An Unsuitable Occupation for a Lady by Jackie Walton
“What does your estate produce?” Mr. Topp bravely stepped into the fray and earned a smile from Chiara. Harley raised his glass an inch to him.
The conversation limped along with mundanities until Chiara decided she’d had enough. If they wanted to kill each other, so be it. “Gentlemen,” she rose and all the men did likewise, “it has been a lovely dinner, but it’s been a tiring day. I bid you goodnight.” Returning their bows with a curtsy, she left the wardroom.
She went up to the fo’castle to look at the stars, but the stiff breeze blew through her thin muslin, reminding her that she hadn’t brought out a shawl.
She returned below decks and made for her cabin. As she opened the cabin door, a hand pushed her through the doorway.
Chapter 7
A hand closed around her mouth. Chiara’s eyes widened in shock. On the ship, no one had so much as looked crossly at her, except Rafaelle, of course, and even he wouldn’t dare… Whoever it was pushed her into the cabin and kicked the door shut. Chiara grabbed one of the fingers over her mouth and yanked viciously.
“Merdre!”
Thibaut! And drunk as a lord unless she missed her guess.
She spun out of his grip and quickly looked around the cabin. All her weapons were stored. Nothing presented itself as an efficient weapon, except her hairbrush. She darted over to get it then shifted it to her left hand. “Get out! Now!”
His laugh lacked any humor whatsoever. “You are very…good at giving orders, cherie. It will be…,” the wine fumes had a heavy overlay of brandy, “…my pleasure to tame you.”
Not entirely steady on his feet, Thibaut rushed her. A backhanded slash sent the bristles of the brush towards his face and eyes. He yelped and tried to block her. The real blow, rigid fingers into his diaphragm, followed immediately.
Satisfied that Thibaut was too busy to do anything but try to breathe, Chiara went to the door. She yanked it open and bellowed, “I need some…” FitzHenry, at the door to his cabin, whirled. “…help,” her voice dropped to normal, “…in here.”
He pushed inside before she finished.
Thibaut could finally breathe, gingerly, but he still clutched his abdomen. Rafaelle looked at Chiara.
She shrugged, “He wasn’t invited in; I just made it clear.”
More men crowded into the doorway as Rafaelle strode up to the Frenchman, grabbing the back of his jacket collar.
“Rafe!” Harley pushed through the doorway. “Bloody hell. What’s going on here?”
Chiara sat in one of the chairs, the aftermath of adrenalin taking its toll on her knees. “He” she flapped a hand toward Thibaut, “he forced his way into my room, with the intention of…of…”
“I understand, Lady Chiara.” Harley glanced at the crowd of men spilling into the room. “Take him into custody.”
Rafaelle released the Frenchman’s jacket as Thibaut hauled in air. Two men grabbed Thibaut’s arms. “The whore lies. She invited me in here. She wanted…”
Rafaelle backhanded him. “Tom, allow me to administer a little English naval discipline before you clap him in irons.”
“English pig! You wouldn’t dare!” The Frenchman pulled one hand from the guard and wiped the back of his hand across his bleeding mouth. The guard regained his grip. “I demand satisfaction.”
FitzHenry smiled coldly. “Of course. If M. Thibaut hasn’t the stomach…” Thibaut snarled. “…For punishment, let’s make it a contest. If he wins, he retains his parole. If I win, he spends the rest of the voyage in the brig.” He glanced at Harley who shrugged acceptance.
“D’accord,” growled Thibaut as he ripped out of the sailors’ hold. “Now!”
Harley looked at him with some disgust. “Do you think I’m going to light the Swiftsure up like Buckingham Palace on the King’s birthday so that you can have a mill? I dislike the prospect of waving a flag to any of your comrades who may be in the vicinity. The quarter deck at dawn. No weapons.” Rafaelle stiffened, then relaxed.
“That is impossible,” Thibaut exploded.
“It will be possible, or it will not be, and you will land yourself in the brig very shortly,” Harley adjusted his cuff with the air of a man who had nothing on his mind other than a game of cards and a bottle of port.
