Page 8 of Across the Star-Kissed Sea (Proper Romance Regency #1)

Elias

T he Isle of Wight receded to the north and with it, the piercing ache of Miss Somer’s rejection. I couldn’t hope it would abate completely, not for some time, but my heart lifted nonetheless. Wind filled the columns of sails above me, carrying us farther into the English Channel.

Whispers of the balmy Mediterranean drifted through the crew.

Leaving in September, we’d get there too late in the year to enjoy the warm waters, but if Napoleon kept up his attacks on countries throughout the region, we’d likely remain long enough to partake of the sea’s pleasures next year. Between battles.

I tapped my fingers against the stern rail as England shrank along the horizon.

The other officers had long since left the quarterdeck to return to their duties, but as chaplain, I had few responsibilities beyond morning prayer and Sunday service.

School for the younger ones would start soon, but I’d already recorded in great detail my teaching plans for the next few months.

“The trick, Mr. McDaniel, is not to overcorrect.”

I turned at the voice. Captain Peyton stood at the helm, a young midshipman beside him grasping the handles. The poor lad’s rigid shoulders had risen practically to his ears.

“She’ll follow your lead. Just give her a moment.”

The scene brought back memories of learning the helm. How I missed Mr. Riddley’s deep voice telling stories as he let me steer.

“Mind your weather helm.” Peyton stepped back. “Ah, Doswell. Having second thoughts?”

I laughed, trying not to consider his question. “Good morning, Captain.”

Peyton breathed deeply. “It’s a fine day to set out, isn’t it?”

He’d have said that whether the sun shone or rain poured. However, it was a lovely morning of placid skies mottled all shades of rose and violet.

“Your wife didn’t come above for a last sight of England?” I asked.

He shrugged. “She said she was tired. My mother has gone to stay with friends, and her father is in London, so there was no one to see at the dock. But her maid is just there”—he gestured with his head—“so I would guess she has risen by now.”

I followed his indication. Miss Byam stood near the aft hatch, smoothing her skirts.

My stomach clenched against the wave of humiliation that always followed a glimpse of that young woman.

The brim of her bonnet rippled in the breeze, blocking my view of her face as she wandered toward the starboard rail.

I needed to apologize to her. Bile rose in my throat. I’d made her feel unwelcome and looked down on. That hadn’t been my intention, but I was a fool. Could I apologize without making a greater fool of myself?

Based on history, the answer is certainly not.

Now she was alone, and the sailors above were engaged with setting sails.

As good a chance as any, with a smaller audience to witness another potential blunder.

I needed to take my chance. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, sir.

” I touched the brim of my straw topper and stepped down from the quarterdeck.

Before I could reach Miss Byam, Mr. Walcott appeared at her elbow, stopping me in my tracks.

“A lovely morning to you, Miss May!” The carpenter’s mate was the last man I wanted to observe my apology. He took her arm, leaning closer to whisper in her ear, as though old friends.

My apology could wait. I fiddled with the buttons of my coat.

Yes, of course. I had plenty of time. We had months left on this mission.

Perhaps years. No need to rush. I might as well think out what I would say and do it properly.

I retreated back to the quarterdeck, breathing slowly and trying not to blush.

If only preparation could guarantee my success.

May

“Allow me to introduce you to His Majesty’s Ship Marianne ,” Mr. Walcott said as though orchestrating a meeting with a duchess. I couldn’t help a laugh, silly as he sounded. Why he’d taken such an interest in me, I couldn’t say, but I allowed him to pull me toward the mainmast.

“These are her masts,” he said, thumping the wood between the many lines surrounding it.

“Foremast, mainmast, mizzenmast.” He pointed to the mast closest to the bow, then the one above us, then the one closest the stern.

“The forward deck is the forecastle, and where we’re standing is the waist. Then we’ve the quarterdeck, where the likes of Mr. Chaplain mingle, sipping their tea.

” He pretended to drink from an invisible cup, fluttering his eyelashes.

The chaplain was on the quarterdeck, and he looked away quickly when our eyes met and turned his back. Was he truly so prideful that he couldn’t stand the sight of me?

“I regret to interrupt your discourse,” I said, prying my eyes away from the chaplain’s finely fit jacket. “My knowledge of ships is a little more advanced than this lesson.” Uncle Byam had drilled Charlie and me on different parts of ships as children.

He leaned his shoulder into the mainmast. “Ah. An expert, have we?”

