Marrying the Captain Page 12

  “Don’t let her know. That would just embarrass her.” And me, Oliver thought.

  Lefebvre turned back to his table, and sorted through his sketches of the harbor and the dry docks. “Here we are.”

  He handed Oliver a small portrait of Nana, looking directly at him and smiling. “I couldn’t resist, either, Captain. After I sketched that little kitchen maid, I asked Mademoiselle Massie, and she agreed. I can sketch another, so you may have this one.”

  Oliver took it. The artist had almost caught the animation of Nana’s brown eyes, and the energy. He looked closer. “No freckles.”

  “You want freckles?” the painter asked, surprised. “I am so used to my clients not wishing to exhibit defects, that I left them out.”

  “They’re not defects,” Oliver said, handing back the sketch. “Put ’em in, if you will. What do I owe you?”

  Lefebvre shrugged. “A shilling?” He laughed. “Two, with freckles.”

  Oliver felt his own mood lightening and he smiled in return. “Three, if you can find a color pencil in your arsenal to match that hair color.”

  “Done, monsieur! I will have it under your door by morning.”

  Lefebvre was as good as his word. By the time Oliver woke up at 4:30 a.m., the sketch was under his door. The Frenchman had trimmed the paper and put the little drawing in a paper frame. Oliver looked at it for a long moment, then tucked it in the pocket of his waistcoat. He would tack it above his compass, at true north.

  He went down the stairs quietly, shoes in hand, and put them on in the hall. Nana stood in the shadows, a robe over her nightdress, a small bundle in her hand.

  “Black pudding, boiled eggs and ham,” she told him. “Common fare, but that’s our specialty at the Mulberry.”

  And uncommon inmates, he thought, as he took knotted cloth from her. “I sent Mr. Ramseur off to Kingsbridge yesterday afternoon. He’s desperate to see his Dorie.”

  She smiled, which relieved him. “Maybe he’ll work up the nerve to propose.”

  “And then I will have two mooncalves sharing the quarterdeck with me!”

  It came out louder than he intended. Nana put her finger to her lips. “Remember, kind sir, that one of the Mulberry’s chiefest virtues is the quiet,” she whispered.

  The hackney pulled up in front of the inn. Oliver glared at it, but made no move to leave the hallway, not with Nana there, looking so lovely and smelling faintly of roses, and calling him “kind sir.”

  “Captain, were you never in love?”

  He thought he hadn’t heard her right, so he leaned closer. She put her hand lightly on his shoulder and stood on tiptoe. “Were you never in love?”

  Her breath was warm on his cheek. He thought of all the cold winds from the Channel to the Bering Sea that had scoured his cheek, and the hot winds of North Africa and the dog latitudes that burned him. He prided himself in knowing, from the wind, how to keep his ship aright and sail close to the wind. How could he explain Nana’s breath on his cheek giving him more heart than any breeze from any point of the compass?

  Just keep your hand there for another week or two, he thought. That’s all I ask, and by God, it isn’t much. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was in love once,” he whispered back. Best to couch it in the past tense. He sailed in four days and it would be past tense.

  “What about you, Nana? Lost your heart yet?”

  “Yes,” she answered, her voice so soft. “It’s a dreadful business, isn’t it?”

  He could have declared himself then. No one was around. The inn was dark. The hackney would wait. “There will be another one along someday, Nana,” he said instead, and hated himself.

  “I doubt it,” she replied. She looked at him, and he could not help seeing the tears in her eyes. “How…how did you get over her?”

  I can’t, he thought. I won’t.

  The hackney driver saved him, getting down and stomping up the front walk to knock on the door. Oliver opened the door, turning around at the last moment to touch her under her chin. “I recommend a sea voyage, courtesy of King George.”

  She laughed softly. “You’re a coward, Captain Worthy.”

  I am indeed, he thought, as he followed the jehu back to his conveyance. There isn’t a bigger coward in the entire Channel Fleet.

  Chapter Ten

  Mercifully, Oliver was too busy to think of Nana more than fifteen minutes out of every half hour in the next few days. He could set aside his personal misery to appreciate the trim of the new mast, and the rigging all replaced and taut again.

