The Captain's Girl Read online

  He heard the thump of a heavy purse and fell to his knees. If I was quick, I would stand a chance. I grabbed my skirts, hurling myself back the way we had come. I could remember the details – left at the inn with the blue door… right at the house with the crooked lamp…straight ahead at the drinking trough with the broken spout. Right, down the alley…past the three lamps…round the back of the inn. I weaved through the sailors lurching towards me, ignoring shouts from the doorways, the drunkards trying to delay me. In the last alley I jumped over the legs sprawling across my path and stopped, gasping for breath. I was nearly there. Just the second brazier, the pile of lobster pots and then I would know.

  I hardly dared look down. The rowing boat was still there, the oars safely stashed. I almost flew down the steps and pulled at the knot. The rope slipped free and I grabbed the oars, pushing myself away from the harbour wall. Men shouted down from the dockside but I was free, gliding through the black water, working my way past the moored boats. My rowing was erratic, the oars splashing noisily in the water but I did not care. I was moving and that was the only thing that mattered.

  Not quite the only thing. Captain Lefèvre had better be there.

  Chapter Seven

  Falmouth

  Friday 8th November 1793, 00:00 a.m.

  The anchored ships looked different, L’Aigrette nowhere to be seen. The wind seemed fiercer than before, clouds racing across the thin outline of the moon. Even the current seemed stronger, pulling me out to sea. We had rowed straight from the boat. I remembered looking round and seeing the light on her stern. My fear began rising.

  A log trailing seaweed from its branches knocked against the boat and I realised my mistake. The ships had turned with the tide and were facing the other way; the large naval frigate was blocking my view. I began pulling on the oars. Please, please, be there. I rounded the hull and fought back tears of relief – three lamps were burning on a sleek black cutter. What had I been thinking? No money, no luggage, no protection? Women in my position might gallop but we could not run. We could stand at the door of our gilded cage but we could not fly. I had been so foolish, so utterly stupid.

  The rope-ladder hung from the deck. Securing the boat as I had seen Sir James do, I hitched up my skirt, holding it firmly away from my boots. I had learnt my lesson well. The sea was more sheltered than in Fosse, the climb easier than I imagined. I swung myself over the top rail and glanced along the decks. The boat was pulling against her anchor rope; everything was tidy – the ropes neatly coiled, the sails rolled away. There was no one on deck but a light was shining in the cabin below. I walked quickly to the hatch, turning to face the steps like I had seen everyone do. The kitchen looked clean and tidy, the plates stowed neatly away. In the cabin, the light shone on the uncluttered table. Surely someone must be on board.

  He was sitting at his desk watching me, one hand holding a quill, the other resting on a book. His jacket hung over the back of his chair. He was wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, loose at the arms and even in the half-light I could tell it was silk. There was surprise in his eyes. Or was it annoyance? Whatever it was, he covered it well. ‘Is Falmouth not to your liking, Miss Smith?’ He looked watchful, no longer smiling.

  ‘My friends have changed their lodgings and I became separated from the Polcarrows. You must take me straight back to Fosse.’

  ‘I’m not going to Fosse.’

  ‘I’m afraid you must.’

  ‘I run a business, Miss Smith, not a ferry. I’m already six hours behind my planned departure and I cannot, and will not, leave it any longer.’ He stood up, putting on his jacket, flicking his hair free of his collar. ‘I’m sorry but you’ll have to—’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Captain Lefèvre, I insist you take me straight back. Falmouth is a foul, stinking place, full of thieves and brawling drunks.’ I was wet and scared and did not like the look in his eyes. It showed a distinct lack of respect. ‘And I’m not without influence…you don’t know who I really am.’ I pulled the hood from over my face.

  ‘But I do know who you are,’ he said, walking slowly towards me, carefully adjusting the lace at his cuffs. ‘You’re Miss Celia Cavendish, eldest daughter of Sir Charles and Lady April Cavendish, granddaughter to Earl and Countess Montville…elder sister to Charity, Georgina, Sarah and baby Charles.’

  I stared at him. ‘Sir James was meant to keep my identity a secret.’

