Chapter Eight
Today, Michael told himself brightly, I am not going to go see Captain Phylis Seaton.
Not at all. Not even a little bit.
Which was why he was not at the London docks where he very much wanted to be, but was instead at Southwark Market, inhaling the scents of journeys he would never take.
Michael inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as he leaned against a wall and tried to take it all in.
Lemons, from Sicily. Oranges from the Azores.
Something that was probably cinnamon, from Ceylon—or was it Thailand?
There was the scent of polished leather from the stall at the end that sold tack for horses, and the scent of beeswax from the other end from the man who kept hives in his garden.
Michael could just about make out dried jasmine, brought over in bales from Persia, and there was even the slight scent of coffee through the air, though he could not work out where from.
Southwark Market. One of his favorite places to be in London—and not just for the food.
No, it was the conversation.
“—heard they’d doubled the tax in Marseilles—”
“Don’t believe it. A simple bribe to Monsieur Jacques and you’ll find it just melts away—”
“A squall? Oh, it was a great storm, almost took out one of my sails, but we made port at Tangiers and found someone there to mend—”
“—pirates on the south coast?”
“They found me on the west, but I soon saw them off.”
Michael’s spirits leapt.
Not at the chatter about taxes and bribes. That was the sort of thing his Aunt Dodo would have been intrigued by, the exact percentages, the translation of currency.
No, it was the talk of squalls and pirates, the idea of distant shores and unknown people with specialisms he could only ever dream of. How exactly did one mend a sail? What happened if a ship ran out of rope? Who was the best person to source your kitchens?
Excitement fluttered through Michael as he opened his eyes and watched the world go by. Everyone here had a purpose, a direction, a reason for walking or speaking.
Not like him. Here he was, able to stand about and watch the world, the real world go by. Nothing to do, nothing to occupy him, nothing to make him useful.
Michael sighed, crossing his arms as he watched a pair of men arguing gently—one of those sorts of arguments that had settled in for a few years between friends and made them quite comfortable to sink back into.
Not unlike a few of the arguments he and Gwen shared, now that he came to think about it.
“Five pounds the yard is a crime!”
“What’s a crime is you even thinking you should be bartering with me, you lout!”
Michael stifled a smile and moved on, lest they think he was mocking them.
The market was packed, as always on a Monday. Situated as the market was close to the London docks, there were always stalls packed with fresh fruit and veg from not only around England, but around the world. And there were cloths, and books, and fine fans painted on ivory, and combs and canes and—
“That’s my best offer, and you’d be wise to take it.”
Michael froze. I know that voice.
“Besides, who else could offer you a rate like that?” asked the voice of Captain Phylis Seaton from somewhere close by. “There aren’t many making that run; it’s not profitable enough.”
“And yet you make it, and you presumably make a profit,” came an answering voice, a low growl that surely belonged to a villain.
At least, that was what Michael thought as he whirled around, attempting to find the sources of the voices.
“I make that run because I can take passengers,” came the calm and entirely unruffled voice of Phylis. “And you should thank your lucky stars; it reduces my costs and gives you the chance to—but you know what? It doesn’t matter.”
The nonchalance and disinterest that had filled the last few words piqued Michael’s interest—and he clearly wasn’t the only one.
“‘Doesn’t matter’?”
“No, I’ll ask elsewhere. I know a few men who have some food they wanted shifting, and they’re probably willing to pay—”
“No—hang on, there. I didn’t say no!”
“But you didn’t say yes,” came the cutting remark of the woman who was starting to fill Michael’s dreams in a way he probably should not have permitted. “And I haven’t got all the time in the world, man. If you want the contract, tell me now. Sign now.”
There—there they were.
Michael’s spirits leapt as he spotted them. Well, he wasn’t that interested in the man; it was the woman he wanted to admire.
And damn, but she was admirable.
There Phylis—there Captain Seaton stood, hands on her hips, quizzical eyebrow raised. She was wearing trousers again, something Michael had never thought particularly ladylike nor impressive.
She looked impressive now, the early morning sun shimmering across her fiery-red hair.
Parts of Michael that had been otherwise dormant stiffened to attention.
Oh, blast.
“I’ll sign,” said the beady man opposite Phylis, and there was a wry smile on his face as he said so. “You drive a hard bargain, Captain Seaton.”
