A Different Sort of Perfect (25 page)

The galley fires had been extinguished long ago. So
she and Hennessy set up an impromptu buffet in the great cabin,
relatively drier than the wardroom buried in
Topaze
's deeper
recesses. They sorted china, separating the good from the
expendable, and then made sandwiches and warmed chops, cheese,
soup, and coffee for the officers, mids, and warrant officers. Of
more concern than the discomfort was the nagging suspicion that
perhaps Captain Fleming had come to regard her as a sort of de
facto hostess or even wife, rather like Captain Lamble's
insinuations and her own horrible suspicions. Galling, infuriating
men, both of them; it had to be something in the sea air that made
naval captains as a group so utterly aggravating.

Of course, considering their mutual heat on the
quarterdeck after their dance, she'd begun to suspect that the
naval captains weren't the only ones who'd come to consider her in
that light. Which was even more infuriating.

As well as the warrant officers, Mr. Abbot had ducked
below earlier, grabbing a handful of meat and bread and throwing
back a mug of coffee at a speed that had to have singed his throat,
before mumbling something polite and clattering back up the aft
ladder. Staunton, who followed in the first lieutenant's footsteps,
permitted himself a few moments to breathe on the surface of his
ham and bean soup, warmed over Hennessy's spirit stove, which was
balanced on gimbals. Finally, the midshipman tilted up his battered
tin mug and drained it. "Must admit, I've never seen anything like
this storm."

"Mr. Bruce said the same." She swapped him a ready
cup of hot tea for the empty mug, which she dropped into a basin of
captured rainwater. Cleaning dishes would be a snap for Hennessy's
mate. "And Mr. Abbot compared it to the typhoons of the
Pacific."

Actually, Mr. Abbot had surprised her by using the
old Shakespearean term
hurricano
. She'd suspected him of a
certain level of education, despite his feline writing. She hadn't
suspected him of such close familiarity with
King Lear
and
Troilus and Cressida
. Once again, she'd underestimated the
level of culture hidden beneath the first lieutenant's soldierly
exterior.

Staunton's grin vanished. The unease that spread
across his tired face aroused an answering flicker within her, a
flicker that solidified when he rolled his lips together. He
drained the tea in one long drink, swallow after swallow, the cup
lifting until it blocked half his face. Then he handed it back with
a contented sigh.

"Nothing can possibly be wrong with the world after
such a lovely cuppa," he said. "Thanks, Lady Clara." Suddenly, he
shoved back his chair and ducked underneath the dining table. His
back wriggled to and fro, as if he wrestled with something
intractable, then he straightened, one sodden Hessian boot in his
hand. He flipped it over.

Pouring what looked like a bucketful of water onto
the great cabin's woven sailcloth rug.

The ship and crew might be in some danger. But
Staunton remained a mischievous brat, and therefore all was,
indeed, well with the world.

No matter how the ocean and wind behaved.

He glanced at her sideways. "Suppose I should have
taken that outside."

She shrugged and lifted the lid on the teapot. She'd
emptied it into Staunton's cup. Of course, she could always heat
more water, but somehow, tea didn't seem to answer her thirst. "Not
worth the effort, Mr. Staunton, unless you take the rest of the
water outside, as well."

His grin returned, and he ducked back beneath the
table.

Captain Fleming pushed into the great cabin as
Staunton vanished above. He seemed older, more tired, stronger, as
if raw determination could carry him and his ship through the
storm. Chandler followed him inside, and they peeled off dripping
oilcloth boat cloaks and hung them on the hooks behind the door.
Hennessy reached for clean mugs and the soup ladle, glancing at her
and then the roast beef with his eyebrows lifted.

Oh, good; something she could do for Chandler to show
her appreciation of his improved manners. In front of the captain,
no less. She wasn't the most experienced at carving a roast, but
the meat didn't need to be beautiful, only edible. She grabbed the
serving knife and fork, their flat surfaces gleaming wickedly in
the swaying lantern's light, and stabbed the roast until the fork's
tines bumped against the pewter plate. If she leaned against it,
that would hold the meat in place while she carved.

"I must convince that young man to find himself a
different career." Captain Fleming snapped open a napkin and mopped
at his face, the white linen crinkling against his nose.

