Chapter 16
Sixteen
They built the Stanhope in the greatcabin parlour, in place of the little round dining table that Louis-Michel Alarie had been occupying for his meals.
The reasons were quite practical: the parlour sat in the centre of the ship, where the walls were straight and the ceilings highest. Neat, efficient little thing that the press was—its bell-shaped frame stood only as tall as Everard’s breastbone, its base slightly longer, so it could be operated by one person alone—one still needed room to maneuver round the thick, T-shaped base, to roll the ink, to pull the handle.
And it gave Everard a strange, petty pleasure to see the governor displaced from his supper table that night.
Alarie had come in expecting a set table, and found them both hard at work.
Though of course the man bore it with perfect, composed grace—especially when Vitaliy promised him a prominent place in the officers’ dining cabin thereafter.
That was a strange offer. But Everard, exhausted, presently in shirtsleeves and a heavy leather apron borrowed from Perran, was too elbow-deep in black grease and cast iron to pause for more than a moment to wonder why egalitarian Vitaliy was being so deferential to a mere governor. Deferential to anyone at all.
He did not, however, anymore think mere infatuation was driving it.
For one, Vitaliy had stripped to buckskin breeches, and above those wore no more than the sheen of sweat he’d acquired from lifting and placing cast iron.
Only a man as solidly a ladies’ man as Alarie could be so indifferent to such a presentation.
And Vitaliy was observant. He’d have noticed Alarie’s indifference. Surely he had.
Currently, Louis-Michel Alarie looked more covetous of the press than of Vitya.
“Everyone will be devoured with envy,” he crowed from his unhelpful lean against the window. “A floating press! No one will be able to seize it! They will not know from whence the sedition is coming! I wish I’d thought of it myself.”
“I as well,” Vitaliy murmured, and caught Everard’s eye meaningfully.
Everard hoped his flush looked like exertion. “Bolted to the deck now,” he said. “So I’m afraid you can’t have her for yourself, Governor.”
Bolted she was, thrice over for security; and her assembly was nearly, nearly done.
Two-handed, Everard slotted the handle bar into the spindle, grunting slightly, and secured it behind with its nut.
Then it was time. He push-pulled the handle once, slow and experimental, watching the spindle turn clockwise and the attached lever swing and pull at the main, longer lever.
Metal moved on metal, smooth as silk. The massive screw in the heart of the Stanhope turned, and down came the wide, flat platen, onto the padded carriage beneath.
And even with the ship making three knots, she came down straight.
Success.
“Oh, no, I know,” Alarie said easily. “I do not have a ship so enormous as to fit such a beast, in any case.” He patted a crate, apparently unaware that it held the lead type. (Baskerville; Vee had good taste.)
“We may negotiate terms if you like,” Vitaliy said shrewdly. “Nonexclusive, of course.”
Alarie blew out a breath. “Pirates,” he muttered. “Concerned for a profit always. Of course, nonexclusive.”
Concerned for profit? Alarie didn’t know Vitya very well at all.
“Mina may be tempted by it too,” Alarie went on. “You ought ask him.”
“Mina will have brought pamphlets of his own, yes?” Vitaliy asked. “Ahead of the matter.”
Martín Francisco Xavier Mina; a Spanish Army ex-officer who was attempting to gather American, British, and Haitian support for a campaign against the Spanish Crown in México. He was set to meet them in a few days in port Ha?ti.
Alarie brushed this off. “I do not know. Can indios even read a civilised tongue?” he mused.
Déu meu. Under cover of shirtsleeve, Everard rolled his eyes. As Alarie seemed to speak French and only French, he found this more than a bit rich. He swiped sweat from his forehead and peeked over to Vitaliy. He was stony-faced, lips pressed tight.
“All men deserve access to the written word, Governor,” Vitaliy said. “All persons,” he revised.
No—there seemed no possible way the man who had denounced colorist satires would be interested in donkeyish Alarie, romantically or otherwise.
So, why did Vitaliy tolerate him? Oblige him?
Everard push-pulled the handle. This time, the “kiss” of pressure from the platen upon the carriage looked a tad excessive, but that was easily fixed.
He reached up and adjusted the main lever’s length a hair, a twist of the screw end, and push-pulled again.
Better. Though he suspected with the movement of the ship working at her, he’d have to be adjusting that screw near-constantly. It was a small price to pay.
“The Spanish is probably our best bet, for pamphleteering,” Everard said.
“Followed by French. Tribes will have translators, missionaries, churchmen. Though are you sure, Governor, that you want to disseminate war and revolution to tribes who may neither know nor care? I understood it was criollos whom La Corona was executing.” Criollos were white persons born in the Spanish colonies; a slight tick down the casta ladder, behind Spain-born espanoles.
