Chapter 8 #2
AMANDA WAS EXHAUSTED. She had spent five entire days immersed in her new lessons.
Now that her course was charted, she had thrown herself into fancy airs and manners with a fierce, single-minded intent.
She was almost certain she would fool no one, but an image was in her mind, one she could not shake.
In it was a faceless young woman who wore beautiful gowns and walked with elegant grace effortlessly.
This woman sipped tea with her mother in a garden filled with blooming roses of every possible color; this woman was escorted around London by a handsome, dashing gentleman admirer—one who appeared oddly like Cliff de Warenne.
She didn’t hate etiquette the way she thought she would, although she hated that she was so clumsy and inept, her efforts currently so comical.
She could not walk easily in the long skirts of the caftan she had been given without tripping over the hem or her own feet, and when she did not stumble she would soon forget to shorten her strides.
Marching about like a boy in skirts made Alexi howl with laughter.
She had been left in the company of Anahid, Ariella and Michelle, and they had chased Alexi away; she had later learned de Warenne had punished him for his laughter, ordering him to write two essays in a single day, one in Latin, as well as a letter of apology.
She felt so uncomfortable in the gown and she was afraid she would never become accustomed to it.
If she couldn’t even walk like those ladies in Kingston, how would she ever learn to dance?
By the fifth day, Amanda was in despair.
Would she ever be graceful enough to fool anyone?
She was so afraid that she was going to humiliate herself in society and in front of deWarenne. On some level, she had known all along that she could not walk in her mother’s door like a pirate’s daughter. That would have taken more courage than she possessed.
She tore off the hated caftan. She had been wearing it over her skirt and breeches, in a small act of defiance of which no one seemed to be aware, and her dagger remained in her boot.
Was she clinging to her old life, just in case the new one never materialized?
She threw the heavily embroidered turquoise, purple and gold caftan to the floor, then kicked it away.
Today, she had curtsied so low she had fallen over.
She had been mortified. And to make matters worse, de Warenne had been watching from the threshold of the cabin.
Instead of impressing him, she had embarrassed herself for the hundredth time.
She covered her face with her hands. Why couldn’t Mama love her just the way she was?
Why couldn’t de Warenne love her that way, too?
Her heart lurched. She dared not be stupid and silly, not in regards to de Warenne! He was her protector, and even her friend, or so she hoped. He was never going to want a commoner like Amanda Carre, a wild child like La Sauvage, as his mistress or even a passing lover.
But he might want her, if she became the lady in her secret dreams.
She had hardly seen de Warenne since her new studies had begun.
She had thought he would help teach her to walk, to curtsy and to dance, at least somewhat.
Obviously she had misunderstood—or he had had second thoughts about his role in her education.
When she had tried to join him in the middle watch, late at night when her instruction for the day was complete, he had ordered her to go to her cabin to get some sleep, making it clear he did not wish for her company.
Not being allowed to join him had been a terrible blow.
Not only did she yearn for his company—and his praise—she missed him, too.
She sensed he was keeping his distance from her and she knew why.
She had thrown herself at him and he did not wish to suffer such attentions again.
Amanda wished she had never been so foolish.
There was a knock on her door. As Amanda turned to answer it, she noticed the silver seas outside the porthole and the ominously gray skies. Excitement began—they were in for foul weather. It had been years since she had sailed in a wild storm.
She opened her door to find Michelle smiling at her. She brightened. “Are we going to read some more?” She loved reading almost as much as she loved sailing.
He beamed. “Non, actuellement, I am going to start your dancing lessons.”
Her heart fell. Thus far, her lessons had only been comprised of walking, speech and the ever-so-basic curtsy.
Michelle was going to teach her to dance?
If she had to learn how to dance, she wanted to learn with de Warenne.
But maybe it was better this way. She didn’t want to embarrass herself in front of him again.
“I don’t feel well,” she lied. “Can’t we start tomorrow?”
“Mademoiselle, there is very little time left! You must learn to waltz, even if we have no music. Maintenant, allez-vous.”
“ORDER TOPSAILS and topgallants single reefed.”
