3. In which an idea takes root and a mockery is made
IN WHICH AN IDEA TAKES ROOT AND A MOCKERY IS MADE
Later that evening, Charlotte stood by the door of Ernie’s office.
She had not dared step foot inside it over the past few days.
Had been sending Alma to fetch the journals she had been reading, for she knew the office would smell of him, of pipe smoke and whiskey and the polish he used for his brass instruments—the compass, spyglass, sextant—the ones he wouldn’t let Alma clean.
She drew the door open tentatively. And just as she’d feared, his scent hit her.
She took a step back, her spine going rigid.
Perhaps it was too soon. Too soon to think of such things as expeditions south, and yet she couldn’t stop her mind wandering to the idea of it.
She knew, deep in her heart, that she had to go.
Felt a pull more keenly towards the paintings of the Antarctic ice, the mountains, the penguins and the ships.
Had pored over Ernie’s journals, combing them for snippets of the man he had been and finding so much. So much that she never knew.
In the earlier entries, he had indeed been fearful.
But as the years passed, as he was drawn back to the continent again and again, she saw a change in his writing.
Saw him become the man she had known so well.
She had especially enjoyed his notes of uplifting sayings, such as, ‘to dare is to lose your way momentarily, to not dare is to lose yourself’, and ‘it is by doing the things that scare us that we come closer to the person we were destined to become’.
She had jotted those down on a piece of paper she kept tucked in her sleeve.
She looked down at Marjorie, who stood, as ever, by her side. “What do you think, girl?”
The dog threw her an exasperated expression and trotted into the room, laying down by the desk. The corner of Charlotte’s mouth tugged, and she followed her faithful friend inside, sitting at the leather-topped desk.
“I don’t even know what it is I seek,” Charlotte sighed.
“Perhaps a sign?” She passed her hands over the papers on the desk, uncovering a small book.
She turned the leather-bound volume over in her hands.
Myths and Legends of Shape-Shifting Animals was written in gilded lettering down the spine.
She flicked it open to find a note scribed in Ernie’s flowing script.
‘Dearest Charlotte. I thought you might like this one. Ernie’.
A little gift for her that he had forgotten about.
She turned the pages. The first chapter was titled ‘Of The Sea’, the pages showed a woman with blood-red hair and a squid, the word ‘Siren’ written above her.
The next page, ‘Devil’ and a terrifying-looking orca and a Viking-esque man with black-as-night skin.
The next chapter read ‘Of The Hidden Wilds’ and the pages depicted a man with wings, ‘Aquiline’, another with what looked like wolf-ears and tail, ‘Lupine’, and a woman with antlers, ‘Cervine’.
There were only illustrations, no details of the creatures.
What a fanciful book. She hugged it to her chest. Oh, how she missed his easy laugh and small presents.
Her eyes caught on the paper that had been under the book. It bore the heading Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition and under that, Led by Captain Hester Orn, Sponsored by Sir Ernest Bailey.
Charlotte’s fingers stilled on the words. The paper detailed the plans for an expedition to make the first crossing of the Antarctic continent.
Hester Orn. The name sounded familiar. A vague memory of a young, golden-brown haired woman, dressed in men’s clothing, bent over the desk next to Ernie came to Charlotte’s mind.
She had only seen the woman as she’d been passing the office on her way to walk Marjorie.
Had not interrupted the excited chatter she’d heard coming from the two.
She read on. It appeared that Ernie had agreed to sponsor the expedition, and now she thought of it, she did recall him telling her about it the day before he passed.
But Hester Orn had not been to see her. Had not come demanding the money that Ernie had clearly promised.
Charlotte bit her lip as an idea began to take root. She could find Hester Orn. Could offer to hire her, to fund the expedition on the agreement that she could go along too.
But finding Hester Orn would mean leaving the house. Of course, that was the gaping hole in this whole plan. How could she go all the way to Antarctica when she couldn’t even leave her own front door?
Hester sat on the blue settee in the chart room, hissing as she did so.
The tattoo was fresh, only hours old, and it smarted.
She sniggered, propping her legs up on the table and plucked up the romance book Fliss had left for her on top of the reams of charts.
Hester flicked straight to the folded-down pages—Fliss always marked the filthy parts out for her.
She had no intention of reading the boring in-between bits.
The words on the pages became meaningless as she started to plot her revenge on His Lordship, the throbbing of the tattoo becoming more of a distraction than the throbbing of the particular anatomy of the man in the book.
Hester cackled as she imagined the reaction she would provoke later with her new ink. If Septimus thought he could break into her cabin and stab her ship with no retaliation, he could think again.
By dusk she had her plan formulated, not that it was complicated.
She had donned a scandalous red dress that showed off her figure and had covered her hair with a black wig.
Her lips were painted a deep red and she had lined her eyes with black kohl.
Long black gloves concealed her tattooed hands and arms, and a black shawl covered the tattoos on her chest, completing the disguise.
Hester stopped outside Fliss’s cabin and called out, “I’m just going to run an errand.”
“I’ll come. Where are you going?”
“Oh, don’t. It’ll be ever so dull. Stay here,” Hester said, poking her head around the door. There was no point in Fliss coming along. She’d only have kittens, and Hester didn’t want her getting caught up in any repercussions.
“Oh, God,” Fliss whispered, her mouth hanging open as she took in Hester’s appearance. “Why are you wearing a wig? You’re not going to The Harpoon—please say you’re not.”
Hester only laughed, winked, and called over her shoulder, “You might want to lock the door. I’ll lie low at Mei’s for a few days.”
“Hester, I pray, don’t rankle him. I told you—you’ve gone a step too far this time.”
