Her Master and Commander (7 page)

P
rudence rapped a sharp, staccato knock upon the weathered door, her knuckles smarting through her glove. Overhead a lone seagull cried, the sound tossed eerily through the air. The wind whipped a bit colder against the door, stirred her skirts, puffing cold air about her stockinged ankles. Prudence shivered and pulled the collar of her cloak more tightly about her neck.

Where was the blasted captain? No doubt he was inside, toasty warm beside a fire, and drinking heavily. She’d heard that sailors were wont to do such things.

Behind her came a loud bleat. She looked over her shoulder to the sheep that was standing docilely enough behind her, tied to her waist by her bright red muffler. “Quiet, Mrs. Fieldings!” For some reason, she’d had to call the sheep something, and somehow the housekeeper’s name had seemed appropriate. There was something about the sheep’s unamused look that reminded her forcibly of Mrs. Fieldings’s usual morning reproachful sternness.

The wind blew harder and Mrs. Fieldings reached out and nibbled on the edge of the muffler, showing her yellow teeth.

“Stop that!” Prudence told the animal. “Mother made that for me.”

Mrs. Fieldings did not look impressed. If anything, she nibbled more.

“Save it for the captain’s drapes.” Only the morning chill answered this sally. Prudence shivered and knocked again, even harder this time. Still no answer came, though the icy wind played and swirled and she began to feel the cold even more seriously. “Tare and hounds,” she muttered, reaching toward the door and this time, pounding her fist on the hard wood panel. “Where is everyone?”

The words had scarcely left her lips when the door burst open. But no tall and threatening sea captain glared down at her. Instead, Stevens peered out, blinking rapidly as if just waking. He was wearing a black broadcloth coat over a striped shirt, his hair covered by a kerchief.

He looked quite “pirately,” pausing mid-yawn when he recognized her. “By the seas, Madam! I thought ’twas a dunner as come to demand the dibs, I did.”

So, the captain was in bad repair financially, was he? She shouldn’t have been surprised. “I am not a bill collector.”

“No, indeed ye aren’t, Mrs. Thistlewaite. Can I help ye?”

“I have come to see the captain.”

“Oh ho, ye have, have ye? Well, be that as it may, I cannot let ye in. I’m not one as to let a female come havy-cavy into the house without an invite, I ain’t.”

“I was invited.”

“By who, might I ask? Surely not the cap’n, for he’d no more let a female within the—” The round man’s face lit up. “Oh now! I know who invited ye! ’Twas John Pewter, wasn’t it?”

“John—no. I don’t know who that is—”

Stevens held his hand well over his own head. “About this tall, and with yellow hair tied in a queue, bit of a gimp in his right leg?”

“I don’t—”

“I daresay he thought not to leave his name, but ’tis no matter. I sent him to the tavern to find a wench, but if he found ye instead—”

“No one found me in a tavern!”

Stevens looked disappointed. “No?”

“No!”

“Oh well, then. Pity, though.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “The lads and me thought the cap’n needed some cheerin’ up and so we—” Something must have changed in her expression, for he suddenly reddened and stepped aside. “Never mind that! Just come in. ’Tis too cold to be quibbling over an invite.”

Warmth beckoned. Prudence took an eager step forward when a sharp yank on the muffler stopped her in her tracks. “Oh, yes! Wait.” She turned around, planted her heels, and pulled with all her might. Bit by bit, head bowed as she resisted every tug, Mrs. Fieldings the sheep walked through the door. The second she stepped over the threshold, some new panic hit her, for she looked around with wide eyes, bleated loudly, then turned, scrambling to get back outside.

Prudence held on with both hands.

Stevens yelped. “Gor!”

There was a loud clatter and two men came running around the corner. One was tall, with a gold ring through his ear, his head bald except for twin tufts of white hair over each ear. He was dressed in a dirty-looking coat over a long white night rail, boots on his feet. The other was short, round, and red-faced, his nose pierced with a gold hoop. He wore an improbably long black shirt over orange breeches.

The men saw the sheep attempting to escape and they immediately ran toward it. Footsteps sounded and three more men came running from another hallway, all of them as improbably pierced and dressed.

That was too much for Mrs. Fieldings. She bolted with renewed strength, yanking the muffler from Prudence’s hands and galloping madly away, the red muffler flying behind her.