“Hardly. But my uncle was a boatswain and my cousin his mate. I spent many hours aboard various vessels.”

“If Hallyburton ever tosses Catterick overboard, I’ll give him your name.”

Mrs . Hallyburton wouldn’t approve of that. Not after our encounter last night. Her fiery glare still blazed in my mind. “Is Mr. Catterick in danger?”

He pushed off the mast. “Not if he’d remember his duties once in a while.

” He offered me his arm with a flourish, like he had when we’d first met a few days before.

I couldn’t keep back a smile as I took it.

Blatant flattery or not, he knew how to make a girl feel appreciated.

“I’ll only point out the pieces of great interest on this tour, seeing as I am in the company of so knowledgeable a lady. ”

Was he mocking me? Everything seemed like such a joke to this young man.

We worked our way toward the bow, not a long walk on so small a ship.

“ Marianne boasts twenty-eight guns, besides her long guns and a swivel,” he said.

“All twelve-pounders, which, if you ask me, are superior. Longer range, and all.” A sly glint crossed his brown eyes. “Would you like to see the figurehead?”

I hesitated. “I suppose.” Was it terribly bawdy? Many figureheads portrayed questionably dressed women. I couldn’t think of another reason for his mischievousness.

“She’s a vision, to be certain.” He guided me to the rail. “If you’ll look just—”

“Miss Byam, may I speak with you?” The anxious question sounded behind me, and I turned at the unexpected entreaty. Mr. Doswell sped toward us, face aflame.

Would this man never leave me alone? He’d caused enough embarrassment. I released Mr. Walcott’s arm, searching for something to say to make the chaplain keep his distance.

“Is ... ?” Mr. Doswell cleared his throat, glancing toward the bowsprit and back to me. “Is Mrs. Peyton well?”

I folded my arms. “You were just with her husband. Why did you not ask him?” His hands wrung before him. He wanted to talk of something else, it would seem, but couldn’t spit out the words.

“You saw her more recently than he has.” Again, he glanced behind me.

“You’ve interrupted our tour of the Marianne ,” Mr. Walcott said, mouth twisting oddly.

“It’s rude to disrupt.” The two men stared at each other, the carpenter’s mate with a smirk and the chaplain with a disapproving frown.

They both knew something I’d missed. Mr.Walcott put a hand on my shoulder as though to block me fromMr. Dos-well and tried to turn me toward the prow.

I resisted. Mr. Doswell was clearly frustrated by something Mr. Walcott was doing. A little feeling told me not to let Mr. Walcott drag me about until I knew.

A form rose up over the starboard side. I startled, shuffling back as the seaman hauled himself across the rail and onto the deck. He glanced between the three of us, one eyebrow raised, then brushed his hands together and strode off.

Oh ... I ground my teeth, face heating.

So much for boasting about my knowledge of ships.

I’d forgotten one important feature that Mr. Walcott had sneakily tried to draw my attention to—the head.

The only place a sailor could go for a few moments of privacy on this ship.

The carpenter’s mate burst out laughing as I recoiled from his touch. Vulgar brute.

“Ruder still,” the chaplain said softly, “is purposely throwing someone into an awkward situation. You saw him go down there.”

Mr. Walcott snorted and sat on the rail. “Quite the killjoy, aren’t you, Mr. Chaplain?”

“No need to make others uncomfortable for your own amusement.” An edge of something—embarrassment? timidity?—colored Mr. Doswell’s voice.

Mr. Walcott leaned forward. “Where was this white knight when she needed him the other day?”

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said and rushed aft toward the farther hatch.

The way they carried on as though I were some delicate lady in need of protecting made me want to take Walcott by his patterned neckcloth and Doswell by his pristine cravat and give them both the Hallyburton treatment with a toss over the side.

No wonder the boatswain’s wife had hardened into such a woman. These men wouldn’t respect a female if she didn’t.

May

I closed the door of my cabin and put my back against it, blocking out the sounds of the ship’s crew hanging their hammocks in preparation to sleep. One day at sea behind me. I’d easily managed the work itself, but the company ...

I trudged into the darkness. Mama and I hadn’t had the funds for a lantern of my own. I’d assumed I would be in a space that better took advantage of the common-area lamps and lanterns. The luxury of an officer’s cabin had its drawbacks if one did not bring in an officer’s salary.

As I knelt beside my trunk, faintly outlined in what light came through the canvas, something crinkled against my knee. I pulled a little packet out from under my skirt. I hadn’t put that there.