She shifted, and the rafters her hammock hung on creaked. Did the lieutenant really think standing up to Fitz and his friends would stop the heckling? She didn’t think she could become a convincing enough fighter to scare them off.
But he did. He had stood in the wardroom in his cream waistcoat and breeches, arms uncovered and shirt open around the neck. She recalled the playful curve of his lip when she’d started to grasp what he was teaching.
Georgana pulled the blanket over her blushing face. He had simply taken pity on what he thought was a poor boy, and now she could not chase him from her mind. Her lips trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. She could not remember another person, besides her parents, who had shown her compassion. The few friends she had in Portsmouth as a young child had faded into the shadows of her memory.
Grandmother’s image pounded on the doors of her mind, just as she had pounded on the doors to Mama’s chamber. Mama would often lock herself and Georgana in her room to escape Grandmother. Those days her shouting intensified beyond her normal cruelty.
Georgana rolled to her side and brought her knees to her chest. She would never be rid of that woman. Three years free from her grasp, and the woman’s screams still sent shivers up Georgana’s spine.
You stupid, stupid girl.
I can only praise the heavens I was blessed with sons and never cursed with mistakes like you.
Stop mumbling, girl! God gave you a tongue to use it.
How dare you speak to me in such a tone! Do you see what a horrible girl you have brought up, Susan? But one can only expect it from such a mother.
Mistake! Mistake!
Georgana flinched as each phrase echoed through her head. She swallowed a sob. What if Grandmother was right? What if she was nothing but a stupid mistake?
Lieutenant Peyton’s encouraging smile peeked through Grandmother’s storm. He didn’t see her as a tongue-tied dolt, or if he did, he didn’t show it. Two tears streaked down her face. She clutched her hands together around her knees, fingers scratching against the cracked, ugly skin.
Lieutenant Peyton had grasped these hands to put them in a defensive position. She winced in horror at their roughness. They weren’t the fingers of a lady. Of course the lieutenant must have expected such hands from a boy at sea. Still, embarrassment washed over her. Her fingers hadn’t always been this coarse.
Georgana sat up, and the hammock swayed. Papa breathed loudly from his hanging cot in the opposite corner. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, something else that would have earned Grandmother’s scorn. She stole from her hammock and crept to her father’s writing desk.
Starlight caught on the glass panes of a lantern perched atop the desk. She twisted the latch and eased the lantern’s little door open. The tallow candle inside stood nearly half the height of the lantern, with a few cooled drips down its pale side.
Georgana pulled the candle from its place. She dug her thumbnail into the bottom of the candle and dragged it upward. The tallow curled up before her thumb in a long ribbon, which she caught in the palm of her hand. She did this twice more to smooth out the indentation in the candle before returning it to its place and securing the lantern’s latch.
She cupped the curls of fat in her hands and rubbed them together as she returned to her hammock. The hard tallow softened under her fingers, until she could smear it over the fronts and backs of her hands. A few days of this treatment, and she needn’t be so embarrassed.
What a foolish thing to care about, given her situation. Georgana tucked herself back into the hammock. Almost daily since boarding the Deborah, the pendulum in her heart swung to and fro. Some days she mourned the loss of stability she had at Lushill House and the loss of her reputation should she be found out. Other days she felt that she and her father had been right to steal away in the dead of night. She did not know how long she would have to endure this, but she did not want the alternative.
This prison of a ship was better than Grandmother.
Perhaps Lieutenant Peyton’s friendship was only the beginning of a better life at sea. As second in command, his respect could influence the rest of the crew. He was well liked among the men, more so than her father.
Her hands stilled. She arranged them on top of the old blankets so as not to stain her shirt, then slowly lay back and closed her eyes. The lieutenant’s face filled her mind, and she let the images remain there, bringing a warmth she’d never felt before.
Chapter 6
Good, George. Good!” Dominic motioned for the lad to pause his punching. Half a dozen days of practicing had not turned George into a fighter, but he was learning quickly. The wardroom was warm and stuffy that morning, and already Dominic had lost his cravat and coat. Now he unbuttoned his waistcoat and added it to the pile. He pulled at his loose shirt, letting cooler air dry the sweat.
He didn’t know how George kept going with his jacket securely buttoned.
“Now, I don’t want you to think about hitting my hand this time.” Dominic raised his hand again. A thin layer of grease coated his palm from the lad’s fist. He’d never known a boy to worry over dry skin unless it started to crack, but young Mr. Taylor was an odd one.
The boy cocked his head.
“When you swing, I want you to try to punch the wall.” He motioned behind him with his head.
George obediently walked toward the back of the wardroom, glancing at Dominic out of the corners of his eyes. Dominic laughed, grabbing his arm to stop him. “No, stay where you are.”
“But I can’t reach the wall.”
Dominic repositioned the boy. Maybe a different explanation would work better. “Hit my hand, but instead of aiming for the surface of my hand, imagine going through it. A cannonball doesn’t stop at the hull, it pounds straight through.”
“Unless it misses.” Was that a grin on George’s face? Dominic blinked, and it was gone.
“Those are French guns.” The fleeting spark in the boy’s eyes gave him hope. “Don’t be a French cannon. Be a sound English cannon.”
George chewed the corner of his bottom lip and stared at Dominic’s hand. His fist shot forward. Dominic’s hand smarted when the boy made contact. The punch was harder than any of his previous ones.
“Much better. Again.”
A stocky form stomped through the door, and George snapped into a salute. “More practice, Peyton?” Jarvis asked. His watch clearly hadn’t cured the foul mood he woke up in. The second lieutenant didn’t wait for an answer before entering his room and slamming the door.
They wouldn’t see him for several hours, Dominic bet.
George continued hitting Dominic’s hand until it began to ache. Dominic’s chest swelled with pride. Already the timid cabin boy was showing more determination.
A cabin door opened, and this time it was the young chaplain. George paused to glance at the orange-haired clergyman, who nodded in greeting.
“Will you be attending services today, sir?” the chaplain asked, adjusting his spectacles.
Ah, right. Sunday. Dominic scooped up his discarded clothes. “Of course, Mr. Doswell. I just need to fetch my prayer book.” And dress himself properly.
Captain Woodall always wore his dress coat for services, and Dominic tried to remember to do the same. He still hadn’t managed to form a friendship with the captain, something he’d never failed to do on his previous assignments. The captain had set firm boundaries with the crew, even with his officers. As far as Dominic could tell, no one had been able to penetrate those walls.