Regency Debutantes: The Captain's Lady / Mistaken Mistress

John Anderson nodded his head. He’d trust Nathaniel Hawke above all others. The man had an uncanny ability for choosing wisely, even if it did appear sometimes slightly questionable to those who had neither his knowledge nor his experience.

The deck heaved beneath their feet as the white-crested waves buffeted the bow of the Pallas. The wind howled above the roar of the waves. All around them timber groaned and creaked as the sails were retracted. Men climbed fast, loosing the ropes, securing them again when the canvases had been taken in. Spray stung at their faces, dripped from their hair, soaking their clothes and drenching the decks.

‘All men to stay below other than are absolutely necessary up here. I’d say we have twenty minutes at the most before it reaches us.’ Nathaniel’s face was grim.

‘Yes, sir.’ Lieutenant Anderson watched his captain’s determined stance, a shiver of apprehension snaking down his spine. ‘What’s so bad, sir? We’ve suffered storms before and faired well enough.’

He did not want to frighten the young man, but forewarned was forearmed. ‘Never a storm like the one that’s coming for us now. Pray to God, Mr Anderson, that it passes quickly.’

‘Promise me, George, that you’ll stay in my day cabin until the storm has passed.’

She could see the anxiety in that determined glare. For a moment she thought that it was true what they said—the eyes were the windows to the soul, and Nathaniel Hawke’s soul was concerned by whatever he had seen sweeping down towards them across the ocean. He cared no more or no less about any man aboard the Pallas. Each was a member of his crew; he saw every one of them as his responsibility. ‘Yes, sir. There’s darning to be done and I’ll keep myself busy with the linen repairs.’

Still he seemed restless and uneasy. ‘Promise me,’ he said, his voice quiet and insistent. Seawater dripped from dark, sodden hair to run down his cheeks.

‘I’ll give you no cause to worry more over me than any other man or boy aboard this ship. I promise I’ll do as you command.’

Lines of tension were deeply etched into the flesh around his mouth, his coiled energy palpable within the confines of the small cabin. She longed to give him some measure of comfort, some little encouragement in the task that lay ahead. Wanted to touch her lips to his and tell him that all would be well. But George Robertson could not. She forced a smile to her mouth.

He stood still, silent, and regarded her for a minute, a single long minute, with an unreadable expression upon his face. Then turned and walked towards the door, shouting over his shoulder, ‘Fraser and the others will keep you company. It’s going to be a very long day and an even longer night.’

The waves grew larger as the wind set up a banshee howl. Through the windows in Nathaniel’s cabin, ship’s boy George Robertson watched the cold grey sea whip into a fury of froth and lashing fingers. It attacked the ship with violence as the sky darkened to a deep lifeless hue, chasing the light away. Only three bells had sounded, but already they could scarcely see within the captain’s cabin. The Pallas pitched and rolled at the mercy of the roaring ocean, her pine structure creaking and groaning under the strain. The holed bed linen slithered to the floor undarned as Georgiana clung to the unlit candle sconce. Waves battered at the feeble glass of the windows until she thought they surely must shatter beneath the hostile assault. A single lantern swung from the ceiling, lurching and swaying with the convulsions of the ship, illuminating the captain’s servants as monstrous distortions.

‘How’re you doin', laddie?’ Mr Fraser’s lilting voice enquired. He raised his head from the game of cards that he was enjoying with Bottomley, the captain’s cook, and Spence, the captain’s steward.

‘Survivin', thank you, sir. Will the storm last long?’

The grizzled grey head concentrated upon his hand of cards. ‘As long as it has a mind to last, no’ a moment less.’

A wave battered the stern, sending Georgiana hurtling across the room.

‘Steady, lad!’ the valet exclaimed, reaching out a gnarled old hand and hoisting the boy back by the scruff of the neck.

Three books fell off Nathaniel’s desk and a silver wine goblet rolled across the floor. Bottomley stopped it dead with his toe. Just when Georgiana thought that things could not possibly get any worse, a torrent of rain was released from the heavens to beat the Pallas into submission. A sheet of driving shards lashed the frigate without mercy and a rumble of thunder cracked loud. Somewhere across the deep darkness a tiny flicker lit up the sky, then it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Dear Lord, nothing could hope to survive against such ferocity.

Fear twisted at Georgiana’s gut. ‘Where’s the captain?’

‘Up on deck.’ Mr Fraser’s single eye focused upon the boy and softened a little. ‘No need to worry, laddie. The captain knows what he’s doin'. Been through a hundred storms, he has, and never got caught yet.’

‘But shouldn’t we be helpin', sir?’ The thought of any man, let alone Nathaniel Hawke, out facing the wrath of the heavens was worrying in the extreme.

Mr Fraser shook his head. ‘We’d only create more hindrance than help. The captain’ll send for us if he needs us. Best to just stay out the way and look after his cabin.’ The boy’s eyes looked huge in the whitened pallor of his face. Poor lad. ‘It’ll pass soon enough, laddie. Best turn your mind to other things.’

