Vivian laughed. Mrs. Butterfield saw herself as the grand dame of Nassau society, such as it was. Her husband, General Butterfield, was in charge of the Fort on the island. Vivian remembered how Mrs. Butterfield always shook her head in exasperation, telling her to sit up straight and warning her to watch her language or she’d never find a husband. She also remembered the general’s wife was the biggest gossip on the island.
“You didn’t tell her we were heading to England, did you?”
“No, but I did say as your companion I wanted to take your lessons in decorum more seriously. I asked her, did she have any books that might help me in my task? Ecstatic, she bustled around her library picking out books that might whip you into shape.” Gabi smiled. “We will have plenty to read during the voyage. You shall arrive in England an expert.”
****
The next week went by in an enjoyable routine of sorts. Johnny, a pleasant, sandy-haired cabin boy of about twelve, brought their breakfast to the cabin each day. Vivian and Gabrielle spent the mornings walking the deck, enjoying the fresh sea breezes and observing the bustle of the ship.
Vivian brought with her a sketch pad and charcoals. She spent many an hour sketching the men at work, birds flying above, and, one glorious morning, a school of dolphins which followed the ship for several miles. At midday, she would spend time in the galley with Old Tom and the ship's cook, who ironically was named Cooke. It brought back memories of spending many hours as a young girl helping Old Tom peel potatoes and make stews that were a sailor’s staple onboard ship.
Cooke liked to chat while he worked. Some harmless prying resulted in her learning the captain had a fondness for oranges and pineapple and always had crates of them brought on board for voyages. He also had several cages down below with live chickens so they might have fresh meat. Captain Aston must be quite successful indeed to be running such a ship.
After luncheon, she and Gabrielle would have tea and study their books on etiquette. One particular afternoon, they came back above deck to study in the sunshine. Finding a bench seat along the forward aft railing, they sat and delved intoMrs. Willamette’s Book of Decorum.
Vivian read aloud, “A proper lady always crosses her ankles, knees to left when seated. Hands should be lightly resting together on her lap, back straight and facial expression one of interest without being vulgar about it.What for God’s sake does that mean?” she exclaimed.
“Pardon me?”
Vivian tilted her head up and found herself looking straight into the amused gray eyes of Captain Aston. Damn her mouth. When would she learn to control it? “I beg your pardon, Captain. We are studying, and some of this advice makes no sense at all.”
“What are you studying?” The captain crouched down and plucked the book out of her hands. “Mrs. Willamette’s Book of Decorum? Who is Mrs. Willamette?”
Her cheeks flushed. “She is an authority on how to act properly in society. There are a myriad of rules a young lady should know. Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t aware of half of them.” She muttered. “I will probably be laughed out of the first soiree I attend.”
“Trust me, my lady. No one will be laughing at you.” The captain grinned. She placed a hand to her stomach, which fluttered wildly every time the damn man smiled.
“They will be stumbling over each other to speak to the loveliest girl in the room.” He winked at her as he handed back the book. “As for this book, it’s a waste of time. The ton make their own rules as they go. Whatever suits their motives at the time is the rule they follow.” His lips twisted cynically.
Then he picked up another book sitting on the ground next to Gabrielle, and as he read the title his expression soured, his eyes no longer filled with amusement. Abruptly, he stood.
“Ladies, I’ll leave you to your research.” Vivian accepted the copy ofDebrett’s Peeragehe held out, then he walked briskly away. She replayed their short conversation. Had she accidently insulted him? She glanced down at the book and then over at Gabrielle, who shrugged and went back to her reading. Captain Aston was a puzzle. Friendly, even flirtatious one moment and austere and formal the next. Good thing they still had weeks left of the journey; she always did like a puzzle.
****
What did he expect? Jack strode toward the helm. Her father sent her to England to find a husband—of course, she would be researching potential husbands of import. But damn it, that book.Debrett’swas like a catalog for expensive horseflesh, except the statistics were of men’s wealth and title. It reminded him of what the marriage mart was really like; a twirling spectacle of beautiful plumage and behind the scenes manipulation and deal-making. Precisely the kind of intrigue and betrayal he had left behind years ago.
As he relieved Smith at the wheel, his thoughts stayed on Miss Jamieson. This past week from the helm, he spent plenty of time watching Miss Jamieson and her companion ramble about his deck. Unlike many passengers, she seemed to have her sea legs immediately. She strolled about at ease with the rocking of the ship, stopping here and there to chat with a crewman or just lean against the railing and soak up the sun. And the curse words that peppered her speech so casually, definitely not like any other young miss he or any of the crew had encountered. Her colorful language became quite the source of mirth below decks.
Unlike her more sensible companion Miss Beaumont, Miss Jamieson never wore a bonnet. She had the loveliest golden cast to her skin with a sprinkle of tiny freckles across her nose. Her long, curly hair was always braided tightly down her back, but the sea breezes teased out tendrils around her face. She often wore the breeches she boarded in but occasionally wore a skirt, similar to Miss Beaumont’s, which swirled gently around her boot-covered calves.
Everything about her appearance spoke to simplicity and comfort while aboard ship. What was a practical creature like her going to do all trussed up in finery parading about London? He couldn’t picture her fitting into the typical debutante mold. He wished her aunts luck in trying to hide a spirit like hers under the guise of well-behaved English miss.
Jack never visited his family during the season. In fact, he hadn’t been home in two years because of business in the Indian Ocean. A lucrative trip which enabled him to recently buy a beautiful piece of property on a small island a short distance from Nassau. He’d only been home a few weeks when the opportunity arose to bring a sizable cargo of sugar into England. Too profitable to ignore, here he found himself sailing toward Britain in early spring.
He sighed. He would make it a short visit, go see his mother and sister, and try to return to start construction of his new house by summer. He whistled an old sea shanty as plans for his new home and images of a beautiful water nymph playing in the ocean ran through his mind, improving his sour mood.
Later that night, Clarkson came to relieve him at the wheel for the night shift. Jack headed down to the galley to grab something to eat before going to his cabin. As he came down the passageway, an outburst of raucous laughter rang out from the galley, followed by a string of creative curses muttered in the deep Irish brogue of David Kelly. He swung through the door to the galley and all the laughter died.
Several of his men were standing around the large table. In the chairs, playing cards, sat Kelly, Old Tom, Cooke, and Miss Jamieson. Jack blinked, but there was no mistaking those pale blond curls. She grinned from ear to ear with a large pile of beans on the table in front of her.
“Miss Jamieson?” he barked. “What’s happening in here?”
“She is beating us handily at cribbage, that’s what’s going on.” Cooke explained.
“I swear she’s cheatin’, but I can’t figure how,” muttered Kelly.
“I’m not cheating, but I do know how.” She gave Kelly a cheeky wink.