But a proper thin slice was impossible while she bent
over the table. Clara straightened, settled the knife against the
beef, and sawed. The serrated edge rasped into the beef, still
thicker than she'd planned. Distracted, she answered without
thinking. "I agree, Captain. Mr. Staunton is far too young for the
service he gives."

Chandler choked on his tea. No, not
on
it;
into
it.

Blister him. What had she said?

Captain Fleming's grave expression didn't change. But
one of those swooping eyebrows bent in the middle and arched down
on the ends, a gull's wing folding in air, and his eyes above the
napkin gleamed. "Forgive me for giving you the wrong impression,
Lady Clara. Mr. Staunton is a natural-born sailor. The young man to
whom I referred is Lieutenant Rosslyn, him of the weak stomach and
good intentions."

Of course; she should have thought of that herself.
She sawed again, and a thick, lopsided slab of beef flopped onto
the plate with
Topaze
's roll. Lately she'd noticed a sort of
sideways skip with every third or fourth plunge of the deck beneath
her feet, and she'd have to be careful that skip didn't throw off
her next slice. The one she'd cut, or butchered, actually, wouldn't
half cover the bread and mustard.

And best if she didn't answer that comment; anything
she said would get back to Mr. Rosslyn before he staggered from the
infirmary, if they all survived. She positioned the knife — thinner
this time, and straighter — and sawed. "Now, Mr. Abbot called this
a
hurricano,
and Mr. Bruce and Mr. Staunton both said they'd
never seen such a storm. But surely your experience at sea is
greater than theirs, Captain Fleming. How would you rate our little
blow?"

Chandler choked again. She flashed him a triumphant
smile. No one would be able to claim she'd been overawed by the
weather.

"Well, it's true that most of Mr. Bruce's
forty
years at sea
were spent in home waters."

Her smile slipped. So did the knife, thumping off the
roast onto the pewter, throwing the slice of beef aside. Clearly
she could either talk or slice, but not both at once. She
repositioned the knife and fork, and tried again.

Captain Fleming folded the napkin across his lap,
although the idea of protecting his sodden clothing from food
stains seemed laughable. "It's also true that this storm is worse
than most anything I've seen in the Atlantic. But I still hold that
Pacific typhoons contain more power. And honestly, this is similar
to the average weather you'd see down in the Roaring Forties, south
of the Cape, the Horn, or Australia, should our hunt take us to
such distant oceans. The Raging Fifties and Screaming Sixties, even
farther south, are much worse."

She couldn't have heard that properly. While the
characteristic teasing gleam had faded from his eyes, chased away
quickly by his tiredness, the idea of a storm, or rather normal
weather, that was "far worse" than this simply beggared her
imagination.

Clara sawed with the knife and
Topaze
dived
sideways, as if throwing herself into a wave's trough. The deck
gave a lee lurch, pitching across, up, down, across again. Timbers
groaned. The plates leaped and slid along the tablecloth, pewter
bumping against the raised fiddles, and Hennessy dived for the
cut-glass decanter.

The knife and fork handles, gripped in her
white-knuckled hands, thumped onto the tablecloth, and Clara let
them go, grabbing for balance. Another lee lurch, perfectly timed,
dishes, bodies, hanging oilcloths, the great cabin itself,
everything diving and spinning.

And the downward pressure of her hands threw the
roast airborne.

It took the fork with it, an ungainly chunk of dried,
salted, roasted beef, nursed all the long distance from Plymouth
Sound, perfect for sandwiches and slowly whittled down as their
journey had progressed. Cutting an astonishing parabola over the
dining table, it sailed with a certain mesmerizing grace past the
captain's jerked-back head, the fork handle first up then rolling
down in an echo of the frigate's travails, tumbling end over end
and falling as it went, until it landed with a wet-sounding
splat.

In Chandler's lap.

Fork-side up, thankfully.

Oh, dear.
And just as they were starting to
get along so well. Without thinking further, Clara grabbed the
fork. She wrested the beef from his lap, yanking it past his
astonished and not-happy face, dropped it back onto the platter,
grabbed a cloth—

And stopped herself in time.