“D’accord,” Thibaut acquiesced. He strode off, brushing past Mr. Topp. Harley looked at his first officer. The young man, seeming to understand the unspoken order, went after the Frenchman.
Harley turned to Chiara. “Please accept my apologies, my lady. One way or another, there will be a guard on him at all times for the rest of the trip. Try to get some sleep.” He shrugged the tension out of his shoulders. “And be pleased to sleep late tomorrow if you will.”
For an order, he couched it very politely, Chiara thought.
The excitement over, everyone filed out of the cabin, except Rafaelle. “Tomorrow morning, I think you’d best do as Harley suggests. I know you’re working on a way around his order. Let me take care of this small matter.”
“Are you daft? Small? That man’s a behemoth! He could…he could…”
Rafaelle laughed and tipped her chin up with one finger. “Why my lady, I almost think you care about me.” She jerked her head away with a glare. “You will stay here. Don’t make me post a guard on your door.”
“You wouldn’t…”
“Absolutely. I will and well you know it. When it’s over, I will come down and show you that I’m still in one piece.”
“Humph!” She glared at him.
He turned to the door then hesitated. “Is it possible that your discomfort reflects a tendre for me?” He grinned rakishly. “Get some sleep.” The quiet concern in his voice surprised her.
He left, but she heard him calling for a guard on her door.
Chiara woke early and dressed quickly. Even if she’d forgotten the morning’s agenda, the stomp of feet on the upper deck and the excited voices would have alerted her to the mill’s commencement. Harley obviously allowed the crew to witness the spectacle.
A cheer roared from above.
She rushed to the door and ran straight into the broad back of a sailor standing there with his legs braced and his arms folded. He grunted as much as any human rock wall would.
“Yer pardon, m’um.”
“Stand aside, if you please.”
“Beggin’ you pardon, m’um,” he repeated as he tugged at his forelock, “but the cap’n’s order be real plain-like. Ye’re not ta leave ‘till t’mill’s over.”
“But…”
He grimaced and tilted his head with implacable pity. “Ah’d likes to be there, too.”
She took a deep breath and surrendered. He was just following orders. She left the door open, and he obligingly stood in the jamb to hold it there. She smiled.
A thud sounded above them. The crowd roared.
“”Is lordship’s doin’ well, ‘seems.”
“Ummm.” She moved to the window and sat on the cabinet’s cushioned top. The sea rolled like any well-ordered body of water. Only the humans on top of it acted like Bedlamites.
A crash, accompanied the unmistakable roll of barrels. The collective groan told her that Thibaut could hold his own, too.
On and on—oh Lord, she thought—and on. The sailor’s groans and cheers stood at roughly equal when a huge roar shook the cabin. Her sailor-guard smiled. In a few moments it grew to an impossibly wide smile.
“Bloody good show, sir. Wish Ah were there.” He moved off.
FitzHenry filled the doorway…
“I take…”
…clad only in breeches and boots.
What was she saying? Was she saying something? Her jaw fell open. She snapped it shut. And finally remembered to breathe.
There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. Each muscle on his chest, on his belly, on his arms stood out like the cords on a hawser. A light sprinkling of black hair covered his chest. He wiped sweat off his face and threw the towel over his shoulder.
He
The corner of his mouth twitched, and he started towards her. His stride reminded her of a cat. Not a house cat, no, one of the panthers she’d seen caged at the fair, and about as dangerous. The panther had its bars, and FitzHenry had his civilities. She didn’t want to see either without them!
His hands gripped the window frame, effectively caging her. He bent down and kissed her. His chocolate-brown eyes watched her as his mouth covered hers. Beads of sweat clung to his face, and she could taste their salt on his mouth. There was nothing lover-like about it. It was hard. It was proprietary. It was the victor’s prize.
His civilities had gone the way of his shirt.
Only his mouth touched her, but she couldn’t move any more than if she were bound.
He straightened, turned, and walked out.
She should have slapped him!
Only now did her petrifaction ease. Chiara hauled in a deep breath. Suddenly, the cabin seemed to close in on her. She grabbed her shawl and headed for the quarterdeck. As she climbed out of the main deck hatch, a sailor sluiced a bucketful of water over a spreading red stain. FitzHenry had a cut above one eye and his knuckles were bloody, but nothing to account for this volume of blood. Several other sailors picked up shards of wood. She climbed to the quarterdeck.
