A Different Sort of Perfect (8 page)

His name wasn't second among the alphabetized ones,
so she scanned further and found it lodged in the middle of the
disorderly section, followed by the word "landman." She checked it
off.

By the time they reached "James Hardwick, waister"
the stares no longer bothered her — for none of the sailors looked
away, not for a moment. And a clear pattern emerged amongst them.
The ones whose names comprised the alphabetized portion of the list
wore neat, clean clothing similar to that worn by Edward Ackers:
white duck trousers and a plain but well-sewn shirt of
blue-and-white checked linen. They also saluted the quarterdeck
properly and stepped out smartly to their posts. But the sailors
whose names made up the lower, disorganized portion wore clothing
of all varieties: farmhands' dirt-smudged wool, torn tweeds that
had likely seen poaching, threadbare smocks of town laborers. These
sailors had to be pushed and pulled into their proper places, and
they looked lost and forlorn. All of them were rated landmen. She'd
heard of the press-gangs that snatched workingmen off the streets
and from jail cells; now she'd seen their results for herself.

At "David Mayne, foretopman," she realized her
shoulders had relaxed and her lips started to curve, and before
they closed with "Jeremiah Wake, forecastleman," she no longer
cared that her lovely grey sarsnet had collected flecks of black
ink.

Because she was doing a man's job. Better, she'd
warrant, than some men.

A delicious, bold-as-brass euphoria soaked through
her as she formed the final tick mark. Perhaps Captain Fleming
truly did need a clerk; perhaps his request was so much hogwash,
designed to keep her busy or out of the way. It didn't matter. The
useful chores would keep her occupied and content whenever she
tired of reading Staunton's journal, or when lace-making and
crochet no longer amused her. She'd studied with her father and
Miss Hadley to improve her mind, but this was different — this was
using her mind for a practical purpose, and she relished it.

Even if she didn't as yet understand the captain's
motives. Nor the captain himself, for that matter.

Only three sailors didn't answer to their names.
Nobody seemed surprised at their lack of response.

"So Titus Ferry truly has run," Captain Fleming
said.

She glanced up from the book. But the captain had
turned to his first officer, not her.

"I'm having trouble understanding that," he
continued. "Titus volunteered; he wasn't pressed, nor was he jail
fodder. He wanted to be a sailor. Why would he run?"

No mark graced "Titus Ferry, captain's clerk."
Captain Fleming hadn't been joking; he did need a clerk's
assistance, since his own hadn't showed before sailing. A frisson
shivered through her. Of course she hoped nothing had happened to
the poor man; perhaps he'd only become engrossed in a card game or
conversation in a tavern and so missed his boat. But her
satisfaction over assuming his position prevented her from feeling
too sorry over his plight.

Mr. Abbot's auburn hair was mussed but his uniform
coat, white frilled shirt, and breeches were shipshape. He grimaced
and raised his eyebrows in a facial shrug. "If he ran away to avoid
a lady, perhaps they kissed and made up."

"Well, perhaps." Captain Fleming didn't seem
convinced. "He never spoke of a lady in his life, but then, he
didn't speak much of his home at all." He raised his voice. "Carry
on, Mr. Bruce."

A small, portly man pushed his way through the
gathered warrant officers, elbowing the carpenter and quartermaster
in passing. Grey, greasy hair stuck from beneath his stovepipe hat
and he cut a suspicious eye each way as he rolled across the
larboard gangway, now cleared of sailors, to where a collection of
barrels huddled. Before he quite reached them, two wizened
Chinamen, their matching black-and-silver queues reaching their
hips, scurried past him and began yanking off the round barrel tops
that were so reminiscent of Mr. Bruce's figure.

Clara raised the book in front of her face. Diana had
taught her that a real lady never let the victim of a titter see
it. That was one dictate best kept while aboard.

While Mr. Bruce — or the purser, as he was called
with some apparent distaste — stood by, watching with scintillating
eyes, his two mates, Long Song and Hue Bye, pulled dozens of pairs
of white duck trousers and blue-and-white linen shirts from the
assorted barrels. These were issued to the newly pressed sailors,
and Captain Fleming murmured that she was to write the cost of the
clothing, forty-eight shillings or two months' pay, against each
man's name. Outrageous that these men, yanked from their homes,
businesses, and jail cells without even a by-your-leave, were now
to be charged for the clothing to keep them decent. But perhaps she
should learn more before speaking her mind.

