With as much dignity as she could muster, Etta pointed to the bunk. “It’s just over there. Tell him I’m sorry I kept it so long.”
The whole time she’d been using it as a security blanket, it hadn’t even occurred to her that he might not have another one.
Idiot. She was embarrassed by her own rudeness.
The boy scampered and plucked the jacket up, all scrawny limbs and big ears. She turned back to her work, trying to disentangle the brush without ripping out any more of her hair. The creak of the door hinges never came.
“Don’t ye have any pomatum, miss?” he blurted out. “Looks painful the way ’tis.” Then, going white in the face with fear, added, “Apologies—”
“No, it’s all right,” Etta said, thinking quickly. “I don’t have any…pomatum. Or water. Could you possibly get them for me?”
Nicholas had said to use the boys if they needed anything.…Etta wasn’t sure what the expected behavior was here, but the boy didn’t seem troubled or even wary of the request. In fact, he bounced into action. “S’all right, miss, I’ll be back. I’ll give the jacket to another boy to brush, and bring some fresh water for ye. Me mum taught me how to do her hair right and proper, like a lady—” He caught himself on the next breath, steadying himself so he stood straight, thin shoulders back. Looking at him now, Etta guessed he couldn’t be more than twelve, maybe thirteen. “If you be needing the help, miss?”
She did need help, all right—both the kind he was offering and the kind she had just realized he could provide. Sophia had warned her not to be too familiar with anyone on the ship—anyone in this era, really—but now she had a justified excuse for keeping him around, wringing what information she needed out of him. Etta pressed her lips together to keep from smiling, hiding the excitement rippling through her. “I’m Etta Spencer—what’s your name?”
“Jack, Miss Spencer.” He gave a little bow.
True to his word, he did return—with a pitcher of warm water, a rag, and a canister of something that smelled wonderfully spicy and sent a cramp of hunger through her empty stomach.
Jack was serious about his business; when Etta tried to help him rinse and towel her hair off, he gave her a stern look. She bit her lip to keep from smiling and let him go about his work stoically, applying the spicy mixture—the pomatum, she guessed. A few minutes into being groomed like a delicate lapdog, Etta put her plan into play.
“Jack, are you a member of the prize crew? Or one of the Ardent’s boys?”
He puffed out his chest as he announced, “Prize crew, miss, and one of the best at that. Captain Hall keeps us all trained right and proper.”
Perfect. Exactly what she’d hoped for. “Could you tell me about the men?”
Jack pulled back, giving her an incredulous look. “Well…they drool and snore and fart like any other man, I promise ye.”
She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “No, I mean…how about their names? Where they come from? What they do when they’re not working. I’ve always been so curious about that.”
Always, as in, the last ten minutes.
Still Jack hesitated, brow creased, as if he were puzzling out the propriety of it all. Etta brushed aside the guilt and gave the boy the most manipulative smile of her life, adding, “I’m only asking because I trust your opinion above everyone else’s.”
Jack seemed to enjoy this.
“All right. Suppose we’d best start with Mr. Carter,” Jack said, finally.
Yes, Etta thought, let’s.
“He’s a right fine seaman, and I like him fine. Kind. Teaches me letters when he isn’t barking at the other men, which he don’t have to do, understand? Reads to me sometimes when I brings him in his breakfast. Reads so much, I don’t see how he don’t get bored with all them words.” Jack made a face. “He’s the prize master. He’ll bring the ship into the prize courts and get our earnings. I know he don’t like turtle soup much. Always makes a face when I serve it to him. He’s from…well, I don’t rightly know. Captain Hall raised him, though. Is that what you meant, miss?”
Etta nodded. “Exactly what I meant.”
Jack went through the roster of the prize crew, noting how much he liked each man, which ones burped most often after he served them, which ones snored, the ones who had perished in horrifically brutal ways during the boarding. It shifted naturally into chatting about the work above, his excitement during the boarding, how some of the boys from this ship, the Ardent, had agreed to work for Mr. Carter but they didn’t much like Jack yet. She was so distracted by his torrent of words, she missed the fact that he was guiding the brush through her hair easily now, top to bottom, top to bottom, until it felt silky and only a bit damp to the touch.
