Chapter Three
Three
On the docks my senses are grievously assaulted by the odor of rotting fish and the constant clamor of bells and shouting.
(I detest shouting—it’s so inelegant. Even when he’s at his angriest, my father’s bellowing can hardly be described as mere shouting.) I grimace and flinch away as a man passes by with a hand-drawn cart full of—dear God, whatever it is, it reeks something awful. I dare not look too closely.
All the same, some small part of me is grateful for the distraction from my imminent panic. What was I thinking, allowing that farm boy to bring me to the docks, of all places?
To avoid thinking about the very real probability of my untimely death by drowning, I find a sturdy-looking man in naught but shirtsleeves and brown trousers and offer him a shilling to carry my trunk for me.
He pockets my payment with a nod. “Which ship is yours?”
“Ah…” I can’t help the uncomfortable giggle that bubbles out of me at the question. “Perhaps I misspoke. I don’t own a ship. I’m looking to book passage on one.”
“Meaning… there is no ship.”
“There are plenty of ships,” I say as I gesture broadly to the numerous ships before us. “I’ve yet to buy passage on one.”
The man eyes me suspiciously. “Runnin’ away from home, lordling?”
Were I a cat, the fur along my back might bristle at that question. As it is, I am a gentleman—and gentlemen do not bristle. “I—”
“For a crown, I’ll find you a ship.”
I balk. “A crown? Sir—”
“I’ll even book your passage.”
I let out a huff, but what else can I do? I have no idea how one books passage on a ship. That is, I have been on a ship before, but I have never had to stoop to purchasing my own passage, nor arranging for my trunk to be carried.
“Fine,” I mutter, making it clear through my tone I am annoyed as I reach into my purse. “I’ll pay you once my trunk is on board,” I say, showing him the coin. “I’m good for it.”
He narrows his eyes but likely assesses—correctly—that he could snap me in half over one knee if I tried to swindle him. “Very well, then,” he says. “Where you runnin’ to, lordling?”
I choose to ignore the implication and wave my hand vaguely. “Somewhere fun.”
He snorts, which is as revolting as it sounds, and turns to make his way towards the ships. I sit on my trunk with a sigh and watch him go.
Eventually he returns—though he is gone long enough that I forget his face.
When he approaches me, it takes me a few moments to realize why he is staring at me with his hands on his hips.
I slide off the trunk as gracefully as I can manage, for I am utterly exhausted from staying up all night.
I don’t ask him if he’s found me a ship.
Instead I just stand back as he hauls my trunk up and makes his way through the crowd.
I follow, grateful that his largeness and the size of my trunk force the crowd to part as we walk. Then, abruptly, he drops my trunk onto the dock and motions towards the nearest ship. I cast him a quizzical look, torn between demanding an explanation and scolding him for manhandling my belongings.
“You got to talk to the captain to board,” he says.
“Is that not what I’m paying you for?” I demand.
“No.”
Well, shit. I stare at my trunk, then glare at him. I am trying to decide whether I should leave my trunk with him or send him off without payment when a tall man with a greying queue and sun-kissed bronze skin steps up to us both.
“This him, then?” he asks.
I am flabbergasted, but my manservant—you’ll have to forgive me here, I never got his name—answers for me. “Aye, this is the lordling.”
“I’m—” I begin.
“You’ll have to come with me, lordling,” interrupts the grey-haired man.
I grit my teeth. “Are you the captain of this vessel?”
He laughs, and I’m surprised by the pleasantness of it. It disarms me.
“No, lad. The captain’s in his quarters. If you want passage on the Deliverance, you have to speak with him.”
I glance between them and wonder if I am being hoodwinked or if this is just how it works. I dare not argue and make myself look any more ridiculous than I already feel. Instead I raise my chin and sigh. “Very well.”
I follow him across the gangplank, doing my absolute best not to look down into the dark waters of the berth. I am not a fan of water, but I can think of no other way to well and truly escape my father’s tyranny.
My heels make a satisfying clack with each step as I follow the man as far as the mast. He stops me short with a held-up hand. “Wait here.”
I hate being ordered about as if we were equals—or worse, as if he were my superior.