Once the sailors' slops were issued and the barrels
lowered back into the hold in a rope net, Long Song stood on the
larboard gangway while the carpenter's mate hammered a nail in
behind his feet. Twelve stretched steps later, Long Song stopped
and the mate added another nail to mark that spot. Hue Bye hurried
forward, his arms piled with bolts of cloth. As he tumbled them
from their wrappings, a beautiful clear shade of indigo and a snowy
white appeared. The Chinese measured the cloth between the two
nails and with the dexterous efficiency of long shopkeeper's
practice, sliced off nine lengths of each color, a dozen yards
long.

She sighed. The indigo linen, although a simple
cloth, flowed like dark, soft water as Hue Bye bundled it into
precise folded lengths. One of those bundles wouldn't be enough to
make even a simple morning or walking gown. And of course the color
was unfashionable, even immodest, for an unmarried woman of her age
and station. But it was still gorgeous and she yearned, watching
with envy as Long Song handed a bundle of each color, along with
needles and thread, to nine picked sailors, all of them
experienced, headed by Edward Ackers, the coxswain.

"They're the captain's bargemen," Staunton muttered,
as he'd muttered information to her for the last hour, "they row
the captain about when he needs to leave the ship. Since last
cruise was a good 'un, he's bought material so's they can make
themselves proper bargemen's outfits."

She couldn't have heard that right. "
Make
their own clothing? Men?" But even as she sniggered, she remembered
her father's neat, even stitching on the telescope's canvas
covering, the stitches she'd fought to duplicate without success.
Her glee died.

Staunton gave her an arch look and didn't deign to
answer. Behind him, the mist had begun drawing away, but the cool
air still raised goose flesh on her arms beneath her wrap and only
the barest breeze blew. Her dampened hair clung to her cheeks.

The last bundle of cloth was tucked beneath a smiling
bargeman's arm and toted away. But Long Song and Hue Bye tossed out
the white cloth again, measuring it between the nails once … twice
… her pulse picked up speed … a third time before they sliced it
from the dwindling bolt. They folded it together, cut off and
folded a similar length of the indigo linen, and handed them to the
purser.

Who handed them to Staunton.

Who handed them to Mr. Abbot.

Who doffed his scraper and handed them to Captain
Fleming.

She couldn't stand much more of the suspense.

Captain Fleming hefted the indigo and white cloth.
"Thank you. Pass the word for Wake, Mr. Abbot."

Her pulse pounded in her ears and she had to look a
whimpering, drooling fool. But she couldn't help it; Diana's
fashion lessons must have taken a far greater hold on her than
she'd realized. Of course she needed clothing. One ink-stained
gown, no matter how good the sarsnet cloth, wouldn't last her the
two months or more to southern Africa's tip. Did she get a wage for
the work she was performing? Could she offer to buy the remaining
indigo linen from Captain Fleming with what credit she could scrape
together? Could he be bribed?

A scarecrow of a sailor, with a sharp, wrinkled face
and gnarled hands, knuckled his forehead to the captain. "Aye,
sir?"

"Ah, Wake." Captain Fleming gave him the indigo linen
and white cloth.

Then he stepped back and turned to her.

All the mist-damp air seemed to vanish from the
quarterdeck. Or at least she couldn't breathe all of a sudden.

"Wake, Lady Clara has generously consented to fill in
for Titus Ferry during the voyage."

Silence fell over the entire ship. Even the whisper
of water along the ship's side seemed to still. Straining eyes, and
surely ears, peered from around every mast, sail, railing, and
rope. Not a wrinkle moved in Jeremiah Wake's face.

She'd forgotten the staring. But it hadn't gone away.
It had merely waited and now it was back. Her stomach hadn't felt
so tight and cold since she and Harmony had eaten their ices too
quickly during an assembly room ball.

A strange shade of pinkish-grey rose from Captain
Fleming's collar and crept over his face. He wasn't oblivious to
the staring, either. "I want you to stitch her up a few gowns,
nothing fancy, necessarily—"

She might argue with that.