“How d’ye like it fashioned?” he asked her, gesturing to her hair.
“I’ll just braid it,” Etta began. “Thank you for your help—”
“I can do that, miss,” Jack said.
“You can?”
“A sailor who can’t braid s’no sailor t’all,” he proclaimed. “Learnt to marry and braid the lines and ropes first thing.”
“Marry them?” Etta asked, glancing up at him under a curtain of her hair. He’d been appalled by her sitting on the floor, but it was the only way for him to stand over her to do his work.
“Aye, splice and bind the ends of two ropes together so that they’re one. Join ’em together, like.”
She wondered if that’s where the word had come from, why you married someone when you joined your life to theirs. How strange; casting something she thought she knew in a different light, tracing its unexpected origins back. Here was one small, unexpected benefit to time travel: at least she was learning something. Something she would only be able to use in trivia games, but still.
“—the devil are you, Jack Winstead?” a voice called.
Jack shot over to the door and pulled it open.
“Christ, lad! Were you hiding in there? The new cook’s a beast, but he won’t eat you—”
Etta pushed herself to her feet. The man at the door was younger than she’d expected, given the deep baritone of his voice—she recognized it, though, as the one that had been booming out over the others, issuing commands, even singing. His dirty-blond hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, giving her a nice view of his round, open face and a stitched-up cut running along one cheek. He had the wide shoulders and rounded chest of a pigeon, but moved to snatch Jack’s collar like a hawk.
“I’m so sorry, it’s my fault for keeping him,” Etta said, feeling almost frantic. He wouldn’t hurt the boy, would he?
The other man looked up, releasing Jack. “Oh, beg your pardon, Miss Spencer. If he was assisting you, it’s all right.”
Jack turned back to her, eyes wide.
“He was,” Etta confirmed.
The man looked down at him. “Cook’s been calling your name for the past quarter hour. Go on, look lively, lad.”
He tore out of the room, only to have the man catch him by the collar and drag him back. Jack did his quick version of a bow. “Pleasant evenin’ to ye, miss!”
“We’ll teach that one manners yet,” the man said with a faint trace of exasperation, “though I seem to be lacking them myself. I’m Davy Chase, first mate of the prize crew.”
Etta wasn’t sure what to do with herself as he drew his heels together and gave her yet another bow—curtsy? Nod? She ran through what Jack had given her about him. Likes: music, ale, dock wenches. Dislikes: cabin boys who don’t follow orders, winters in New England, tea. Most interesting, however, was the fact that he’d been raised—fostered, really—by Captain Hall and his late wife, alongside Nicholas.
“Are you well? You gave us quite the fright,” he continued.
“Better now, thank you,” she said carefully, pleased she had managed to sound calm and collected. Maybe this would get easier, or at least more comfortable, with practice?
“I see your sister is still poorly—rather, I smelt as much as I passed her ca
bin. That’s a poor stomach for you.” He looked like he was fighting a small smile, and in that moment, Etta decided she liked him. “I’ve had the cook make a broth that should help settle her some. We’ll get her in shape to sail again soon.”
The sooner Sophia recovered, the sooner Etta would be back under the girl’s watchful eye. Etta needed all the time she could to win the crew over, and to turn the ship around, back to whatever port it had sailed from. Back, hopefully, to the passage leading to New York in her time.
“And you? Will you be joining us for dinner this evening?”
Etta opened her mouth to decline—exhaustion had made even her bones feel heavy, and she needed to practice speaking in their formal way before she trusted herself to hold a full conversation—but her stomach answered for her with a loud, rumbling groan.
Etta’s face flamed as she fumbled for an apology, but his warm brown eyes only lit up in delight.
“I believe I have my answer,” he said, and held out his arm.
MR. EDWARD WREN HAD CLEARLY never let the truth stand in the way of a good story.
