her. “Why am I always such a fool with you, Clarissa?”
She’d wondered about that, too. She was pretty much a fool with him, too, but she hoped she hid it better. Or was that just another instance of her cowardice? Didn’t it take a certain courage to admit anything—interest, desire, love—to someone, not knowing whether your feelings were returned? Or was it merely stupidity, for God knew she had been stupid once. She snatched back her other hand which, like an independent being, had crept forward to smooth the tumble of hair from Allen’s brow.
His fingers loosened and slid from hers, his eyes closed, and he fell back asleep.
Clarissa glanced around the cabin, then pulled her stays on, grateful that they were side-lacing and she didn’t have to ask for anyone else’s help. She could only imagine Allen Pendale’s reaction—or could she? Was he was spying on her? No, his back was turned to her and he appeared to be asleep. Naturally, as soon as she abandoned the idea of sleep herself, he became as quiet as a lamb. There was a different movement to the ship now, a deeper swing and rock, and it was colder. Sleet rattled against the small window, followed by the splash of a wave against the glass.
She drew on her much-darned silk stockings, regretting now that she had thrown away her workaday wool ones, her back turned to Pendale in case some powerful male instinct alerted him to what she was doing. She would have liked to wash, but it was too rough. She imagined water slopping all over the cabin, even if she or Peter, the ship’s boy, managed to get it down the stairs. Finally dressed, shoes, gloves and cloak on, she tapped on the Blights’ door and was greeted with silence. Cautiously she opened the door and peered inside. They were both asleep, but the necessary bucket had overturned and spilled onto the floor. Wrinkling her nose, she decided to seek out Peter, closed the door and climbed up the stairs in darkness—the hatch was closed. With some difficulty she threw it open, and was met with a spray of freezing salt water.
She clambered out, slammed the hatch shut, and stepped into another world, gray and fierce. A wave broke onto the steep slope of the deck, the water draining off as the ship righted.
“Best to stay below, today, ma’am,” Mr. Johnson bawled at her above the wind, apparently recovered from his seasickness. “Peter will be below in a while, so tell him what you need.”
“Thank you,” she shouted back.
“Mind yourself, ma’am!” He grasped her hand and closed it around a rope. “Hold on tight, and keep out of the way, if you please.”
Water broke over her feet, soaking and chilling them, but she didn’t care, exhilarated by the danger, the wild elements. She skidded and stumbled to the galley where Lardy Jack, face red from heat and steam, controlled wildly swinging pots over the fire.
“Good morning, miss. A bit of weather, today, but we’re making good speed.”
“Indeed, yes. How are the chickens?”
“Two washed overboard, the rest probably not laying for the moment. I’ll send Peter down with breakfast, ma’am. You shouldn’t be out in this.”
“I’m most grateful. Make sure he brings the mop, if you please.”
“You’re not sick, are you miss? We have bets on you and Mr. Pendale.”
“Not yet.” She grinned back at him. “I trust you won’t lose any money on my account. Can you give me an ember for the lantern?”
“Surely, miss.” He deftly shoveled hot coals into a small pot and handed it to her. “Careful, now.”
She would have liked to stay on deck to watch the waves crest and break but, with the amount of activity going on, knew she would only be in the way. She timed her entry into the hatch when there was little water on deck, slamming it closed behind her. Below it felt relatively quiet and warm, away from the roar of wind and sails. She blew on the embers and watched the red heat and glow, warming her hands on the pot.
She lit
She’d wondered about that, too. She was pretty much a fool with him, too, but she hoped she hid it better. Or was that just another instance of her cowardice? Didn’t it take a certain courage to admit anything—interest, desire, love—to someone, not knowing whether your feelings were returned? Or was it merely stupidity, for God knew she had been stupid once. She snatched back her other hand which, like an independent being, had crept forward to smooth the tumble of hair from Allen’s brow.
His fingers loosened and slid from hers, his eyes closed, and he fell back asleep.
Clarissa glanced around the cabin, then pulled her stays on, grateful that they were side-lacing and she didn’t have to ask for anyone else’s help. She could only imagine Allen Pendale’s reaction—or could she? Was he was spying on her? No, his back was turned to her and he appeared to be asleep. Naturally, as soon as she abandoned the idea of sleep herself, he became as quiet as a lamb. There was a different movement to the ship now, a deeper swing and rock, and it was colder. Sleet rattled against the small window, followed by the splash of a wave against the glass.
She drew on her much-darned silk stockings, regretting now that she had thrown away her workaday wool ones, her back turned to Pendale in case some powerful male instinct alerted him to what she was doing. She would have liked to wash, but it was too rough. She imagined water slopping all over the cabin, even if she or Peter, the ship’s boy, managed to get it down the stairs. Finally dressed, shoes, gloves and cloak on, she tapped on the Blights’ door and was greeted with silence. Cautiously she opened the door and peered inside. They were both asleep, but the necessary bucket had overturned and spilled onto the floor. Wrinkling her nose, she decided to seek out Peter, closed the door and climbed up the stairs in darkness—the hatch was closed. With some difficulty she threw it open, and was met with a spray of freezing salt water.
She clambered out, slammed the hatch shut, and stepped into another world, gray and fierce. A wave broke onto the steep slope of the deck, the water draining off as the ship righted.
“Best to stay below, today, ma’am,” Mr. Johnson bawled at her above the wind, apparently recovered from his seasickness. “Peter will be below in a while, so tell him what you need.”
“Thank you,” she shouted back.
“Mind yourself, ma’am!” He grasped her hand and closed it around a rope. “Hold on tight, and keep out of the way, if you please.”
Water broke over her feet, soaking and chilling them, but she didn’t care, exhilarated by the danger, the wild elements. She skidded and stumbled to the galley where Lardy Jack, face red from heat and steam, controlled wildly swinging pots over the fire.
“Good morning, miss. A bit of weather, today, but we’re making good speed.”
“Indeed, yes. How are the chickens?”
“Two washed overboard, the rest probably not laying for the moment. I’ll send Peter down with breakfast, ma’am. You shouldn’t be out in this.”
“I’m most grateful. Make sure he brings the mop, if you please.”
“You’re not sick, are you miss? We have bets on you and Mr. Pendale.”
“Not yet.” She grinned back at him. “I trust you won’t lose any money on my account. Can you give me an ember for the lantern?”
“Surely, miss.” He deftly shoveled hot coals into a small pot and handed it to her. “Careful, now.”
She would have liked to stay on deck to watch the waves crest and break but, with the amount of activity going on, knew she would only be in the way. She timed her entry into the hatch when there was little water on deck, slamming it closed behind her. Below it felt relatively quiet and warm, away from the roar of wind and sails. She blew on the embers and watched the red heat and glow, warming her hands on the pot.
She lit
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