"—something that will fit in with everyone else's
uniforms."

And she might not. Captain Fleming was serious. He
truly intended for her to be a part of his crew, and the
realization drove her heart to a faster clip.

So much for understanding the captain's motives; he'd
meant precisely what he'd said. As for understanding the captain
himself… perhaps that would come in time.

Captain Fleming rocked back on his heels and glanced
over the ship. The peering eyes vanished, to a man.

"Besides yourself, of course, Wake—"

For the first time Wake's expression softened. But
only a touch.

"—who would you say has the best needle in the
ship?"

One eye peered cautiously about the mainmast. Another
appeared from behind some rigging, and others followed, until again
the entire crew stared. Not at the captain. At her. And then at the
captain.

Air returned to the quarterdeck. At least she wasn't
alone in being the target. She inhaled hard, drawing the dampness
deep inside.

But Wake didn't glance back at the rest of the crew.
"Oh, Mayne, sir, in course. Nobody sews a quicker nor neater seam
than him."

"Then have Mayne assist you, and anyone else you
need. Let's see if you can't get something sewn together for her
before quarters." Captain Fleming nodded to her, then turned to Mr.
Abbot and began speaking in a low voice.

All the eyes swiveled to her. Including Wake's, sharp
glittering blue like the sea on the horizon.

The air went away again. If someone didn't fix that
soon, she'd faint.

And on the thought, Wake's eyes crinkled in his
weathered face and the barest edges of his lips curled higher. He
jerked his chin to a gangling young man at the foot of the
quarterdeck's ladder, and together the two vanished for'ard, Wake
muttering and Mayne nodding, carrying the cloth between them.

She knew nothing of them, nothing of their sewing
skills nor their fashion sense, and they'd done little more than
glance at her for sizing. Captain Fleming said they could sew. Sew
what? A sail? Men's clothing? If she rushed after them, she could
give them directions and—

—make herself appear silly, not to mention admitting
her lack of trust in their competence. No, that was impossible if
she wished to be considered a member of the crew. And with a sudden
rush, she knew to the last full stop how much she yearned for just
that.

With the fog retreating and dampness slowly trickling
down the back of her neck, Clara sat on the for'ard quarterdeck and
copied out the new muster, first alphabetizing them in Titus
Ferry's book and then a second time onto a full sheet of foolscap,
carefully aligning the names into rigid columns and spelling them
precisely. Only when Hennessy brought her a sandwich and mug of
sweet, lemony ginger beer did she realize how the morning had flown
past, with bells ringing and bosun's pipes twittering and the hands
racing to and fro. She'd missed all of it through her
concentration. But the muster was done.

In the afternoon she pulled out her lace-making. But
she still felt the weight of those stares and her trembling hand
kept dropping the tiny little cotton thread from the absurdly small
hook. Instead she pulled out the wrap she'd started a few days ago,
stripes of lovely cream, tan, and brown hooked like tambour, only
with a comfortable size yarn and hook, and without the net. The
sedge stitch combination of single, half-double, and double crochet
stitches all in the same spot formed sweet little pillows within
the stripes; unlike her attempts at sewing, or knitting, or
netting, or embroidery, this would actually be something she could
wear without a blush. Shepherd's knitting, Father said it was
called, but the French word
crochet
fit it better.

"Lady Clara?"

Staunton's voice. She glanced up, and her cramped
neck screamed at her.

"Yes, Mr. Staunton?" She rubbed the back of her neck.
"Oh!"

In his hands he held an indigo blue garment with
white trim. It was folded and discreet, details hidden away. But
not a stitch in the cunning stand-up collar seemed hurried nor out
of line, better than anything she could have created.

"It's beautiful!" She set her crochet aside and shook
out the dress. They'd made it after the pattern of Staunton's
uniform jacket, with an open front filled in by a modest stretch of
white, white patches on the collar, gathered beneath the arms and
bosom, and loose sleeves to the elbow with white edging. It flowed
down to her feet in the perfect length, not so much material it
would billow and catch on the ship's workings, not so little it
would be constricting. It wasn't the ghostly muslin that was all
the rage, and it carried more trim; but it was a naval officer's
uniform and she'd not hesitate to wear it into any assembly room
around.