Forgotten Fragrance (2 page)

As they reached the cabins the pirate elbowed her aside and stood in front of the door to the captain's quarters. ‘Put it down there.' He indicated to a vacant space below the deck rail between two tiers of neatly stacked crates and the two sailors lowered the trunks to the deck.

Unintimidated Marcus grunted and peered down his long nose. ‘Open the door.'

His supercilious stare won out and the pirate moved aside. With a twist of his wrist Marcus reached into his pocket, produced a couple of copper coins and flicked them into the sailors' hands before they sauntered away across the deck. ‘And the cabin for Miss Charlotte?'

‘We'll see about that.' The pirate sniffed and hawked his displeasure onto the deck before turning and swinging open the door to the main cabin.

Marcus cleared his throat, shot a look at her, raised his eyebrows and stepped over the threshold. Charlotte followed him into the neat space, not more than six feet by six feet. It housed a fitted bunk bed and a console running the length of the opposite wall.

‘Well, my dear, it looks as though we will be well catered for.' Marcus lifted the lid of the table to reveal a mirror and a washbasin. He ran his hands over the worn, polished timber. ‘I will have the opportunity to catch up on some of my more pressing paperwork and you can serve my meals here.' He pulled out the single chair and sat, elbows resting on the tabletop. ‘I'm sure your quarters will be adequate.'

Charlotte gazed through the window yearning for a flash of the horizon as the ship bobbed on the incoming tide. At least this time she would have the opportunity to breathe fresh air and see the sky; even walk freely on the decks and watch the crew sail the
Zephyrus
out of the Derwent, up the coast and on to Sydney. Nothing like the tiered bunks below decks she'd suffered on her last voyage, no sickness, and none of the crippling misery as she'd mourned Elizabeth and Jamie. Hugging her elbows tightly she smiled; after six years she almost cherished the perpetual ache in her heart, without it she'd be lonely.

Sliding her hand to her neck she searched for the familiar security of the frail chain she wore. Casting a quick glance at Marcus, absorbed in a chart he'd found on the console, she pulled the tiny blue bottle and the worn gold coin free. Every indentation, every line etched in the glass served as a map of the past. Closing her eyes against the sparks of sunlight reflecting from the glass she conjured Jamie's face.

The wide winning smile, eyes the colour of nutmeg and golden promises. A year at most, he'd insisted, a year working the streets of the city of London and they'd be free to start afresh. Sadly there was one fatal flaw in Jamie's plan — Elizabeth's death. Nothing but memories left, trapped in a tiny bottle and the golden Angel — the coin Jamie found buried in the mud on the banks of the Thames. He said it was a lucky coin. Anyone who owned an Angel was promised love, money, and happiness. He'd said it would secure their future.

‘Mr Wainwright, my apologies.'

Distracted by her reminiscence Charlotte jumped and turned from the window. The dark rumbling voice resonated in the small cabin, gruff but warm. Or perhaps it was the memories she'd stirred warming her.

‘Ah! Captain Charity?' Marcus rose and offered his hand to the tall, sun-streaked man filling the doorway.

A deep fan of lines crinkled from the corners of the Captain's eyes as he threw Charlotte a lopsided grin and ignored Marcus' outstretched hand. She tried for a return smile, instead her face flooded with colour and she studied his soft brown boots.

‘I apologise for my absence. I intended to welcome you aboard. Tedious paperwork at Custom House detained me, I'm afraid. I see Henk showed you to my cabin — your cabin, for the duration of this voyage.' His sun-bleached hair shone silver, contrasting sharply with the weathered tan of his skin.

‘Most adequate,' Marcus said, dropping his redundant hand. ‘Let me introduce you to my housekeeper, travelling companion, Miss Charlotte Oliver, soon to be my wife.' He lowered his voice a fraction, then raised his bushy eyebrows and gave the Captain a knowing nod.

The heat rose once more to her cheeks as Charlotte stuck out her hand.

‘Miss Charlotte…' He stepped closer, so close she could see sparks of sunlight reflected in his brown eyes, and grasped her hand. For one foolish moment she thought he would lift it to his lips, instead it disappeared into his large, comforting clasp. So much warmth in his palm and so much strength in his fingers. His hand lingered far longer than necessary before he increased his pressure and winked.