Fliss’s words floated along the corridor as Hester marched for the steps to the deck, and then she was across the gangplank and onto the quayside.
The evening darkness drew around her, and sailors whistled from their ships as she strutted towards town, heading for the tavern that served as the Pirate Lord’s court.
The spring in her step and the pain on her backside fuelled a hoot of glee.
She couldn’t wait to see his reaction to the tattoo.
He would be livid. She tugged at the magic in her chest, a cooling breeze rising around her and blowing her hair back.
Hester soon entered The Black Harpoon, and a wall of warmth, light and noise hit her.
The musky smell of tobacco and ale a reminder of riotous evenings of the past. A few heads turned her way and eyed her appraisingly.
Not everyone could pull off this dress. She swaggered to the bar, making sure to roll her hips as she went, and squeezed into the crush of men waiting to be served, heading for one blonde-haired man in particular. She brushed up against him.
“Can I buy you a drink, sweetheart?” Victor drawled, leaning close enough that the warmth of his breath hit her ear, his stubble tickling her cheek.
She smiled a feline smile. “Whiskey, ice, a dash of lemon,” she purred, stroking his arm. So, he didn’t recognise her. She hid her smirk behind a gloved hand. She’d had him between her thighs last week. The disguise was good, then.
“I haven’t seen you around here before,” Victor said, his gaze raking down her figure.
He handed her a glass, and she knocked back the whiskey.
The burn in her throat was satisfying. Much more satisfying than the measly thirty seconds Victor had lasted between the sheets.
Men. Always so quick off the mark. But at least he was nice to look at.
“Are you sure you haven’t seen me? You can’t have been looking very closely,” she said, pressing her hip into his side. “Say, I’m looking for someone. Have you seen a tall, broad man? Lots of tattoos, black hair tied back, beard? Stinking rich?”
Victor stilled. “I know of whom you speak, but what business do you have with him?”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t want me to…disclose it, if you catch my meaning,” Hester said, raising an eyebrow. She tapped her empty glass and nodded to the innkeeper, who refilled it. This was fun. And the real fun hadn’t even begun.
“Follow me.” Victor disappeared into the crowd.
Hester swallowed the whiskey, little fires burning down to her belly, and followed.
She recognised most of the patrons. Captains Dalforth and Normand frowned as she passed them, trying to place her, but no one else showed the slightest hint that they knew her.
Hester hurried to catch up to Victor, who was now at the back of the room.
Septimus sat at a round table, three of his men with him, smoking pipes, drinking ale and playing cards.
The fog of tobacco smoke hung over them.
A couple of the men turned as Hester approached, and Victor leant down to speak into the Pirate Lord’s ear.
Septimus raised his eyes, looking Hester over, confusion marring his brooding features before he scowled again.
“What is it?” Septimus asked, a look of bored dismissal already on his face.
She could barely contain herself. “My lord.” She dropped into a curtsy and batted her eyelashes at him. “I come bearing a message.” She almost sniggered as she emphasised the word ‘bearing’.
“Let’s hear it, then.”
Hester turned on the heel of her boot, bent over and pulled her skirts up around her waist, revealing her backside and the words that Mei had inked earlier, Septimus, kiss me here.
She snuck a glance over her shoulder to see Septimus’s face turn red, a snarl of rage contorting his features as he read the words, his sea-blue eyes sparking with recognition.
Oh, sweet revenge!
She dropped her skirts, pulled the wig from her head and threw it to Victor, who gaped as he recognised her. It was too perfect.
Hester started running with a loud shriek as the Pirate Lord sprang from his chair, knocking it backwards in his fury. He leapt over the table, snatching towards her, but his fingers closed on air.
“Seize her!” he roared, and Hester screeched as a delicious thrill ran through her body. She shoved through the crowd, which closed in around her, shielding her from view. Captain Dalforth gave her a wink and jumped in front of Septimus, slowing his progress.
Hester made it to the door and threw it open. Oh yes, she really was a master. A master of disguise, a master of pranks, a master of—she fell flat on her face across the threshold, pain barking as her nose hit the cobbles.
Gasping, she looked back to see Septimus’s boot on the hem of her skirts.
He reached down and grabbed hold of her hair. Hester beat against his tattooed hands as he dragged her to her feet. Damn and blast, that was not meant to happen. He’d better not have broken her nose.
“Hester,” he growled, low enough that she stilled and gave her most beatific smile. It had no effect on him whatsoever, and he dragged her back inside.
The noise of the patrons had risen to an uproar when they suspected a brawl was about to happen, and Hester steeled herself for pain. He dragged her past the bar, kicking and snapping her teeth. What was he playing at? If he wanted a brawl, she wanted it over with.
“It was a joke, Septimus. Let go.” Hester tried to dislodge his fingers from her hair, scratching at him with her fingernails. “Would you harm a lady?”
“You’re no lady,” he huffed, tightening his grip.
“You dare to make a mockery of me? Again?” He twisted his hand in her hair and Hester yelped, searching the faces of the crowd for Victor, locking pleading eyes with him as Septimus pulled her to a door at the back of the taproom.
Victor smirked and shook his head, his arms folded across his chest. No chance of a rescue there, then.
Hester was thrust through one door, then through another, and down a flight of steps.
She thought he would chase her. But she hadn’t quite got as far as planning what to do if he caught her.
“You stabbed my ship, broke into my room. You thought I’d take that lying down?
It was a joke. You take everything so seriously.
I was merely trying to teach you to laugh—where the Hell are you taking me? ”
Septimus opened a final door, and without saying a word, shoved her through it into a dark cellar. The door slammed shut with such violence that dust fell from the ceiling.
Hester leapt for the door handle, wrenching at it to no avail.
And then the key turned in the lock.