Harley looked at him with a mixture of censure and resignation. “This unmannerly lout is my steward. He will take care of anything you need. Just don’t ask how he accomplished it or where he got it.”
Mr. Pearce grinned, and Harley ruefully shook his head. “Rafe, this way.”
Mr. Pearce stood aside for them and made to follow when Chiara called him back. “Mr. Pearce, I shall require a few things before we set sail.”
“Ah’s yer man, m’um.”
Three days passed before Chiara showed her face outside her cabin. Mr. Pearce had supplied her with everything she needed to weather her inevitable bout of mal-de-mer. He even brought her some ginger to help settle her stomach. With that organ finally under control, she ventured out of her cabin for breakfast.
Mr. Pearce met her on the way to the captain’s ward room, now doing extra duty as the officers’ mess. “G’morning to ye, m’um. Ah’s glad to see ye is up and about finally.” She held the door for him, as he balanced three trays. “Thank ye, m’um. Thank ye.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Pearce.”
“What can Ah’s gets ye?”
FitzHenry, Harley, and another officer rose from the table as she entered. “Oh, a little of everything, please, I’m quite famished.” Pearce lifted his eyebrows in the very same way that Harley had done some days ago. Like master, like man, she thought as he went about his duties.
“Lady Chiara,” Harley bowed, “I’m delighted you could finally join us. May I present Mr. Grenfell, my first officer?”
The young man, who obviously hadn’t been shaving long, turned beet red and bowed rather jerkily. “Servant, ma’am.” With that, he bowed equally jerkily to the gentlemen. “Excuse me, sirs, duties you know.” His half-finished plate remained behind him.
As he waited for her to sit, FitzHenry jibed, “Why Lady Chiara, I do believe you’ve frightened the stripling.”
Chiara just looked at him and then glanced about the room. Paneled in the same dark, soot-stained wood as the captain’s cabin, the bank of windows also looked out off the stern of the ship, but one deck lower. She addressed Captain Harley. “I apologize for being such a poor guest, Captain. Mr. Pearce has been most helpful, though.”
Harley glanced over at his steward, and the small man grinned. “Thank you, Lady Chiara. I wouldn’t have expected any less of him, but it’s still nice to hear. You’ve quite recovered, I hope?”
“Indeed.”
“Splendid! You made a top-hole turn out, especially under the circumstances.” Her wool gown, dark blue and practical, featured long sleeves and a high neckline as concessions to the cool weather on board the ship. A white sash emphasized the high waist of the gown.
“What kind of progress have we made in my…absence?”
“Smashing, absolutely smashing! We’ve been doing just shy of 12 knots, and the crew is working like a well-adjusted clock.”
Chiara frowned and FitzHenry broke in, “What he means is that we should reach Lisbon late today.”
Chiara’s face brightened at the thought of a port. She knew they were also delivering dispatches for Wellington, who was somewhere north of Badajoz, Spain, approximately 120 miles east of the Portuguese port.
FitzHenry leaned back in his chair. “We’ll only be in port for a few hours, enough to deliver the papers and take on a few supplies. If you’ve finally gotten your sea legs, I wouldn’t recommend you getting off the ship.”
“Oh well,” accompanied a deep sigh. “I don’t want to have to repeat that experience any time in the near future.”
“Precisely my point.” He steepled his fingers under his chin.
“You are most tediously right, my lord.”
“Of course. Remember that.”
For a moment, she looked at him coolly. What an arrogant…person he was! Chiara knew she couldn’t give him the set-down he needed and deserved, at least not until the mission was finished. Then…she mentally rubbed her hands together.
“My lady,” interjected Harley, “don’t let this son of a sea cook distress you. He forgets that even the late, lamented Lord Nelson suffered from the same affliction.”
“Tom, you’re such a marplot.”
Chiara ignored him and addressed the Captain. “When will this speed put us near Ravenna?”
“Well, in a perfect world, we should have you on dry land again in about 11 days. I wouldn’t be too sanguine about the weather, though. This part of the world has been known to sprout some good ones at this time of the year.”
