Chapter Twenty-Three

H arriet watched the jetty draw nearer, glad it was long enough to reach the deeper water and prevent them having to pull the gig up on the sand and walk. As the gig bumped against the granite slabs, the man called Silas shipped his oar and grabbed a dangling chain. A minute later and they were moored against the wall of the jetty, right beside a rusty iron ladder.

“Mind you don’t tie her too tight,” Jack said, as his men fastened the mooring ropes. “The tides a way to go yet and we don’t want to come back to find her hanging in mid air.”

“Think we’re greenhorns, do’ee?” Silas muttered, but he slackened the rope he’d been tying.

“Hold her close while our guests disembark,” Will said, and Silas pulled the nose of the gig in, while the other man who’d rowed pulled in the stern.

“Up you go. Theo first, then you, Harriet, and I’ll come behind you to catch you if you slip.”

Did he think she was an idiot? She wasn’t about to let herself slip, even though the rails of the ladder were slimy with weed from constant submersion. Hopefully the weed hid no seaborne creatures that might nibble her fingers.

Theo scrambled up the ladder with the agility of the monkey they’d seen last summer at the traveling animal show, but Harriet ascended with less speed and more care, aware every step of the way of Jack’s close proximity behind her.

At the top she had to get onto her hands and knees before she could stand up, and by the time she’d done that, Jack was standing beside her. A few minutes later and all the men were on the quayside alongside them.

He turned to his crew. “You’re all free to go off and sell your wares, drink your fill, feed your faces and find somewhere to lay your heads.” He paused. The men regarded him with grins on their faces. “And whatever else it is you fancy to do. Remember. What happens in France stays in France.”

Good heavens. Was he encouraging them to womanize? Surely at least some of them were married. No wonder he’d insisted on the youthful Clemo staying on board. But what were she and Theo to do while all this carousing was going on? Suddenly, remaining on board ship seemed a much more attractive proposition. But it was too late now. The Fly sat bobbing gently on the swell too far out to be accessible unless she could prevail upon the owners of the gig to take her and Theo back. Looking at the two swarthy Bretons with the well-wrinkled faces of ancient mariners, she doubted they’d oblige.

Jack turned back to her as Will and their men, the two Breton oarsmen included, swaggered off down the long jetty towards the distant harbor front with the air of men on a mission. He benefited her with a diffident smile. “I’m not including you in that, of course.”

Did he look a tad disappointed that he wasn’t going off with them? Or was that embarrassment, perhaps, that she might be thinking this was what he customarily got up to in Roscoff? Was it? Did he? She didn’t want to think about that.

He held out his arm. “Shall we go?”

She took his proffered arm. “Well, I’m glad about that. Theo is a little young for drinking his fill as yet.”

Was that a throaty chuckle? She ignored it, and, holding on tight to Theo with her other hand, as the jetty, or whatever it was called, had nothing to stop him falling over the edge into the sea, she allowed herself to be escorted in pursuit of his men.

Jack smiled, his booted feet loud on the granite. “I’m glad to hear you share my opinion on that. No, I thought we three could go to a certain establishment I know of that not only provides an excellent dinner, but also has passable rooms for the night. I’m sure you don’t want to spend another night on board ship in company with my men. There’s only so far that sails can go in providing comfortable bedding.”

A small frisson of excitement coursed unwanted through Harriet’s veins. A fraction of a second later she was cursing herself. What was she thinking? She, who had vowed never to allow herself to be browbeaten by a man again, had for just that moment felt the temptation of a man’s body close to hers. But of course, smuggler or not, Jack was a gentleman, wasn’t he? And he would not for a moment have meant them to share a room… a bed. What was she? A common, animalistic creature aching for a man’s body? The sort of woman Ben had so often accused her of being. An unfounded accusation, of course, until right this moment… No. The thought of what Ben would have said had her stiffening with fear.

No, indeed. Her thoughts were not going to go that way. If she allowed herself for a moment to be tempted, Jack would turn out to be just like Ben and she couldn’t bear that. She’d far rather he remained at a discreet distance and didn’t darken her door with his masculinity. A friend and perhaps a mentor for Theo, but not for herself. No, never. Only now she was going to have to eat dinner with him. But at least she had Theo with her. Who could ask for a better chaperone than a curious twelve-year-old boy?

She groped for a change of subject. Anything to make herself stop imagining what might be possible. “Will the sheets be damp, do you think? I don’t want Theo catching a chill.” Keep the conversation to mundanities and she’d be on safe ground.