Nicholas sat back against his chair, fighting the urge to knock a fist against the table and move the conversation—by force, if necessary—past Wren’s staggering tale of past valor. As far as Nicholas was concerned, half-truths only added up to a whole lie.
Glancing around the table, he gauged each diner’s reaction. From his prize crew, the men who had boarded the Ardent with him and assumed control of it, was Trevors the bosun, deep into his cups, his teeth stained with port. The man had actually nodded off, clutching a stomach distended from eating his own weight in lobscouse and buttered parsnips. To his right was another surviving officer from the Ardent’s crew: Heath, the sailing master. The older gentleman’s right ear was bandaged beneath a flop of a wig, and he spent the entirety of the dinner turning in his chair to try to hear what was being said by Miss Henrietta Spencer, who inhaled her meal with a wolfish enthusiasm that Nicholas found himself appreciating.
Henrietta Ironwood? he wondered. The old man’s letter had been vague—there hadn’t been an indication either way—but she seemed to lack the venom that pumped through the family’s heart. It was entirely possible, however, that she was the kind to nestle close before sinking her fangs in for the kill.
His eyes shifted to her right, where the newly appointed surgeon and all-around milksop, Goode, was focused on cutting his food into bites small enough for a chick.
“Miss Spencer, you haven’t touched a bite of the lobscouse. I can’t recommend it enough,” Heath blurted out, nearly shouting over Wren’s quieter tones. Nicholas had been in his position before—the agonizing ringing and temporary deafness of coming too close to cannon fire—and couldn’t fault the older man for his booming voice. “It’s Cook’s specialty.”
Knowing that they’d be eating hard biscuits and turtle soup every night if he let one of the prize crew take control of the galley, Nicholas had reluctantly agreed to let the Ardent’s cook stay in his position after meeting him. The man had all but shackled himself to the stove, stoic and grim, as he offered up a pastry as proof of his skill. He kept his appearance well enough, with a trim dark beard and hair queued neatly. More importantly, “Cook” had tolerated his presence on the ship, having clearly lived through any number of boardings in his time.
“It’s made from salted beef that Cook hangs over the side of the ship, until it freshens,” Goode explained. “The stew is merely beef, potatoes, onions, and a little pepper if he has it.”
Henrietta—no, Etta—no, Miss Spencer—favored Jack, one of the cabin boys, with a small smile as he sprang forward to spoon the stew into her bowl.
They watched as she took a careful bite, compressing her lips at the taste, swallowing hard. She managed to choke out a single word: “Delicious.”
“There’s a good girl,” Chase said with a chuckle.
As fair-haired as an angel and as big as a bear, his friend, the first mate for the remainder of their journey, was a study in contradictions. An open, round face, perpetually tinged with pink, displayed his irrepressible good nature. He had been one of the few to sneakily thumb away his tears of relief when Miss Spencer had awoken. Moments later, he’d been back at work, assisting the others in patching the hull and singing bawdy songs in the highest register he could manage. And tonight, following the dinner’s conclusion and the final watch, he’d be in his hammock, darning his and the crew’s stockings with exquisite care.
On the deck, however, Chase was as formidable as a mountain; there was no quarter for shirking duties or disrespect, not without fear of the cat-o’-nine-tails or a fist sailing toward your soft parts. Usually, a good pint or glass of wine was enough to put Chase in high spirits, but Nicholas was almost relieved that the other man looked as surly as he himself felt. Maybe he wasn’t the only one exhausted by this whole ordeal.
Wren smiled fondly at Etta—Miss Spencer—and gestured to his bowl, still full from the first serving. “I don’t like it much myself. The curse of having a refined palate, I suppose. But, I swear to you, I would have eaten this every day rather than starve on the island with the others—”
Bloody hell, would there be no mercy from this?
By some unfortunate act of God, Wren was another surviving officer of the Ardent, which unfortunately granted him the privilege of attending meals in the captain’s cabin, outside of where he and the other men were being kept in the hold.
Nicholas took a steadying breath of the savory, salty smell of the lobscouse and allowed Jack to refill his bowl when he emptied it. The boy’s hands shook slightly from nerves. This was his first voyage, and Nicholas remembered the feeling well.