  With Mr. Childers’s approval, Oliver and a skeleton crew took the Tireless from the Hamoaze and into the sound, to shake down the new stern. He conned the helm himself, enjoying the feel of the wheel and the frigate’s response. “No shimmy now,” he told his best helmsman, who he knew was itching to take the wheel. “She’s a lady again. You take her,” he said, relinquishing the wheel, and allowing each of his helmsmen a turn. With Oliver as scribe, they discussed any idiosyncrasies to report to Mr. Childers.

  “You care what they think, don’t you, sir?” Proudy asked him, when the Tireless was moored in the wet dock now.

  “Aye. Let this be a lesson for you, Mr. Proudy. It’s their ship, too.”

  When Proudy left him, he went to his quarters and tacked Nana’s picture above his berth. Monsieur Lefebvre had still been sparing with the freckles on the bridge of her nose.

  He stood on his quarterdeck as the sun started to go down, thinking of Nana, now that the press of business was done and Mr. Childers had left the dock. He glanced at the low hills on the west back of the Tamar, then opened his glass to spy out Lefebvre. Oliver waved, and chuckled when the Frenchman waved back.

  He rode back to the Drake with his first mate, watched the perpetual whist game and resisted with surprising ease any desire to join in. Captain Virgil Dennison from the sloop of war, Goldfinch, caught them up on the latest news from Corunna—none of it good. He walked back to the Mulberry, knowing his own walking would soon be confined to a quarterdeck.

  He passed the guildhall, pausing a moment to listen to the chorus within, practicing selections from Messiah, which Mrs. Fillion had told him was an annual event. Christmas again, he thought. Even after all his years at sea, it still mystified him that life on land continued in its usual round, season by season, even in time of war and great national emergency.

  Dennison said Napoleon himself had crossed the border again into Spain with his Grand Armée, to remind the citizens that his brother Joseph Bonaparte was supposed to sit on their throne and not flee from it. Soon Oliver and the Tireless would be playing their own little game of darting into ports—some under rebel control now—to learn what they could and take the news to Admiralty and Horse Guards.

  It was inevitable, with each of the precious days that passed, that he was thinking more and more of what lay ahead. He discovered something curious: rather than think less and less of Nana, he found each moment in her presence more concentrated and sweet. Maybe this was how married captains felt.

  Perhaps he imagined it, but she seemed to have put on weight. Her face looked a little fuller, and her dress not cinched so tight across the back. Well, good. His deal with Gran was working. Sal was not so pinched-looking, either. Even Pete lingered over second helpings in the kitchen. Gran was Gran; he doubted she had ever put on an extra pound.

  Nana still kept him company in the kitchen. Even when he came home in time to eat in the dining room, there was no pretense he should stay there. He went straight through to the kitchen, enjoying the bustle around him as dishes came and went from the dining room.

  “Isn’t it too noisy for you, sir?” Nana asked, after she returned from the dining room and sat down across from him again.

  “Not at all. Nana, I eat alone on the Tireless. It’s a custom of the sea I do so, unless I invite others,” he told her. He could tell by her expression that she didn’t think much of the idea.

  “Are you ever lonely?”

&
nbsp; How to answer that one? He decided upon honesty. “All the time, Nana.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, reminding him forcefully of his situation. He leaned across the table until his face was close to hers. “Nana, don’t cry for me.”

  “Who said I was crying for you?”

  She got up to leave the room, but she wasn’t fast enough. He took her by the hand, and surprised them both by kissing it. He released her fingers and leaned back in his chair as she stood there. “Now that’s one more thing for us to carefully overlook,” he told her.

  Oliver made a point to talk to Gran that evening, settling his account with her, and telling her that a carter would come for his sea trunk tomorrow, leaving just his duffel bag. “I’ll sleep here tonight, but I’ll leave by three or four in the morning. The tide turns midmorning, and there’s a fair wind to Spain.”

  She nodded. “We owe you a great deal, Captain Worthy.”

