oddest
sort of battle standard. Which was a perfectly odd thought, in
itself.

She frowned and bent to her work.

* * * *

"Splashed any good ink lately?"

Staunton, of course. She'd been correct in her first
assessment: he had much in common with the young Barlow pests.
Clara leaned back, slid the ribbon into place, and closed his
journal. Good thing she'd finished the two watch lists before he
showed up, although Mr. Abbot's feline scratchings hadn't made that
an easy task. "Any good betting pools in hand?"

Staunton wore his stovepipe hat and blue jacket with
white collar patches, the coat's sides tossed back over his
buttoned ivory waistcoat. But the crisp effect was ruined by his
saucy grin. How could the scamp dress so well and behave so
impudently?

"There's one—" but he stopped and cleared his throat
rather than continue. "You know, you're not like the other debs I
know. You smile without fluttering your eyelashes at everything in
trousers—"

It would be rude to press him on whatever it was he'd
decided not to share. Although surely the betting pool in question
related to her. But she couldn't let him get away with such a
widespread insult to her fellow debs. She reached down, grabbed her
crochet bag, and pulled out her lace-making, thinking fast. "Oh,
indeed? And how many debs do you know? Not many, I'll wager."

"At what odds?" He grinned again and hefted the heavy
brass scientific instrument he carried. "—you don't wear gobs of
smelly lotions or perfumes—"

He was entirely too cocky. "If you're so certain
you'd accept the wager, then that tells me all I need to know. You
have elder sisters and you visit them in London between cruises.
How many are out?" She shook out the sheet of lace she'd started at
home and sighed; it didn't look any more impressive now than it had
back in Plymouth.

"All three, and their friends are atrocious."
Staunton rested the instrument atop her table. A sort of small
spyglass with two darkened, angled mirrors above and a swinging,
wedge-shaped filigree of brass below, its rounded pie-crust edge
was marked off in degrees like a compass. It looked very
impressive, and she found it hard to believe someone so young and
impish was capable of using it.

Oblivious, he rattled on. "—you don't scream for no
reason, or at least you haven't yet—" He shook his head. "What on
earth are you doing?"

Warmth crept over her face and she fumbled the
miniscule chain stitch, dropping the loop from her hook. "I'm
afraid it's more what I'm trying to do and less what I'm actually
accomplishing. It's a method of making lace, only I'm not
particularly good at it."

Probing green eyes examined her straggling work and
then her face, with equally serious scrutiny. That infernal heat
deepened.

"Perhaps you aren't good at it yet," he said. "But
you don't seem the sort to throw it in without first giving
something a really good go."

So the little pest could be kind as well as witty.
Astonishing.

"I've been trying for a year," she said, giving him a
grateful smile. "But this tiny thread makes me squint at home.
Hopefully I'll be able to see it better, out here in the bright
sunshine."

Originally she'd tried her hand at knitting and
netting, but she could never keep the proper tension on the yarn
and whatever she'd made turned out lumpy, unlike the beautiful
pieces Harmony deftly wove. Nor could she compete with Aunt Helen
in sewing, and Diana's embroidery put hers to absolute shame. So
what was left but crochet, where even if she lost tension on the
yarn, she could create a perfectly wearable wrap?

He set the brass instrument down and leaned closer.
"Show me the pattern?"

But that was too funny, even if sailors stitched
their own clothing. "You can't be serious."

His scowl was good-natured. But he didn't straighten,
instead angling his head sideways out of the light. "I see what
you're doing. The hook makes little loops and you weave them back
on each other. By forming the loops into circles, it makes flowers,
and then you stretch a sort of trellis between them. That's clever,
and I'd be dropping those stitches like mad, you can bet on
that."

Her heart warmed to the engaging pest. "I'm hoping to
make the lace for my wedding gown."

His stare sharpened, as if he could read her soul or
at least her thoughts through her skin. It wasn't a judgmental
expression; he almost seemed to be laughing at her, if she read him
accurately beneath his usual glee. But the weight of that stare,
far older and more confident than any lad his age should be able to
produce, made her feel that she was being judged. Had the news of
her search for a French captain made its way through the officers
and crew? Should she tell them? No matter how friendly Staunton
seemed, perhaps it would be better to keep such personal
information to herself.

As she dithered, another stitch slipped off the hook
and she jabbed at it. "But I'll only wear it if it's properly
done." Oh, bother it. She set the lace aside and nodded at the odd
brass instrument. "Now, your turn. What on earth is that?"

"This?" Staunton hefted it. The swinging arm slid
along the outer edge, and numbers advanced, twenty, thirty, forty,
within the arm's little notched opening. "This is what's called a
sextant. Proudest moment of me life, first time I successfully
brought the sun down to the horizon with it." He fumbled with the
arm and it froze into place. "Even if the clamp doesn't always
catch since that time I dropped it."

He'd been kind to her and that called for
reciprocation on her behalf. "Well, that sort of thing can happen
to anyone, can't it? Show me how it works? I'm afraid I won't sort
out any nautical science for myself, no matter how well you show
the way with understanding crochet."

Again he surprised her by not laughing. Instead,
Staunton handed over the sextant. As she'd suspected, the brass was
solid, and warm from his skin and the sunlight.

"Hold it here at the top with your left hand and look
through the eyepiece, in the sun's direction but aiming below it,
at the horizon. Here, let me help you. Can you see the sun?"

Through the sextant's spyglass, the world seemed much
darker than normal and split in two vertically. On the left side,
sea and sky melded together into a sharp, distant line, brilliant
glare highlighting their meeting point. On the right, the sky had
displaced the sea and rolled it down; the bright line drooped, the
water had receded to a lower level, and an even brighter disk
hovered at the view's upper edge. It was as if someone had drawn a
beautiful, accurate rendition of the horizon, then sliced it in two
and moved one side down before pasting them back together
again.

"Yes, I can see it."

A gentle touch guided her right hand to the clamp
he'd fussed with earlier. "Squeeze the clamp, and rotate the index
arm away from you until the sun touches the horizon."

The weight dragged at her left arm and her nervous
fingers slipped on the metal clamp. That would never do; she
couldn't permit this scamp to get the best of her. A deep breath,
then she adjusted her grip, squeezed harder, and eased the arm
along its aligned path. The further she moved it, the lower the
sun's disk and the sea's level fell, moving as one down the
spyglass's right side. It took a surprisingly long push before the
glowing sun settled atop the horizon's bright line.