FitzHenry rose and walked to the wide window at the back of the chamber. He appeared to be studying the wake intently.
“Well, I’ll just pray, for what do they say, ‘fair skies and following winds.’”
“Just so, my lady,” Harley glanced at FitzHenry with a grin.
“My lord, I would like to inspect the clothes you and your men propose wearing.” His eyebrow went up in mocking outrage. “To insure their appropriateness, of course.”
“Of course.”
With a slight grimace, she turned to the captain, “If the proposed clothes for Lord FitzHenry and his marines are as inappropriate as I suspect they may be, I might require some extra hands. Are any of your men, perhaps, somewhat proficient in sewing?”
“Indeed, my lady, I have two sew-sew boys I will put at your disposal. They can be spared from stitching sails for a few days. Mr. Pearce will fetch them at your need.
“And now I’m afraid I must attend to my duties. I do hope you will be able to join us for dinner, my lady. My chef has a particular touch with beef. Three bells.” He bowed and left.
FitzHenry walked to the summoning bell pull on the wall and gave it two sharp, silent tugs. While he waited for his valet, he leaned against the wall and studied Chiara. Jones, FitzHenry’s valet, knocked briefly before entering the ward room. His master barely glanced at him as he requested the men be brought to him. Chiara requested her sewing basket as well. She dismissed him with a smile and then turned to FitzHenry. “Rafaelle…” His lifted eyebrow stopped her. Merciful heavens, she thought, I could get tired of that quickly. “Much as I do not wish to be on…intimate…terms with you, it appears I must. I will be addressing you as Rafaelle from now on. I will do all the talking in public. You must hold your tongue. No matter how good your French, it simply wouldn’t do in Italy for an Italian peasant.”
“I must, hum? My sister never thought she would live to see the day. She is forever accusing me of telling her what to do.”
“Obviously a most astute woman. I shall have to seek out your sister’s acquaintance. It seems we have much in common.”
He snorted.
“You might start practicing your role, now,” she muttered as a sharp rap sounded on the door. Jones and the marines entered, followed by Mr. Pearce. The valet greeted them, while the marines pulled at their forelocks.
Chiara studied the two soldiers. There were both dark-haired and dark-skinned for Englishmen. They would do, especially if they let their beards grow. ”Gentlemen,” she said, “be seated.”
Both jaws dropped. Members of the aristocracy had obviously not often offered them a chair. They glanced at FitzHenry. He nodded briefly, and they all took their seats.
“We need to start making you into Italians, at least to the casual observer.” Worry, fear, and outrage blossomed on their faces. “It may save your lives. We’re going to work on dress, language, and mannerisms.
“My name is Chiara.” She rolled her “r’ with great emphasis. “He,” she nodded towards FitzHenry, “is Rafaelle. This is the only way you will address him, beginning now.” The two men tried to hide their grins. “If you ever address him as ‘my lord’ or ‘sir’ it will probably cost all of us our lives. He is ‘Rafaelle.’ I will be doing most, if not all, of the talking, so I will be seen to be the harridan mistress. I will be addressed as ‘Signora’ or ‘Signora Chiara’. You will also need ‘please,’ ‘prego.’ and ‘thank you,’ ‘grazia.’ We’ll practice them.
r /> “When introduced to someone of rank or substance whose friendliness you aren’t sure of, pull off your cap,’ she got up to demonstrate, ‘hold it close to your chest, drop your chin, and sink into yourself. Make yourself small. Then yell for me.” The wry note in her voice had FitzHenry smirking.
“Do you have something to contribute, Rafaelle? I mean more than childish remarks?” If he wanted to use words as edged steel, he’d find that hers were just as sharp.
A small brush of his hand was the only response.
“May I see the clothes,’ she glanced at all of them, “you propose to wear?”
Rafaelle glanced at the valet, and the man left on his errand.
Chiara frowned at the marines. “We have not completed the introductions. You are…?” She looked at the taller one.
“Jerry McEowen, m’um, uh, senyoura.” His English came straight out of the Highlands.