“After her, men!” shouted Stephens.

The men all looked at Prudence.

She took a hasty step backward. “Not me! The sheep!”

“Aye!” Stevens snapped. “The sheep! The one wearin’ the muffler!”

Off they went, a jumble of clothing and effort, elbowing each other at the door and cursing loudly.

Prudence gasped when she saw one of them held a pistol, an evil-looking man with a scarred face and a worn blue coat.

Stevens must have seen it, too, for he yelled after the marauding herd, “Don’t ye be hurting the poor thing, either! ’Tis the cap’n’s, ye know, and he might be want-in’ to save her for Michaelmas dinner!” He shut the door. “That was a lucky thing, bringin’ that sheep! Thank you very much!”

Prudence paused. “What do you mean, ‘thank you?’”

“Aye! ’Twill keep the men busy fer hours. They’re always mopin’ and complainin’ how there’s naught to do. Now they can chase that sheep ’til their noses fall off their faces.”

Wonderful. She’d brought that blasted sheep all the way from her house and Stevens was
happy
about it. Blast it all. She could only hope the captain was not so sanguine. “Do you think the men will catch the sheep?”

“Those nabbers? Lord love ye, missus! O’course they won’t catch it! They couldn’t find a reef on a pure sunny day with a stick, those men. Not that they’re not a good sort, fer they are. They just need a bit of direction, is all. And without me or the cap’n there to guide them, well…I daresay we won’t see some of ’em fer hours. Maybe longer.”

“I hope they do not hurt the poor thing, though she’s stronger than you might think.”

“’Tis a wonder ye got her here at all.” He turned and began walking down a narrow corridor. “Come along this way, missus. I’ll take ye to the cap’n.”

Prudence paused. Should she go? If she did, what would she say? Without the sheep, her purpose was rather…lost. Had she any sense, she’d leave.

She blinked after Stevens, noting with mounting interest the inside of the cottage. Larger than the one she and Mother had rented, it had far fewer windows and was rather dark. There were two doors into the small hallway, both of which were tightly closed. From beneath one, a thin slice of light appeared. She took a step forward, her gaze glued to the light.

Stevens planted himself before her. “Ye don’t want to go in there, madam.”

“Oh. No. Of course not.” She looked at the light. “What’s in there?”

“That’s where old Riley Neilson be laid up. He busted up his left hip, he did, during the last skirmish with the French. We’ve been tending him.”

“In the front room?”

“He can’t make it up the steps, he can’t. We use both front rooms as berths. Riley is in the portside with Taggart, Lewis, and Jacobson, whilst me, Toggle, and Toots MacGrady be in the starboard.”

“You
live
in the front rooms?”

“Aye.”

Goodness, what sort of house was this that men actually lived in the front parlor and the dining room, using them as bedchambers? “Which room is the captain’s?”

Stevens gestured down the dark hallway. “The library. He calls it his quarters, he does.”

She’d already taken two short steps in that direction, but now she stopped. “Does he…does he sleep in there as well?”

“At times. But he still has his chambers upstairs. We haven’t needed it yet, though if we get any more…” Stevens shook his head sadly. “We’re up at topsail now. Filled to the quarterdeck and beyond.”

“Filled…with sailors?”

“Aye, madam. All of us were at one time or another in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. We all served under the cap’n at Trafalgar.” Stevens beamed. “He’s a war hero, ye know. The captain says we all are.”

Prudence hadn’t believed the upstairs maid’s claims about the captain being a war hero of some sort, but now, looking at Stevens’s proud expression, she thought perhaps it was the truth. “That must have been quite exciting for you all.”

“Aye! Admiral Nelson was on our ship when—” A quiver passed over the old sailor’s face. Though he suppressed it quickly, his eyes were suddenly wet.

Prudence felt like the lowest heel. She cleared her throat. “How many of you are here?”

Stevens poked his thumbs into the sleeves of his waistcoat and squinted up at the ceiling. “Twenty-seven.”

“In this one house?”

“Well now, some come and some go.” A sad look crossed Stevens’s face. “’Tis hard fer a sailor to weigh anchor fer long. There’s a restlessness that’s hard on the soul.”

“This is quite a large undertaking, then.”

