A Different Sort of Perfect (21 page)

Perhaps Staunton had never before connected, or
perhaps there were rules to the game that she didn't understand.
Whatever the reason, he stepped back rather than press his
new-found advantage, his cutlass lowering toward the deck. Chandler
leaned over, one hand pressed to his sweat-soaked trouser leg.

Where a thin line of red blossomed.

If she hadn't distracted him with her inconsiderate
attention — but he'd hate it, and her even more, if she fawned over
him. If she vanished below, he'd think she despised him.

Nothing else for it. Clara bent over the journal and
pretended to read, eyes moving over the flowing script. At the
page's end, she turned the leaf. She had no idea what the words
attempted to tell her.

"An excellent exercise, gentlemen," Mr. Abbot said.
"Mr. Chandler, stop by the infirmary and get that seen to. Mr.
Staunton, put these away and resume your duties. Carry on." A
now-gentle clatter, fading footsteps, and the three were gone.

Within the minute, Staunton bounded up the ladder.
"Did you see that, Lady Clara? Did you see me rap Chandler a good
one?

With all her heart, she longed to tell Staunton
Well done
. But he'd already had the incredible satisfaction
of besting his long-time rival, in a rivalry he'd never sought. And
whatever she said, it was only a matter of time before it filtered
through to Chandler's ears.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Staunton. I'm afraid I missed it. Was
it a telling blow?"

His face twisted. But before the grimace was
complete, he grinned. "Well, no, it would not have determined the
fight's outcome. But it felt awful good, smacking that — young
gentleman about a bit. And it would have made a difference in a
real fight with real blades, indeed it would."

"I congratulate you, Mr. Staunton. I'm no judge of
swordplay, but both of you showed yourselves a credit to the ship.
And tell me, since I missed it, did Chandler take the
disappointment well?"

Staunton's grin broadened until it lit his entire
face. "Like a gentleman, Lady Clara. Of course. He's an awkward
lout. But he's
our
awkward lout."

That was the best message she could hope to send
through the ship's grapevine to Chandler. It was true that he had
asked for the treatment he received. But only if she and Staunton
made the first
rapprochement
would this silly feud ever die.

The heat beat down upon Clara, as if she were trapped
within an invisible drum of throbbing pressure. Silence held the
ocean in check, as it had for the three interminable days since the
mids' lesson with Mr. Abbot.

The Atlantic swell rolled
Topaze
beneath her
in a regular, recurring disturbance, drifting with her thoughts.
First her feet rose as her thrown-back head lowered even further;
then her body rocked, feet dropping and head rising, as the swell
rippled below; and then everything righted and paused, waiting for
the next line to pass. Comforting like a rocking chair, relaxing
like a hot, summertime Bath season. Granted, right now she'd opt
for a cool one instead.

Something flapped and snapped.
Topaze
eased
forward. It broke the mesmerizing rhythm. Clara opened her eyes,
blinking and squinting in the merciless glare. Overhead, the main
royal swayed on its lofty perch, more than it might merely from the
ship's rolling. Wake had said, several days ago, that they'd feel
the wind's return in the highest sails first; the main royal was
the highest sail
Topaze
carried.

She waited, staring up at the mainmast, as Topaze
slowed and resumed rolling. A full suit of sails had been spread
for a week now, canvas laundry hung out to dry, and she peered
between the mizzen t'gallant and mizzen t'gallant stays'l at the
royal's tiny scrap. It swayed again, not as much, and the first
stab of disappointment tightened her chest.

Then the royal filled, bellied out, and beneath it
the main t'gallant flapped, echoed by the fores'ls.
Topaze
's
whisper to the ocean rose to a mutter, then to a song as sail after
sail filled, and the frigate leaned from the building wind until
her deck sloped like a cottage roof. On the fo'castle, a handful of
sailors laughed and jigged, slapping each other's backs and
shoulders, pushing and playing as grown men did when delighted.
Then David Mayne pointed ahead and they all turned, she with them.
Clouds blocked their path, building and darkening; they had caught
the first breath of the southeast trades below the equator, they
were truly through the doldrums and in the Southern Hemisphere.