Winked!

Shocked, she pulled back her hand and forced a polite smile to her mouth, all fluttery and breathless and unsure how to respond to the look of rapt attention on his face.

Marcus came to the rescue and broke the charged silence. ‘I believe you have also set aside a cabin for Miss Charlotte.'

‘Has Henk not shown you?'

The memory of the dirty pirate's thin lips twisting in a lecherous sneer sent a shiver of distaste across her skin.

‘Not as yet,' Marcus said. ‘There is no mistake, I presume. You have the capacity to take us both as passengers to Sydney.'

The Captain ignored Marcus' statement and his face broke into a huge grin, like the sun coming out after rain. Her heart skipped a beat, then pitter-pattered against her rib cage. He held her gaze almost as though he could hear the ridiculous thumping in her chest. ‘No mistake. We made a deal and I am a man of my word.' His tanned brow creased in a frown as though he was trying to remember something. ‘And Henk has agreed to forgo his cabin for Miss Charlotte's needs.'

‘Hen frigate.' Charlotte clapped her hand over her mouth.

How had those words escaped?

‘I beg your pardon.' He leant closer, all his attention focussed on her face.

She bowed her head, seeking refuge behind her hair. ‘It was nothing.'

‘I think perhaps Miss Charlotte is referring to the rather less than encouraging welcome she received from your first mate.'

Thank God for Marcus
.

As ever he'd come to her rescue.

Captain Charity pursed his lips. ‘I see. Something else I must apologise for. Henk is still battling the
Zephyrus'
refit. He is not entirely convinced I have made the right decision. I don't believe our fortune lies in whaling. The indiscriminate slaughter is concerning and seal numbers have already diminished alarmingly. We are all God's creatures, are we not?'

‘Indeed, indeed.' Marcus' tone changed to his pulpit voice, the one he used to harangue the poor inmates of Hobart Gaol during his Sunday visits.

Charlotte stifled a laugh knowing Marcus' voice would ratchet up a notch or two if he became suitably enthused, though something as unimportant as whales was unlikely to inspire his full fire-and-brimstone version.

He sucked in a breath and puffed out his chest. ‘All God's creatures are placed on this earth to serve and I, for one, would not be happy to forgo the bounties whales provide. Lamplight being but one of their God-given gifts.' Marcus folded his arms over his belly.

‘You may find that you and Henk have something in common to discuss during the voyage.' An almost sarcastic twist of amusement scored the Captain's face. ‘I have made the decision to move to cargo: wool, potatoes and timber are all possibilities. Convicts, oil and passengers on this trip. I intend to trade between Hobart and Sydney and offer a passenger service.'

The air bristled as the two men measured each other and Charlotte watched bemused, expecting Marcus to respond; instead he took a step back and a nervous tic tweaked the corner of his eye.

‘Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm needed on deck.' The Captain's gaze returned to her face. ‘Miss Charlotte, let me show you to your cabin on my way.' He indicated she should step ahead of him.

The clean tang of sea air and salt filled her nostrils as she stepped out the door and all her concerns about the voyage vanished in the sea breeze. ‘Thank you, Captain.'

He gave her an amused smile and threw open the next door, and Charlotte entered a smaller version of Marcus' cabin. The window, console and chair appeared identical and a sea chest rested against the bulkhead. She swivelled around searching for the bunk. Surely the Captain didn't think she would be sharing a bed with Marcus. He'd introduced her as his housekeeper and soon-to-be-wife, not his doxy. Her hand rose to her cheek stilling the sense of mounting outrage.

A deep chuckle reverberated in the small space and she glanced up, questioning.

It was as if he'd read her mind. ‘Don't panic, your bed is here,' he said, and reached behind the door to unhook a length of canvas and rope. With a flourish he stretched it across the room, attaching it to a hook above the small window. ‘A hammock.' He swung the dangling canvas from side to side.

‘A hammock?' Did he expect her to sleep there? It looked ridiculously uncomfortable and unsafe. Even the bunk on the
Atwich
she'd shared with three other women seemed a luxury by comparison.

‘Trust me.' He threw her another wink and for some ludicrous reason she did.

