Page 27 of Across the Star-Kissed Sea (Proper Romance Regency #1)

The boys turned back to their slates, and Mr. Doswell raised his eyes to me.

A glimmer of warmth touched them, the same one that had filled his eyes last night as he’d pulled me ever closer.

I’d never wanted to give in to someone so badly, not that I had ever been the object of a man’s affections before.

Affections ? I gulped. The word rang strangely in my head. Was I seeing things I wanted to see, not what they really were?

He rose from his chair, tucking a reading primer under his arm and keeping his head ducked against the shortness of the gun deck. “Good morning, Miss Byam.”

“I had a question for you, sir.” Blast, what was it?

“I cannot promise a satisfactory response, but I will do my best to answer,” he said.

I stood there stupidly gazing at him without saying a word. I couldn’t remember the last time something or someone had made me so inarticulate. At least not something good.

A few of the carpenter’s crew tromped down the fore ladder not far from us, loud and brash, as always. I looked away quickly, not wanting to catch Frank’s eye if he was among them. I had no desire to run into him this morning.

“We fixed that orlop leak last week, but Captain wants us to check it again,” one of the young men grumbled as they went.

The captain! I blinked, remembering. “Yes, I had a question about the captain.” I lowered my voice. “One of a more delicate nature.”

He took my elbow, sending a little thrill through my arm to my fingers, and guided me a few paces away from the gathering of boys between two of the big guns.

“What is it?”

I folded my hands. Surely, as Mrs. Peyton’s lady’s maid, I had a right to know her condition.

Would the captain have confided in him? I couldn’t be certain, but the only other man I could think of near Captain Peyton’s level in Society was Lieutenant Roddam.

I couldn’t very well ask the lieutenant something like this.

“Does the captain ever speak to you of his wife’s condition?” I asked, wringing my hands. Suddenly, this didn’t seem like as good an idea as it had in my cabin.

“He mentions frequently how sorry he is that she is ill.” He tilted his head questioningly.

“Does he mention, or perhaps hint at, another reason for her illness? Beyond seasickness, I mean?”

He frowned, shaking his head slowly. “Do you think it is more serious than seasickness?”

I took a deep breath. “In a way.” Should I tell him? Mr. Doswell seemed the type who could keep a secret.

The worry on his face made me want to reach out and smooth his troubled brow. Perhaps sweep back the lock of ginger hair that had fallen across it.

“I think she is ...” I paused, scanning the deck. What was I thinking? No place on this ship was truly private. Mrs. Peyton would have my neck if one of the crew heard me. The whole ship would know before the afternoon watch.

I grasped the little book peeking out between his side and coat sleeve, and he loosened his hold on it as I slid it out.

The Child’s New Spelling Primer. Mama had taught me to read from a copy of this.

I flipped it open to the page filled with large capital letters and pointed to the B .

He nodded. Then I tapped on the A , waiting for his nod. B again, and last Y .

He didn’t move for a moment, and I feared he’d somehow missed it. I repeated the sequence, but he was focused on me. His brows shot up. “You think that is it?” he asked.

I nodded gravely.

“He hasn’t mentioned a word of it to me.”

“I think ...” I balked. What if I was completely wrong?

But how could I be? I’d observed the captain for nearly a week.

He seemed the sort who would show an increase of tenderness if he knew his wife was carrying a child.

While he was as loving a new husband as I’d met, I hadn’t seen the sort of softness in speech and action I would expect.

I closed the book and hugged it to me. “I do not think the captain knows.”

Mr. Doswell’s eyes narrowed in thought. “That’s a serious thing to keep from her husband.”

I stepped closer to him, as much to hide our conversation as to get a whiff of his cologne. “Would he have brought her on this voyage if he knew?”

He brushed his freshly shaved jaw with his knuckles.

“I would think not.” He dropped his hand to his side.

I waited for him to ask me why I shared this with him.

I didn’t have a good answer, only that I couldn’t stand not having someone to discuss it with.

“I cannot say I am an expert on this subject,” he said, “but having four sisters, three of whom have been in this situation several times, I must believe your guess has merit.”

“And there are other things.” What was I saying? I couldn’t talk to him about not fitting into her stays or the lack of more soiled clothing than usual. It had been a month, after all. Most women would have had their time by now. I cleared my throat. “More personal things.”

