Marrying the Captain

Nana appeared to be one who could develop soft edges, if given the opportunity. What am I doing? he thought, as he admired her. She would thrash me across the chops, if she could read my mind.

All this reckoning had taken place in just a few seconds. Nana seemed to be unaware of his assessment because she was concentrating on placing the tray on his lap now, and adjusting the legs around him. On the other hand, Pete Carter didn’t look like someone who would allow much scrutiny of his little charge.

But here she was, bending over him. Oliver couldn’t help himself. He looked her square in the face, and smiled to see those freckles across the bridge of her nose, probably destined to fade as she aged, but there now to entertain him. And he was entertained, hugely so. He liked everything he saw.

He could have cried when Nana stepped back and folded her hands in front of her. “Porridge and cream, Captain, just what you ordered,” she told him. “I didn’t know how much sugar you liked, so I brought up the whole bowl. Gran stewed some apples, too, but we decided against any toast. Your throat, you know.”

He nodded, wishing she were still bending over him. She smelled faintly of roses, not a fragrance he chanced upon much, but far more appealing than tar, bilge and gunpowder.

He looked at her again. “Miss Massie, could you prop up these pillows? I’d hate to dribble porridge across my chest like a hospital pensioner, since you’re so determined I am to eat in bed.”

She did as he asked, plumping up the pillows behind him, then getting out another from the lower drawer of the clothespress. As she put that one behind his head, her arm brushed his temple. He was in heaven.

Then it was Pete Carter’s turn. As Nana stepped back, the old sailor set down a vile-looking compound on the bedside table. “For what ails you, Captain Worthy,” he said. “Drink all of that after you finish breakfast.”

Oliver eyed it suspiciously, wishing that Pete did not look so pleased with himself at the punishment he was inflicting. “All of it? Shouldn’t I spread it out over the day?”

“All of it, sir,” Pete insisted. “And when you’re done, I’ll bring up more.” He smiled then. “It’ll work, Captain. It always does. I guarantee the remedy.”

For one disconcerting moment, Oliver felt that he had returned to his midshipmen days, under the scrutiny of a sailing master. You old rascal, he thought to himself, as the former sailor whisked away the chamber pot, not giving Oliver a single moment to feel embarrassed.

He was struck with a moment of shyness after Pete left his chamber, then reminded himself of the business at hand. Even the Tireless could wait; Nana Massie was going to eat more.

“Miss Massie, have you had breakfast yet?”

He could tell his curt question came at her out of the blue. She blinked her eyes, and then thought about an answer. Oliver leveled her with a stare generally reserved for midshipmen contemplating prevarication.

“You promised me last night you would tell the truth,” he reminded her as he picked up his spoon.

“That was for last night,” she said quickly, then laughed at his expression. “Aye, sir, I did promise,” she amended. “The answer is no.”

He set down the spoon. “I’ll wait until you come back with a bowl and spoon. If there’s porridge left…”

“There is,” she said hurriedly, interrupting him. “We kept it back in case you wanted more.”

“I don’t.” Oliver looked down at the tray in his lap. “This is quite enough. Please take what you want from the pot and come back.”

Without a word, she left the room, closing the door behind her. He stared down at the porridge, certain he had offended her and wondering if his next step now was to dress and go in search of her. To apologize? To bully her further? He asked himself why it was suddenly his problem.

The porridge tasted like ambrosia. It was sugared precisely right and needed no more. It even went down smoothly, causing his raw throat no further indignity. Too bad he wasn’t enjoying it, feeling sorry for himself and pining for company.

To his relief, she came back into his room with a full bowl and spoon. She pulled up a chair to the bed and helped herself to the sugar in the bowl on his tray. “All the sugar is up here,” she explained.

He smiled into his porridge, surprised at how much better it tasted. He glanced at Nana, who was spooning down a mouthful, a beatific expression on her face. He looked away quickly, so she wouldn’t think he was spying on her. I probably dare not do this with every meal, but I can try, he told himself.