“Very good,” she smiled. “You roll your ‘r’ well. We’ll have you carrying on conversations in no time.” The marine beamed with delight. “We will call you…Giaccomo. That’ll be fairly easy to remember. And you are…?” She looked at the other man.
“Sam Goode, m’um.”
The tone of his voice told Chiara that Sam Goode did not want to be here and did not want to do anything more than was absolutely necessary. “You will go by Salvatore. Now I realize you may be uncomfortable with the strange clothes and language, but you need to make every effort. In the field, it may buy us a few seconds of advantage, enough to save all our lives. I really need you to practice; even it is sounds funny or strange.”
“Ay, s’nor.”
“Si, signora. Repeat it, both of you.”
“Si, sigyora.”
“Better. Keep practicing.” She studied the two men, wondering how to turn two obstinate English marines into passable Italian peasants in less than two weeks. No flashes of inspiration enlightened her.
Jones brought in the clothes. Chiara inspected each garment. For some reason, she was reluctant to pick up FitzHenry’s French peasant clothes.
“At least two of the pants will have to be altered. Italians generally wear knee breeches rather than trousers. And the stockings will need to be lengthened to go with the breeches. My…Rafaelle, your clothes will need to be decorated in accordance with your more elevated status.”
“My…status?” The eyebrow took flight again.
“Yes, you will need to be a relative of mine, a brother, husband, close cousin. It’s unlikely a woman would travel alone with three men and not have any of them kinfolk.”
“Humm. Do I get to choose?”
Her repressive glare was her only reply. “The full tunic shirts with the draw-string necks and gathered sleeves will do. Salvatore and Giaccomo’s jerkins will also do, but yours,” she nodded at FitzHenry, “will have to be of a better cloth if you are to be a member of the landed peasantry. Also our escorts will need neckerchiefs, and you will require a more elaborate, triangular scarf. Cummerbunds and caps, too.”
“Do you always dress your men so carefully?”
“Have you even seen an Italian peasant, Rafaelle?” He shrugged, and she continued speaking to the marines. “Before we land, you will rub some walnut stain into your skin to darken it.” She looked around. “Are there any questions?” No one answered. “Very good. Then I have to get to work.” She looked at FitzHenry. “I need to get measurements, please.”
The rest of the group left the ward room while Chiara rooted in her sewing basket for tape and a wax tablet like her uncle’s.
When the door closed, FitzHenry sauntered from his window spot to the table. “Does ‘Chiara’ mean ‘cat’ in Italian?”
“What? No, what?” She couldn’t find the stylus.
“’Cat’ would suit you. You’re a strange mixture of claws and purrs, and I suspect you’ll make a formidable huntress, Chiara.” He rolled the “r” in the soft French fashion rather than the more pronounced Italian.
She spoke fluent French, though not nearly as well as her next-to-mother tongue. The French “r” always sounded like the hiss of snakes compared to the robust rolling consonant she grew up with. The sound of her name on his lips was the sound a beautiful, deadly viper would make as it prepared to strike. Chills went down her back. She stopped searching her sewing basket and looked up. He’d perched on the edge of the table next to her. Even sitting he seemed to tower over her.
“Chiara,” he breathed. One hand reached out to lift a curl from her neck.
Chiara watched his eyes, transfixed as a finger reached out from holding the curl to taste her neck. Electricity raced from the touch down her back. A swell riding under the boat sent her swaying towards him.
Striking like a snake, he clasped his hand around her neck, bent, and kissed her. His mouth pried at her lips, demanding surrender. For a moment, all Chiara wanted to do was yield to that demand. Then she saw his eyes. Even up close, they were the hard, calculating eyes of a master predator.
She jerked away and grabbed her basket. “Do not ever try that again. This is an official government mission, not a trip to a brothel.”
He straightened, sensuously graceful, into the cold English lord she knew.
“I will get your measurements from your valet.” She turned and fled the serpent’s den with as much dignity as she could muster.
Chapter 5
Chiara stomped back to her cabin. “The man’s a pig. An absolute, bloody pig! He’s the most degenerate excuse for a heathen I’ve ever seen.” She marched into her cabin and slammed the door. It bounced back open. She had to go back and close it, which infuriated her even more.
