Marrying the Captain

“This is a hard war, Mr. Childers.”

He turned his attention to the dry docks. There was a schooner in one way, and his own frigate next to it. The other four dry docks were empty. He looked to the ways in the distance, and only one showed a ship in progress. “It appears you can use the work.”

“We can indeed,” the shipwright said, the light back in his eyes, and his voice friendly again. If anything, he looked peppier than before his hair-pulling session. He frowned then. “I know Admiral Lord Gardner has his reasons for keeping the Channel Fleet at its station, but—” he gestured toward the frigate’s stern “—you can only defer maintenance so long. When the water’s up to your ass, it’s a bit late, wouldn’t you say?”

It was typical navy graveyard humor. “A bit,” he agreed. He held out his hand to the shipwright, who shook it. They parted friends.

Oliver handed his roster to Mr. Proudy. “We’ll follow our usual pattern. Number ones go first for five days, and so on in rotation. Remind the crew that if all the number ones don’t return, there will be no two, three or four. You might also remind them that their share of the prize money from our last cruise is at Brustein and Carter’s, matched against my roster and their identification.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Proudy said, as he took the roster. He turned toward the Tireless and held it up, to cheers from all on deck.

Oliver turned to Mr. Ramseur. “Is my purser still on board?”

“Aye, sir.”

Oliver took some coins from his waistcoat pocket and handed them to his second mate. “Give him my compliments, Mr. Ramseur, and ask him to have a quarter beef and a package of good lamb chops—maybe a dozen—delivered to the Mulberry. He knows the victuallers better than I do.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And, Mr. Ramseur…”

“Sir?”

“How about you and I watch the shipwright’s progress for the first two weeks and allow Mr. Proudy to escort his lady home to Exeter for some peace and quiet?”

Ramseur blushed, as Oliver knew he would. He grinned then and nodded. “Aye, sir. Shall I tell him?”

“Do. And tell him once he finishes the crew’s assignments, he can leave for Exeter.”

Oliver looked at Ramseur, really looked at him, and saw him for what he was: young, loyal, relatively untried. “Mr. Ramseur, I don’t think anything will happen in dry docks that you and I cannot handle.”

“Really, sir?”

For a moment, his number two sounded like a schoolboy. Was I ever that young? Oliver asked himself. Of course I was.

“Absolutely.” No point in stopping there. “Mr. Ramseur, I never fully thanked you for the clearheaded way you acted when the Wellspring rammed our stern. I’m glad you were on watch then, and not one of the midshipmen, or it might have been a different story.”

Oliver touched his forefinger to his hat and turned away to answer another question from Childers. When he turned back, Ramseur, his back straight and his step dignified, was crossing the plank to the Tireless, the picture of confidence.

I need to remember to do that more often, Oliver thought, as he watched his number two. Sometimes a kind word is more valuable than prize money. He thought of Nana Massie then, wondering if women could be treated the same way. He concluded they could.

With a look of gratitude worth more than speech, Mr. Proudy left the Tireless a few minutes later, saluted his captain and promised to return in two weeks.

“See that you do, Mr. Proudy,” Oliver said. “That’ll give Mr. Ramseur a week home in Lyme Regis. Didn’t he say something about a vicar’s daughter?”

“She’s the daughter of a solicitor, sir,” Mr. Proudy answered. “Dorie, I believe. Thank you again, sir.”

Oliver watched him go. Dorie, eh? he thought. Why on earth did I let all the Dories of the world pass me by? Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have given his mates’ personal lives a second thought. He blamed his new frame of reference on Lord Ratliffe’s miniature, and that curious axis shift at Admiralty House.

He nooned with Childers over a bowl of soup, then realized he had to return to his bed at the Mulberry. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he told the shipwright. “If you have any questions, ask Mr. Ramseur.”

Even though his ears throbbed and his throat felt as though it was trapped in a vise, Oliver directed the hackney to Drake’s Inn first. All I want is information, he excused himself. I’ve known Mrs. Fillion for enough years to appreciate how much she likes to gossip. I will have to question her carefully, though.

He told the hackney driver to wait for him. He found Mrs. Fillion in the kitchen, staring glumly at her account book. She brightened when she saw him.

“Is the Mulberry not to your liking?” she asked. “They do need the trade.”

“So do you, madam,” he replied, sitting down. “Tough times ahead.”

She turned worried eyes on him. “We’ll fare all right, sir. Are you comfortable enough at the Mulberry?”

“I am,” he replied. “The Massies are seeing to my needs.” He leaned closer, pleased to see Mrs. Fillion do the same. “Pete Carter has fixed me a wicked brew for my throat, and Miss Massie seemed determined to keep the fire stoked to healing levels.” He shook his head. “It’s Gran that fair terrifies me.”

Mrs. Fillion laughed. “She’s an ogre, is Nancy Massie.” She leaned closer again. “If it weren’t for her, I can’t imagine what would have happened to Nana.”

Oliver didn’t have to say anything. He just raised his eyebrows.

“Nancy’s daughter, Rachel, was a flighty piece. She caught the fancy of a lieutenant. What happened to Rachel has happened to women in port the world over.” She looked at him knowingly.

“Ah, yes” was all he needed to say to restart Mrs. Fillion.

The innkeep lowered her voice. “Rachel had the bad fortune to die in childbirth. I don’t know how Nancy did it, but she held that lieutenant to some level of accountability.”

“That’s rare.”

“It is.” Mrs. Fillion shrugged. “I wouldn’t care to stand in front of Nancy Massie when she has an ax to grind. Somehow, a deal was struck. The baby’s father would see to her education, and then provide her with a meaningful opportunity.”

“Which didn’t happen, obviously, because she’s back in Plymouth.”

Mrs. Fillion nodded. “Five years ago, Nana came home on the mail coach from Bath. No one has said why.”

And you can’t worm it out of Gran, Oliver thought. This must be a tight secret indeed. And you don’t appear to know who that lieutenant was. He couldn’t deny his own disappointment at Mrs. Fillion’s news, which enlightened him no more than Lord Ratliffe had. He still didn’t know why Nana had bolted for Plymouth.

“At least Miss Massie has her grandmama,” he said, leaning back so he felt less like a co-conspirator.

“Gran’s a fierce protector,” the innkeep said. “So’s that old Pete.”

“A regular Scylla and Charybdis,” Oliver murmured.

“Are they Frogs?” Mrs. Fillion asked.

“Even worse. Greeks.”

“So Nana has returned to Plymouth. Lord knows if she will ever leave it.”

“No dowry, I gather?”

“Heavens, no!” Mrs. Fillion sighed, then gave him a knowing look. “A pretty face can get a woman a career in Plymouth, eh, Captain? But not Nana—a rich man’s by-blow, and not quite a lady.”