Marrying the Captain. Carla Kelly
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it was her very powerlessness that made him garrulous. He seemed to sense—rightly so—that there was nothing he could tell her that would ever be repeated. Obviously she knew no one who could profit by any of his conversation, and he was aware of that.
Or so Nana reasoned. She looked at him, but not as minutely as he had observed her earlier, deciding she had nothing to fear from this stern-looking man who was probably braver than lions, even if he did say he was afraid.
She wanted him to smile. “Do they not desert because you see that their bedding is turned down nicely at night and there is a fire laid in the grate?”
He rewarded her with a laugh, which pleased her beyond all expectation. “I rather think it is the bedtime story, lullaby and gentle rocking of the hammock.”
It was her turn to laugh. She looked into his eyes and saw good humor mirrored there. “And hot milk before lights out,” she added.
“You’ve hit upon it. Actually, it’s wrapped up in money, as most things are, I must confess,” he said. “Although the Tireless is part of the Channel Fleet, we operate under Admiralty Orders.” He looked at her. “Are you bored yet?”
She was far from bored. She could have listened to him for hours. “I don’t think you could bore me,” she told him. “We live a quiet life here in Plymouth.”
“Admiralty Orders are more onerous because my ship is at the beck and call of Admiralty House for special missions.”
He must have thought that sounded ostentatious, so he made a face. “Someone has to do it, Miss Massie. When we take the occasional prize ship, we needn’t share it with the fleet, so our shares are larger, from captain right down to the lowest-rated landsman. They love me for the money.”
She didn’t believe that for a minute. He must have noticed the skepticism on her face. “What other reason can you use to explain my low desertion rate?”
“You are fair.”
“You don’t even know me,” he countered.
“No, I don’t,” she agreed. The room seemed suddenly too warm. “Is that all, sir? Should I ask Pete to find a hackney?”
He sat up carefully. “Not yet. Look in the tar bag again. I think there is a folded sheet with the heading of Repairs. I have a few more you need to add.”
She sat down again and picked up the bag, wrinkling her nose at the smell, but rummaging until she found the sheet.
“That’s my copy. I left the original with my sailing master, so the shipwright could see it when the Tireless went to dry docks.”
Under his direction, she added two more items to check, then handed him the list. He looked it over, then directed his gaze at her again. “If you would have Pete find a hackney now, I can dress and be ready. Also, I am going to write a note for my number one at Drake’s Inn. I’m sorry to ask this, but could you please deliver it? I truly hate to bother him, but I still need him in dry docks.” He smiled more to himself than to her. “He’ll still have to pry himself off Mrs. Proudy.”
She knew she should pretend she hadn’t heard that remark, so she bit her lip to keep from laughing.
He observed her anyway. “Miss Massie, I feel confident that your grandmother, and certainly Pete, have sufficiently warned you to have nothing to do with members of the Royal Navy. They are vulgar, lewd and single-minded to the point of mania.”
She had to laugh then.
“By God, it’s good to hear a woman laugh,” the captain said, and she could tell he was utterly serious now. Or was he? “But do have a care in your dealings with the sailing fraternity, Miss Massie. I’ll see you belowdeck—downstairs.”
“Aye, Captain,” she teased.
She went to the door, but he called her back, almost as though he didn’t wish to be alone. He gestured toward the rain-polished window. “I must confess I am concerned about sending you outside into this Plymouth drizzle to deliver a message.” He cleared his throat, as though stalling for time and trying to figure out how to proceed. “I can’t help but notice how short your hair is. If you have been recently ill, surely someone else can deliver the message to Mr. Proudy.”
She touched her hair. Now it was her turn to figure out how to proceed. She could make light of the matter, and laugh about her hair weighing so much it was uncomfortable on her neck. Or she could just tell the truth, since that seemed to be coin of the realm with Captain Worthy.
“I sold it to the wigmaker,” she told him, looking him in the eye. “We needed the money.” She opened the door, eager to escape the room now, especially when she saw the sadness come into his eyes. “I’m in fine health, Captain, and can deliver any message in any weather.”
Nana closed the door, and leaned against it. She felt out of breath, even light-headed. She wanted to go back into Captain Worthy’s chamber and pour out all her worries: no money, no possible prospect of marriage, a shameless father who saw her as a tool, the real and gathering threat of the Mulberry’s ruin with its accompanying fear and humiliation of having to throw themselves onto the dubious mercies of the parish.
He has enough worries, and some to spare, she thought, as she went downstairs. I can at least run his errands. There must be other ways we can make his stay a good one, even if this is the shabbiest inn on the entire Devon coast.
Oliver Worthy dressed carefully, lying down a few times when his troublesome ears made the room spin around. He felt wretched, and with little prodding would have gladly crawled between the covers again. Maybe he could be ill later, when the work had begun on the Tireless and the shipwright was weary of having him around.
That would be good. He could lie around the Mulberry, reading when he fancied it, eating, and writing letters. He had seen people doing that in London hotels, when orders from the Admiralty dictated he remain in the City. He couldn’t really imagine such leisure, ranking it somewhere with the seven wonders of the world.
As for writing letters, there was no one to write to. His parents were dead, and so were some of his earlier comrades in the deep-water trade, those unlucky enough to come up against enemies or storms on the ocean, or lee shores in bad weather. His other friends were at sea, and had no more time than he did. Several years ago, he had written a time or two to a lady he had met in Naples, the widow of a customs official. Three years later, when he was back in that plague-ridden city, he had paid her a call, only to discover she was married again, a mother, and widowed once more. He must have had a sailor’s natural superstition, because that sounded like too much bad luck for him; he didn’t return.
It had been five years ago, when he was twenty-five and still optimistic. He left Naples harbor with a firm resolve to never even contemplate matrimony again. So far, he had not, which meant that someone as charming as Nana Massie was completely safe from him. He had declared himself immune to women, and he meant it.
This was not something the men of the fleet discussed, but he knew what happened when husbands were too long at sea. Some took to drink, many turned inward and others became soured by long-term separation and took it out on their crew.
He thought it was worse for the wives. He remembered, as clear as yesterday, the Retribution’s return from a two-year voyage, to see a row of wives lining the quay, and to watch some scream and others faint when the captain had to tell them their husbands had died and were buried in distant ports, or had been dropped into watery graves midocean. It was easily his own worst duty as a captain. He would never inflict such punishment on a wife.
Still, there was Nana. He couldn’t help but think of her, when all was quiet and he was far less busy than usual. He looked himself over while he shaved, or at least what little he could see of himself in the tiny mirror, and saw nothing there to tempt her. It wasn’t that he meant to look stern all the time. He liked to laugh as well as the next fellow, but there hadn’t been much occasion for frivolity lately, and he suspected the ladies liked to be charmed and entertained.