A pile of papers slid off the desk and landed with a thud by her leg. She grabbed them and crawled along the floor to stuff them inside a drawer. Mr Fraser was right. There was nothing any of them could do about it, other than wait for the storm to pass, and pray that the Pallas’ crew remained safe.

The thunder rolled across the sky, masking the muffled knock at the door. A drenched seaman staggered in, dripping water across the polished wooden floor. ‘Man overboard,’ he said through gasping breath.

‘Who?’ Mr Fraser’s single eye widened at the news.

‘Midshipmen Hartley.’

‘Are we needed?’ His ancient tone was clipped, determined.

‘Not yet.’

And the sailor was gone.

Time dragged by. And still the storm showed no sign of abating. Georgiana hoped that Mr Hartley had been saved, but even as she turned her gaze once more to the large sea-battered windows she knew it was unlikely that anyone plunged into such a furore of indomitable wave power could survive. Drowned beneath the towering waves, or smashed like a weightless puppet against the hull. Dear God protect them all, she prayed like she never had done before, protect them all, but especially Nathaniel Hawke. Fear that he might be injured or, God forbid, die, pierced a pain through her heart. Never that, please Lord, never that. Why should she care so much for him? Was it his kindness or his strength, or the way he was just and fair? Maybe it was because he made her laugh, made her want to be with him? She laid her head against the edge of Nathaniel’s desk, clinging tightly to the wooden leg with one hand, worrying at her ear lobe with the other. Whatever the answer, ship’s boy George Robertson had no right to such feelings. Whether Georgiana Raithwaite did was another matter altogether.

Georgiana awoke to the stern tones of Mr Fraser and a vigorous shaking of her shoulder. ‘Robertson, waken yourself now, laddie. There’s plenty work to be done. It’s no time to be nappin'.’

The violent heave of the frigate was no more. No batter of rain, no riot of waves, no screaming darkness. She crawled out from beneath the captain’s desk and made for the windows. A calm leaden sea and colourless sky stretched endlessly ahead.

She turned to the elderly valet. ‘Mr Hartley, sir?’ The question had to be asked.

‘They fished him out alive, if not well.’

‘Thank God!’

Mr Fraser’s eye narrowed. ‘There’ll be no takin’ the Lord’s name in vain on this ship.’

‘And the captain?’

Fraser mellowed slightly at the anxiety-edged voice. ‘In fine mettle as ever. Come on, laddie, you’re gabbin’ like a fishwife. You youngsters would do anythin’ to avoid work. Got to keep my eye on you!’ His single eye stared large and codlike at Georgiana.

‘Yes, Mr Fraser, sir.’ She breathed her relief and watched while the cod eye delivered her a hearty wink.

Nathaniel was exhausted, but he knew that there was still much to be done before he could rest. Jeremiah Hutton and his assistants were already sawing up wooden spars to repair the damage done to the mizzen topgallant mast. Debris strewn across the decks was in the process of being cleared. And midshipman Hartley had apparently survived his ordeal with little more than a scratch to his arm.

Georgiana clambered upon the forecastle and surveyed the damage. ‘Set to it, lad.’ A basin was pressed into her hands. ‘Gather up seaweed and all else, exceptin’ fish, heave it over t’side. Look smart, now.’ She felt a thrust in her back and the voice was gone.

Pieces of wood, shells, dead and dying fish and stinking seaweed covered the floor before her. She scanned up towards the quarterdeck for any sign of Nathaniel. The seaweed squelched cold and slimy beneath her fingers. Sam Wilson’s thin body emerged ahead, gathering up the fish in his basin.

‘Sammy!’ she hailed.

The little lad looked round. ‘George! Place ain’t been the same without you.’

‘It’s good to see you too.’ She embraced the skinny body, glad that the orphaned youngster had survived the storm unscathed. Sam Wilson worried her more than she let anyone know. ‘Have you been helpin’ Jack like I told you to?’

‘Yeah, I’m Jack’s mate. He’s learning me knots for the riggin', and he don’t let no one cuff me, or take me grog.’ Sam gave her a gap-toothed grin.

‘What happened to your teeth?’ Georgiana held the lad at arm’s length and inspected his small grubby face.

He trailed a dirty hand across his runny nose. ‘Fell out when I was eatin’ me biscuit. Jack says more’ll grow.’

Georgiana smiled at the small ragamuffin before her and ruffled his matted hair. Poor little mite, thank goodness Burly Jack was looking out for him.

‘Master Robertson,’ a curt voice sounded. ‘Much as I hate to interrupt your little reunion, there’s work to be done aboard this frigate. And that means for all of us, no matter who we might happen to be.’ The veiled snub hit home, causing Georgiana to blush and resume her debris collection with renewed vigour. Lieutenant Pensenby leaned back against the railing and watched the boy’s progression with shrewd eyes. There was something strange about George Robertson, something very strange indeed. The way that he’d hugged ship’s boy Wilson, the clear, fine-boned face. It smacked of something unnatural, even if he was the captain’s nephew, or at least purported to be. Perhaps Captain Hawke was not quite the hero everyone thought. All was not as it presented itself, of that Cyril Pensenby was sure, and, one way or another, he meant to get to the bottom of the puzzle.