Page 44 of The Cornish Widow

Harriet sat down close to Theo.

Jack jerked his head at the large middle-aged man. “I’d best introduce you. This is my partner, Captain Will Richards. His son, Harry. My bo’sun, Daniel Bussow. My crew—Uncle Billy, Silas, Phoby, and our cabin boy, Clemo.” He nodded at Captain Richards. “And this is Mrs. Harriet Penhallow, of Keynvor Cottage, and her son Theo.” He waved a hand at his men. “Now, back to work. Cap’n Will and I will sort this out.”

“You too, Harry,” Will said with a grin. “You can stop ogling the lady just because she’s in her nightgown.”

Harry grinned at his father and turned away, but not without an appreciative wink for Harriet. Good heavens. Did he think her some kind of light-skirt?

The two sailors who’d been supporting Theo got up, and Harriet slid closer to him, thankful to be off her feet, and bristling with annoyance at the wink. Her stomach roiled anew and for a moment she feared the hastily drunk water was about to reappear, but it didn’t. She reached out a hand and took Theo’s and he hung on tight, very much her little boy and not the brave adventurer he’d fancied himself. As spray kept coming over the edge of the boat to strike the deck, Harriet gripped the edge of the hatch with her free hand, not at all confident she and Theo wouldn’t be tossed over the side by the ship’s movement at any moment.

Jack and Will exchanged glances, and Will gave a shrug. “It’s your ship,” he said. “You decide, but we don’t want them interfering with the business we have to do, now do we? And I doubt we’ve time to take them back.”

Jack shook his head. “You’re right. Look at them. What they need is clean clothes and a wash more than anything. The sea’s calming down a bit now, but they’ll be best out here on deck in the fresh air.”

Calming down? Was it? Harriet hung onto the hatch tighter than ever.

Will nodded. “We don’t want them stinking up the cabin, that’s for sure, or we’ll have complaints.”

The embarrassment of the situation washed over Harriet anew as she began to feel a little better. The fact that she and Theo were smelly, and everyone had noticed, bore down on her.

“Clemo,” Jack said to the boy. “D’you have clean trousers and shirt?”

Clemo managed a heavy scowl. “I does, but they’re me Sunday best.”

Jack frowned back at him. “Go and get them.” He nodded to Theo. “You can go behind the mast and take off your soiled clothing and put on Clemo’s Sunday best. Chop chop.”

It didn’t take Clemo more than a minute to return with items of clothing that looked nothing like the sort of Sunday best Harriet was used to, but Theo, after a reassuring nod from her, went behind the mast and struggled out of his dirty clothes and into the new ones, remaining barefoot like Clemo. The expression on his face told Harriet how much he approved of his new clothing and the effect it was having on his morale.

“Go and give these a soak then hang them out to dry,” Jack said, again addressing Clemo, who again looked as though this order was an insult. But obedience must have been ingrained, and he took the clothes and departed to where a bucket on a rope sat by the side of the ship. A quick dip into the water produced an almost full bucket into which he immersed Theo’s soiled breeches, shirt and jacket, holding them delicately between finger and thumb, like an old duchess with her teacup, and poking them in with a long stick until they were submerged.

Jack, no doubt satisfied with this attempt at laundry, turned his attention back to Harriet. “You’ll need clothes too, but you won’t be able to change behind the mast like a boy. Can you go below decks into the cabin, do you think? Without further upset?”

Could she? Immediately the ship seemed to pitch more violently as though the weather knew she was about to go below decks again. Or that might have been her imagination. “Perhaps if you have a bowl or bucket I might take with me?”

He did. She followed him down the ladder into the cabin and found herself in a small, low-roofed space equipped with half a dozen hammocks, rocking gently with the motion of the ship. Better not look at them or she might feel sick again.

Jack pulled a shirt and a pair of breeches out of a small chest and held them out to her, although whose these were this time she had no idea. “These’re all I have, I’m afraid. We can get your own clothes…” and here he looked up and down her night attire again, “washed and dried, but I don’t think they’re suitable for wearing on board a ship.”

“Thank you… Jack.” She took the bundle of clothes. As she did so, her fingertips brushed his hand and a current of unexpected electricity shivered up her arm. Jack’s eyes widened for a moment, and he snatched his hand back at the same moment she did the same with hers. Had he felt it as well? And what had it meant? Her whole body felt as though it had come alive in that instant, suddenly aware of the proximity of this man and the intense masculinity he was radiating in such a small space. It should be frightening her, but it wasn’t. Instead she felt as though she were holding her breath, waiting for something good to happen. What an idiot she was. She stepped back until her shoulders came up against the side of the cabin, holding the clothes to her chest like a shield.

“Well,” he said, suddenly looking as awkward as she felt and rather pink about the gills. “I’ll leave you to change. Come up as soon as you’re dressed. Being in the fresh air is the best way to get your sealegs.” And he departed, closing the hatch behind himself as he went. This plunged the tiny cabin into near darkness, but Harriet had little trouble getting into the unaccustomed breeches and shirt. A buckle affair on the back of the breeches tightened them sufficiently not to fall down, and a pair of braces finished the task. She tucked the tails of the shirt into the breeches and shrugged into the waistcoat. Deciding bare feet might make gripping the spray-doused deck easier than her own impractical shoes, she started back up the companionway. The moment she touched the hatch, it opened for her.

Jack. He must have been waiting for her to finish her toilette.

“I didn’t need the bowl,” she said, with some pride, handing it back. “I think your ship isn’t tossing about quite so badly.”

He nodded. “We get a lot of ocean swell here in the west, because we’re almost in the Atlantic. And the wind’s behind us, driving us on, building the waves. You should be all right now, as long as you take it easy. Come and sit by your boy and keep an eye on him for me. He’s in danger of falling asleep sitting up.”

Harriet moved to the middle of the deck and sat down on the hatch again, next to Theo, whose skin had lost some of its alarming pallor. He was chewing on a hunk of brown bread as though he’d eaten nothing for days.

Jack nodded at him. “Best thing to do if you feel sick on a ship. Eat. Then you at least have something to bring up.”

Harriet shook her head. “Please don’t talk about that. I’d rather not think about it.”

Jack grinned and, pulling a coil of rope over, sat down opposite them. “Took me a while to get my sealegs, Theo. No one gets them straightaway. Takes time.”

“I feel better now,” Theo said. “Where are we going? I don’t see any land.”

“France,” Jack said.