“I drive the best bargain, for you and for me,” she countered, pulling a sheet of paper from the satchel over her shoulder. “Here, and here.”
She was marvelous. Michael had never known anyone to negotiate like that: directly, with no fear, absolutely determined that she was in the right and with no consideration that she would not sell something somewhere.
His loins burned and he wished to goodness—just for a moment—that he did not know the taste of the woman.
It was all the more torturous, knowing he could not have her again.
“And I’ll take payment now.”
The man’s laughter echoed across the market. “You must think I’m daft!”
“You must think I’m daft, if you believe I’m going to do work for no pay upfront,” Phylis returned evenly, not losing her calm in the slightest. “I have men to feed and fees to pay. Fifty percent, then. Can’t say fairer than that.”
With the exchange of coins over and with much muttering from the man, Michael watched as Phylis stuck out her hand, shook the man’s proffered one, and nodded curtly.
“I’ll see you in a week.”
“That you will.” The man sighed, shaking his head with a rueful smile. “I must be mad, doing business with a woman.”
Michael stiffened, fury rising as he stepped forward to defend the honor of—
A woman who was laughing. “You say that every month.”
“And I meant it every month,” retorted her client, who was chuckling now too. “Give my best to Drummond.”
“I’m sure he sends it back.”
Michael watched, utterly transfixed, as the woman who was clearly just at home negotiating as on a ship released the man’s hand and started to weave her way through Southwark Market.
He had to be close to her.
It wasn’t a thought, not exactly. An instinct, something that drove his feet forward and could not be ignored even if he had wanted to.
And he didn’t want to. It had been painful, deciding not to go to the docks this morning. He hadn’t even known if the Dreamer was here, but Michael had known that any opportunity to see the woman he was starting to care for more than anything was an opportunity worth taking.
Except that he had stopped himself precisely because he was starting to care far too much for Captain Phylis Seaton. He had purposefully not gone to the docks, and honestly, he thought he should be congratulated for his self-control.
Yet here she was, precisely where he had not expected her. And now that he was about to cross her path—
“M-Michael! Mr. Chance!”
And it was all worth it, Michael thought cheerfully, to see that flush across her cheeks.
It was only when she opened her mouth that he realized that flush was anger.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Michael Chance?” snapped Phylis, tugging her satchel back up her shoulder from where it had slipped. “Are you following me?”
“No!” he said hastily. But I’d like to.
Thankfully, his tongue managed to prevent him from utterly embarrassing himself, but it did not seem to matter. Stall owners up and down the market were looking over at them, and already, some of the mutters were audible.
“‘Chance’? Not one of those fancy gentlemen?”
“Nah, he’s only a Pernrith.”
Anger burned within Michael, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had been forced to learn from a young age that fighting the world’s expectations of you…that was not even a losing battle. It was one you should not start.
However much you wanted to.
“Who said that?” hissed Phylis, turning around with a glare.
Michael grabbed her arm instinctively, pulling her away from the portly man selling melons. “It’s not worth it.”
“He besmirched your honor!” said the captain hotly, though ruining the effect slightly by adding, “Did I use that word right?”
This time, he was stifling a smile, not a glare. “Yes, very good. Come on.”
It was difficult, far more difficult than he had thought, to drag Phylis away from the insolent melon man. Clearly, she had a strong sense of justice, Michael could not help but observe. After all, the man had insulted himself and his father, not Phylis.
And he was definitely not going to think about how it made him feel, her defending him like that.
“It’s outrageous,” Phylis was muttering, “that anyone could speak of you that way.”
“Yes, I know,” Michael said quietly as they stepped around to a louder part of the market where their voices would not be overheard. “Trust me, I know.”
This part of Southwark Market held the cattle sale, mostly sheep today, from what Michael could tell, and their baaing and the shouting of farmers to meat sellers drowned out their conversation to any who would have attempted to overhear it.
Which was a relief, for Michael found himself saying, “You are very impressive, you know.”
Phylis blinked up at him, suspicion immediately blossoming in her eyes. “What do you mean, impressive? That blaggard said—”
“I know, I know—but I have heard worse, trust me,” said Michael, forcing from his mind some of the insults he’d borne over the years. “I meant your negotiating skills.”
“My… My what?”