He nodded in understanding, not seeming embarrassed by my implication. Strange. Men usually hated talking about female issues. I supposed that having four sisters made him more comfortable with the subject.

“You cannot mention this to the captain,” I said quickly. “If Mrs. Peyton caught wind that I knew and informed on her, she would probably have me flogged.”

He chuckled. “She isn’t a very vengeful person.”

“But if she—”

A voice echoed across the gun deck. “Is Mr. Doswell neglecting his duties?”

I ground my teeth at the voice. Once, it had sounded so much like home. Now it only meant frustration.

Frank stood near the gathering of boys, arms folded. “A bit beneath a clergyman, wouldn’t you think? How are these boys supposed to learn their letters when their teacher is off flirting with the laundry maid?”

Mr. Doswell flushed. I balled my hands into fists, fingernails digging into my palms. How dare he shout that where dozens of crew members could hear him.

“Mr. Doswell teaches us just fine,” Michael Carden growled.

Frank crouched beside him, and I hurried over. This would lead nowhere good.

“If Mr. Doswell has taught you your letters so well, write the word boatswain for me.”

Frank smirked as the boy formed shaky letters on the gray surface.

“Frank, that’s hardly fair,” I said. Sailing terms weren’t spelled the same way seamen pronounced them.

He ignored me. “No, you’re very wrong. It isn’t B - O - Z - U - N . It’s B - O - A - T - S - W - A - I - N .”

The boy scowled at his slate. “But that’s how it sounds.”

“You see?” Frank rapped the boy on the shoulder. “Mr. Doswell did not even have the decency to teach you to spell useful words. Try forecastle .”

Michael wiped the incorrect letters away with his sleeve and painstakingly attempted the next word.

“You don’t have to do that, Michael,” I said. “He isn’t your teacher.” The boy valiantly forged ahead, as though intent on proving Mr. Doswell was a good instructor.

Frank snickered. “ F - O - K - S - U - L ? What sort of spelling is that?”

Michael reddened, quickly smearing the letters with his hand.

“I have another,” Frank said. “Spell topgallant .”

I snatched Frank by the neckcloth and yanked. He staggered to his feet, chuckling. “Those aren’t the sort of words you teach to a beginner, Walcott,” I snapped. “Leave him alone.”

“So, it’s Walcott now, is it, Miss May?” His eyes took on a steely glint.

“These boys don’t need your harassment,” I said, releasing him and moving between him and Michael. “Their teacher doesn’t either.”

Frank rubbed his neck under the cloth. “You’d make a terrific wife of a B - O - Z - U - N .”

I pressed my lips together, not deigning to give the jibe a response. I didn’t care if he thought I was acting like Mrs. Hally-burton. I only wanted him to leave.

“But perhaps it’s a C - H - A - P - L - A - I - N you have your sights on.” Frank’s voice turned frigid, accusatory.

“That isn’t true!” Even I could hear the panic in my denial. And deep down, I knew he was more correct than I.

Frank leaned in, glaring. The wood dust on his shirt made my nose itch. “Enjoy your little country cottage, Mrs. Chaplain,” he spat. He turned on his heel and shot down the ladder after the rest of the carpenter’s crew.

I squeezed the book against my stomach, hands shaking.

I glanced back at Mr. Doswell, whose look of praise should have filled me with sunbeams. It only brought gusts of confusion.

I shouldn’t regret losing Frank’s friendship.

There had been little respect on his side from the beginning.

But a dark cloud inside me swallowed the energy I’d had to start the day.

I handed the primer back to Mr. Doswell.

“I’ll leave you to your work,” I mumbled, not waiting to hear his response.

A little night magic had made me think deep down in the hopeful pieces of my heart that Mr. Doswell could be a new adventure I hadn’t expected.

What had I been thinking? The way Frank had relegated me to a little country cottage made my skin crawl as though he’d spoken of the dungeons of Dover Castle.

Did I want to be trapped in the country the rest of my life, shackled to the duties of a parson’s wife?

Finding my own work and taking to the seas had given me a taste of freedom I could not find in the country.

Frank’s words were a warning against the coziness of dreaming about Mr. Doswell. I had to decide whether I would heed them or suffer the consequences.