Page 36 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)

“The sea has no memory,” he said. “No remorse, no conscience. It simply is.”

He turned back to her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “That’s why we must remember for it — honour those it takes by recounting their stories, by living as they would have wished us to live.”

The sentiment touched Docila deeply, resonating with her own feelings about her father’s loss. “That’s a beautiful way to think of it,” she said softly.

Sidney looked away, as if uncomfortable with her praise or perhaps with revealing so much of his inner thoughts.

“It’s merely practical,” he said, his tone deliberately lighter as he reached for another piece of wood. “Sailors are sentimental creatures beneath their gruff exteriors.”

“Including their captains?” Docila asked, a teasing note entering her voice before she could consider the wisdom of such familiarity.

To her relief, Sidney’s mouth quirked in a half-smile.

“Perhaps especially their captains,” he admitted. “Though we generally try to hide it better.”

The admission, small as it was, felt like a precious gift — a glimpse behind the carefully maintained facade of authority that Sidney wore as consistently as his captain’s coat.

Docila treasured it, adding it to the growing collection of moments when the man beneath the title had emerged: his laugh during the musical gathering amid the becalming, his unexpected vulnerability when discussing the lost crewmen, the gentleness of his hands as he had wrapped her in a blanket after the storm.

They resumed their work, the railing gradually taking shape under Sidney’s skilled hands.

Around them, the ship hummed with activity as other repairs progressed — sails being mended, rigging retied, the deck cleared of the last debris from the storm.

Despite the losses they had suffered, there was a sense of renewal in the air, of resilience in the face of adversity.

“Captain!” Turner’s voice called from the bow. “We’ve spotted something off the starboard quarter!”

Sidney rose immediately, his expression sharpening into alertness. “Stay here,” he instructed Docila, already moving toward the bow where Turner stood with a spyglass.

Docila hesitated only briefly before following him, unwilling to be excluded from whatever new development had arisen. She kept a respectful distance, but positioned herself where she could hear the exchange between the men.

“Debris, mostly,” Turner was saying, handing the spyglass to Sidney. “But there’s something else — there, near that larger piece of wood.”

Sidney raised the glass to his eye, adjusting it carefully. For a long moment, he was silent, his body tense with concentration. Then, abruptly, he lowered the glass, his expression grave.

“A boat,” he said quietly. “Or what’s left of one. Someone else encountered the storm.”

Docila felt a chill run through her despite the warming day. Another vessel, perhaps lost with all hands. More souls claimed by the same tempest that had nearly taken their own.

“Should we change course?” Fletcher asked, having joined them at the rail. “See if there are survivors?”

Sidney raised the glass again, scanning the distant debris field with methodical care.

“Yes,” he decided. “It’s not far off our course, and if there’s any chance...” He trailed off, but the sentiment was clear. If there was any possibility of finding survivors, they had a duty to try.

Orders were given, the helmsman adjusting their heading to bring them closer to the scattered wreckage. As they approached, Docila could make out the remnants of what had indeed been a small boat — perhaps a fishing vessel or a ship’s tender, now reduced to splintered wood and torn canvas.

“We might be able to salvage something from the wreck,” Fletcher pointed out.

“It’s likely anything of use has sunk to the depths,” Sidney countered.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Docila said, a hint of laughter in her tone despite the gravity of the situation as they neared the debris field.

The crew dropped anchor despite their sense of urgency to be on their way.

A small skiff was lowered with a couple men to search the debris field.

To everyone’s disappointment, there was little to recover.

Some ropes, some spare pieces of wood and canvas, but nothing of real value, and no people.

The crew was sober as they lifted anchor and set sail once more.

Docila turned her attention back to helping those on their own ship who had been injured in the storm that had clearly taken the other vessel. The doctor needed an extra pair of hands below deck and was asking for her. Before she descended, her gaze enmeshed with the captain’s.

The conflict of desires — to stay with Sidney or to help where she was needed — was yet another reminder of the dangerous territory her heart was entering.

She was developing feelings for a man who represented everything she had fled — authority, control, the power to determine her fate.

And yet Sidney wielded that authority so differently from her uncle, with responsibility rather than selfishness, with care rather than cruelty.

As she made her way to the surgeon’s quarters, Docila’s mind returned to the moment they had shared that morning, the easy companionship as they worked side by side, the brief glimpses of the man behind the captain’s mask.

Whatever dangers might lie in caring for Sidney Peters, she could no longer deny that care she did, with an intensity that both frightened and exhilarated her.

The weight of these unspoken feelings had grown heavier with each passing day, a burden she carried alone.

Yet part of her treasured that weight, for all its complications.

It meant she was alive, that she had survived not just the storm but all that had come before it — her father’s death, her uncle’s betrayal, her desperate flight into the unknown.

She was alive, and her heart, against all reason, had found someone it wished to open to. Whether wisdom or folly, only time would tell.