“That miserable, thrice-damned bastard.” She knew her stout-hearted aunt would be reaching for her vinaigrette if she heard, but Chiara didn’t feel in the slightest bit lady-like right now. Furious, murderous, vicious…yes. Lady-like, no.
She tossed her sewing basket on the table bolted to the bulkhead wall and went over to scramble into the gently swinging box bed. She threw her head back onto the pillow, feeling the brush of the wooden frame against the top of her head. She rubbed at the small sting. It was another thing she chalked up against FitzHenry.
She stared at the wood panel ceiling for what seemed like an eternity. He tried to use seduction to make her biddable. The arrogant pig! Chiara knew the mission had to take precedence over personal animosities, but there must be something she could do to punish him for the insult.
Turning, she looked out the wide transom window that mirrored the one in the wardroom directly below. Her trunk sat on the window seat. Fabrics and sewing supplies took up a goodly amount of space in the trunk. As she looked, an idea bloomed. Of course! It was a piece she had intended to use for herself to replace a bodice. Normally she would never even consider the color and pattern, but it suited Italian tastes perfectly. The flamboyant red and yellow flowers would make FitzHenry a perfect waistcoat, with maybe a red scarf to match. He of the restrained elegance would hate it.
The next few days were spent measuring, cutting and sewing. FitzHenry kept his distance and maintained cool politeness when distance wasn’t possible.
Captain Harley provided a sun shade and chairs for Chiara and her assistants on the forecastle. It allowed her some respite from her increasingly close cabin, luxurious as it was, and also allowed the Captain numerous opportunities to subtly flirt with her. FitzHenry’s obvious indifference emboldened Harley to show her how to use the sextant, standing in back of her and positioning her hands just so on the instrument. It was a perfectly innocent lesson in navigation, but Chiara caught FitzHenry’s eyebrow rise on that and other occasions.
Chiara enjoyed the Captain’s company and good humor, and she ignored FitzHenry.
As they left the Straits of Gibraltar, and the ship’s bell rang eight times for 4 o’clock, Harley approached her sewing pavilion. His bow morphed into a close examination of her handiwork, the flowered vest. His face showed the polite look of distaste: it was totally
blank. “And who is this for?”
Chiara smiled innocently, “Why for his lordship. Don’t you think it will suit him? He will blend right in with this.”
“Indeed!”
“Indeed what?” FitzHenry strolled up to them.
Harley looked at her, a wide grin on his face. “I was just explaining to Lady Chiara that the weather is going to change on us.”
“Hum, and rather quickly, I wager.”
Chiara frowned. She looked at both men. “How do you know this?”
FitzHenry answered. “The bank of clouds behind us,” he nodded aft, “carries a vendale wind out of the Straits of Gibraltar. It’s advancing with the kind of speed that spells a storm. And the winds these storms bring can be furious.”
“Indeed, Lady Chiara, best make sure everything is battened down after dinner. It’s going to be a bumpy night.”
FitzHenry grinned, “Absolutely!” Glancing askance at the emerging vest, he left them.
With a twinkle in his eye, Harley put his hand aside his mouth. “I think he’s looking forward to it.”
“What, the storm or the vest?”
Harley’s laughter barked, and he strolled away.
Dinner was a fairly quiet affair, with most of their attention focused on getting their food from the plates to their mouths without losing any. The leading edge of the storm caught them even faster than anticipated. Between bites, it was the main topic of conversation. The serious discussion of sails and heading gave her some cause for concern.
As it turned out, there was some cause for her concern. During the night, as the storm hit in force, the driver’s mizzen mast’s hinges failed, sending the mast swinging around the forecastle. Few men were on the deck, but a midshipman suffered a broken arm.
The next morning dawned bright and clear and breezy. Chiara finished breakfast alone in the wardroom. She grabbed her sewing basket and headed for the sunshade. Repairs on the mast were underway. Captain Harley spotted her and sauntered over to the pavilion. He swept off his hat, when the lookout in the crow’s nest shouted, “Sail ahoy!”
Harley stopped in mid-sweep and looked up. “Where away?”