Part 3

"Hotspur" went into a long, deep roll and Horatio put out a hand to stop his glass from sliding across the table and overturning onto his chart. Behind him he heard a soft "plop" and he turned to see what had fallen. Maria's gloves had slid off the top of his sideboard, and he leaned over in his chair to pick them up. The thick, undyed wool was a little prickly to the touch, and when he raised them to his face he could smell the slightly rank odor of the natural oil of the sheep. It would help to give the gloves a degree of water-repellency, which he could appreciate, but the slightly underdone beef he'd had for supper was lying heavy in his belly, and the sour smell, combined with "Hotspur”’s as yet unfamiliar way of riding the swell was doing his bilious gut little good. He put the gloves down on the table and pushed them away from him, regarding them with a rueful eye as he downed the last of his port.

Even made out of such coarse material, the knit stitches were remarkably tiny and uniform, and he could imagine the time and care that had gone into the construction, the skill required to turn and shape the separate thumb and forefinger, the obvious scrutiny that must have been given the size and shape of his own hand to create the perfect fit. It pained him to think on it.

"Gloves, Mr. Hornblower," she had said, offering him everything.

"Gloves, Mr. Hornblower," and he winced inwardly, knowing he had blundered again. What kind of dunderheaded fool asked a woman he had met only once, upon meeting her in the street for only the second time, to tell him what she had bought? It might have been stockings, or petticoats, or God only knew, some concoction of prophylactic powders of the sort, he happened to have been informed, were sold out of the back door of an apothecary's on this very street!

He damned himself again that his thoughts had managed to run so quickly in such absurd and ridiculously inappropriate directions.

"And I am very pleased with them, I might add," she went on. "I ordered them weeks ago and I did fear they would not be finished in time for Captain Hammond's departure." She held the slim Morocco covered box out for his inspection and she smiled beautifully.

She stood in the busy street, just outside the doorway of Gieves and Hawke with the wind whipping the dark curling strands of her hair against her cheeks. The cowl of her cloak was lined with a luxuriant golden brown fur that resembled a halo surrounding her face, and brought out the gold of her eyes. Her pretty little maid bounced at her side, shivering and drawing her breath loudly through clenched teeth, pulling her own cloak tightly around her. But she, she stood there smiling at him as if they were whiling away the afternoon in her sunny parlor.

"I think I have done rather well," she said, "But you must look and tell me if you think they will suit. I vow it seems to me that some gentlemen these days are more particular in matters of fashion than are the ladies! It can be a perilous proposition to choose even a simple gift!"

He watched as she lifted the lid of the box with a slender hand itself exquisitely gloved in turtle green kid, and she raised her eyes to his, seeking his approval. Ridiculously, absurdly, he found himself imagining a gust of wind would catch the corner of his boat cloak and throw it over his shoulder to reveal the gleaming new epaulet he'd just had stitched to his new topcoat.

"What is your opinion, sir?" she asked, and she seemed to be urging him to reach into the box. There, nestled in folded layers of thin paper were several pair of gentlemen's gloves. They were of pale, soft, pearl grey leather, the backs triple stitched, each finger individually shaped and tapered for a skin smooth fit. The letters "CH", small, discreet, and elegantly stylized, had been embossed on each wrist.

He smiled, and clasped his own bare, chapped hands behind his back. "I can not conceive that Captain Hammond would not be exceptionally pleased with such a gift, Miss Hammond," he said, inclining towards her in the slightest suggestion of a bow. "I would agree that you have indeed done well."

She lowered her head as she replaced the lid on the box, and he took the liberty of admiring the sweep of her thick black lashes against her wind-pinked cheeks, the gracefully drawn arch of her dark brows. He couldn't help it; she really was so uncommonly good to look at. She was like a polished alabaster vase, or a newly opened rose with drops of dew still lying, shining and spherical, upon the petals, an object whose perfection invited touch, but which touch must be resisted, for to stroke the smooth curve of the urn, to brush the moist drop from the petal, would be to mar forever the very essence of it's temptation.

Ridiculous and absurd. The woman was Hammond's mistress. Essentially, she was a whore, and it angered him somewhat that he should feel this foolish sense of awe in her presence, for she, with her fashionable dark beauty that would not be out of place, he supposed, in the most exalted drawing rooms of London, she, with her pretty manners and her voice like white sugar and cut glass, was after all only a woman. She was a woman who allowed herself to be kept for the pleasure, and to satisfy the lust of a man he could not abide.

"I am so pleased that we have chanced to meet again, Mr. Hornblower," she said, looking up at him again. "I did worry that you were not…comfortable in our home last night, and I am so terribly sorry for that. It is only that sometimes Captain Hammond is—" she stopped, and he thought he saw a deeper flush to her cheek than was warranted by just the chill wind. She looked away for a moment, as if to give him time to understand that he must forget what she had begun to say. When she turned to him again, it was with a little laugh.

