Chapter Twenty-Five
“They have used twelve thousand yards of rope so far, Uncle Harry.” Beside him on the Plymouth dockside, Felix consulted his list and, anticipating Harry’s next question, poked the corner of his tongue out as he did a quick calculation. “There is another forty thousand and eight hundred yards of rigging left in the store, so there should be plenty.”
“Excellent.” He patted his nephew on the head, oddly enjoying having an apprentice, albeit a press-ganged one. “We should probably order ten thousand yards more, just to be safe. This is a bigger ship than the Victory, after all.” Felix was still in a state of shock that Nelson’s ship had needed thirty miles of rope. Georgie had been right. Felix loathed mathematics, so commandeering him to spend a month as his assistant had been a stroke of genius he was smugly proud of. It might have started as a punishment, but Felix was thoroughly enjoying following him around, and they were both learning from the experience. “Make a note of that, then I think we are done for the day.”
Once the shipwrights left at five, hanging around the Boadiceawas pretty pointless, and Harry was enjoying his new routine of finishing work at a regular time and eating hot meals around a table. That he always sailed back to Cawsand to find Georgie on the beach with the girls and the dogs at the end of their day, too, was another bonus. Those lazy, conversation-filled strolls back to the house had quickly become the highlight of his day and everything seemed well in the world from the moment his gaze picked up her vibrant hair and cheery wave from halfway across the Sound. Even Plymouth had some charm with her in it, and he found himself not minding some of the things which had always jarred, like being in his childhood home, which wasn’t anywhere near as chaotic as he remembered it.
He said his goodbyes to Simpkins, who had now permanently moved into his cabin so he could sniff his beloved salty sea breeze with impunity, and then made his way behind the ship where he had moored the sloop. He was about to set off when he was flagged down by a young cadet.
“Here is the final guest list for Admiral Nugent’s reception tomorrow.” The lad handed over the sealed missive. “I need to ask if you wish for anyone else to be added before I pass it over to the chief petty officer of the mess.”
Harry scanned the list, annoyed that he had completely forgotten about the formal dinner that heralded Nugent’s first inspection of his flagship, and more annoyed that it necessitated him being here in Plymouth, back in his too-tight formal dress breeches which he had come to loathe, rather than spending an evening at home with Georgie in a pair that fit.
He had meant to have the local tailor knock him up a new pair, but thanks to all the work that needed doing on the bloody Boadicea, it had completely slipped his mind. It was too late now, and a long night of constriction beckoned.
“I cannot think of anyone…” The words dried in his throat when he saw Elizabeth’s name three-quarters of the way down, and not just hers, but her husband’s.
Splendid.
Now he wouldn’t only have to suffer the blasted reception in his too-tight dress breeches, he would have to suffer her too. For the first time since the last time he had seen her, when he had practically begged on bended knee for her to leave the vice admiral she had left him for. And worse, he would have to face her alone.
Unless…
Would it be improper to ask Georgie to accompany him?
With a beautiful woman on his arm, he would feel less self-conscious facing that treacherous witch again. “Obviously, I will be bringing a guest.” He thrust the list back at the officer. “A lady. So see that a space at the table is added.”
“Do you have her name, sir?” said the man, riffling in his coat for a pencil while Felix’s ears pricked up.
“Yes. Miss… um… Rowe. Miss Georgina Rowe.”
Felix grinned at that. It was the sort of irritating and knowing grin that confirmed his preoccupation with Georgie had become the source of much family gossip, but at least he waited until the officer had gone before he spoke. “So Ada is right and you do fancy Miss Rowe?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why else would you be taking her to your posh dinner?”
“Because it is expected for an officer to arrive with a lady, that is why, and because I can hardly take either Ada or Marianne, Miss Rowe is the only option left.” Harry tried to deflect by chivvying the boy toward the gawdy, daisy-painted sail which had earned him the unfortunate whispered nickname of Captain Petals amongst the disgruntled but now hard-working shipwrights. “Let’s get out of the harbor and I’ll give you a go at navigating.”
Felix was still grinning as he hoisted the sail a few minutes later. “Ada says that you look at Miss Rowe the same way as Norbert does a sausage.”
“I do not.”
“You do stare at her funny, Uncle Harry. Especially when she isn’t looking and you don’t think anyone else is.”
He decided not to dignify that with an answer and gestured for them to change seats, reasoning that if his nephew was occupied with the rudder, he would be less inclined to make mortifyingly perceptive comments. “You see that ship anchored over there? Aim straight for that and then once you reach it, turn hard starboard and we’ll hug the coast all the way home.”
The boy did and then grinned again. “Miss Rowe looks at you in much the same way, so we all think that she fancies you too.” News that made Harry’s heart soar.
