A Different Sort of Perfect (37 page)

His smile faded, then twisted into that lopsided, wry
grin she'd grown to love. "Going to throw me on the mercy of your
pack without benefit of an introduction?"

Her smile grew. "Why on earth would you need one? And
as for you, Hennessy, most amiable and excellent of cabin stewards,
why are you smiling in that conspiratorial, victorious
fashion?"

At mention of his name, Hennessy's face shut down
into blank, well-schooled lines. But she'd already seen the
knowingness behind his smirk, and suspicion bubbled within her.
Everyone seemed much too complacent over her impending
nuptials.

"My lady—"

"You didn't happen to win the betting pool, did
you?"

Staunton tried to ease away. Clara nabbed his arm and
held on. Silent and astonished, Captain Fleming stood motionless
while his gull-winged eyebrows crept up his forehead.

As if he didn't wish to be drawn into the
discussion.

"My lady, I'm hurt." The fact that he'd reddened
belied Hennessy's innocent statement. "I'd never—"

"Then the winner passed you a cut of the proceeds.
And tell me, Mr. Staunton: is it true the betting pool's subject
changed from 'Will she find her French captain?' to 'When will she
agree to marry Captain Fleming?'" That was a guess on her part, but
it seemed well-founded, considering the way much of the crew, and
even passing brig captains, had come to consider her the de facto
captain's wife.

Staunton reddened, matching Hennessy's shade to a
remarkable degree. Rather as if she'd selected coordinated shades
of brick for a drawing room. He shuffled his feet. "Never was a
change in the betting pool's subject, my lady. And while
some
people
—" Staunton pointedly did not look at Hennessy "—seem to
think the pool was on from the moment you met our captain, the rest
of us
know
it started during that very first gunnery
exercise, when
someone
was staring so hard at you, he didn't
even see to get out of the first lieutenant's way."

Yes, she remembered that moment, when Mr. Abbot had
nearly bumped into Hennessy, moongazing like a landman, staring at
her, and clearly thinking more than was good for him. She did her
best to scowl at Hennessy, and succeeded well enough to darken one
of her coordinated shade-wearers satisfactorily.

"Well," she said, and paused. Dramatically.

The fingers holding hers loosened their grip and
began easing away. She curled hers around his and held on.

"It was a profitable cruise all around," another
pause, while worried eyes cut her way, "and I can't see anything
wrong with that."

Hennessy deflated, his eyes closing. Staunton
sniggered. "Nicely done, my lady. You had us all going there."

No more than she deserved. "I should hope so."

And there behind her very own Captain Fleming were
Chandler and Wake, Mayne tagging behind them, climbing the
quarterdeck ladder. Both of the leaders—

—carried bundles of white cloth, folded in their
hands.

Her heart started beating faster.

"My lady." His embarrassment fading, Hennessy shifted
the stack of books in his arms and nodded to the new arrivals. "A
deputation from the crew and the midshipmen's berth to see
you."

All three doffed their hats, nodded to the captain.
And to her. Clara's heart swelled again. If this continued, she'd
soon have insufficient room in her breast to contain it.

"Me lady." Wake's gnarled hand stroked the white
garment he held. Beside his fingers, an edge of indigo blue
encircled the neckline. Tiny, meticulous stitches formed straight
seams, cunning tucks, traveling down the bodice and vanishing at
the fold. "We'ems shamefully late in getting your white gown to
you, even though we promised faithful." He grimaced, as if
mortified. "Shamefully late."

Or as if pretending to be mortified.

"Good Mr. Wake, I don't believe a word of it, so your
excuses may as well cease now. You've been in on this matchmaking
from the very beginning, haven't you?" She shifted target and
included Mayne in her mock glare. "Both of you?"

Mayne hung his head. Wake didn't. "Well, me lady,
we'ems couldn't see no reason such a mort of pretty white duck
shouldn't be used for a good and proper purpose."

Of course, no one seemed surprised. Except for her.
And Captain Fleming, whose frozen expression stared off into the
distance as if wishing he were elsewhere but didn't know how to
extricate himself without drawing undue attention to the captain's
presence.