When he finished, he eyed Pete Carter’s concoction.

“Do you know this elixir?” he asked, his voice cautious.

“I’ve had it a time or two myself,” she said. “I recommend you drink it first, and then follow it with the applesauce.”

“Does it work?”

“You’re stalling, Captain,” she teased, and he knew she wasn’t angry with him about the porridge.

“I am indeed. Facing the French fleet is one thing.” He picked up the glass. “This is quite another.”

“Cowardice will land you onshore permanently, and at half pay.”

Well, Miss Massie, you seem to know something of the navy, he thought. “So you are appealing to my patriotism now?” he asked, then took a deep breath and drank down the brew, reasoning it couldn’t be any more vile than old water in rotten kegs.

It was more pleasant than he had any reason to hope, with a strong aftertaste of molasses and just a hint of rum. There were other ingredients he could not name, and had no desire to find out. Following it with applesauce proved to be good advice, and so he told Nana. She beamed with pleasure.

“I’ll bring you another pitcher of water,” she said, rising to leave.

“Bring a tablet and pencil when you return,” he ordered. “What time is it?”

“Half-past seven, Captain.”

He rubbed his hands together and lay back against the pillows again as she picked up the tray. “I intend to be dockside staring up at the Tireless by two bells in the forenoon watch. Oh. Nine o’clock.” She began to protest, but he overrode it. “I need to prepare some lists before I go. Will you help me?”

“I suppose,” she said, her expressive eyes a little wary.

He watched her face, noting her wariness, and put it down to reluctance to spend more time in his chamber. So that’s how it is? he thought. Gran must have warned you about officers, too. Well, good for Gran, if bad for me.

“I must establish a list of priorities,” he told her. “If my number one—my first mate—were here, I would order him to help me. He, alas for me, is in the arms of his wife of less than a year. Although my men will tell you I am a hard taskmaster, I am not without feeling. Miss Massie, plain and simple—will you help me?”

That was blunt enough, he thought, observing the blush that rose to her cheeks, rendering her even sweeter to look at than before. “I would ask Pete Carter, but I doubt he can write,” he continued.

“His name only,” she said. “He didn’t need anything else in the fleet.” She looked at him, as if weighing the matter against her usual duties. “I can help,” she told him.

“Good! Have Pete summon me a hackney for half-past eight o’clock.”

“You should stay in bed,” she said, but without much conviction in her voice.

“I should, but I can’t,” he told her, trying to sound reasonable and less like a captain. “Boney doesn’t much care about my putrid throat, and probably less about my ears.”

She didn’t seem to have an argument prepared for Napoleon. “Especially your ears,” she echoed, as she closed the door behind her.

Nana went down the stairs quietly. She had gone upstairs, mostly afraid of Captain Worthy, and come down with a revised opinion. He was blunt and plainspoken, but surely no more than any other seaman she had encountered in the years since her return to Plymouth. His apparent concern for her was a surprise; she did not know why he should feel any obligation to make sure she had something to eat.

“You don’t know anything about me,” she whispered, looking back up the stairs.

She passed into the sitting room at the foot of the stairs, and then to the equally small dining room that adjoined it. Gran had told her to prepare a table setting for Captain Worthy—one table among eight. It looked faintly ludicrous in the empty room. She sat down, thinking of their only other tenant at the inn, who had died last spring.

Miss Edgar—Nana never knew her Christian name—had been a governess, a lady somewhat down on her luck whose last position had been with the harbormaster’s family. When the two daughters had outgrown Miss Edgar’s services, she had not the funds to relocate anywhere else, nor the energy, at her advanced age, to try for another post. It seemed no one was interested in hiring an old lady whose French was getting rusty, and who had difficulty remembering the capitals of Europe.

She had come to the Mulberry because it was cheap and clean, and stayed there five years before her money ran out. From Nana’s fifteenth birthday on, when she visited Plymouth during holidays, she had observed Miss Edgar sitting by herself in the otherwise empty dining room, and spending her evenings alone in the sitting room.