“Mrs. S is a fine English lady, the widow of a gentleman who once followed the same trade as I do. She knows how we sailors value a comfortable billet every once in a while.” What was that flashing across his face as he mentioned this widow’s name? But it was gone before she could recognise it. He must have caught her look, though. “And don’t worry. She keeps a respectable house. You’ll be quite safe there.”

“Why’s she called Mrs. S?” Theo asked. “Doesn’t she have a proper name?”

“Because she was always called that by her husband’s crew,” Jack said. “Tradition. Habit. Everyone called her that when she was a bo’sun’s wife and now she’s a bo’sun’s widow, no one wants to call her anything else.”

“So Mama would be Mrs. P?” Theo sounded gratified at this pronouncement. “I think the baker’s boy who called with deliveries at our house in Bath used to call her that. Just like she was a smuggler’s wife and not a soldier’s wife at all.”

Harriet tugged him a little closer. “Be quiet, Theo. Jack doesn’t want to hear about our old life.”

Jack turned his head to look at her, slowing his walk down as the end of the jetty drew nearer. “On the contrary, Harriet, I would love to hear of your old lives. I have no concept of what it’s like living in a city, with all the hustle and bustle of people.” He chuckled. “And little inclination to find out, but it would interest me this evening to hear more of your time in Bath.” He paused. “And why you ever left Truro.”

Oh no. Having revealed himself to her earlier, he no doubt wished her to do the same for him. But how could she admit what had gone on? In front of Theo. Everything had been her fault. She’d been such a bad wife and Ben had been quite right to…

His right hand moved to cover the hand she had tucked into his elbow, somehow warm and reassuring. “Have I said something wrong?”

She shook her head, glad of the rapidly fading evening light. “Not at all. I just…” She glanced meaningfully at Theo, who was ogling the array of small fishing boats now lying where the water had been replaced with sand as the tide went out. “There are things I’d rather not speak of.” She kept her voice down low, but Theo didn’t turn his head. Too many things to fascinate a boy.

They’d reached the dockside at the end of the jetty by now. Lights were already flickering into life in the dockside inns and alehouses, and the sounds of men enjoying themselves carried into the cool evening air. The smell of seaweed and fish hung over the village like a warm cloak.

Never having seen a fishing village other than Penzance up close, Harriet gazed around herself with interest. All along the docks stood teetering piles of weed encrusted baskets, coils of rope, random bits of ships and upturned rowing boats. On the exposed sand below the high sea wall lay more rowing boats, strings of wooden buoys, a thick line of washed up seaweed, and here and there the weed-encrusted detritus of old fishing nets. The smell wasn’t unpleasant as Harriet inhaled a deep breath.

“You like it?” Jack asked, his tone a little hopeful as though her opinion on this tiny French town mattered to him. “This way. Mrs. S’s establishment is down a quiet side street.”

The same cobbles as lined the harbor road also lined the side street, but with far less of a smell of fish about them. Halfway down it, a sign hung off a metal pole sticking out into the laneway. Someone had painted a picture of a witch with long green hair and wild eyes onto it, along with the name The Sea Witch. Behind her, colossal white-capped waves rose from a wild sea.

“The name of the ship her husband served on,” Jack said, pushing the front door open. “She was unusual in having a figurehead—of the witch, of course.”

The room inside was small, square, and low-ceilinged, with twisting stairs going up to the left, and a table and chair in the center back in front of a couple of doors. No one appeared to be about, but the smell of cooking food lingered in the air. Fish, of course.

“Hello!” Jack shouted. “Mrs. S? Anyone about?”

Footsteps sounded and the door beside the stairs swung open to reveal a middle-aged woman in a mob cap and clean white apron, who to all intents and purposes, but for the apron, could have stepped out of a society drawing room in Bath. Not that Harriet had much experience of them, but this was not how she’d been expecting Mrs. S, smuggler’s widow, to look.

“Jack Trevelyan!” she exclaimed, her kind face breaking into a wide smile and her light blue eyes sparkling with pleasure. “You’ve been a stranger to us for too long. And you’ve brought company.” Her surprised gaze ran up and down Harriet and Theo.

Mortified, Harriet attempted to look as though cavorting in boys’ clothing was a normal thing for her. “Good evening,” she said, and for want of being able to hold her skirts out and curtsey, performed an ungainly cross between a bow and curtsey and then wished she hadn’t attempted it.

