17. Jonto #3
Jonto strode across the carpet to a small door in the far wall.
She pulled it open to reveal a dresser and garment pole inside.
“This is an inner closet for you to hang your dresses and blouses. It also contains a dresser for your other clothing items. And over here,” she walked to a gilded French rococo writing desk and lifted the top, “is where you’ll find parchment and writing implements. ”
A tall, narrow bookcase took pride of place behind the desk.
Elaborately carved wooden book braces ran from one side of each shelf to the other, their obvious function to keep the contents from shifting during a voyage.
“I’ve also taken the liberty of stocking your shelves with books that I think you might enjoy.
Sailing can be tedious at times, with long stretches of boredom that I find can be eased by curling up with a good book. ”
“Lord Jontoreaux, this is so much more than I expected.”
Jonto’s insides warmed at the praise. “What were you expecting?” At Isla’s slight blush, she added, “Ah, a tiny, rough-hewn berth with perhaps a hammock and a line across the room to hang your drying cloaks and blouses?” The blush intensified, right along with Jonto’s grin of pleasure, giving Isla’s face such an enchanting glow that Jonto felt her heart suddenly falling out of rhythm. Was that even possible?
To keep herself from staring, Jonto walked to the door and called out in a loud, booming voice meant to carry to the outer quarterdeck. “Alpia!”
A lively yet diminutive voice answered from behind the wall on the right side of the door leading into Isla’s room. “Soir?”
“Oh.” Jonto stepped through the door and blinked down at whoever had spoken. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were here. Come in and meet your mistress.”
A mixture of delight and puzzlement flitted across Isla’s face when a scruffy waif entered the room.
“Lady Isla Brighton,” Jonto turned a stern look on the ragamuffin, who’d taken a single step into the room and stopped to stare up at Isla with a mischievous look glittering in those intelligent, lively eyes.
Taking the girl’s chin between strong fingers and tilting it up so she had her full attention, Jonto continued, “Lady Brighton to you, young scamp, or My Lady. Lady Brighton, may I introduce you to Alpia? She’ll assist Lily in running and fetching throughout the ship, washing your clothes, and bringing food from the galley if you choose to eat in your rooms instead of dining with me. ”
Isla stared at the child standing before her.
Taking in the subtly pointed ears rising above the girl’s short-cropped, blonde hair bleached nearly white from the sun, the lack of physical substance or stature, and the general aura of devilment emanating off the child in waves, Isla was clearly charmed by this impish, cheeky sprite.
Jonto had expected such a reaction and put her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Alpia is the daughter of my cook’s assistant, Tanney Wiradjuri.”
That brought Isla out of her trance. With a solemn expression, she held out her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Wiradjuri.”
Alpia stared at the hand before squinting over her shoulder at Jonto, who raised her brows and indicated the outstretched offering with a pointed tilt of her head.
The comical way the girl’s brows descended and the tip of her nose rose in squinched disbelief warned Jonto what was to come.
Seconds too late, Jonto shoved her palm under the girl’s chin and pushed it up to forestall what she belatedly realized was about to occur. “No!”
To Jonto’s great consternation, she hadn’t reacted quickly enough to stop the child, who had shrugged and spit into her hand, fully intending to smear the spittle onto Isla’s palm in the typical greeting of the unrefined peasants of the girl’s former kingdom.
Jonto lifted her gaze to the ceiling and followed her shouted command with a long sigh that ended with a quiet growl.
“How often have I told you that’s not an acceptable way to greet a member of the nobility? Or anyone, for that matter?”
The exasperation in her voice must have amused Isla if the sudden disappearance of those luscious lips into that delicious, bow-shaped mouth was any indication.
Scowling at her captain once again, Alpia wriggled her chin out from behind Jonto’s fingers, wiped her palm on her thigh, and grasped Isla’s offering with her lilliputian hand.
“Just Alpia, Milady. Miss Warajuri is me mum’s name.
Well, she ain’t really me mum, but she took me in, like, after th’ Cap’n kilt th’ man what was tryin’ t’ stick ‘is prick in me an?—”
“Alpia.” The low growl in Jonto’s voice left no room for misunderstanding.
The girl put her hands on her hips and turned, looking up at Jonto with a frustrated scowl that looked comical on the elfin features. “Well fowk, Cap’n. What ya want me t’ say, then, eh?”