And perhaps she had time to pin up her shameless hair
before anyone grew sufficiently cool to notice.

But before she'd scrabbled up half her hairpins,
Captain Fleming bounded up the ladder to the quarterdeck, laughing
with triumph. Thankfully his head was turned, watching as Mr. Abbot
directed the crew through adjusting the sails. The wind reached the
deck and swept her hair from her restraining hands, whipping the
tail across her face and then blowing it aside when she turned into
its blast. Oh, it was like waking up after a long, draining
illness, like coming back to life with a magical jolt, and where on
earth were the rest of her hairpins?

She twisted her hair into a quick knot and jammed in
every pin she could find, twisting her head back and forth as the
wind backed and veered. Finally her mop was all decently
contained.

"Me lady?"

She turned. "Mr. Wake, how delightful to see you." As
if she hadn't seen him every day since the voyage's beginning. As
if he hadn't seen her moments ago, too baked to breathe. Well, she
could be forgiven for being startled, under such circumstances.

He touched his gnarled fingers to his forehead. "Me
lady, it's been a long, hot, nasty week, it has indeed. Now, if
you'd like to cool off proper like, you come on wi' old Wake and
he'll take care of you."

Tempting offer — far too tempting to resist. She
grabbed his offered hand and followed him along the sloping,
rocking weather-side gangway. Past the hatch and rigging. Dodging
through the crowd of jostling sailors. David Mayne turned, touching
his forelock with an awkward, lopsided smile; Brearley also saluted
her. All of them pulled aside to let her pass, once they'd seen
her.

Into the foremost beak of the ship, and Wake's hands
on her shoulders guided her between the nine-pounder starboard bow
chaser and the pinrail. The bowsprit with its curved line of jibs
and stays'ls stretched ahead, swooping and jostling as it pointed
along their pathway, and directly below their perch danced the
cat-head, its carved face leering at the rising Atlantic swell.

Within seconds,
Topaze
lifted her shoulder
into the first true wave. The deck tilted further and rose slanting
beneath her. Clara grabbed the pinrail between the belaying pins
and held on. Up and up rose the railing, until she faced into the
southwestern sky, then the frigate fell over the wave's top and
crashed down the other side into the trough. Water broke below the
cat-head, splashing her and the entire bow with delightful
spray.

The droplets, cooler than the air, soaked through her
sweat-drenched and sadly drooping sailor dress to her waiting skin.
She gasped, then squealed — she really couldn't help it — as it
dripped into the sweltering, secret nooks of her body.

Wake laughed and shook his head, tossing more
droplets across her.

Topaze
paused in the trough, then rose for the
next wave. Clara braced against the bow chaser and hung onto the
pinrail as the bowsprit lead the ship higher. Her heart thudded,
wild with renewed life. She'd never felt so fresh and carefree, not
even when playing as a child, almost as if she'd never lived
before. Then the world and water tumbled and
Topaze
crashed
down again, splashing them with flying spray, and she could contain
herself no longer.

"Oh, this is perfect!"

Clara laughed and gasped with the crew as wave after
wave splashed them. Within only heartbeats she was soaked through,
it seemed beneath her skin, and it felt so marvelous, the pounding
heat of the doldrums might never have been.

As she grew wetter, the swell built and the waves
became choppy. The air blowing across her right cheek and arm
cooled, the sky darkened, and ahead, the looming clouds spread
across their path. Clara shivered.

"Might be time for you to go below and get warm
again, me lady," Wake said, before her first shudder stopped. "And
change into something dry afore you catch a nasty old cold."

"Probably a sound idea, Mr. Wake." The fun had
evaporated from the spray with the shiver, in any case. Her old
grey sarsnet awaited in her cabin, and she could ask Hennessy for a
towel. Clara turned.

Captain Fleming stood at the foremast, staring at
her. His eyes had widened, as if her childish behavior stunned him.
Or was he shocked because her hair was again falling, threatening
to scatter her few remaining hairpins into the sea?