"
Mister
Wake. The shamelessly provocative
neckline on that dinner gown? That was your doing? Poor Lieutenant
Rosslyn hasn't been the same since."

Staunton choked and tried to ease away again. She
tightened her grip. Mayne's head drooped lower.

And Wake's smile grew. He handed her the folded white
gown.

The indigo-trimmed neckline was square but with
rounded corners, and behind it the back fell into a modest V. Tucks
gave the bodice form, gathering the gown above the waist, and when
she shook it out the skirts flared into a short train in the back
and to both sides, hemmed with indigo blue. The straight sleeves
reached to the elbow and were also trimmed. Simple, fashionable,
elegant: what more could a lady seek in a wedding gown?

She truly was becoming a fashion hound. Diana had
taught her all too well.

Clara crushed the gown to her chest, her heart
overflowing, just as she'd foreseen. Words were impossible and
wouldn't be sufficient, in any case. Impulsively she reached out,
drew the battered old fo'c'sleman to her, and hugged him.

His shoulders stiffened beneath her hands; his torso
froze. The blue-and-white checked shirt, washed weekly in seawater
during make and mend, felt crusted with salt and grime, stank of
sweat and barely-washed male body, and his greying queue felt
greasy against her cheek. She refused to let go, squeezed harder
even though the quarterdeck had fallen silent around them, and
finally his arms encircled her shoulders with return pressure.

"Thank you, Mr. Wake. You and Mr. Mayne are the best
friends a fashionable girl could have."

Someone nearby barked with laughter. But when she
swung around, all she saw were innocent faces and
self-consciousness creeping across Captain Fleming's expression. Of
course, she'd had to let both her captives go and they'd backed
away, a wary Staunton out of her reach.

And Chandler, still holding a bundle of folded white,
looked panicked. As if he might run for it if she reached for him.
So Clara drew herself straight and instead gave him her best
smile.

"We—" But Chandler stopped and glanced around, to
Staunton, Wake, Mayne. Not his captain. "We
all
made this
for you." He handed it to her and stepped back.

Tiny, delicate, exquisitely formed flowers: lace,
white floral lace on the trellis pattern, the one she'd tried and
failed to perfect during her time aboard. And not merely a square
sheet to be cut and fashioned, but a carefully designed overdress,
an echo of the white wedding gown. Clearly they'd been created at
the same time, and not within a matter of days. Like any other
handiwork she'd seen performed by sailors, it was of far better
quality than anything she could have made herself.

Mouth open, she could only stare at Chandler.

He fumbled with his hat. "The gunner filed bits of
wire down into hooks and the carpenter set them into handles, see,
and then the sail-maker ripped up—" He glanced at the captain and
swallowed. "—ripped up an old sail that couldn't be used no more,
and turned it into thread. You'd shown Staunton the pattern and he
taught us, well, everyone else at first and then I joined in
later." Chandler paused and swallowed, as if waiting for her
reaction to his tardiness, but still all she could do was stare.
Ears bright pink, he stumbled on. "And— and we made— we made this
for you. Hope you like it?"

Again words felt inadequate. But grabbing Chandler
would not be an act of kindness. As Wake and Mayne left, retreating
from the quarterdeck, Clara stroked the lace with reverence. It
smelled a bit musty, as if the old sail had been stored away for a
long time; it smelled like the ship, like heaven, and she couldn't
wait to wear it.

Aunt Helen, with her delicate taste, was going to
love this wedding gown. Perhaps even more after it had been aired a
bit. And almost as much as the bride.

"Irish colleens could not have done better, Mr.
Chandler. I'm so very touched and grateful." She held out her hand
and held him with her gaze when he tried to look away. Finally,
awkwardly, he accepted her clasp. "Thank you, Mr. Chandler. Not
only for the lace. For teaching me to fight for what I want. For
teaching us all to strive to be better than we are. For showing
those of us who were born to our positions that those who work for
them are not less for it. Thank you."

He listened in silence, brown eyes wide and staring,
as if drinking in her meaning and letting it soak through his soul.
When she released his hand, he tucked them both behind his back,
then, clumsy as ever, dropped them to his sides. For a moment his
mouth opened, then he paused, rolled his lips together, and
swallowed. "Thank you, Lady Clara, for— for—"

"For not treating you like an awkward lout?" Staunton
suggested.

