Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

P ortsmouth, which looked so serene and still from afar, was a raucous, clamoring forest of moving masts up close, all swaying dizzily this way and that.

“ Resistance , ma’am,” called down the coachman as he pulled up alongside what appeared to be an empty quay.

Flora alighted in confusion at the vast array of ships anchored before her. “Where?” She asked stupidly, before clarifying, “Which ship?”

The coachman set his brake before clamoring down so he wouldn’t have to shout over the wind. “That one, I should think, ma’am,” he said pointing to the veritable sea of ships riding at anchor. “The porter at the dockyard gate said frigate, which are two deckers.” He pointed more specifically to the cluster of double-decked ships. “Middle of those three, he said. Chancer!” He called to the boy still up on the box. “Escort Miss Conway down to the sally port there and find her a boatman to call out to Resistance . Reckon you can send a message that way, miss.”

“Thank you.” But she would not merely send a message. Not when it would be so much more expedient to send herself. She much preferred to deliver her own messages—especially since she had not yet thought of exactly what she was to say.

At the sally port, which was only a series of stone steps down to the water, an old woman with a face as wrinkled and raw as an apple core sat at the oars of a small boat tethered by a rope to an iron ring on the quay.

“ Resistance, you want?” The crone looked vaguely in the direction of the ships riding at anchor. “Tell you which one for a shilling. Take you out to her for only six bob more.”

“Yes, please, immediately,” Flora answered, fishing the necessary coins out of her purse.

“Miss?” The boy shifted nervously. “What will I tell Lady Ivers?”

“Tell her I shall return with my prize posthaste,” Flora said stoutly, before adding, “And you may tell her prayers are appreciated, but not necessary.”

“Listen to you. Sitcher’self down, Duchess,” the old woman cackled. “Wand we’ll be well away.”

If Flora had felt tossed and turned in the carriage, the present sensation of being on the sea was somehow softer but all the more violent. And if the wind in Edinburgh had been raw, the cutting gale off the sea was practically arctic.

“What’cher want wiff Resistance ?” the water-woman queried as she rowed unerringly toward the central of the three ships at anchor without ever once turning to check over her shoulder for her direction.

“I have some business there,” Flora said as cryptically as possible, huddling into her cloak. One really didn’t want to broadcast one’s proposal like the commonest fishwife. But if the water-woman felt free with her curiosity, then so might Flora. “How does a woman come to take this job?”

“No men left for it, are there? All gone to His Majesty’s service round these parts, what wiff room, board and grub included in the navy. I’d go there meself, if they’d take me,” she cackled. “But I earn a decent enuff living here.” She gestured to her oars. “And I like me work. Set me own hours. Better’n cleaning up slops fer some ‘igh and mighty mistress. Beggin’ your pardon, Duchess.”

Flora merely nodded because her attention was all taken up by the ship looming nearer.

“Ahoy, Resistance !” The old lady tar cawed as the boat drew alongside the high wall of the frigate. “What’s yer name, Duchess?”

“Flora Conway. Miss.”

“ Miss Flora Conway for—” The water-woman paused and raised her hoary eyebrows at Flora, waiting for her to supply her business with the ship.

“For Captain Balfour,” Flora managed, though her tongue suddenly felt thick and dry.

“ Miss Flora Conway ‘as business with Cap’n Balfour,” the harridan bellowed loud enough for all of the ship and half of the harbor to hear.

So much for discretion.

A half-dozen bare heads popped over the bulwarks above, staring down at her before one bearing a cocked bicorn came to the break in the rail and stared down before hurrying away. Another dozen or so sailors began to appear like birds alighting in the trees, slinging themselves out on the chain wale and the ratlines above.

“Who?” Came a deeply incredulous voice. “No, do not repeat that.”

Sharp footsteps hurried down what sounded like a set of stairs before he appeared above her.

And there he was. “Jack!”

