Page 35 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)
S leep had eluded Docila, despite her exhaustion.
Her mind had raced with images from the storm — the monstrous waves, the lightning illuminating terrified faces, the moment she had nearly been swept away.
And, most vividly, Sidney’s arms around her, anchoring her to safety when the sea had tried to claim her.
She had dozed fitfully in her small cabin, waking often to the creaking of the ship as it settled into calmer waters. Each time her eyes opened, she found herself reaching instinctively for something solid to hold onto, the phantom sensation of falling still fresh in her body’s memory.
When the first grey light of dawn had filtered through the small porthole, Docila had surrendered the pretence of sleep. She had changed her clothing, now dry though wrinkled, and made her way carefully to the deck, unsure what devastation she would find in the clear light of morning.
Nothing could have prepared her for the transformation of the ship she had come to know so well over the past weeks.
The once-immaculate deck was a chaos of broken wood, torn canvas, and frayed rope.
The foremast had a jagged crack running halfway up its length, its remaining rigging hanging in sad, twisted strands.
A section of railing had been torn away completely, leaving a gaping space that opened directly to the sea below.
Yet amid the destruction, there was activity — purposeful, coordinated work as the surviving crew members moved about their tasks with grim determination.
Turner supervised a team patching a tear in the mainsail, while Fletcher directed men checking the rigging that remained.
Even Jenks was hard at work, his usual surly demeanour replaced by focused concentration as he spliced rope with practiced hands.
And there, amid it all, was Sidney. He stood near the damaged railing, tools scattered around him, studying the broken section with the critical eye of a craftsman assessing a project.
His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms tanned and muscled from years at sea.
His hair, usually so neatly tied back, had partially escaped its binding, several strands blowing free in the gentle morning breeze.
He looked up as she approached, and the smile that crossed his face transformed him momentarily from stern captain to something else entirely — something that made Docila’s breath catch unexpectedly in her throat.
Their exchange had been simple, almost mundane, yet the warmth in his eyes as he invited her to assist him carried a weight that belied the ordinariness of the task he proposed.
There was something different between them now, a shift that had begun during the storm and solidified in its aftermath.
The careful distance Sidney had maintained since her arrival aboard the Seraphim had diminished, replaced by a tentative connection that both thrilled and terrified her.
She did not want to care about him. For so many reasons. One of which that he was a man in a position of power. If she gave him her heart, he’d have even more power over her. Just exactly what she didn’t need.
Now, kneeling beside him on the scrubbed planks of the deck, Docila tried to focus on the practical task at hand rather than the confusing emotions swirling within her.
She held a length of wood steady while Sidney measured it against the damaged section of railing, his hands moving with the precision and confidence of someone who had made such repairs many times before.
“You’ve done this often,” she observed, watching as he marked the wood with a piece of chalk.
“More times than I care to remember,” he replied, reaching for a saw. “Every captain becomes a passable carpenter by necessity. The sea is not kind to wooden vessels.”
“Nor to those who sail them,” Docila added quietly, her gaze drifting to where Harris sat on a coil of rope, his broken arm bound in a sling improvised from a torn shirt.
Beyond him, a small group of sailors had gathered near the bow, their heads bowed as Fletcher conducted a brief memorial for the men lost in the storm.
Sidney followed her gaze, his expression sobering. “No,” he agreed softly. “The sea demands respect, and sometimes blood.” He turned back to his work, the saw moving in smooth, practiced strokes through the wood. “It’s a price we accept when we choose this life.”
“Did you?” Docila asked, genuinely curious. “Choose this life, I mean. Or was it chosen for you, as it was for so many sailors?”
Sidney’s hands paused briefly before resuming their steady rhythm.
“I chose it,” he said after a moment. “Much to my father’s dismay. He had other plans for his second son — a commission in the army, perhaps, or a position in the church. Respectable, predictable paths for a gentleman without inheritance prospects.”
The revelation surprised Docila. She had assumed Sidney came from a seafaring background, perhaps following in a father’s or uncle’s footsteps. “What made you choose the sea instead?”