  “You owe me nothing. I’ve never enjoyed time onshore more than this.”

  He went upstairs to pack. Nana was nowhere in sight, but Pete waited for him in the hall.

  “Sor, could I have a moment?”

  “Certainly, Pete. I’ve wanted to thank you for all you’ve done during my stay.”

  “It’s nothing, sor, compared to what ye’ve done for us.”

  “I wanted to, Pete, and I have the resources.”

  Pete wasn’t through. “Could you do me one last favor, Captain?”

  “If it’s in my power.”

  The old sailor grinned. “It is, sor. It’s for Nana.”

  “Then yes, of course.”

  “Every year since she’s been back from Bath, I escort her to the guildhall for Messiah.”

  “I heard them practicing this afternoon.”

  “She likes to listen and I don’t mind, but my arthritis…” His voice trailed off. “Could ye escort her tonight?”

  “It will be my pleasure.” He never meant anything more in his life. “You’re sure Gran won’t mind?”

  “Oh, she’ll mind, but I can manage her,” Pete replied.

  He was obviously uncomfortable. Oliver opened the door to his room and ushered him inside, to sit down at the table. Oliver sat across from him.

  “I know Gran thinks I have designs on her granddaughter,” he said bluntly. “I don’t. I told myself years ago that I wouldn’t marry, and won’t encourage any female to think I will.” He couldn’t sit still, but got up to pace the room. He stopped in front of Pete, who watched him with an inscrutable expression. “Did you know Gran’s daughter?”

  Pete shook his head. “I started workin’ for Gran in ninety-one, when Nana was three and the bonniest little girl I ever saw.”

  “I’ll wager she was.”

  Pete smiled at the memory. “She had her hair short then, too, and it was even curlier. She went everywhere Gran went, and she had the sunniest disposition. You’d always see the two of them shopping for the Mulberry, Gran with her big basket and Nana with a little one, skipping along and stopping in every shop to say g’day. She had everyone’s hearts even then.”

  She has mine now, Oliver thought.

  “She cried buckets, but Gran was glad enough to send her to Bath. The last thing Gran wants is for her to give herself to the navy, like Rachel did with that bastard Lord Rat.”

  “Ratliffe,” Oliver corrected, amused.

  “You know him?”

  “Briefly. I see him at Admiralty House.” No need for Pete to know that it was Ratliffe he reported to these days. I need to change that, Oliver thought. I can’t stomach the man now.

  “Nana’s moping,” Pete said, looking at Oliver. “And you’re moping, too, sor.”

  That’s blunt, Oliver thought, surprised. I could deny it, but he’s seeing right through me, man to man. “Aye,” he replied simply.

  “I think you should marry her,” Pete forged on, “unless you’re squeamish about hedge babies.”

  Blunt again, you old tar. “That’s not it, Pete. I just can’t bear the thought of marrying that lovely lady and turning her into a widow. I’ve seen too many widows and written too many letters to them, telling them their husbands are dead, but thank God it was quick and their men didn’t suffer. Give your children my sympathies.”

  The words spilled out of Oliver. “That’s a crock, of course—you know what death at sea is often like. Could I do that to someone I love? Never.”

  Pete watched him a moment. “You’d rather Nana just drooped and perished for love of you?”

  “She can’t seriously be in love with me,” Oliver said, amazed. “What could she possibly see in me? I feel older than Methuselah and would never be here when she needed me.”

  “I’ve been watching you, sor…”

  “Thanks,” Oliver interrupted sourly.

  “…and when you and Nana are talking, or when you’re watching her—you do it all the time—you don’t look like Methuselah.”

  “Damn your eyes, Pete!”

  Pete only shrugged. “I’m not in your navy now and I can speak my mind. There’s one thing else you need to know about women. They’re awfully good at waiting. And as for what she sees in ye…” He shrugged again. “What man ever understands that?”

  They sat staring at each other until Pete finally slapped his hands on the table. “It’s your life, sor. Take her to Messiah tonight, at least. And dress warm.”