"Goodness! It's so very cold! Oh, poor Minnie, you're frozen, and I've promised you tea." "Mr. Hornblower, you are most fortunate."

"Fortunate Miss Hammond?"

"Indeed, for I have remembered myself just as I was about to begin on one of my stories." She said. "You have been spared. You must accept my word that you should never allow an Irish person to begin telling you stories while you are standing in the middle of the street on a freezing day in Portsmouth!"

He was thrown into mild confusion, unable to determine at that moment if he was being taken leave of or issued an invitation. He'd kept her standing in the street too long, he was sure, but she had allowed the trespass.

 Another beautiful woman, who, as it happened, was also quite something else from what she seemed, had once tried to educate him in the subtleties of female conversation, and he pondered for a moment what her advice to him might be just now.

It occurred to him that in spite of the discomfort she aroused in him, he did not feel quite ready to let Mary Hammond go. He decided he enjoyed her, the sight of her---and the sound. Why should he not pursue an hour's pleasure if he had a mind to, when his duty beckoned on the morrow? Hammond would hate it, but Hammond, for all Horatio cared, could go to Hell.

"Go on, Mr. Haitch," he heard Kitty whisper in his ear when he offered to take Mary Hammond and her maid to find a cup of tea.

*****

Horatio was fortunate to remember that recently he had seen a number of ladies taking refreshment in one of the private parlors of the nearby Nancy Inn, where, more than usually flush with his winnings from the Long Rooms, he had stood Mr. Bush to an extravagant celebratory meal. Of coffeehouses and taverns and cheap-houses where a meal could be had for sixpence or less he had become something of a connoisseur, but to name a place frequented by women, particularly those who were by all appearances respectable, he might have been hard pressed.

The slightly overheated air in the cozy room made him feel a little languid, and he leaned back a little in the dainty chair, allowing his long legs to stretch out under the linen skirted table. Did he run the risk of accidentally encountering a little half-booted foot? Or had she tucked them demurely beneath her chair?


She had not removed her gloves, and he watched as she pressed one kid-covered forefinger to the cake crumbs on her plate, gathering them into a single moist, golden blob and popping it into her mouth with what seemed like a complete lack of self-consciousness.

But surely a beautiful woman, particularly a beautiful woman who lived by her beauty, must be conscious at every moment of her effect. He did not believe that she could be unconscious of his admiration, and therefore why must he pretend to be unconscious of her beauty?

He met her eyes across the table, those sleepy rounds of green and brown and gold. Looking at her, he ran his fingers lightly over his bottom lip, as if thinking of what next to say. His eyes moved down to the small triangle of smooth, pale skin at the base of her throat, defined by the gauzy pleats of a modest fichu that filled in the neck of her deep green gown. And as he lingered on that spot, imagining the warm pulse of her blood that rose there, he saw her bring up one gloved hand and put her finger to that very hollow, as if answering a touch. She lowered her chin slightly and the heavy, drowsy lids dropped slowly, slowly under his gaze.

And when she raised her eyes again, he kept on looking, and allowed a slow smile to come to his lips.

He was flirting. Playing at seduction. And unaccustomed as he was to the practice, it seemed to him that she was playing along. Nothing could come of it of course; perhaps that was why suddenly he did not feel at all awkward or uncomfortable. On the contrary, he felt wonderfully relaxed, and he was even enjoying the faint, electric sensation of arousal that hummed pleasantly in his veins.

"What a pretty little place this is," she said, breaking the spell. She looked about her at the little parlor with it's walls painted in a soft yellow, the patterned drapes at the windows, a cheery fire burning in the hearth, and small arrangements of hothouse flowers on the few tables. The proprietor of The Nancy was an old sailor, and covering the wall opposite the hearth was a large representation of his one true love, and the Inn's namesake, every sail set, buxom and billowing as she plowed the foaming troughs of a swirling azure sea.

"I don't believe I even knew it was here. A place to sit in company and have a nice cup of tea and a bite to eat; it is so very civilized, I shouldn't wonder if it will soon become the fashion. Thank you, sir, I now feel completely restored! I don't believe we knew how very hungry we really were, did we, Minnie?"


The little maid had been either oblivious or exercising superb professional discretion thus far as she quietly sipped her tea and nibbled her way through three currant buns and a little ginger cake. Now she paused in her nibbling and said, "Well, I did, Miss."

Mary laughed. "I don't think I could finish another bite, but do carry on, Minnie, dear. And you, Mr. Hornblower, you're to set sail tomorrow are you not? You must make the most of this opportunity. Captain Hammond has been regaling Jack with dreadful stories of wormy ship's biscuit and rotten cheeses. He even claims to have eaten rat!"

Horatio decided that Minnie was indeed not listening, for this last seemed not to give her pause in the least, whereas he was forced to swallow hard.