Chandler's swift glance was exasperated. But Clara
laughed, and the tension broke. Staunton guffawed, drawing a shy,
rueful smile from the older midshipman, and even Captain Fleming's
lips curved in his I'm-not-here-don't-anyone-notice-the-captain
expression.

Hessian boot heels thumped across the boards, and
Lieutenant Rosslyn crossed the quarterdeck, only missing his step
once. He removed his scraper for the captain. "The blue cutter's
ready, sir."

"Thank you, I'll come now." Captain Fleming's
expression smoothed to normal. Again he reached for her hand and
met it halfway. "Certain you don't wish to go ahead?"

She smiled. "I'm certain."

Aboard
Armide,
Mr. Abbot bawled an order to
the sailors on the mainyard, still furling the sail. His gaze swept
across
Topaze
in the way of a professional sailor, running
along the lines, and when their glances crossed he smiled and
waved. Astonishing, so much so that she nearly neglected to return
the gesture; receiving a merry smile from Mr. Abbot felt as if the
world had shifted on its axis around her. Too bad he was busy now,
but later she could tease him.

Because of course she would see him later. The cruise
might be finished, Mr. Abbot would most likely move on to his own
command, and she might never sail with him again. But he'd remain
her husband's friend for many years to come.

More boot heels on the deck, several pairs of them,
and the sun vanished behind the clouds. Clara felt her smile fade
with it.

Phillippe stared at them from the port gangway,
surrounded by Marines. His stare fastened onto their hands, still
clasped openly on the quarterdeck; then he raised his eyes to her
face, her surely glowing, ecstatic face, and she made no move to
restrain nor veil her happiness. And in the end, it was Phillippe
who lowered his gaze to the deck. He preceded Lieutenant Pym over
the side and down the accommodation ladder to the red cutter, for
his lonely journey to prison.

* * * *

"My girl! My little girl!"

Through a faceful of brunette wisps, Clara hugged
Aunt Helen, arms wrapped around her and squeezing in return.
Impossible to say whether they laughed or cried, or both. Around
them, pandemonium, uproar, hysteria even, as the footman knocked
over the umbrella stand and the pugs yapped and the housekeeper
screamed something about a ghost returned from beyond. Satisfying,
that; perhaps the woman would cease listening behind doors. Well,
Clara could hope.

"We thought you'd been taken," Aunt Helen whispered
in her ear, barely audible through the tumult. Her delicate hands
trembled on Clara's spine, high and low. "We thought you'd been
murdered. Oh, my girl."

Guilt poured through Clara, tightening her throat
with more confused tears, and she kissed her aunt's hair. "I
promise I'll tell you the entire story tonight." She eased back,
although she couldn't break Aunt Helen's hold. Nor did she want to.
"But for now—"

Across the library at the desk, Uncle David already
quizzed Captain Fleming. Caution flavored the two men's stance, but
behind it, respect seemed already established. Clara's next breath
came more easily. Of course Uncle David would approve; she'd
thought so all along. But her heart still beat high and fast,
belying her courage.

Aunt Helen threaded her flyaway hair behind an ear,
her glance cutting across the library. "Your captain is a handsome
man," she murmured. Her eyelashes flickered. "Is he yours?"

Time for their first admission. Clara nodded. More
blinking, then Aunt Helen stepped back and fished out her
handkerchief. No judgment on her face, but no excitement nor
happiness, either; she'd wait for her husband's assessment before
carrying her approval further. Clara's heart thudded even faster.
Perhaps her aunt had drawn an improper conclusion… but surely she
knew Clara better than that?

When had they learned to speak with only their eyes,
all the way across the library? How could they listen with their
hearts, understand with their souls? She'd never had any such
method of communication with Phillippe. Of course, that hadn't been
love, any more than it had been appropriate.

This most surely was love.

And as the two men spoke, Uncle David's smile became
more expansive, more approving, more confident. When he glanced at
her, he nodded with enthusiasm, then returned all his attention to
the conversation. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely; good
thing the two would have time during
Topaze
's refit to
extend their budding acquaintance.