Page 37 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)

D ocila had spent most of the day helping Dr. Franklin tend to the injured. Exhausted from the long hours of careful tending, Docila had sought a moment’s solitude.

The ship buzzed with activity as repairs continued, and she found herself craving quiet — a rare commodity aboard the crowded vessel.

With most of the men occupied on deck and Sidney deep in consultation with Fletcher about their altered course, she had slipped into the captain’s quarters to return the medical supplies she’d borrowed earlier.

Sidney’s cabin was a welcome haven of stillness.

She placed the small bundle of bandages and salves on a shelf, intending to leave immediately.

But her attention was caught by the charts spread across Sidney’s desk — the same navigational materials he had shown her before, but now she could examine them more closely without the pressure of their initial revelation.

Her father had taught her to read such charts from an early age, instilling in her a deep appreciation for the art and science of navigation.

As she looked at the familiar El Dorado materials Sidney had shown her days ago, something nagged at her memory — something about the handwriting in the margins.

She leaned closer, her heart suddenly racing as recognition dawned. Those notations along the edges — coordinates, dates, brief observations about tides and currents. Some were in Sidney’s careful script, which she now recognized. But others...

These other notations, these precise, slightly slanted letters with distinctive flourishes on the capital letters — this was her father’s handwriting. She would know it anywhere, had seen it countless times on letters, logbooks, and charts in his study.

“It can’t be,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the familiar script.

But it was. Her father hadn’t just known about El Dorado — he had been actively involved in mapping its location, adding his own observations to Sidney’s charts.

The implications struck her with dizzying force.

All this time, she had been keeping her own secrets about the treasure hunting expeditions she had participated in with her father that went far beyond simple merchant trading.

She had hidden the full extent of her experience because she feared Sidney would think her a spy or rival, or worse — that he would only value her for what she knew rather than who she was.

But her father had been part of this quest all along. Had worked with Sidney’s associates, contributed his knowledge to their shared goal. And she had said nothing, even when Sidney mentioned William Archer by name, even when she recognized the charts from her father’s collection.

She had known about his treasure hunting activities, but El Dorado? This specific quest? This partnership with Sidney’s associates? That was completely unexpected. Had he been in league with Sidney’s enemy? This Blackwell who was racing them to the treasure?

The weight of her deception settled heavily on her shoulders.

She had been so focused on proving herself independently, on earning Sidney’s trust through her actions rather than her connections, that she had allowed him to believe her father’s interests were purely mercantile, never revealing the treasure hunting expeditions that had taught her so much.

When the truth was so much more complicated.

William Archer had not merely possessed a similar chart; he had contributed to this very document, adding his observations and calculations to whatever collaborative effort had produced it.

The realization sent Docila’s thoughts spinning in new directions. Her father had been part of this. Had known about El Dorado, about the treasure, about the secret location marked so carefully on this chart. Had perhaps even shared this knowledge with Sidney or his associates. Or his enemy.

But if so, why had Sidney never mentioned it? Why, in all their conversations about the treasure, about her father, about their respective backgrounds, had he never once acknowledged this connection?

The answer whispered through her mind with chilling clarity: because he didn’t trust her.

Despite everything they had endured together — the becalming, the storm, the near mutiny — despite the growing connection between them that went beyond captain and passenger, beyond reluctant allies, he still harboured doubts about her true purpose aboard his ship.

And perhaps with good reason. She had kept secrets of her own, after all.

Had never fully explained how she came to be so familiar with life at sea, with navigation, with the practical skills that had made her valuable aboard the Seraphim.

Had never revealed the full truth about her father’s seafaring activities, some of which had operated in the grey areas between legitimate trade and outright smuggling.

The complexity of their situation — the tangled web of secrets, half-truths, and genuine connection — left her momentarily paralyzed with indecision.

Should she confront Sidney with what she had discovered?

Demand explanations for the connection between his quest and her father’s secret?

Or should she wait, observe, gather more information before revealing her hand?

Before she could decide, a sound at the door jolted her from her reverie — the unmistakable tread of Sidney’s boots, approaching with purposeful strides.

Panic flared within her. To be caught examining his private papers without permission, after he had extended the trust of allowing her access to his cabin — it would confirm any lingering suspicions he harboured, would undo all the careful progress they had made toward mutual respect.

Instinctively, Docila gathered the map to her chest, as if protecting it — or herself — from the confrontation to come.

She stood, turning toward the door just as it swung open to reveal Sidney, his expression transitioning from preoccupation to surprise to sharp suspicion in the span of a heartbeat.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice low and controlled but edged with unmistakable tension as his gaze fixed on the document clutched against her chest.

“I —” Docila began, her mind racing for an explanation that wouldn’t sound like the desperate excuse it was. But the truth was the only option that wouldn’t compound her transgression with dishonesty. “I came to return the medical supplies, and I saw the charts. I was curious.”

“Curious.” The word hung between them, weighted with implication. Sidney closed the door behind him with deliberate care, his gaze never leaving her face. “Curious enough to examine private documents not meant for your eyes.”

It wasn’t a question, but Docila answered anyway.

“Yes,” she admitted, lifting her chin slightly in defiance of her own guilt. “And I found something I didn’t expect.”

Sidney’s eyes narrowed, his posture tense as he moved further into the cabin.

“And what might that be, Miss Archer?” The reversion to formality stung, a clear indication of his withdrawal behind the walls of authority and suspicion.