  He fastened his collar. ‘You go to Porthruan church every Sunday. You wear three different dresses – one green, one apricot and one blue. I prefer your blue one. You fidget when you’re bored. You curl your ringlets round your right forefinger and nudge Charity with your elbow. The two of you have difficulty suppressing your giggles. You don’t like Reverend Bettison – you think he goes on too long and you long to be out in the fresh air…’

  I could not believe what he was saying. He had been watching me, studying me. I took a deep breath, wishing I had my fan. ‘You seem to know a lot about me,’ I snapped.

  ‘You find your middle sister Georgina rather annoying but you love Charity and you’re extremely fond of your governess, Mrs Jennings. You never look at your mother but every now and then you glance at your father with dislike. You fear him.’

  ‘That’s quite enough!’

  ‘When you stand outside the church, you look up at the trees. You’re watching the birds. That’s why I chose the china cup with the birds on it. I knew you’d like it.’

  His tone was soft and intimate, his French accent making his words sound strangely thrilling. He had been watching me, studying me. I felt confused, almost pleased. I had watched him too. I knew the set of his shoulders, the way his jacket stretched. I had imagined him diving through the sea, his hair streaming behind him, his arms reaching in front of him. I had even tasted the lobster. ‘Well, what you don’t know…and I think it important you should know…is that I’m engaged to be married to Viscount Vallenforth.’

  There, I had said it. The words seemed to stick in my teeth, but I had said it. Captain Lefèvre would have no choice but to take me home. A flicker crossed his eyes. He bowed respectfully. ‘Now, that I didn’t know,’ he said softly. ‘Please accept my sincerest condolences.’

  His words sent a wave of shock straight through me. I felt wounded, stabbed. Viscount Vallenforth must be known for his cruelty – Mama must have heard the rumours. I took a deep breath, strengthening my resolve. I would go straight back and tell her there could be no engagement. A boat scraped along the deck and Captain Lefèvre looked up, walking quickly to the bottom step. ‘Any luck?’ he called.

  ‘’Fraid not,’ Jacques called down the hatchway. ‘Seth’s still bad – must’ve eaten a bad oyster.’

  ‘Then Nathaniel will have to sail with us.’

  ‘Are we to stow this other boat, sir?’

  ‘Tie it to the coach roof and secure it well – the wind’s picking up. When you’ve done that, we’ll leave.’ He may have been talking to Jacques, but he was staring at me. ‘Stay below, Miss Cavendish. We’re sheltered here, but once at sea, your other voyage will seem like a walk in the park.’

  He was taking me home and I should have been grateful, but the thought of rough weather filled me with fear. It seemed too harsh a penance for a lesson already learnt. Between the devil and the deep blue sea – my uncle always said that, but I had never appreciated it quite so keenly. Captain Lefèvre must have seen the fear in my eyes.

  ‘Come,’ he said more kindly, ‘let me make you comfortable. Give me your cloak.’ His eyes seemed genuine in their concern, his long eyelashes as dark as his hair. ‘I’ll show you around – it’s really very civilised. In here we have washing facilities…’ He opened a door to a small cabin. A washbasin rested in a beautifully crafted cabinet, a jug hanging from a brass hook beside it. Above the basin was a mirror, beside it, a towel neatly folded over a brass rail. ‘The jug’s full of fresh water, but I’ll boil you some hot. This seat lifts up, look, there’s a bucket underneath.’ I
looked away, my embarrassment making him smile. ‘We empty the bucket over the side, but I don’t expect you to do that. We sailors don’t mind slops – we’re trained to keep things ship-shape.’

  I followed him out. ‘There’s no kitchen on a ship, it’s called a galley and the privy’s called the heads. There’s no left and right…just port and starboard…and on my boat the master has the right to call the crew by their first names. Shall I show you my galley, Cécile?’

  I looked up. It was the way he said my name – it sounded so much nicer. I had always hated Celia, yet Cécile sounded strangely exciting, as if I was a different person. It could do no harm to humour him so I smiled, indicating the galley would be a nice place to visit. ‘The water’s kept in this barrel. The kettle’s here…and the stove’s always lit – we’ll soon have hot water for you.’ There were rails round the stove, thick ridges round the wooden surfaces.