It was impossible that she'd even considered it. Even
without thinking properly. Even if she'd drunk her weight in the
captain's red wine, twinkling in the still-intact decanter clasped
between Hennessy's hands. No, such a thought had never, ever
crossed her mind.

She handed the rag to Chandler. Without looking at
him.

And concentrated on sawing off a final, extra-large,
thick slice to top off his sandwich.

Hennessy stared at the table and rearranged the
dishes, pushing everything neatly back into place. Captain
Fleming's face seemed frozen.

As soon as the final slice touched the bread,
Chandler slapped the roll together, mumbled something that at least
sounded polite, grabbed his meal, and vanished through the
captain's cabin and up the aft ladder.

Only then did the captain snigger. Hennessy's
shoulders twitched. Even with his back turned, sloshing dirty
dishes in the basin. No need to see his face.

Blasted men. The story would be all over the ship
tomorrow. And just as her relationship with Chandler had entered
reasonably positive territory.

* * * *

For the most part, his crew liked her and considered
her one of their own, a testament to Fleming's efforts in that
regard. But half his officers didn't merely consider her unlucky;
they considered her far worse, a contretemps in motion, the
clumsiest, most graceful person they knew. Eating a wet sandwich,
flavored with rampant seawater, was preferable to waiting calmly at
table for her next disaster. Considering the serrated edge on that
knife, Fleming wasn't certain he could blame them.

Hennessy hefted the basin of dirty dishes. Water
sloshing, a minor tempest within the larger one, he carried it out
and vanished into the gun deck's shadows. As soon as he'd well and
truly gone, Lady Clara slumped down into the seat opposite his, her
face twisting. Frustration, anger, tears? Not anything he wanted to
see.

"He'll get over it." Fleming sliced into a second
chop.

"Doubtless." Her acidulous voice cracked at him. "But
will I?"

True, she'd demonstrated again and again that dignity
mattered to her. Fleming chewed as he thought, using his knife and
fork to keep his dinner on the plate. He nodded at the sideboard,
where the wineglasses had been wrapped in cloth and wedged into
position. "Grab two."

He filled them from the decanter, the last of an
incredible Château Beychevelle that glittered like blood-soaked
jewels in the lantern light. The first sip closed her eyes; the
second settled her back against the chair. Her chest rose and fell,
drama or contentment, but her soft sigh was drowned out by a wave
crashing onto the upper deck. He swallowed half his own wine — a
sacrilege, that, but better inside him than all over the tablecloth
— and chewed in peace while she sat, apparently lost in
thought.

In their companionable silence, he spoke his thought
aloud. "You never told me about him, you know."

With the rampant storm overwhelming all conversation
more than a few steps away, it was his first chance to ask.

She froze, the wineglass clutched in both her hands,
and there again was the brittle desperation she'd worn like a mask
when she'd first come aboard. He hadn't seen it in so long, he'd
thought it worn away by the sea air and the crew's acceptance, a
memento she wouldn't be taking ashore.

At least her latent tigress hadn't appeared to bite
his — arm.

"Well." She sipped again, swirled the wine around her
mouth, and held it there, as if unsure what to say and seeking to
draw inspiration from its smooth texture and cedary flavor. "He's
perfect, you see."

Fleming swallowed. "That's a bit vague."

Her sideways glance was drier than the Bordeaux.
Another sip, then she set the wineglass atop the table and held it
there with both hands. "He's tall, with broad shoulders and good
skin, a strong chin and high forehead, auburn hair…"

For long minutes she spoke, singing the unknown
Frenchman's praises in desperate adoration. According to her
rambling account, he was charming, elegant, witty, kind, handsome,
appealing, stylish, a graceful dancer, and the owner of excellent
taste, a château, and a vineyard. All the blasted man needed was a
canal and perpetual motion machine, and he would indeed be
shamefully perfect.

But he didn't seem real.

Her description, long and rambling, flattering and
appreciative, did not make her Frenchman come to life. She'd missed
the note, somehow, and something in their conversation felt off.
But tired as he was from fighting the storm and holding
Topaze
together with his teeth, Fleming wasn't certain what
that
something
might be.