A Different Sort of Perfect (13 page)

"There." She released the clamp.

Warm fingers pressed against hers and some of the
bronze's solid weight eased. "Try holding it steady between your
eye and the horizon, and swing the sextant from side to side an
inch or so." Again he guided her right hand. "If you're holding it
level, the sun should brush the horizon like a pendulum."

It took a few tries to get it right. The helping hand
took more and more of the sextant's weight until she was tempted to
let go. But she didn't, instead gripping it more tightly, keeping
her eye firmly against the eyepiece, and adjusting the sextant more
finely with the little screw on the bottom. "There," she said
finally. "That's got it level."

"Well, let's see what you've got."

That voice, that new one. It wasn't Staunton's.

That was—

Clara jerked back, away from the eyepiece.

Captain Fleming hovered over her, supporting the
sextant. His bicorne scraper sat primly atop the table, and thus
freed, his golden forelock ruffled in the wind. Strong sunlight lit
the edge of his patrician nose and darkened to shadow in the
sheltered smile lines beside his mouth. His fingers pressed against
hers with no shame at all. He'd leaned over her, stood close to
her, touched her hand.

And to her astonishment, it didn't embarrass her.

And that should have been embarrassing in itself.
Only it wasn't.

His smile deepened, presumably at her reaction. He
straightened, took the sextant from her, and turned it, although
his gaze didn't drop to examine the numbers along the index
arm.

That warm shiver again worked its enticing way up her
spine, just as delicious and surprising as it had been in the
morning hours. And for some inexplicable reason, Clara at that
moment realized she hadn't thought of Phillippe, wonderful, brave,
gallant, perfect Phillippe, all day long.

* * * *

From a secure post halfway across the quarterdeck,
Fleming had watched as Staunton and Lady Clara smiled and chatted
with perfect amicability, bending together over her odd needlework.
When the midshipman had handed her the sextant and guided her
through its usage, though, something indignant had swelled within
Fleming.
Topaze
didn't carry a schoolmaster and, as Abbot
had reminded him, that made the captain responsible for the mids'
education. Granted, Lady Clara was barely a member of the crew,
much less a midshipman in formal training — but still, he carried a
responsibility for ensuring she learned properly.

Or at least, that was the story he intended to stick
to, should any ill-mannered lout question him.

He'd already walked halfway across the quarterdeck,
unnoticed by the pair, before the sextant wobbled in her delicate
hands. An impulse bubbled within him in the moment, and he hadn't
paused to consider it more closely. Instead, he'd acted. Two long
steps, quiet as the proverbial mouse, and he'd added his grip
beside hers, taking half the sextant's weight. With his right hand,
he touched a finger to his lips, stopping Staunton's wide-eyed
comment before it began. The young mid's grin broadened, but he'd
continued his instruction without any change of voice that might
have warned Lady Clara.

Whatever it was about her that brought out the
mischief-maker in Fleming, he wasn't going to examine it too
closely. But such a lack of self-examination was no reason to fight
that mischief-making urge.

Besides, Staunton's instructions on taking the sun
down to the horizon seemed perfectly proper and nothing a
schoolmaster could fault.

Then she'd announced that she was done, he'd taken
the sextant from her with some inane comment, and the astonished
look on her face when she'd jerked back and stared at him made it
all worthwhile.

But then something strange and unsettling
happened.

She didn't flush. Nor did she look away. Her dark,
dark eyes narrowed and her expression sharpened, holding his stare
as if she were fully comfortable with the implied intimacy. She
glanced at the sextant cradled in his hands, and then slowly —
ever-so-delectably slowly, her gaze trailed up his body, or at
least the front of his uniform coat. And it felt like a physical
touch. Like two fingers trailing up his chest, over his ribcage, to
his collarbone. Beneath that very same coat.

And by the time her gaze finally meshed again with
his, he was flushed enough for both of them. From the strength of
the self-control his body quite suddenly demanded.

"Well?" Lady Clara asked. "Did I get it right?"

Finally — finally he managed to disengage from her
ship-to-ship engagement. Fleming glanced down, forced himself to
concentrate on the sextant's reading. And—

—and—

The woman was a menace.