With surprising agility for a man of his height he swung into the hammock and lay back, hands behind his head, beaming at her. His white teeth shone against the bronzed skin of his face and unable to resist his boyish good humour she dropped her hand from her cheek and grinned down at him.

‘It is far more practical than a bunk and twice as comfortable. You'll find yourself lulled by the motion of the ship and you'll sleep like a baby.'

With a surge of energy he sprang out of the hammock. ‘If you keep it hooked up during the day you will have more room during the voyage.'

‘Thank you, Captain Charity, however I hoped to spend most of my time on deck. I prefer…'

‘Christian. Call me Christian. Everyone else does, even my crew, unless they're angry with me.' His booming laugh filled the room again.

She tried his name on her tongue. ‘Christian.' Somehow, it didn't fit. She shrugged. Who was she to argue?

Christian bounded up the ladder onto the open deck. The sun had reached its zenith and it beat down on the polished brass sending arcs of light zigzagging across his ship. It had taken close on six months to refit and repair after Jonas died and the small crew who'd stayed with him had worked long and hard.
Zephyrus
sparkled.

Letting out a sigh of pure pleasure he surveyed the scene. The thrill of possession still caused a knot to form in his gut, part excitement and part disbelief — excitement at the prospect of so many new opportunities on the horizon and utter disbelief at his good fortune. ‘Henk! Prepare to weigh anchor and the
Zephyrus
will commence her maiden voyage under my command.'

With a deal of scuttling and scuffing the crew raced to the braces while the boys scrambled up the ratlines and out along the yards. Canvas spilled down, unrolling in the wind like thunder and within moments the schooner's bow drifted towards open water. Picking up the offshore breeze the spotless white sails filled. Christian turned to Henk with a grin. ‘Isn't that a prettier sight than those old smoke-blackened sails?'

‘Might be a prettier sight if that's what you're after. I doubt it's going to be a profitable one.' Henk hawked his disgust over the deck rail.

‘You're going to have to come to terms with it. The depression hit hard. With the decline in the price of whale oil it's no longer the goldmine you imagine. I intend to keep the
Zephyrus
running. I've no intention of operating her as a whaling ship any longer.'

As they left the Cove and passed out into the Derwent River the wind increased, the sails blossomed and the
Zephyrus,
true to her name, skimmed the waves of the broad reaches of the river as the open sea beckoned.

‘The old man'll be tossin' in his grave, especially if he knew she'd become a bleedin' hen frigate.'

‘The old man left the
Zephyrus
to me and I make the decisions. It was his express desire that we quit whaling. And you and the crew have been given the choice. Sail with me on the
Zephyrus
as a trader, or go and sign up with another whaling ship. There are plenty that'll take you on.'

‘How in hell's name are we going to do that? We're already taking a cut in profit and going to another ship'll only make it worse. Besides, we're all owed.'

‘Lighten up, Henk! You're not going to tell me you'll miss the stench of the whale oil, are you?'

‘That's liquid gold you're talking about and I don't care what it smells like — anything's better than the pong of a hen frigate.'

Christian swung around, his gaze following Henk's grimy thumb as it flipped to starboard.

Thick tangles of hair blew across Charlotte's face and streamed out, bringing a scent that was a far cry from whale oil and infinitely more appealing. Drawn to the wind-whipped figure Christian left Henk at the wheel and strolled down the deck. She stood clasping the rail with both hands, leaning out over the water.

He stepped up beside her. ‘Your feelings of sickness will pass.'

She turned and combed her hair back from her face, her smile causing her stormcloud eyes to dance. ‘Oh, I'm not feeling sick. I don't suffer from seasickness. The voyage out here from England cured me of it, though I'd far rather be up here than confined below decks.'

A jolt of surprise raced through him. He wouldn't have picked her for a convict even though most of the inhabitants of Hobart Town were London's rejects.

‘Oh!' Charlotte's hand covered her pretty mouth. ‘I wasn't supposed to mention it. Mr Wainwright prefers me not to allude to my past.'

‘Ticket-of-leave?' he asked, in some strange way delighted to be discussing it when the upright Mr Marcus Wainwright didn't approve. The black-clad gentleman's supercilious nature and holier-than-though attitude rubbed him up the wrong way.