  ‘You must like lemons,’ I said looking at the huge basket hanging from the deckhead.

  ‘Lemons keep scurvy at bay. Lemons or limes, but you probably already know that. While the water’s boiling, I’ll show you the cabins.’ He was smiling, his head already dipping beneath the beam separating the galley from the walkway. For such a tall man, he must find boats difficult.

  ‘Were you keen to buy this boat because she’s so fast, or because you can stand up in the galley?’

  ‘Both, Cécile – how very perceptive of you.’

  How strange to be thought perceptive – most people just thought me nosey. We crossed the main cabin, stopping outside the first of two narrow doors. He smiled again, his eyes mischievous. ‘This is my cabin – you’re very welcome to use it.’ Down one side lay a long wooden berth, a pillow at the end, a red damask cover stretching along its length. Somehow it seemed too intimate and I looked away, my face uncomfortably hot.

  ‘I won’t need a bed,’ I snapped.

  ‘I think you might – it’s going to get rough.’

  ‘I’ll be quite comfortable on the bench by the table, Captain Lefèvre.’

  ‘Call me Arnaud,’ he replied, his voice strangely compelling.

  ‘Another ship’s rule?’

  ‘It is now.’ His face turned serious. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Cécile.’

  ‘I know that, thank you, Captain Lefèvre. Just make no record of it in your log.’

  His eyes held mine; watchful eyes making me uneasy. ‘No record whatsoever. I’ll leave you in peace – you’ll be quite private. Jacques won’t come down, he’ll remain aft.’ He picked up the kettle and began filling the washbasin, the steam rising, misting the mirror. ‘There’s a spare bucket under the basin and a blanket in the locker under the port bench. Once we’re underway, I’ll check you’ve everything you need.’

  I smiled my thanks. He had been very attentive, almost as if he anticipated a longer voyage. I took off my riding jacket, plunging my hands into the warm water. It felt so good. There was soap resting on a porcelain dish and I rolled it between my hands, the soft foam smelling of almonds. I was already feeling better – we would be back while it was still dark and I would tell everyone I had been thrown from my horse. I would say I had been too dazed to know where I was.

  We were clearly underway now, the boat rising and falling, throwing me off balance. I jammed my feet against the sides of the cabin and gripped the basin. The water was tipping over the edge, sloping onto the floor. I had filled it too full and must empty some out. Picking up the jug, I tried scooping it up, pouring the hot soapy water into the empty privy bucket but I could feel my nausea rising – great waves of sickness swelling within me. The same salty taste, the same dull headache; I needed to lie down. Opening the locker, I grabbed the spare bucket.

  It was so much rougher; the cabin floor was slanting in front of me, the boat rising and falling, crashing sideways. I lurched forward, throwing myself onto the bench as it rose to greet me and lay rolling with the motion of the boat – if I moved, I would be sick. I clutched the bucket against my chest, closing my eyes. Dear God, three hours. Let it be quicker.

  ‘Let me take off your boots.’ I could do nothing but lay there, my eyes tightly shut. ‘Wrap yourself in this.’ I felt the blanket warm around me. ‘Use this as a pillow. Do you need—’ I clutched the bucket and leant forward, the contents of my stomach turning inside out. ‘Oh, here, take my handkerchief…now let me empty this—’

  ‘Don’t take it,’ I cried, retching again, the smell of vomit making everything worse. ‘Leave me…I’ll be—’ I began straining again, my stomach heaving. I wanted to cry, curl up and die. He took the bucket. ‘Don’t be long—’

  He must have rinsed the bucket and come straight back, sitting on the bench next to me. I know I was moaning. ‘Try some of this – it’s preserved ginger. It’s good for sea sickness.’ I opened my eyes to see him handing me a fine Chinese jar covered in delicate blue blossoms. I could do no more than glance at it.

  ‘That’s beautiful…quite old.’

  He untwisted the carved mahogany lid. ‘It’s very old but the ginger’s fresh.’ He was smiling, pushing a stray ringlet away from my face. ‘Have as much as you need. I’m sorry you don’t like sailing.’

  ‘Just get me back to Fosse…make it quick.’