"Yes." His voice sounded like a croak. Fleming
cleared his throat. "Yes, as a matter of fact, you nailed it."

"No," Staunton said. "Her first try?"

Fleming handed the mid his sextant.

Staunton read it and whooped. "Forty-seven degrees!
You did nail it, Lady Clara!"

And as the two laughed, Staunton exultant and Lady
Clara somewhere between bewildered and disbelieving, Fleming
withdrew back across the quarterdeck.

Whatever round that was he and Lady Clara had just
fought, he had the uneasy feeling he'd lost.

Fair and square.

* * * *

His tension eased as the morning progressed, although
he remained wary of approaching her again. At four bells in the
forenoon watch, Fleming led the mids through a lesson with the
sextant, raising his voice to include Lady Clara in the lecture —
he could hardly exclude her now — and her intense attention
threatened to disrupt his equanimity again. But he was being silly.
She searched for the man she loved, she had neither time nor
consideration for Mrs. Fleming's little boy, and the sooner he
forced that thought through his numbed skull, the sooner his world
would return to normal.

And the sooner he'd get a good night's sleep, without
pacing the quarterdeck half the night.

Despite Lady Clara's warning salvo, all seemed
peaceful. Touch wood — and Fleming's hand gripped the nearest
railing at the thought — but by jiggers, it seemed as if his plan
might be working.

Peace reigned on the quarterdeck, where Lady Clara
now curved like a swan over Staunton's journal at her little table.
There was peace on the fo'c'sle, the hands carrying on with their
work despite that most dreaded, female presence aboard, and there
was even peace in Abbot's naturally stormy valley. Staunton's
unabated smile proved the shine he'd taken to Lady Clara, the
crew's steady busyness advertised no mutinous thoughts, and while
Chandler turned up his nose whenever he came within her sphere,
that was only to be expected. His elder midshipman and Lady Clara
were close to the same age but worlds apart; Chandler could never
approach her as a woman because of their class differences, she'd
have no reason to notice him, and besides, Chandler wasn't the
sweetest-tempered lad he'd ever met.

The only place peace wasn't paramount was in
Fleming's own breast.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

Despite that, by jiggers—

"Watch under!"

The mizzenmast lookout's yell, that was, and a
prickle of unease spiked through Fleming's complacency. Lady Clara
glanced about, her eyes blank from distraction. Wiser heads around
the quarterdeck snapped up, Staunton, Abbot, the wheelmen, the
master behind them, and Fleming couldn't stop his own from joining.
High overhead something long, narrow, and brightly glinting
tumbled, flashed between the brilliant white sails, then balanced
and fell toward Abbot as if aiming.

Metal. Not good, and his unease ripped past concern
straight to alarm. But Abbot leapt backward, stumbled into Lady
Clara's table, fell across it, grabbed and held on, and the dropped
marlinspike sliced into the deckboard beside his silver-buckled
shoe. The end quivered, like a nervous dog's tail, and sunlight
glanced off the polished iron. The quarterdeck fell still, the
breathless silence stretching for'ard and aloft. In the mizzentop,
one cautious, wary eye appeared, peering over the spanker, followed
by a full set, popping and aghast.

Abbot pushed himself up, purple-faced. The table
rocked, leaned, then righted with a thud over Lady Clara's lap. She
jerked back and grabbed the journal, pressing it to the tabletop
before it could fall to the deck.

Fleming winced. Not good by any measurement.

"You ba—"

But before the shouted word was fully formed, Abbot
glanced sideways at Lady Clara. Her eyes began opening and her jaw
slackened. No glance spared for his captain, but Abbot's mouth
changed shape like a contortionist in mid-word.

"—ad sailor!" The midway break was infinitesimal.
Abbot grabbed the ratlines and ran up the shrouds like a monkey,
muttering suspicious-sounding phrases. But none were sufficiently
loud for the quarterdeck to overhear.

At the pinrail, Staunton whipped around, faced the
sea, and writhed in place. Lady Clara yanked up the journal, as if
reading fine print. But her torso and hands shook.

Well. Having a lovely young lady on deck cleaned up
the ship in more ways than one.