"Our poor Jack," she frowned charmingly. "I don't believe he quite knows what to make of some of those tales. I do wish the Captain wouldn't tease him so. Jack is eager to serve, truly, and he wants very much to please his father, but he is so young, and…uncertain, I think, of what lies ahead. Might I ask you, Mr. Hornblower--? "

She stopped, as if thinking better of what she was about to say, and bowed her head for a moment, dropping her hands into her lap. "Oh, dear. I don't believe Jack would appreciate my giving up his confidences, and would probably be mortified to know that I was about to ask you to look out for him especially. Certainly you look out for all of your men. It is what a good captain does, isn't it?"

*Obey orders, do your duty and no harm will come to you. * Horatio wished for a moment that he might say something reassuring, but anything that came to mind would ring as hollow, he was sure, as those long ago words of poor old Captain Keene's. And, too, it really was not a woman's place to suggest to him how he might choose to treat a man under his command.

"I have no reason to believe that Mr. Hammond will not discharge his duties honorably and well," he said at last, disliking the stuffiness of his tone.

Perhaps she disliked it as well, for her next words could have been construed as nothing less than provocative.  Slowly stirring a large lump of sugar into her second cup of tea, she said lightly "Jack was so pleased to be given a place aboard your ship, Mr. Hornblower. He seemed to have his heart set on it, despite what Captain Hammond might have to say of it." She raised the cup and took a slow sip, watching his reaction.

Horatio had the urge to clear his throat before speaking, but Archie had always said that it made him appear ill at ease at best, and at worst, pompous, and he had tried to break himself of the habit.

 "Captain Hammond disapproves of me," he said flatly, as a matter of simple acknowledgment, but inwardly he was peeved. Did damned Hammond have nothing better to do than to natter on about him to his whore?

"So it would seem," she said, and then, as if reading his thoughts: "Captain Hammond has not spoken to me of it, Mr. Hornblower, but I know something of what happened in Kingston last year, and in fact, I know something of you."

He felt his jaw go rigid with annoyance, but then he saw her eyes, and her smile.

"The story I was going to tell you before, Mr. Hornblower, was of the old red stag who lived on the estate that adjoined my stepfather's little piece of land near Bally Creagh. That is near Kilcrea, in County Cork. Have you been to Ireland, Mr. Hornblower?"

He shook his head. "I have only seen it from the sea," He returned her smile. "It looks very green."

"It is, very beautiful, and very green." He was so attracted by the sound of her voice. There was a captivating tone and a rhythm to it that he wanted to follow from word to word, and he wondered if this was the attraction of music to those who loved it.

"Daniel called him Old Flynn. Really, he was dreadful looking, with his ears torn, and long, deep scars on his flanks and one eye all but gone, but when I was a young girl, I thought he was the most magnificent creature. He was so big, with his great rack of antlers, and he would stand on the rise of the hill and bellow, and you could hear him across the entire valley!"

She looked at him, and seeing his mystified expression, she laughed. "Aren't you pleased we are not still standing in the street? Very well, the short of it is that Old Flynn was a strong, proud old man, and a great fighter, and he lived to a grand old age. But all of his life, he was restless and on his guard. My stepfather would say that he was so wary of rivals he would try to lock horns with his own reflection in a pond. I do not know if his wariness, or his fierce nature was the reason for his longevity, but I am certain that Old Flynn believed it was."

She sipped her tea. Clearly, that was the end.

He shook his head and smiled slightly, not understanding.

She gave him a moment, and then seemed to despair of him.

"I simply mean to say, Mr. Hornblower, that Captain Hammond puts me in mind of Old Flynn, from time to time," she said, with a smile that left him wondering again if he'd just had an invitation.

****

"Hotspur" rolled again, but the port seemed to have settled his stomach somewhat. It was late, and he was exhausted. Styles should have come in before now to see if there was anything he needed before retiring, but the man was, of course, hopeless as a steward. He'd known it, but it didn't matter. In truth, he suspected it suited him. He was not entirely comfortable with the idea of having a personal servant as yet.

He made his way to the bunk that was built into the bulkhead of the cabin, and which he preferred to the narrow hanging cot that had not been built to his measure, and was too short to accommodate his lanky frame, and too reminiscent of the coffin it might one day become for him to lie comfortably.

He stretched out, fully clothed but for top coat and shoes, and closed his eyes, but in spite of his fatigue, he knew that sleep would be a long time in coming. Perhaps he should have accepted Mr. Bush's suggestion that he come along to the bawdy house on their last night ashore. Bush, it seemed to Horatio, attended to the needs of the flesh as a matter of practical importance, the last item on the list, perhaps, but one to be struck off with gusto, and he threw himself into the business of pleasure with the same wholehearted energy with which he dispatched his duties aboard ship, without reservation or remorse.

Horatio believed he envied the older man his simple pragmatism.

Rivals. Was that how she saw it? Perhaps not in the way he was imagining just now, with the image of rutting stags in his mind's eye, and then of a silken white body spread out underneath him in bed, coils of dark hair that writhed on his pillow, and golden eyes that narrowed with passion as he claimed his victory.

Go to Part Four