When Jonto glanced at Isla, she was relieved to see amusement rather than derision or disdain for this impish waif who spoke with the foul mouth of a hardened sailor.
“I apologize, My Lady. We’ve tried to educate her, but as you can see…
.” She waved a palm in Alpia’s direction, silently indicating the ‘her’ in question.
Without lifting her gaze from Alpia, Isla rested her hands on her hips and came to the child’s defense.
“I think that’s a perfectly valid question, Alpia.
Now, would you step next door, find a woman named Lily, and tell her you’re to go with her to discover what’s taking my belongings so long to arrive? ”
Alpia immediately forgot Jonto and nodded agreeably. “Oh, aye, Milady. And just so’s ya know, I’m slavin’ fer th’ lady in th’ room on th’ other side of ya, too, so if’n I don’t come right away when ya call, it’s more ‘n likely cuz I’m runnin’ doin’ somethin’ fer her.”
Isla nodded gravely. “Do you mean Lady Fitzgerald?”
“Oh, aye. I fergot her name. But yeah. That’s th’ one.”
“I’ll remember, then. Off with you, now.” Isla watched the child dodge Jonto’s playful swat aimed at that blonde head of hair and run from the room before turning amused eyes on her host. “And her biological parents? Did you kill them as well?”
Jonto reared back. “What? No. She was a street urchin. No family. No roof over her head. We needed a cabin boy, so I brought a cabin girl instead. I don’t just willy-nilly kill people so I can steal their children, Lady Brighton.”
Jonto’s indignation only increased the amusement lurking behind Isla’s enchanting green eyes.
“Good to know, My Lord.” She walked to the bookcase to see what books a pirate thought might interest her.
Running her fingers along the spines, she read the titles aloud.
“The Life and Opinions of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.” She straightened and glanced back at Jonto.
“I’ve heard of this but haven’t been able to find a copy anywhere in our little kingdom.
I’ll look forward to reading about the lady’s travels. ”
Returning to the books, she moved her finger to the next spine.
“The History of Miss Betsy Thoughtless by Eliza Haywood. I read that as a young woman thoroughly confused about my place in society.” She sighed, “Not much has changed there, I’m afraid, as even Mrs. Haywood couldn’t get away from the notion that a woman’s sexuality was something to be controlled and manipulated. ”
Books were Jonto’s escape from the stress and boredom of her life at sea, and she resisted the urge to walk further into the cabin and peruse the titles alongside Isla.
Such familiarity would be unwelcome and inappropriate.
Instead, she listened to the warm, melodic undertones as Isla continued to read the titles aloud.
“The Book of the City of Ladies by Christine de Pizan? I would hardly expect a pirate to know such a book existed, let alone have a copy in his library. I would think you’d consider it scandalous, something to keep out of the hands of women everywhere lest they lose sight of their proper place in society.
I’m pleasantly surprised at your collection. ”
Pleased, Jonto felt her cheeks heat at the praise.
She considered herself well-read, but most of her male companions thought books written by or about women “Frippery unworthy of true scholarly consideration.” On her recent visits to the Enigma Club, she’d had to endure discussions on the misogynistic drivel The Man of Feeling by Henry McKenzie and The Confessions by Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
She looked forward to discussing some of her favorite, more progressive books in her vast, eclectic collection—both here on her ship and at Kraken’s Rest. “Christine de Pizan was a woman out of her time. I admire such truth-seekers, regardless of their gender.”
Moving on, Isla examined the next two titles. “The Female Quixote and A Description of Millenium Hall. I find myself impressed despite myself, My Lord. Feminist works, every single one. Have you read them?” The challenge in her tone suggested she thought not.
“I have. Several times.”
“You’re a feminist?”
“I’m a man who loves women and does his best to understand the fairer sex, how they think, and what innovations they bring to our world.”
Priscilla Fitzgerald spoke from the doorway. “Perhaps some of that curiosity will permeate my husband’s psyche, My Lord. While he indulges my whims, his ideas on a woman’s place in society run more along the lines of a traditionalist than those of an avant-garde progressive.”
Robert Fitzgerald, who was standing slightly behind his wife with a hand resting casually on the small of her back, objected.
“I respect your abilities, my dear, and your mind. There’s no one, man or woman, better educated on thoroughbred bloodlines, both within our kingdom and without.
How often have I defended your abilities to the narrow-minded noblemen who do nothing but denigrate your opinions on the subject? ”