Her face warmed. She was hardly behaving as a
responsible, contributing member of the crew. Granted, everyone
seemed to have gone a bit mad for a few minutes there, with the
wind's resumption and the spray and their escape from the doldrums.
But perhaps she shouldn't have pushed in among the sailors and made
such a public spectacle of herself. Something in his expression,
some buried awareness or knowingness, implied her behavior hadn't
met his approval.

She nodded to him and hurried past, back along the
gangway and down into her cabin near the stern. The grey sarsnet
was already draped across the hanging cot, with a towel and basin
of warm water awaiting her on the washstand. Clara shivered again
and set to work.

Drat, she'd just had the opportunity to ask Wake
about the white dress he and Mayne were supposed to sew for her.
And she'd forgotten it in her silliness.

But she couldn't bring herself to truly regret
it.

No matter how shocked Captain Fleming might be.

* * * *

Her laugh, clear and full, had attracted his
attention first. She'd stood among the common sailors, sharing the
spray with them, and her delighted laugh had risen above their
guffaws and exclamations as an arctic tern might rise above the
ocean's surface. Again she'd thrown her head back, but this time
was different. No longer was she collapsing beneath the weight of
the tropical heat, but standing up to the wind and waves as if
daring them to splash her. And every time they had, she'd laughed
again.

The rousing breeze had tugged at her improperly
restrained hair. She'd ignored it. Her full attention had targeted
the watery elements and she'd faced into them with a fierce
delight. Her arms had been thrown back with her head as the next
rain of seawater dashed over her. She'd looked like a living
figurehead, braving the wind and sea, a glistening, wet carving as
much a part of the ship as he was.

She was playful, natural, graceful. She'd never
missed her footing as the deck rolled and plunged beneath her.
Instead of a figurehead, she could have been
Topaze
herself,
shouldering aside the waves and driving on.

She was magnificent, and her innocent dominance of
the bows touched a chord deep within him, moving him in a manner he
couldn't begin to describe.

When she'd turned, the way the worn, softened
material of that dress had clung to her skin. Outlined her. Hiding
nothing.

And he'd been the only one to notice.

Or the only one indiscreet enough to look.

Abbot stood before him, hat in hand. He was speaking,
had been speaking, and he might as well have done so to empty
air.

"Forgive me, Mr. Abbot, I'm afraid I missed
that."

Abbot's expression turned cynical. "Aye, Captain,
that particular malady befalls the best of us, or so I'm told. I
said I'd like to spread some canvas on deck and trap the rain.
We're about to get a ducking and we might as well use it to fill
our casks."

"Of course. You have my blessing."

"And you have mine, sir." Abbot replaced his hat and
stalked off, calling for the bosun as the first fat drops of rain
splatted on the deck.

What a cryptic fellow his first lieutenant had
become. What on earth was the man talking about?

"On deck, there. A ship, hull-up, dead astern." The
call came down from the mainmast lookout as first light threatened
the eastern horizon.

Fleming grabbed his best, most accurate apochromatic
lens, stuffed it beneath his arm, and raced on deck in his breeches
and shirt. His pulse beat in his ears, too loudly but not quick:
the slow, steady pounding of the hunter's fierce delight, once the
prey's in view.

It could be Armide.
Hope sang through the
pounding.
It could be.

The watch below stumbled up the fore and midships
ladders and swarmed the gangways, clutching buckets and holystones.
Only the dimmest landmen tried to peer through the gloom, not yet
broken by even the faintest of stars in the distant north astern.
Fat lot of good such peering would do them, if the other ship was
only hull-up. Fleming pushed through the excited sailors, grabbed
the ratlines, and flew up the shrouds' rope laddering one-handed to
the crosstrees.

"Dead astern, you say?"

"Aye, Cap'n, a small ship-rigged sloop or snow." The
lookout scooted off the tiny platform, onto the spar. "She's coming
up hand over fist."

Unease whispered through the pounding in his ears.
Fleming settled into the crosstrees, peered through the lens, and
swept the glass across the distant horizon. A flicker of movement,
almost lost in the night's moribund remains, drew him back a hair,
and there it was, hiding in the deepest gloom, at least ten miles
away.