Page 22 of Much Ado about a Widow

A growl behind her turned into a whimper. Poor Lulu. “Give her to me, Clara. I daresay she is not happy to be pitched about either.”

Lulu yipped again, as if in agreement. She struggled in Georgie’s arms until Georgie was obliged to set the dog on the floor. “No biting yet, Lulu,” Georgie whispered. “I’ll give you the signal if I think it’s warranted.”

With a snuffle that turned into a low growl, Lulu sat down and stared at Lord St. Just’s black Hessians, teeth bared and at the ready.

“I think she’ll calm now, my lord. If we can only settle comfortably into our accommodations, I think we will all feel better.” Although, despite her words, Georgie had begun to feel distinctly unwell.

The ship chose that moment to pitch violently. Georgie would have been thrown to the floor had St. Just not put out an arm to steady her.

“As I said, the Channel is never a treat, even in good weather, but in January or February, well”—the wretch grinned as the ship rolled the other way—“it’s been known to turn the most fearless captain back to shore.”

Georgie might have returned his outrageous grin had her stomach not chosen that moment to make itself known. The roiling of the waves was nothing compared to the rumbling from within.

Shooting a stricken look at Clara, Georgie motioned her toward the door. Clara darted forward and opened it.

Attempting to maintain her dignity even though she wanted nothing more than to breach protocol and cast up her crumpets here and now, Georgie walked slowly up the passageway.

“If you do not mind, my lord”—the maid grabbed Georgie’s arm and guided her toward the doorway—“I will see to Lady Georgina.” Clara’s face puckered as she pulled her mistress into the chamber. “I’ll send for one of your men if we have need of anything.” Clara hurried in and shut the door sharply as Georgie sank down into a chair and gripped the arms until her knuckles turned white.

Drat it, she would not succumb to this inconvenient weakness. Staring steadfastly at the table in front of her, Georgie willed herself to hold on. Her stomach, however, was past caring about embarrassment. She took a deep breath, fighting the awful sensation in her stomach, hoping that would help steady her. To no avail. “Oh, Clara. The chamber pot, quickly.”

* * *

Rob started as the maid slammed the door in his face, then tried to repress a grin, but the haughty Lady Georgina was about to be brought very low. The muffled groan and the stricken words, “The chamber pot, quickly,” told him he would get revenge on the lady through no effort of his own.

Poor lady. He understood all too well the misery she’d be feeling presently. Sobering, he rapped on the door. “Are you all right, Lady Georgina?”

Another, louder groan issued forth from within.

“Can I get you something? Some tea and toast, perhaps?”

The unpleasant retching sounds that ensued made him pity the lady heartily. He’d had his own stint with seasickness when he’d first begun sailing with his grandfather. An episode Rob had never forgotten, though he’d been a lad of ten at the time. Once he’d gotten his sea legs under him, he’d been fine. Until then, he’d wished for a swift death. So he sympathized with the lady, although he couldn’t help but believe the gods were exacting some sort of vengeance on his behalf. “My lady? Do you require anything?”

The door jerked open, and Clara thrust a rather disgusting chamber pot into his hands. “If you’d like to be of use, my lord, kindly dispose of that and bring me several more empty ones.” She glared at him, and all thoughts of vengeance vanished. He truly didn’t wish Lady Georgina ill. “And the less said about food and drink, the better, although”—Clara again fixed him with an icy stare—“a bite of food and drink for me wouldn’t come amiss. I’ll be tending to her day and night by the looks of it.”

“I will be sure to see to it, Clara.” Nodding deferentially, Rob tried not to wince at the stench wafting up from the chamber pot. “I’ll also send a mate to swab down the cabin and help you with anything either you or Lady Georgina requires.” Holding the repulsive pot as far away from his nose as possible, he turned toward deck, then back to the maid. “It may sound cruel, but once the initial sickness is over, the best remedy will be for her to eat some hard biscuit and drink ginger tea. All sailors swear by it to cure seasickness.” He lowered his voice. “Also, tell her to lie still and let her body go with the ship.”

The piercing look Clara shot at him could have skewered a weaker man, had it been a weapon. She held his gaze a full minute, then nodded and shut the door.

Rob ran nimbly up the stairs to the deck, where the brisk, cold wind scoured away the reek in moments. “Clean this up, Ayers.” He snagged the first lad he saw and thrust the pot at him. “Find as many more as you can throughout the ship and take them to the lady’s chamber, along with a mop and bucket. You’ll see to their comfort and do whatever Miss Clara instructs you to do.”

“Very good, Captain.” Ayers wrinkled his nose, but dutifully trotted off toward the bow of the ship.

Rob turned toward the galley. For runs of a shorter duration, he usually brought no more than a three-man crew, plus himself. This time, however, as it was January, and the Channel presented even more of a challenge than usual, he’d brought along Barnes, to help cook as well as tend the ship when necessary. Rob popped his head into the galley and found the older man with a kettle on the stove and a bowl of potatoes on his lap.

Stabbing a sharp knife into one potato to draw it from the bowl, Barnes looked it over with a keen eye before commencing to peel it. When he noticed Rob in the doorway, he tried to rise, but was waved back into his chair. “Don’t let me disturb you getting on with dinner, Barnes.”

“You’re not disturbing me none, Captain.” The older man paused, knife in one hand, half-peeled potato in the other. “There’s not much time, so I thought a nice bit of beefsteak, roasted potatoes, and a ragout of vegetables would serve us right enough.”

“Very good. I wanted to remind you we’ll have one extra mouth to feed tonight. Be sure we have ample provisions for her.”

“Not two mouths, Captain?” Barnes’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly.

“One only. And no, I’m not trying to starve one of our guests. Miss . . .” Blast, he needed to find out the wretched maid’s surname so he and the men could address the woman properly. “Lady Georgina’s maid is tending her mistress, who has a touch”—God he hoped it would not be a severe case—“of seasickness. Before you serve me and the men, you will take her meal to the cabin.” Rob gazed about the galley and seized a canister. “For now, please brew a weak ginger tea for the lady and ready some of these biscuits for her as soon as possible.”

“Aye, Captain.” Barnes dropped the potato and knife into the bowl, set them on the table, and lit the stove.

As he made his way back on deck, Rob reluctantly came to two realizations. First, that he hated to see any lady suffer—even if she might deserve the tiniest bit of it—and so he would attempt to help Lady Georgina overcome her mal de mer as quickly as possible. The other was that, having held Lady Georgina in his arms, although it had been a brief embrace, he could and would attest that she was a pleasant armful and much, much too high above the likes of Lord Travers. In those circumstances, Rob would have to act.