She stumbled into the cabin to find Fiona snoring in the center of the bunk and Mel and Belinda reading The Adventures of Roderick Random and laughing over the scrapes the young Scotsman got into when he moved to London.
“Wait until he ends up at sea.” Phoebe dropped the drenched cloak onto the bare deck outside the cabin. “It’s not particularly amusing.”
“Oh, but it is.” Mel sprang up and retrieved the cloak. “You should have come down sooner. This will take a year to dry if the sun doesn’t come out.”
“You look like a drowned rat,” Belinda added. “You’d better not get a chill and die on me.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Phoebe muttered through chattering teeth. “Will you help me find dry clothes?”
Belinda shook her head. “I can’t risk moving around in these seas. But you’ll find warm things in the bottom trunk.”
Warm things that fit Belinda, who was wider and shorter than Phoebe. But the woolen stockings and dry gown felt too comforting for a poor fit to matter.
Phoebe wrapped a shawl around herself and joined Belinda at the table. “I’ll read for a while.” She read, trying to distract herself from closed door and windows, but the smells of dampness and bilge water overpowered her will. The sickness bested her. She curled up on the deck with ginger water laced with laudanum and escaped into sleep.
Quiet woke her. The deck no longer undulated beneath her but gently rolled like an oversized cradle. And everything was black—the cabin, the sea, the sky. Belinda’s snores rose above the hiss of waves against the hull. Mel and Fiona curled up together at Phoebe’s feet, as though they were both puppies. The entire vessel seemed to sleep except for the man who paced the quarterdeck above.
Did he never sleep?
He admitted to suffering from mal de mer, an odd condition for a man who chose to be at sea most of the time. Maybe being on deck helped him as it did her. The longer she sat awake in the cabin with Belinda’s lavender oil cloying above the dank odors of mildew and a chamber pot that needed to be emptied, the more she wanted to join him for a midnight stroll.
Phoebe rose and stepped over girl and dog. She located her shoes, mostly dry, beneath the desk where she’d kicked them off, and slipped out of the cabin. Even Fi continued to sleep.
The binnacle light shone off tendrils of fog swirling across the deck like dancing ladies in fine gauze gowns. Dampness caressed her face, cleansing, refreshing, healing. She breathed deeply of the tannic air and climbed the quarter ladder. Her leather soles sounded like wooden clogs in the stillness, and she paused at the top of the steps.
Murmuring voices broke off their dialogue. “Who goes there?” A shadow loomed through the fog between lantern and Phoebe.
She held out one hand. “Phoebe Lee.”
“Aye, I should have known.” Docherty took her hand and led her up the final tread onto the deck. “The quiet woke you, no?”
“Yes.” She drew her hand free. The deck tilted enough that she lost her balance and grasped his arm.
“Aye, hold on to something.” He settled her hand into the crook of his elbow. “We’re fair to being becalmed in this fog and need to be as quiet as mice, as sound travels in a fog, you ken.”
“I do. I lived on the eastern shore for three years.”
She liked the strength of his arm beneath her fingers and the fine wool of his cloak.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said belatedly.
“Nay, Jordy and I were simply discussing when this will lift.” He led her to the far side of the quarterdeck, where he removed her hand from his arm and set it on the rail. “I’m used to Mel’s company on nights like this. And in storms.” He moved half a step away from Phoebe and spoke so softly she barely heard him. “Is she . . . well?”
“She’s sound asleep with her dog. Reading to Belinda—” Phoebe stopped and wished she could see Docherty’s face. She felt him, though, a
“Wait until he ends up at sea.” Phoebe dropped the drenched cloak onto the bare deck outside the cabin. “It’s not particularly amusing.”
“Oh, but it is.” Mel sprang up and retrieved the cloak. “You should have come down sooner. This will take a year to dry if the sun doesn’t come out.”
“You look like a drowned rat,” Belinda added. “You’d better not get a chill and die on me.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Phoebe muttered through chattering teeth. “Will you help me find dry clothes?”
Belinda shook her head. “I can’t risk moving around in these seas. But you’ll find warm things in the bottom trunk.”
Warm things that fit Belinda, who was wider and shorter than Phoebe. But the woolen stockings and dry gown felt too comforting for a poor fit to matter.
Phoebe wrapped a shawl around herself and joined Belinda at the table. “I’ll read for a while.” She read, trying to distract herself from closed door and windows, but the smells of dampness and bilge water overpowered her will. The sickness bested her. She curled up on the deck with ginger water laced with laudanum and escaped into sleep.
Quiet woke her. The deck no longer undulated beneath her but gently rolled like an oversized cradle. And everything was black—the cabin, the sea, the sky. Belinda’s snores rose above the hiss of waves against the hull. Mel and Fiona curled up together at Phoebe’s feet, as though they were both puppies. The entire vessel seemed to sleep except for the man who paced the quarterdeck above.
Did he never sleep?
He admitted to suffering from mal de mer, an odd condition for a man who chose to be at sea most of the time. Maybe being on deck helped him as it did her. The longer she sat awake in the cabin with Belinda’s lavender oil cloying above the dank odors of mildew and a chamber pot that needed to be emptied, the more she wanted to join him for a midnight stroll.
Phoebe rose and stepped over girl and dog. She located her shoes, mostly dry, beneath the desk where she’d kicked them off, and slipped out of the cabin. Even Fi continued to sleep.
The binnacle light shone off tendrils of fog swirling across the deck like dancing ladies in fine gauze gowns. Dampness caressed her face, cleansing, refreshing, healing. She breathed deeply of the tannic air and climbed the quarter ladder. Her leather soles sounded like wooden clogs in the stillness, and she paused at the top of the steps.
Murmuring voices broke off their dialogue. “Who goes there?” A shadow loomed through the fog between lantern and Phoebe.
She held out one hand. “Phoebe Lee.”
“Aye, I should have known.” Docherty took her hand and led her up the final tread onto the deck. “The quiet woke you, no?”
“Yes.” She drew her hand free. The deck tilted enough that she lost her balance and grasped his arm.
“Aye, hold on to something.” He settled her hand into the crook of his elbow. “We’re fair to being becalmed in this fog and need to be as quiet as mice, as sound travels in a fog, you ken.”
“I do. I lived on the eastern shore for three years.”
She liked the strength of his arm beneath her fingers and the fine wool of his cloak.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said belatedly.
“Nay, Jordy and I were simply discussing when this will lift.” He led her to the far side of the quarterdeck, where he removed her hand from his arm and set it on the rail. “I’m used to Mel’s company on nights like this. And in storms.” He moved half a step away from Phoebe and spoke so softly she barely heard him. “Is she . . . well?”
“She’s sound asleep with her dog. Reading to Belinda—” Phoebe stopped and wished she could see Docherty’s face. She felt him, though, a
Similar Books