Still, I say nothing as he continues towards a door with a rather fine stained-glass inlay.
Well, at least my temporary manservant found me an adequately adorned ship.
No doubt the staterooms will be comfortable enough for a voyage.
I tap the sole of my shoe impatiently and glance around as the crew move about on deck and in the rigging.
“Who’s that, then?” I hear one of them say. I don’t turn to face him but allow myself to peek through my periphery. He’s young, with long, straight reddish-brown hair pulled back into a loose queue at the back of his neck and no facial hair.
“Dunno,” says his companion, who has shorter hair and a smart beard—though since I am not looking straight at them, I could swear they wear the same face. Both are sun-kissed and fair. “Sure is fancy-lookin’, ain’t he?”
Before I can get a better glance at them, they disappear belowdecks, and a shadow looms across my vision. I turn my attention back to the silver-haired man. “The captain will see you now,” he says as he waves his arm towards the stained-glass door.
“Thank you,” I say, careful to keep my tone neutral. It would be unwise to be impolite when I am alone on their ship; I am simply terrible in a fistfight.
I approach the door and knock briskly upon the glass, tilting my ear towards it. A deep voice beckons me inside, and I step in, closing the door behind me.
I stop short as the door clicks shut, for the entire cabin is shrouded in darkness, save the blobs of colored light streaming in through the stained glass.
I feel a momentary rush of panic, convinced that I am about to be robbed—or kidnapped and ransomed to my despicable family.
That would certainly put a damper on the dramatic escape from my nuptials.
I am about to say something when that deep voice says, “I hear you’d like to sail with us.” It’s smooth and low, like distant thunder on a hot summer evening. I can’t help the shiver that zips up my spine.
There is the spark of flint and then nothing.
I think this was meant to be some sort of reveal, but it takes three more tries before the char cloth lights, and then the smell of sulfur fills the room as a match is dipped into the flame.
Still, it’s impressive that he got it to light that quickly—I could never.
The blue glow isn’t enough to light the space, but quickly it floats up and morphs into the flicker of a candle.
The warm light illuminates the top of a grand desk, an array of papers and books strewn across its surface.
“Why is that?” the captain asks.
A smile pulls at the corner of my mouth, and my galloping heart stumbles back into a clumsy canter. Though the flash of the flint had startled me into jumping, I am sure he could not see it in the dark. I understand now that he is putting on a show for my benefit.
“Very dramatic,” I say, stepping forward and clasping my hands behind my back. “Does that usually work for you?”
I watch as the candle floats up and tilts.
Another candle lights, and then another.
There is the silvery glint of a candelabra.
A fourth candle lights, and then the captain sets the first back onto his desk.
The room has a warm glow to it now, the flames casting sharp shadows that dance across the walls. I can see the shape of him.
“Yes,” he admits—and I can hear amusement in that rich baritone.
The candlelight shimmers across the gold buckle of his belt, the butt of a pistol.
I let my eyes rake over the desk, where I can now see more than just papers.
A cup with ivory dice sits just under the candelabra, beside a magnifying glass with a tusk for a handle.
A string of shark teeth hangs from one of the arms of the candelabra, brushing against a map with a compass weighing it down.
“You didn’t answer my question,” the captain says.
His voice has moved behind me now. I turn to face his silhouette in the kaleidoscope of colors from the stained-glass door, alarmed by how silently he was able to move.
I think he is trying to intimidate me, but I am struggling to keep from smiling at this dramatic charade.
“Does the sea call to you?” he asks, stepping closer to me.
I think I could listen to him speak all day.
His accent is slight, almost like he’s worked to cover it up.
Which wouldn’t surprise me—it’s a common practice in England for children to be schooled in their accents.
Or perhaps he spent a great deal of his youth traveling and picked up on more than one accent in that time—quite likely for a sailor. “Or… are you running from something?”
At first I could have sworn he was an Englishman. But he occasionally pronounces his vowels almost like an Irishman, elongating them. His consonants are sharp, or sometimes dropped altogether—yet at the same time, he enunciates letters I would leave silent. I’ve never heard an accent like his.