“Miss Conway.” He touched his hat absent-mindedly as he stared at her for a moment before he recalled himself to his ship. “Damn your eyes,” he growled at the nearest men. “Get off that rail and get back to work. Find something to do before I find it for you. Mr. Stevens, see to the people.” And then he stepped closer, standing full in the gap of the railing above, so she could see him in all his naval glory.

“You’re looking well,” she said apropos of nothing but wanting—needing—to say something.

He was not complimented. Or amused. “What are you doing here?”

Flora took a deep breath and did what he had once so cavalierly instructed her—she aimed the swivel gun of her smile at him and took her shot. “I’ve come to save you, if I may.”

“Save me?” His frown furrowed deeper, but he unbent a little, leaning toward her a bit. “From what?”

“From the future,” she tried, as her breath sent up frosted semaphore into the chill air between them. “Or the Navy. Or the French. Or Dutch. However you prefer.”

A small hint of amusement began to brew at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t need saving, Miss Conway.”

“Flora,” she reminded him. “And don’t be absurd, Jack, of course you do, for you’d never leave on your own accord to save yourself.”

“And I am meant to leave upon yours?” His brows rose so high she was surprised they didn’t knock his hat off his head. “My dear Miss Conway, you clearly don’t know how the Admiralty or the Royal Navy works.”

“I am very glad to hear that I am your dear Miss Conway. And you are right, of course, I don’t know anything about the Royal Navy. But I do know how the world works—and that is, I have an alternative to the Navy to propose to you.”

She had his full and undivided attention now—he put his hands on either side of the bulwark and leaned down, as if he thought he had not heard her correctly. “An alternative?”

“Yes,” she promised.

A long moment of silence followed—the only sounds were the lap and fall of the water against the boat and the side of the hull and the raucous shrill cry of the passing gulls—before he cleared his throat. “And what is that alternative?”

“Me.” Flora decided not to say anything more. Not until he came down to her.

So, she waited.

Another silence, filled with the sounds of the harbor, the groaning ropes of the ship, and the bated breath of a few hundred men idling somewhere just out of eyeshot, ensued.

“Jack?”

“Forgive me, Miss Conway,” he responded with alacrity. “But I have not the pleasure of understanding you. Would you mind?—”

“Would you mind coming down here to talk to me—for I’ll never make it up there with anything like grace.” She eyed the side of the hull rising and falling at an alarming rate not four feet from where she sat on her uncomfortable thwart. “The water looks frightfully cold. And I’m getting an awful crick in my neck trying to propose to you.”

He immediately turned his back and for a sickening second Flora thought he meant to leave her. But instead, he began to quickly descend the side via the extraordinarily shallow foothold cobbled onto the side of the hull.

“Careful,” she called.

“Miss Conway,” he said as he reached the launch and turned to her. “I am always careful when I am being proposed to.”

“Very sensible,” she agreed while trying in vain not to smile like the veriest loon. “As you should be.”

“As I am.” He cast a glance at the water-woman. “Do you mind? If you’ll wait aboard?” He passed her what Flora could only hope was adequate coin, for the old woman grumped her surprisingly spry way up the imaginary ladder and disappeared.

Jack sat himself in her place and bent himself to the oars. “For some small bit of privacy,” he explained as he rowed them away from the ship. But after such a promising start, he seemed to be heading them back the way she and the water-woman had just come.

“Where are you going? What about her?”

“I am taking you back to the quay and the land, where you belong,” he explained tersely. “I’ll bring the boat back for her, after.”

After she had done what she came here to do. “I do belong there, with you,” she insisted. “As I was hoping you belonged, too. With me,” she clarified, since he was being obstreperous. “Please stop,” she asked. “And please don’t make me beg. Even though you know I will.”

He finally did so, shipping the oars, letting the craft bob up and down idly upon the frigid waves. “So,” he crossed his arms over his chest in that uncomfortable, impervious way of his. “What exactly are you begging, or proposing, Miss Conway?”

“It’s Flora,” she attempted one last time. “And I beg that you do me the honor and privilege of taking my hand in marriage.”