“My dear girl,” Mrs. S said, her eyes full of compassion. “What has he done to you? Jack—what ever has happened? Did you fish her out of the sea like a mermaid? Or have you taken to dressing your ladies as lads?”

His ladies? Did he come here often with women in tow? The mortification of being just one of a line of ladies swept over Harriet and her cheeks blazed with heat.

Without waiting for him to answer, Mrs. S ploughed on. “A room for you, my dear, and for your son. I’m afraid you’ll have to share. And I’m sure we can find something better for you to wear. Shame on you, Jack, for allowing a lady to come ashore dressed like this.”

Harriet peeked sideways at Jack, but he’d perhaps wisely decided to remain silent and not argue with this diatribe, nor to reveal that the only other option had been a nightgown. At least he possessed discretion.

Not so Theo. Unfortunately. “It’s not Cap’n Jack’s fault. We stowed away on The Fly, and he took us out to sea by mistake. We were hiding in the hold like proper stowaways. Then the sea got rough, and Mama and I were foully sick because of the storm, and all our clothes were dirty. But Mama only had her nightgown.”

Mrs. S’s wide blue eyes widened to their furthest extreme. “My goodness me. Never did I hear such a tale. You poor dears. You go into the parlor, Jack, and Etienne will pour you a brandy. I’m taking Mrs…?”

“Penhallow,” Harriet said, feeling quite weak and feeble before this onslaught of capability.

“…Mrs. Penhallow upstairs with me. And you, young man. You look to me a likely cabin boy.”

Theo, who’d been forced by Harriet to put his shoes and stockings back on, looked most gratified at this praise. “I can stay down here with the Cap’n because I don’t need to change. I’m going to be his next cabin boy. When Clemo gets too big.”

“No you’re not,” Jack said. “And you need a wash. Your face is filthy. That’s what comes of sleeping on sails.”

“Sleeping on sails? What a to do.” Mrs. S clasped her hands together. “Not that I’ve not slept on sails myself in the past. Comfortable bed they make and if it rains you can creep in under a fold. But tonight you’ll rest in my best bedroom, my dears. Have no fear.” She gave a shout through the door she’d emerged from, a stream of gabbled French issuing from her lips. “Marie Hélène. Tout d’suite. Apportez de l’eau chaude au premier étage—la grande chambre. Dépêchez-vous, paresseux, vite, ou je vous donne une gifle bien méritée.”

Harriet hadn’t the foggiest what she’d said, but it produced a distant reply. “Oui, madame. Je viens, je viens.” The gist of which Harriet picked up. Someone was coming with something she’d been asked to bring.

Mrs. S shooed Jack through the door to the right, and, like a farmer herding recalcitrant hens, ushered Harriet and Theo before her up the spiralling stairs. On the first floor landing she opened a door on the right and Harriet went inside, pulling the still resistant would-be cabin boy after her.

For the best bedroom, it was not large, but the bed had the appearance of being well-mattressed, and there were flowers in a vase on the deep windowsill. How very English. “You won’t mind your little lad sharing the bed with you, will you?” Mrs. S asked, turning down the covers. “’Tis a good big bed and most comfortable. The window overlooks the harbor, but there’ll not be much noise overnight as the tide’s on the way out right now and none of the boats can get in.”

Footsteps sounded outside and Marie-Helène, who turned out to be a scrawny French girl in a grubby apron, arrived bearing a jug of steaming water and a china wash basin, cleverly managing to balance this while walking with a towel tucked under one arm and a lump of soap under her chin.

“J’arrive, j’arrive,” she panted, as she set down the bowl and jug on the pine dresser.

Mrs. S waved an airy hand at her. “Descends maintenant. Francine a besoin de ton aide, j’en suis s?r.”

And with a curious, wide-eyed glance at Harriet, the girl hurried off.

“Now,” Mrs. S said with satisfaction. “Let’s turn you back into a lady for your Captain.”

Theo, who’d gone over to sit on the high bed, legs dangling, burst out laughing. “He’s not her captain. It was me that stowed away. Mama was just chasing after me and got shut in the hold with me. She didn’t want to be on the ship at all. I can’t think why. Apart from when we were sick, it’s been great fun.”

Mrs. S raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at Harriet. “Mais, bien s?r,” she said, reverting for some reason to French. “He is quite definitely your Captain, Mrs. Penhallow. I never mistake that look.”