A faint smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained on his work. “Freedom,” he said simply. “Out here, a man is judged by his skills, his decisions, his character — not by his birth or connections. I found that... liberating.”
Docila nodded, understanding perfectly. Wasn’t that what she too had sought in her desperate flight from Uncle Hugo? The chance to determine her own path, to be valued for herself rather than as property to be bartered?
“Your family must be proud of what you’ve accomplished,” she ventured, handing him a nail as he positioned the cut piece of wood against the damaged railing.
Sidney gave a short laugh, devoid of bitterness but tinged with resignation.
“My mother takes some satisfaction in my success, I think, though she would never admit it openly. My father...” He shrugged, driving the nail home with precise blows of the hammer.
“Let’s just say we maintain a carefully polite distance, exchanging letters at times and otherwise leaving each other in peace. ”
“I’m sorry,” Docila said, recognizing the familiar pain of family estrangement.
“Don’t be,” Sidney replied, his tone lighter as he reached for another nail.
“It’s a mutually agreeable arrangement. And in truth, I’ve found other connections that proved more meaningful.” He glanced toward Fletcher, who was now dispersing the small memorial gathering with quiet words of encouragement. “A ship’s crew becomes its own kind of family, in time.”
The observation resonated with Docila’s own experience aboard her father’s vessel, where the boundaries between family and crew had often blurred into something richer than either category alone could encompass.
She had witnessed the same phenomenon developing aboard the Seraphim — the bonds of shared experience, mutual dependence, and collective purpose creating relationships that transcended mere employment.
“Yes,” she agreed, steadying the wood as Sidney drove in another nail. “I saw that aboard my father’s ship as well. The men became like uncles to me, particularly those who sailed with us for many voyages.”
“You must miss them,” Sidney said, his tone surprisingly gentle.
Docila nodded, unexpected emotion tightening her throat. “I do,” she admitted. “When Father died, I lost not just him but all of them as well. Uncle Hugo sold the Minerva within weeks, dispersing the crew without so much as allowing me to say goodbye.”
Sidney’s hands stilled, his expression darkening. “Your uncle sounds like a remarkably unpleasant man.”
“That’s a diplomatic way of putting it,” Docila replied with a rueful smile. “I’ve used rather stronger terms in the privacy of my thoughts.”
“I imagine you have,” Sidney said, a glint of humour lightening his eyes momentarily before his expression grew more serious.
Sidney studied her face, as if seeing her anew. “You’ve proven yourself a valuable member of this crew, Miss Archer. Despite the... unconventional nature of your arrival.”
The formal address caught Docila off guard after the intimacy of “Sidney” he had offered in his cabin. Had he reconsidered that moment of connection? Regretted the familiarity?
“I believe you called me Docila before,” she said before she could reconsider the boldness of the reminder. “At least in private.”
A flush of colour touched Sidney’s cheekbones, barely perceptible beneath his sea-weathered skin.
“So I did,” he acknowledged, his voice dropping slightly though there was no one near enough to overhear them. “Docila, then.”
The sound of her name in his mouth sent a pleasant shiver through her that had nothing to do with the morning breeze.
It was ridiculous, she told herself firmly, to react so strongly to such a small thing.
And yet she couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through her chest, a sensation both unfamiliar and dangerously compelling.
They worked together in companionable silence for a time, falling into an easy rhythm as Sidney cut and shaped replacement sections for the damaged railing.
Docila found herself admiring the efficiency of his movements, the quiet competence with which he approached the task.
There was something deeply appealing about a man so comfortable with practical work despite his education and background.
The sun climbed higher as they worked, burning away the last wisps of mist that had clung to the water in the storm’s aftermath.
The sea stretched around them in every direction, a vast expanse of blue now deceptively serene after its violent fury.
It was hard to reconcile this peaceful view with the monster that had nearly claimed them all just hours before.
“It’s strange,” Docila said, wiping perspiration from her brow as they paused to rest, “how quickly it changes. As if last night never happened.”
Sidney followed her gaze to the horizon, his expression contemplative.