  A shadow flicked across his face. ‘As quick as I can. Are you feeling better?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then lie very flat – I’ll come back and check on you.’

  ‘Captain Lefèvre, are we safe?’

  He put his hand on mine, his touch warm and comforting. ‘Yes, Cécile, we are – this boat’s been through far worst. She’s as stable as they come and we’re not going to sink.’ I watched him climb the stairs, his voice soaring across the wind, ‘Starboard, south-east by south. Take down the foresails – we’ll fly by night.’

  I took a deep breath. We had been sailing for about an hour, only two left to go.

  I gripped the bucket, every fresh fall making my stomach dive, every rise making me want to heave. I lay anticipating each movement, not knowing which was worse – the drop, the twist, the rise. My head was throbbing; my stomach was empty, but I could not stop retching. The lantern had blown out long ago and I lay in the dark, listening to the wind howl around me. The timbers were creaking. At any moment the boat could flip backward and tip us into the sea.

  ‘Are you any better?’ Through the darkness I saw the outlines of a dripping cape. I could not speak. If he had come telling me to abandon ship, I could not have moved. He bent towards me, holding another cup. I could not even look at it but lay back, groaning. ‘Drink this, Cécile, I think you need it.’ He helped me raise my head and put the cup to my lips, holding it gently so I could sip its fiery contents. It was thick, syrupy, tasting of ginger and exotic spices, burning my throat as I swallowed. I was too weak to refuse. I thought I might throw it straight back up, but I finished the cup, the contents warm in my stomach.

  He took the bucket, turning me to my side, tucking the blanket round me as if I was a child. I felt so sleepy, the sounds of the storm receding around me. There was nothing but a gentle burr, the faintest whirr. I was weightless, floating, a sense of calm spreading right through me. I was no longer sick but felt so content…so wonderfully at peace. I could hear my breath rising and falling. It was so warm, so comfortable. I was weightless, drifting, perhaps I was flying. Part of me wanted to giggle – Reverend Bettison…he had got that wrong. I was watching the buttons on his waistcoat, waiting for them to pop. One day they would pop. Pop. I was smiling, laughing. What a funny boat.

  A voice came and went. It was here again. ‘Here’s someone to keep you company – I’m afraid you’ve got her blanket.’

  I was not sure I could talk. I think I was giggling. I would like to have said the more the merrier. Perhaps I did. Something soft rubbed against my cheek and I opened my eyes. There was nothing there, just two green eyes staring at me through the darkness. No face, nothing, just two huge green eyes.

  Now I knew I was
giggling. Green eyes. Nothing but huge green eyes. What a funny boat.

  Chapter Eight

  On board L’Aigrette

  Friday 8th November 1793, 11:00 a.m.

  There was a loud buzzing in my ear and the smell of coffee. Men were talking and I could feel a gentle swaying. My legs and arms felt heavy, my head unable to move. I tried opening my eyes but they seemed glued together. If I was awake, my body was still asleep.

  ‘We’ve made good time. Slack water will be in an hour.’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Here…that last bearing had the church northwest by west. In fifteen minutes we’ll turn up tide. Landfall in half an hour gives us two hours of slack. We’ll heave-to. I don’t want to anchor unless we have to. We’ve lost enough anchors, don’t you think, Jacques?’

  The voices were familiar, the smell of strong coffee clearing my head. A jumble of images were flashing through my mind – green eyes, a man’s head resting on his arms on the table next to me.

  ‘Normal signal?’

  ‘Should be straightforward, now the storm’s over.’

  ‘What about Miss Smith?’

  ‘Let’s hope she goes on sleeping. With luck, the cargo will be landed and we’ll be heading home.’ I remembered everything now – the howling wind, the storm, the terrible nausea. ‘Is Nathaniel still asleep?’ The voice was familiar but wrong. It sounded more furtive than it should be, less trustworthy.

  ‘Yes. He’s got another three hours off watch. He’s a good sailor. I’ll give him that – knows his stuff.’

  ‘I’d rather it was Seth. You better get back, Jacques. Keep the tiller tied to this course – I’ll be up in fifteen minutes with some coffee.’