“Again,” Alarie said, in French, “I do not know Mina’s precise plans. Thus far, he wants only naval escort from me, and soldiers from Ha?ti. But a body’s a body in war, my friend. You, career man, Englishman, should understand this.”
Everard grimaced. “In fact, I tried my damnedest not to. As would anyone with a functional soul.” He wiped grease from his knuckles and thumb, removed his apron, and looked up.
Vitya had been watching him. His eyes were half-lidded, and his bottom lip had been sucked beneath the other. He glanced to the greatcabin door, back again, and raised a thick blond eyebrow in question.
Everard was absolutely exhausted—but yes, absolutely, yes. Whatever that invitation had been, yes.
First, however, there was Louis-Michel Alarie to be dealt with.
“Fancy a nightcap, Governor?” Everard said, making a quarter-turn.
“I do feel for you, having your supper accommodations displaced.” He nodded to the greatcabin, forced a smile.
“But there is the desk to sit around. It’s quite a large desk, in fact.
” He raised his eyebrows. “Large enough for three.”
Louis-Michel Alarie stood suddenly from his lean, his pretty eyes downcast. “Oh, you are very kind,” he said quickly. “You English, always kind. Non, I must not—I need to rest for our rendez-vous at the junta.”
Behind him, Vitaliy smiled wide. He brushed a palm over his mouth, turning quickly stoic just in time for Alarie’s about-face and curt bow.
“Goodnight, Governor,” Vitaliy murmured, and bowed.
Everard didn’t bother. Alarie’s eyes hadn’t moved from the floor.
Alarie backed through the parlour door, shutting it firmly behind. They listened to his steps fade into the depths of the ship.
“Well,” Everard said. “That confirms it utterly.”
He caught Vitaliy’s eye, and they shared a muffled laugh.
Everard sighed. “I shouldn’t have done that, perhaps.”
Vitaliy remained in the doorway, leaning with arms crossed, outwardly quite relaxed. His eyelids were lowered, his perfect, heart-shaped lips set in a peaceful quirk. They matched the tawny pink of his cheeks.
“It was… blatant,” he admitted.
“It was, wasn’t it? And slightly mean.”
Vitaliy shrugged. “Nothing he doesn’t know. Or… encourage, time to time.”
That said a whole hell of a lot. “Had you known?”
“It took me longer than it should have.”
“Deception a-purpose, I’d bet. With a face like that?”
“Maybe.”
“He tried to exploit it?”
“And succeeded,” Vitaliy said. “Mostly. I suppose I am easily led.”
“Oh, come on.” Everard laughed. “Easily led? You? Have a look at me, Vitya. Do I strike you as very urbane? Debonair?” He rubbed hands over his filthy, sweat-damp breeches in illustration. “As though I’ve led you anywhere.”
“You could,” Vitaliy said. “If you wanted.”
Everard had his doubts. He was still wondering what had happened to the dark intent behind Vitaliy’s sidelong glance.
“He’s the donkey, not you,” Everard declared. “And I don’t like him.”
Vitaliy’s face remained calm, unmoved. He nodded, as though taking this into serious consideration. He jerked his chin towards the Stanhope. “Is it as you expected?”
“Oh, yes. Every screw accounted for, and not a bit of rust. Thank you. She’ll do beautifully.”
“Good.”
Sometimes, Everard thought, there was such a thing as too much patience.
But then, perhaps it was intentional. You could. If you wanted.
And if that was what Vitya wanted…? To be led?
“I’m too tired to set type tonight and test it properly, though.” Everard stretched. His shoulders ached from turning the wrench in wide arcs, over and over. That wasn’t why he stretched. “Tomorrow.”
Vitaliy was faultlessly observant. “Shame,” he murmured. “I could watch you pull that thing all night.”
“Oh?” Everard stepped a bit closer—not close enough to touch. “As it happens, I like to be watched.”
Vitaliy said nothing. His lips twitched, and he raised his chin.
Invitation.
Everard reached down to the fall of his breeches. He drew his prick free from drawers and let it bob. “This is what you meant?”
Vitaliy’s gaze slid south, back up again. Surely it was.
Everard undressed. Shoes, socks, drawers. Clothing duly banished, he took himself in hand.
Vitaliy shifted once to readjust—a very necessary maneuver—but otherwise remained still as Everard stood before him, stroking himself, up and down.
Facing Vitaliy like this was like facing the sun as it hung low on the horizon: warm and golden, throwing everything it touched into sharp relief and saturated colors. Just bright enough that when one turned away, it glinted at edge of one’s vision. One wanted to stare, but knew one mustn’t.
Everard did anyway.