Docila held his gaze steadily, even as her heart hammered against the parchment pressed to her chest.

“A connection I think you’ve been aware of but chose not to share,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “My father’s mark. His handwriting. On documents related to the very treasure you seek.”

A flicker of something — surprise? concern? understanding? — crossed Sidney’s face before his expression settled into careful neutrality.

“Your father’s mark,” he repeated, his tone giving nothing away. “You’re certain?”

“As certain as I am of my own name,” Docila replied.

“I would know it anywhere. Just as I recognize his handwriting on these charts.” She gestured with the parchment still held protectively against her.

“What I don’t understand is why you never mentioned this connection.

Why, when I told you who my father was, you gave no indication that you possessed materials bearing his mark. ”

Sidney was silent for a long moment, studying her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, each word chosen with evident care.

“Because I didn’t know,” he said simply.

“I didn’t recognize William Archer’s mark, nor his handwriting.

These documents came to me through a friend — Roderick Northcott, the scholar I mentioned to you once.

Or rather, it was the scholars helping Lady Evangeline but that’s a longer story than I need to tell you right now.

I did tell you several of my friends had been seeking clues to the treasure. ”

Docila felt the ground shift beneath her understanding once again.

“You didn’t know,” she repeated, searching his face for any sign of deception.

“No,” Sidney confirmed. “Though I suspected there might be some connection when you first revealed your name. William Archer was known in certain circles as a man with interests beyond ordinary merchant shipping — a collector of rare charts, a scholar of historical maritime accounts.”

He moved closer, his gaze still fixed on her face. “But I had no proof, no confirmation until this moment. Until you recognized his mark on documents I’ve studied for years without knowing their provenance.”

The explanation was plausible, even likely, yet Docila found herself still hesitant to fully accept it.

“Then why the secrecy?” she pressed. “Why keep these specific charts from me, even after revealing the general nature of your quest?”

Sidney’s mouth tightened.

“Because trust is earned slowly on a ship like this, with stakes this high,” he said bluntly. “Because despite your proven worth in many respects, your sudden appearance aboard my vessel at this particular moment in our journey has never ceased to raise questions.”

His expression softened slightly. “Questions I’ve increasingly set aside in light of your actions, your character as revealed through crisis. But not enough to share every detail of a quest that has consumed years of my life.”

The honesty of his response — the acknowledgment of both his growing trust and his lingering doubts — struck Docila with unexpected force.

He was right, of course. Trust was a delicate thing, built slowly and tested constantly.

She had her own reservations about him, her own carefully guarded secrets.

“I understand,” she said finally, lowering the chart slightly from its protective position.

“But now that we’ve discovered this connection, don’t you think it merits further discussion?

My father clearly knew something about El Dorado, about the treasure you seek. His knowledge might help your quest.”

Sidney considered this, his expression thoughtful.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “Though it raises as many questions as it might answer. How did your father come by this information? What was his interest in El Dorado? And why did he never pursue the treasure himself, if he possessed such detailed knowledge of its location?”

Questions Docila had been asking herself since recognizing her father’s mark.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “He spoke of treasure hunting in general terms, but never mentioned El Dorado specifically or any Spanish treasure. I knew he sought historical artifacts and had theories about lost ships, but he only alluded to a ‘retirement plan’ that would secure our future.” She hesitated, then added with painful honesty, “A future cut short by his death before he could fulfil whatever plans he had made.”

Something in Sidney’s expression shifted at that — a softening, a recognition of the grief that still lingered beneath her words.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For what it’s worth, I believe your father was a man of integrity, based on all I’ve heard. If he was connected to this quest, I doubt it was for purely mercenary reasons.”

The simple acknowledgment of her father’s character, offered without qualification or suspicion, eased something tight in Docila’s chest. “Thank you,” she said softly. “That means more than you might realize.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, the tension between them not entirely dispelled but transformed into something more complex — a shared recognition of the mysteries still surrounding them, the unanswered questions that connected their separate paths to this point of intersection.

Then Sidney held out his hand, a clear request for the chart she still held. “May I?”

Docila hesitated only briefly before extending the document toward him. Their fingers brushed as he took it, a momentary contact that sent a different kind of tension coursing through her despite the seriousness of the moment.

Sidney carefully laid the chart on his desk, smoothing it with a gentle touch that revealed his reverence for the document and the knowledge it contained.

“Your father’s notations,” he said, his finger tracing the marginalia. “Can you tell me what they mean? His system of abbreviation is different from my own.”

It was an olive branch, Docila realized — an invitation to share knowledge, to contribute to the quest rather than being excluded from it. A small but significant shift in their relationship.

“I believe I can,” she replied, moving to stand beside him at the desk. “He had a particular shorthand for his navigational notes. I recognized it immediately.”

As they bent together over the chart, their shoulders nearly touching, Docila felt the weight of unspoken words and hidden truths still hanging between them.

This discovery had changed things — had revealed a connection neither had anticipated, had forced them to confront the limits of their trust in each other.

Yet in that moment of shared focus, of mutual interest in the mystery before them, there was also possibility — the potential for deeper understanding, for a more honest alliance forged from the acknowledgment of their separate paths and shared destination.

The treasure map had become a symbol of both their connection and their division — a physical representation of the complicated relationship that had developed between them since her desperate leap aboard his ship weeks ago.

Where that relationship would lead now, with this new revelation altering its course, remained as uncertain as the location of the treasure they both sought — for very different reasons.