“You’re doing a fine job,” he murmured to the boy. “Well done.”
Jack straightened up, setting his shoulders back. He struggled to keep the smile off his face as he moved to serve Chase. When he arrived at Wren’s side, the man broke off his story only long enough to give the boy the full brunt of his condescension.
“Have you gone deaf as well? I said I wasn’t fond of it.” Wren glanced at Nicholas. “Your charity knows no limit. Employing half-wits and simpletons?”
A growl curled in Chase’s throat at the same moment that the spoon in Jack’s hand “slipped” from his fingers and landed with a wet thump in Wren’s lap.
“You damned—!”
Nicholas’s body tensed as the other man raised his hand. The impertinence would be dealt with, but not like this—for, whatever weaknesses other men might accuse him of, Nicholas would never condone striking a child, even to discipline him. “Mr. Wren—”
He wasn’t quite sure how she moved as quickly as she did in those heavy skirts, but Etta was suddenly standing over Wren, settling a hand on his shoulder.
“Oh no,” Etta said loudly. “How clumsy, Jack! You’d better apologize.”
Chase yanked Jack out of Wren’s reach as the man glanced at Etta, distracted for a moment from his anger.
“Sorry,” Jack mumbled. Chase gave him a little shake and the boy added, “Sir.”
“It’s all right, isn’t it? Accidents happen,” Etta continued soothingly, picking up Wren’s displaced napkin. “There you go—”
She turned slightly as she reclaimed her seat, meeting Nicholas’s gaze evenly. Well. That was a masterful manipulation of the moment. He tilted his head in acknowledgment. Well played.
Etta tilted hers right back, cocking an eyebrow as if to ask, And where were you? He bit back an unwelcome grin at the challenge.
“The bugger did it on purpose,” Wren insisted.
Etta continued, “Now, what were you saying about the island and food…?”
As Wren was, mystifyingly, an officer, he was granted a measure of respect by the able-bodied seamen of both crews, including the ship’s boys. There were standards of how a captured crew was to be treated, and the truth was, Jack would need to be disciplined for his actions. There was no way to avoid it without stepping on the exasperating
decorum of it all, but Miss Spencer…
He turned to find Chase watching her with brows raised. She’d blown out the flame before the fire could catch.
Now, however, Miss Spencer seemed to devour each of Wren’s words like bites of a second supper. Ironwood had trained her well. Nicholas would need to watch her to ensure that he himself wasn’t being played—or perhaps the better strategy was to stop watching her altogether.
The candlelight was doing fascinating things to both the silk of her gown and the color in her cheeks. She struggled to lift her fork to her mouth, clearly in discomfort from the fit of her gown. Perhaps that, too, explained the breathy way she laughed and laughed at Wren’s inane jokes.
Where was the little lioness, he wondered, roaming the decks with her hair down and floating like a cloud around her? The one who’d looked ready and willing to do violence to two men twice her size—with a grappling hook, no less? She’d gone into the cabin wild, burning, and come out as cool and pale as a pearl. If she’d coifed her hair and powdered it, he might have been convinced he was watching someone from his own century.
Beside her, Edward Wren was the pride of bloody England with his beautiful manners and charm. Nicholas had made a dispassionate assessment of him when the Ardent’s first mate was brought up from the hold, and had found him lacking in everything but pretty manners. The look on his face when Hall had introduced Nicholas as the master of the ship…
His fingers closed around the silver knife, gripping it until his breath was steady. Disbelief. Disgust. Worse, even, than Sophia’s open malice.
They’d made their introductions just as Captain Hall and the Challenger were readying to sail. Not a single word had passed between them after the captain left; they’d merely studied one another, Wren taking stock of him the way he would a horse he was considering purchasing. Nicholas returned the favor now.
Dark hair, dark eyes. Heroically bruised and bloodied, naturally. Wren was a great deal shorter than Nicholas, but walked with his chest puffed out and his chin raised, as if he was always on his way to meet the king.