“I think you all have too much time on your hands if you’ve got nothing better to do than make up nonsensical gossip to amuse yourselves. Now kindly focus on our course or I’ll take the rudder back.”
“You’re thirty, Uncle Harry.” He managed to imbue enough horror into that number to make it sound ancient. “And Mama says that thirty is the perfect age for a man to settle down because you should have sowed all your wild oats by then.”
Huh!The chance would be a fine thing. But he was absolutely not having a conversation about his depressingly barren field of oats with a ten-year-old. “Firstly, for a man like me with a career like mine, thirty is far too young to settle down. Forty would be more convenient.” Although even as he said it, it depressed him that he had no choice but to eschew any chance of love for at least another decade. “Secondly, and most importantly, escorting Miss Rowe to a formal naval dinner is in no way a proposal of marriage, young man, nor is it confirmation of yours and Ada’s ridiculous theory that the pair of us fancy one another.”
“If you say so, Uncle Harry.” The wretch had the gall to wink. “But a fancy dinner might be a good start.”
Harry ignored him to focus on the looming ship that had been anchored in the Sound all week in the narrow channel between Devil’s Point and Cremyll. While it served as the perfect navigational marker for a novice sailor like Felix, as it kept the boy well away from the busy shipping lanes and the currents which this little sloop was no match for, it was odd that it was there when there were plenty of moorings in the merchant harbor a mile away. Odder still was the rowboat currently struggling to get toward it. Both the men in it were fighting the waves and making little headway while their boat seemed to be filled with supplies from the mainland.
“Ahoy!” Harry cupped his hands to shout above the stiff breeze then motioned to Felix to sail closer. “Is your vessel in distress?” That seemed the only conceivable reason that it was anchored in choppy sea rather than beside a tranquil quay.
“That depends on your definition of distress,” hollered one of the rowers back.
“We’re watertight and not sinking,” shouted the other, waving them away.
As that answer did nothing to calm Harry’s uneasy curiosity, and because something about this ship now felt off, he told Felix to keep heading for it before he shouted back, “Then allow me to give you a tow.” He didn’t think the fine-looking three-masted and at least three-hundred-and-fifty-ton ship looked like a pirate ship. Or even believe that there was any potential threat of pirates here in Plymouth with all of His Majesty’s superior naval firepower, but something about it was odd. As one of the king’s officers, he had a duty to investigate, and what better way to do that than to offer some help?
Help they gratefully accepted, so Harry tossed them a line, then swapped places with his nephew to steer his little sailboat close enough to take a peek at what was going on. “She’s a fine ship.” And she was. Beneath the peeling paint on her hull, he could tell she wasn’t much more than a decade old.
“Aye, she is,” agreed one of the men. “But sadly wasted on a useless man who cares more for the hazard tables and whoring than he does for his business.”
“Don’t speak out of turn.” His companion shot the first man a warning glare. “He’ll offload you if he hears you and then you’ll have no job, you fool.”
“Like I have a job now?” The loose-lipped sailor was indignant. “That drunkard hasn’t paid us in four months and we’ve got no bloody cargo to haul, so he ain’t likely to pay us for another four. Maybe more.” He looked Harry up and down, taking in his well-worn day-to-day uniform with a frown. “Are the navy hiring in Plymouth? I promised myself I wouldn’t go back to it, but beggars can’t be choosers and I’m sick to my back teeth of bobbing around here while we wait for a miracle.”
“The navy are always hiring.” Harry jerked his head toward the ship. “Why do you need a miracle, lads?”
“Because the stupid sod owes so much in mooring fees to every port in England that we can’t sail into one of them without getting ourselves impounded, so we’re all stuck here while he”—he jerked his thumb toward the windows of the captain’s cabin—“tries and fails to win back all he’s lost at the local hells.”
“We’ve run out of credit with all the local merchants too.” The more belligerent sailor decided to chime in. “So we’re in such dire straits, unless something changes our stars soon, that we’ll all have to abandon the Siren and its useless captain to the Sound.”
“The Siren?” For a moment, Harry thought he’d misheard until his saw the nameplate. “She’s called the Siren?” An ironic and eerily prophetic name.
“Aye,” said the chatty one as he secured his rowboat to the Siren’s stern. “Such a shame, too, as she’s a grand ship. Crossed the Atlantic last in just thirty-nine days.”
Harry stared at the ship, took in its sleek, modern lines, and whistled, believing it. She’d be fast and nimble despite her size. So fast, she’d leave the cumbersome bloody Boadicea in her wake. “Well, I hope your stars change soon, gentlemen.”
As they weren’t breaking any laws, it was no skin off his nose if they stayed bobbing in the Sound. But as he relinquished the rudder to Felix again, just like the siren currently waiting for him in Cawsand, this one kept him staring at her until they turned, and she disappeared behind the bay.