Harley stood in his usual spot, in his usual position: splay-legged and hands behind his back. Only this time, there was a very satisfied, far-away look on his face. He glanced over at her without surprise. “My lady, I can guarantee you that M. Thibaut will not afflict you, or us, for the rest of the voyage.” He rocked back on his heels. “One thing about my friend Rafe, when he sets out to do a job, he does it most thoroughly. And I must say that I’m glad he’s my friend.”
“Rafaelle had a few…cuts and bruises. Is M. Thibaut all right?”
“Well, that depends on how you define ‘all right.’ The ship’s surgeon is attending him now, but I don’t believe he has any permanent damage.
“I sent Mr. Pearce to attend Rafe. He’ll do a damn slight better job than the doctor.”
Chiara watched the men remove the last traces of the brawl. A small yawn reminded her of just how early it still was. She politely patted her mouth as she examined the sun for confirmation of the early hour. It still sat low on the horizon off the starboard side.
With Thibaut out of the way, today would be a good day to practice knife fighting. She turned to Harley to ask about the possibility when she whirled back to the early morning sun. The morning sun should be off the bow. “We’ve turned north!”
“Indeed we have, my lady, this morning at two bells. We should be off the coast of Ravenna by tomorrow night at the latest. He rocked back on his heels.
“May I be so bold, Lady Chiara, to observe that since you’ve come into his life, there is a…um, lightness that I haven’t seen in my friend for a long, long time.”
Chiara just stared at him, incredulity impeding her ability to speak. That may be just as well, she thought, because she probably would have laughed at him. The very idea that she could have any influence on FitzHenry, good or bad, was insupportable.
“You must be…”
“Uhumm,” Mr. Pearce cleared his throat behind her. “M’um, sir, breakfast be ready.”
“Thank you, Pearce.” Harley offered his arm to Chiara, leaning over so only she could hear. “A long, long time. And I couldn’t be happier.”
Once again, she found herself rendered speechless.
Mr. Topp followed them to the table. FitzHenry, with his plate piled high, turned from the sideboard. “Good morning, Chiara, gentlemen.”
“I see you’ve worked up quite an appetite, old man.”
“Absolutely. You are looking ‘fair as is the rose in May,’ Chiara.”
Roses and Chaucer, indeed, she thought. “And you, sir, look only slightly the worse for wear from your brawl.”
Rafaelle looked sideways at her as she sat down with her plate. “You are not the only one with an excellent education in the fighting arts. Tom Crib teaches a not terribly well-known, but comprehensive, class in street fighting. With all modesty, I must say I was his star pupil.”
“I took some instruction from him, also. He’s developed quite a following since he knocked out ‘The Black Terror,’ Bill Richmond, in 1805,” she said.
Topp barely avoided the embarrassment of laughing his mouthful of food all over the table. Harley managed to snicker and look stern at one time.
“Just how many fighting methods,” Topp asked, “are you familiar with, Lady Chiara?”
“Let me see, swords, knives, pistols, rifles, garrotes, unarmed combat, and I have some experience with explosives.”
“Remind me not to seriously annoy you,” Rafaelle commented before a sip of tea. “I can see that I shall have to be on my best behavior around you.”
“That means you’ll be only slightly annoying,” Harley quipped.
Chiara looked at FitzHenry. “I hope you are experienced with knives.”
“Yes,” he drawled, “but why knives in particular?”
“Are you going to carry a sword under your cummerbund?”
Topp laughed appreciatively. “I say, my lady, someone told me about a smashing little forearm sheath you sport.”
She nodded. “I also carry a garrote in my pocket when I’m working.”
“Amazing female,” Topp breathed.
Rafaelle looked on the young man with narrowed eyes, but he said nothing. He picked up his tea cup again.
Topp folded his napkin and stood. “With your permission, Lady Chiara, gentlemen, I have my duties.” He bowed and headed for the door.
FitzHenry watched him over the edge of his cup. “A most admirable young officer, Tom.”