“Aye, sir,” Midshipman Clark said, hurrying to give the orders.
Cliff turned back to stare across the bowsprit, the winds a strong twenty-three knots.
The weather was worsening rapidly and he estimated that within two or three hours, he’d have almost all canvas down.
His arms folded across his chest, he attuned his senses to the oncoming storm, trying to gauge it.
He had a dark feeling, one he did not care for.
“Heavy weather lies ahead,” he remarked to MacIver.
“Aye, it does, sir.”
“There’ll be rain, too.” He turned and strode to the edge of the quarterdeck, watching as the sails he’d ordered furled came down. “Clark. I’ll have double duty now.”
“Aye, sir,” Clark said, echoing the orders for another watch to take up stations. Cliff was certain he’d have all hands on deck by sunset—not that one could see the sun, as the skies were becoming heavier and darker by the moment.
“My lord.” Anahid approached unsteadily, fighting the rolling deck.
He leaped down to the main deck and grasped her arm. “The children?”
“They are fine, my lord. Alexi wishes to be on deck and Ariella has yet to notice the weather, as she is engrossed in her French assignments.”
The ship was riding high swells, but not yet bucking; still, the weather was worsening rapidly.
“He will not come on deck until we have passed the storm. And that, I think, will be at dawn. Anahid, your report?” Every day at precisely four o’clock, Anahid would report to him on Amanda’s progress.
Her words thus far had been somewhat encouraging.
“My lord, she is a determined student. If we had more time, I would not be worried. But we have only three weeks left! She has been allowed to run wild and behave like a boy her entire life. Such engrained behavior cannot change in a matter of weeks.”
“She must make a good first impression at Belford House,” he insisted.
“You saw her walking like an aggressive tomboy the other day. She needs more time, my lord. May I be candid?”
“Please.”
“She is so proud…yet she puts her pride aside every single day. Every small mistake is a great mortification for her. I think you might wish to postpone her entry in society until she has mastered the skills she needs.”
“That can certainly be arranged,” he said thoughtfully. “But I would like her to be reunited with her mother immediately, which is far different from a coming out in the ton. She need not be perfect to meet her mother. Will she be able to pass as some kind of gentlewoman by the end of this voyage?”
“I am uncertain.”
He was both worried and touched. He had seen how determined his charge was.
He admired her tenacity, especially as he also knew how proud she was and how her missteps shamed her.
However, Lady Belford would want her daughter to be very polished.
He had little doubt. “You will proceed to the best of your ability,” he told Anahid.
“My lord? You might wish to praise and flatter her. She admires you immensely.”
He flushed, having a terrible inkling that Anahid knew that an unacceptable passion had tainted his relationship with Amanda. “I will take you below.”
He held her arm and guided her to the children’s cabin, helping her fight the wind. As he went in, Amanda appeared from her cabin, smiling brightly at him.
He instantly saw that her cheeks were flushed with excitement. “I take it you have some good news to impart?” he asked, as she followed him into the children’s cabin.
“We are sailing into a storm,” she told him excitedly. “I have not been in a good storm in years.”
He slowly looked at her. Most women would be nervous at this stage, and in another hour, close to tears; by the time they were at the storm’s heart, most women would be sobbing for their lives, expecting a watery death.
He felt himself still. “We are in for very rough seas,” he said, “and extreme winds. We are already at twenty-three knots. The children will stay below. You will stay below with them, too.”
She gave him an incredulous look.
“That is an order.” He turned to face an equally disbelieving Alexi. He also saw that his daughter had finally noticed the storm. She had closed her book and was sitting on the lower bunk, pale with fright.
“Papa!” Alexi jumped up and down. “I must help you navigate through the storm. There is a storm, isn’t there?”
“We are approaching gale winds,” he said. “But you are eight years old and I am giving you an order. You are to stay in this cabin and comfort your sister.”
Alexi stared unhappily. “But…”
“There are no buts!” Cliff exclaimed. “I am your captain and you will obey every order I give you. Am I clear?”
Alexi nodded, flushing.