  Oliver did, wondering at first why a guildhall overheated with concertgoers could possibly be cold. Nana offered no objection when he announced he was taking her tonight instead of Pete. The color he noticed that had been absent from her face for a few days bloomed again, and he marveled how brown eyes—his own were brown and ordinary—could be so lively.

  He met her in the kitchen, where she was putting baked potatoes into a small bag. She wasn’t dressed any fancier than usual, but then he remembered she had left her good clothing behind in Bath when Ratliffe ended her stay there. Above the fragrance of potatoes, he could still catch a whiff of roses about her. He wondered if it was her soap.

  He offered his arm and she took it shyly. Out of habit as they walked, he stopped and turned his face to the light wind several times, just to make sure it still blew from the right quarter. She laughed out loud the second time he did that, and it warmed him.

  When they came to the small gathering in front of the guildhall, he tried to move her forward. “Wait inside while I stand in line,” he said.

  She didn’t move. “Oh, no, you don’t understand. Didn’t Pete tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “We don’t actually go inside, so we never need tickets. Why do you think I brought the potatoes?”

  It was his turn to laugh. “Because you get peckish between ‘Comfort Ye, My People,’ and ‘The Hallelujah Chorus’?”

  She led him past the line and around the corner of the hall. His grin widened as he noticed a set of steps leading up to what was probably the closest exit to where the choir would be standing. He followed her. She sat down a few steps below the landing and patted the stone beside her.

  “They always prop the door open a little, unless it’s raining. You can hear very well, and there is an excellent view of the Cattewater, too. The potatoes are for your hands.”

  He sat down beside her, overwhelmed by her nearness and delighted he wasn’t inside a stuffy hall, packed cheek-to-jowl with people he didn’t know. Sitting hip-to-hip with Nana Massie on the stairs reordered all his thoughts about paradise and heaven, as explained at length by his father the vicar.

  I could waste this opportunity, he thought, or I could make two miserable people happy. Three people. Pete seems to think I am worthy of his dear Nana.

  “Stand up a minute, Nana,” he ordered. “I’m only newly recovered from a bad throat and potatoes won’t be enough.”

  They stood up and he enveloped them both in his boat cloak. “That’s better,” he told her as they sat down even closer together, his arm tight around her.

 
She could have objected, but to his delight, she didn’t. She nestled under his arm with a sigh and rested her head against his chest.

  There was no defense against that. He kissed the top of her head and rested his chin there, as the door opened slightly and the overture began. With his arm around her waist and his eyes on the harbor below, he never heard Handel to better effect.

  By “For unto Us a Child Is Born,” he had to ask, “Nana, do you wash your hair with roses?”

  He felt her nod. “Sort of. Gran saves the rose petals from the front yard.” She paused. “I’m especially grateful you didn’t throw up on those.”

  He laughed so loud that the bass closest to the open door said, “Shhh,” which gave Nana the giggles. “That’s the wigmaker,” she whispered, when she could speak again. “I hope I do not lose all credit with him. What will I do next year when I want to listen here?”

  “We can go inside next year,” he whispered back, and knew he was committed.

  She was silent then, but her arm came across his chest to hold his side, as though she wanted to gather him into her, as she had done when they embraced in the hallway.

  There was no resisting her, but he did hold out for a few more choruses. To the accompaniment of “Glory to God in the Highest,” he kissed her gently and long, savoring the softness of her lips and the energy of her response. Her hand went to his face and then into his hair, where her fingers were warm against his scalp.

  He touched her face in turn, relishing the feel of her tender skin against his rough hands, all the while kissing her until they were both breathless. He held her off then slightly, to watch her face now when she was so ready to kiss and be kissed. The little-girl look to her was gone, at least for now, replaced by a woman equally beautiful, but different in a subtle way he could not have explained.

  She put her hand to her own face. “I hope you don’t think I do that on a daily basis,” she said, her voice shaky.

  “First time?” he asked.

  She nodded, then shook her head. “I did let a boy kiss me once in Miss Pym’s garden,” she whispered. “It…it wasn’t quite like that.”