“Yes, he seems to be coming along well. A bit of a surprise, really. He came on board when you did. I must say I wasn’t terribly impressed with him at first.
“Rather like old Barnham, remember him?”
Rafaelle nodded as Harley turned to Chiara, “Mousiest, little man you’ve ever seen, until you put him on a quarterdeck. The man was an absolute genius when it came to commanding men.”
“Indeed.” Rafaelle sat back in his chair, cradling his cup. “Where is he now?”
“Took a sword at the battle for Martinique in ’06. They won, and he got his ship back to London. Died onshore a few weeks later, the poor blighter.”
“Bloody hell,” Rafaelle grimaced as he nodded and stared into his tea.
She knew they mourned their comrade in the silence of their hearts. Everyone knew and accepted the possibilities, both for themselves and their friends. But it all seemed so damnably…normal.
Chiara leaned against the rail, looking out on what Homer called “the wine-dark sea” with her eyes and looking back on the day with her mind. She felt a sense of amazement that it had gone so peacefully, at least after the beginning. She and Rafaelle spent the morning discussing routes, possible tactics, supplies, personnel, and all the thousand and one details that go into a mission. She marveled at the lack of cross words, bickering, and propositions that characterized most all of their other discussions. In fact, she enjoyed it. He was well-spoken and thoughtful. He could even be funny. His anecdote about calling on a self-righteous, old French bishop, only to find the cleric “entertaining” an equally old, self-righteous grande dame, had Chiara chuckling merrily.
They broke when Mr. Pearce came in to begin preparations for lunch.
“I’m amazed,” she said as they cleared their materials from the room. “We actually spent several hours in civilized, intelligent conversation.”
He leaned on the massive table as he turned to face her. “’Amazed?’ I don’t think that’s the exact word I would use. Perhaps ‘relieved’ or ‘gratified’ might fit better. It bodes will for the next few weeks, don’t you think?”
Chiara wondered how long he’d practiced the “boiled potato” look to get it down so perfectly. She just smiled and nodded.
&
A fiddle tuning up pulled her from her reverie. She looked down on the main deck. The fiddler sat on a coil of ropes, next to a sailor with a small drum. A piper stood next to him, tooting a quick scale. Around them, a growing crowd of men stood or sat in a rough circle. A concert, she thought with delight. Not the symphony, but music was music, and she looked for a comfortable place to sit near the quarterdeck rail. The first piece was a folksong, sung in Welsh by a remarkably clear tenor. She listened, entranced. The musicians segued into a reel. Several of the men started dancing, an interesting spectacle, with no ladies in the group. One of the men, more impudent than the others, bowed to her and waved his hand in invitation. A Puckish expression crossed his face. She had to laugh.
On impulse, she climbed down the ladder and took his hand. Magically, the deck cleared. He bowed, and she returned the honor with a curtsey. With one hand around her waist and one hand holding hers, he began to whirl her around the floor in an enthusiastically joyous country dance.
Halfway around the circle, Chiara burst into laughter at the sheer exuberance of the dance. At the end of a circuit, she heard rumblings.
“Gi’us ah chance.”
“Let’s have a turn.”
“Fair shar’em.”
She broke from her partner’s arms and signaled the musicians to stop. She tossed her now-extraneous shawl out of the way. “All right, all right. Everybody gets a turn. Line up. Keep it honest.”
A few good-natured hoots and groans greeted the last.
The musicians started up again, and the first man in line claimed her hand. Each man took his turn leading her around the dance floor, with greater or lesser levels of finesse. A few missteps didn’t lessen her enjoyment, and she laughed and giggled like a schoolgirl.
Her latest partner whirled her into the arms of the next. The music stopped and she looked up. Rafaelle! Almost immediately, the music restarted with a waltz.
Many of her other partners had held her around the waist, but all at a consciously respectful distance. Rafaelle held her so close that her breasts grazed the front of his shirt. He’d discarded his jacket, as she her shawl, somewhere along the way. Only three thin layers of cloth separated them. Every brush against his chest incited delightful torture. She could feel her nipples rise to the provocation.