“Ye don’t know the half of it. The cap’n feeds us and clothes us, he does. But he doesn’t give it to us fer nothing, which is good, as a man has to have his pride. All the men work, whenever there’s something as needs doin’.”

There was much more to the captain than she’d thought. Much, much more. “That is quite generous of him.”

“Indeed ’tis.” The first mate scratched his chin, then gestured down the hallway. “This way if ye wish to speak to the cap’n.”

“Yes, please.” She was beginning to realize that behind the captain’s gruff and grim exterior was a heart of some sort. Of course, it was possible the man was merely turning the men to his own purpose…though she couldn’t really tell how.

Stevens wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Follow me, then. The cap’n is out walkin’, but ye can wait on him in his quarters.”

“Thank you,” she said, following the man down the hallway.

He went to the last door and threw it open, then stepped aside. “In with ye!”

The sudden spill of gray light hurt her eyes as she entered the room. One wall was hung with long French doors, the silvered skies outside framed by deep green curtains. Light, such as there was, poured into the room. “Much better,” she said approvingly. “This room is brighter.”

“Aye. ’Tis like stepping onto the deck of a ship, isn’t it?” Stevens pointed to the large wingback chair that sat looking out over a small terrace and to the ocean cliff beyond. A book and a pipe rack told a tale of their own. “The cap’n likes to sit in here when the sun sets. I think he can pretend to be sailing the seas, meself.” A wistful note crept into Stevens’s voice. “I miss those days.”

“He pretends?” Somehow, Prudence didn’t think of the captain as a man given to make-believe.

A shadow crossed Stevens’s face, his blue eyes darkening. “Sometimes that’s all ye get, madam. Pretendin’.”

Prudence thought of how much she missed Phillip and how, in the days right after his death, to get through the difficult times, she’d pretend—just for an hour—that he was really just gone on a visit or a trip. That he would be back. Of course, he never came, and sometimes it made her all the sadder.

She thought of the captain and how he limped. “Will the captain ever sail again?”

“Nay, missus. Because of his leg. Can’t keep his footing on deck. Some captains, they would sail anyway, just tie themselves to the mast. But Cap’n says an unfit body in charge has led to many a failure and he’ll not be one of them. Always thinking of his men, he is.”

“I see. Where is he now?”

“I daresay he stopped by the barn.” Stevens’s face crinkled into a smile. “We’ve some visitors, we do. The cap’n sent them to the stables. I’ll see if’n I can find him. Perhaps ye should drop an anchor here whilst I fetch him.”

Prudence nodded. The man gave the room a last look, as if expecting the captain to suddenly appear, and then left.

As soon as the door closed, Prudence looked around, her gaze sweeping the room. Large paintings of ships being tossed about rough seas adorned the walls. She walked from picture to picture, taking in the blue, green and salty grays of the ocean swells.

She wandered more slowly, noting a brass instrument on a table, a myriad of other intriguing objects with it. She removed her gloves, laid them over the back of a chair with her cloak, and picked up the instrument, the cool metal pressing into her palm.

She knew so little about the captain really, other than the fact that he had a sheep that was capable of climbing over her fence. A sheep now running unchecked through the countryside, wearing her red muffler, a boatload of men chasing it.

Her lips twitched. That could be quite amusing to see. She replaced the brass…thing, whatever it was, her gaze sweeping the room. There, on a shelf by the fireplace, and somewhat above her head, was a small engraved cup. From where she stood, it looked as if it said
THE VICTORY
. She squinted and stood up on her tiptoes, trying to make out the exact etching, but she couldn’t. The light was too poor.

Could it be…The
Victory
had been the ship from which Admiral Nelson had led the Battle of Trafalgar. Surely Captain Llevanth had not been in charge of
that
ship.

The answer to a good many of her questions might well be on that cup. She stepped closer to the shelf and reached up on tiptoe, but her fingers barely grazed the outer edge. It was far too high. Glancing around, she found a chair. She would stand on it and then she could not only reach the shelf, but she would be able to see the cup up close and read the engraving completely.

She cast a cautious eye toward the doorway. No sound emanated from the darkened hallway. There’d been no rug lining the wood floor and the captain was unlikely to walk about on tiptoe, especially not with his limp, so she was certain she’d hear anyone approach.