And surely it was none of her fault that accidents
happened around her, every time she turned around.

Ah, Sunday. No matter how earthly her entertainment
of the previous evening — and after Diana had joined their little
trio, some of those Plymouth entertainments had been earthly indeed
— nevertheless, Sunday had always remained a day for prayer,
worship, repentance, and meditation on her many trivial little
sins. So when Clara read in Staunton's journal that sailors aboard
His Majesty's warships were accustomed to rising a half hour
earlier than normal on the Sabbath, to priddy themselves and the
ship for some ritual known as "divisions," she not only heartily
approved the practice, but determined to join it. Whatever it
turned out to be.

Fixing her hair without assistance, unfortunately,
wasn't something she did well. Fashioning those rebellious,
baby-fine strands into a simple chignon and holding them in place
while she rammed in every hairpin available required more than her
usual dose of even Sunday patience and ate away every minute of her
extra time. But when she examined the result in the little looking
glass above the washbasin, the surge of satisfaction brought a pink
glow to her cheeks. Classical and sober, and nothing that could
cause the least blush of pride in herself or lust in anyone else.
Perfect for Sunday.

Hopefully it would hold throughout the service. One
thing about life at sea — everyone saw everyone else at their best,
and worst.

She found the sennit hat Hennessy had woven for her —
what clever men sailors were — fastened it carefully over the
chignon, gathered her clerk's materials, and ran up the ladder to
the quarterdeck just as the drummer began his roll.

Everyone, it seemed, had either been awaiting her
arrival or the drum's signal. The red-coated Marines formed a
perfect square on the poop deck with a stamp and clash of polished
muskets. Below on the gangways, the sailors, all wearing white
shirts and trousers, sorted themselves out by their duty positions,
the forecastlemen standing proud from the foretopmen and the
waisters and so on. Each division stood with their toes touching
the line of a deck seam, embroidered seabags filled with something
lumpy aligned before them.

Captain Fleming, Mr. Abbot, and the two midshipmen
all wore broadcloth dress uniform coats and buckled knee breeches
with white silk stockings. She tucked herself into position behind
Captain Fleming as the midshipmen inspected the sailors. Chandler
walked down the starboard line, Staunton down the one to port,
every few steps stopping and speaking to one of the new hands, and
then watching as the sailor rearranged his clothing or position in
some way.

This divisions ritual was clearly more formal than
the muster held on her first full day aboard, and everyone was
taking special measures. Her heart lifted and seemed to swell
within her. Yes, this was mete for Sunday: serious, high-minded,
and elegant; everyone at their best indeed. She couldn't be more
ready for a sermon and hopefully it would be an uplifting one.

"Ready, captain's clerk?" Captain Fleming didn't
smile, which of course wouldn't be appropriate at such a time. But
his eyes twinkled when he glanced over his shoulder. And he could
do nothing about the smile lines engraved between his lips and
cheeks.

"Aye, aye, captain." She had to fight her own
inappropriate smile when his eyes flashed with mirth and his
eyebrows swooped higher. Dratted man. When his eyes laughed at her
in that manner, it was difficult not to like him.

Mr. Abbot stepped over and doffed his scraper. "The
midshipmen have reported, if you please, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Abbot. We'll start with the
Marines."

The Marine lieutenant, Pym, saluted the captain's
approach, then Captain Fleming strode slowly between the lines of
red-coated statues. She watched the pale blue eyes in his patrician
face as he glanced over each leather stock, polished button,
spotless facing, and blazing bright musket; then he'd nod once, as
if satisfied, take half a step for'ard, and repeat the same
elaborate procedure with the next Marine. None of them met his
glance, not a muscle moved, the most excellent demonstration of
Sunday composure she'd ever seen. It couldn't get better.

But in front of the first forecastleman he paused and
she stopped behind him. "Well, Brearley, I see you're back with us
for another cruise."

The middle-aged sailor whipped off his straw hat,
revealing a startling white billiard-ball dome, and grinned. "Aye,
cap'n." His hoarse voice rumbled in his throat. "Couldna let ye go
ta sea w'out me."