Carla Kelly - Marrying the Captain

A decidedly forlorn Mr. Proudy came slowly down the stairs, the picture of reluctance. For one brief moment, Nana wanted to remind him that poor Lord Nelson had inspired a nation-full of sitting room samplers that read, England Expects Every Man To Do His Duty. She didn’t know Mr. Proudy at all; quizzing him was quite out of the question.

Although Miss Pym would have gone into utter spasms at her total lack of manners, Nana introduced herself. “Are you Mr. Proudy?”

He owned that he was.

“Your captain is staying at our inn, sir,” she said. “I was wondering—does he have a favorite meal that you know of?”

The first mate returned her curtsey with a nod: no more, she observed, than would be expected from a gentleman to a servant. “He does like a good steak and ale pie,” he told her, “and nearly any dish with cod. God help us, cod and leeks.” He nodded again and went out to hail a hackney.

Nana added leeks to her list for the greengrocers. When she showed the grocer the money in her hand, he went to great lengths to fill her list, and agreed, without any cajoling, to deliver it after noon to the Mulberry. Minding her steps on the rain-slickened cobbles, she went to the wharf next and selected a promising-looking cod.

“I don’t like the way it looks at me,” she told the fishmonger, who whacked off the head with one stroke of his cleaver. Wrapped in brown paper and trussed up with string, the beast didn’t overhang her basket by much.

The rain stopped, only to be followed by a great rainbow that stretched from the Cattewater to the dry docks. I hope that is a good omen, she thought, as she started back toward the Mulberry. I know Captain Worthy is anxious to be back on the blockade.

There wasn’t any harm in putting a little muscle behind her wish, considering that she was just skeptical enough not to put her whole trust in rainbows. She stopped in front of St. Andrews.

The door was open and she went inside, not sure of the protocol of carrying a cod, no matter how neatly wrapped, into the Lord’s house. There wasn’t any question about leaving it outside. Her faith in man didn’t extend to tempting anyone with an easy catch of the day, especially not in Plymouth.

She set the cod by the back bench and took a coin from her reticule. Strictly speaking, she was spending the captain’s money, but she didn’t think he would mind. It took her only a moment to drop it in the box and light a candle. Determined to keep the cod in sight, she stood there, her hands folded, and implored the Lord and St.

Andrew, a fisherman himself, to speed the repairs on the Tireless.

“But not too fast, Gracious Lord,” she amended. “Captain Worthy has a putrid throat and clogged ears and he hasn’t had Gran’s cod and leeks yet.”

She opened her eyes to make sure no one was close by. “Besides that, Lord, I like his company.”

Oliver knew he was not the most subtle of men—what captain was?—but he had to discover a diplomatic way to find out more about Nana Massie. It was becoming increasingly obvious to him that Lord Ratliffe knew nothing about his daughter.

His first order of business was the Tireless, which occupied him the moment he stepped onto the dry docks on the River Tamar and met the master shipwright. Indeed, he would have been hard to overlook. Oliver had never dealt with Roger Childers before, but he had heard stories, mainly about the bald spots here and there on his head. The rumor was that he pulled his hair out in little clumps, with each demand by impatient captains.

Before Childers could begin, Oliver handed him his copy of the survey, with the few items Nana had added. The shipwright read down the list, then began to worry a small patch of hair by his left ear. Oliver could hardly keep from bursting into laughter. He knew he didn’t dare look at his mates, who had heard the same rumors.

With a deep sigh, Childers jabbed at the survey with a finger fringed about with wispy hair. “She’ll not be ready before two months, and then we’re stretching it, Captain.”

“It must be three weeks.”

Back went Childers’s fingers to his hair. This war had better end soon, Oliver thought, or this man will have snatched himself bald. He turned away briefly to stare into the middle distance and force down a laugh.

During the tirade that followed, Oliver resolutely set his face toward the Tireless, and his crew that lined the ship’s waist. From bosun to the small gunners’ helpers, they watched the whole exchange with interest. There appeared to be money changing hands by the few who had any coins left. Oliver wondered if the wager was how many more bald spots, or the length of time for repairs.

“Six weeks, and not a minute less, Captain,” Childers pronounced finally.

“One month.”

The same routine followed, but it appeared to Oliver that the shipwright was weakening.

Finally they agreed upon three and a half weeks. Oliver found himself of two minds about the matter. Three weeks would have been better, but that extra few days meant more time admiring Nana Massie. He wasn’t even thinking of her as Miss Massie anymore, although he knew he daren’t call her by her nickname.

I have so little time, he protested silently. Almost none, and then I am back at sea. But there was Childers at his elbow, looking like a broken man, and holding out the revised survey for his signature. He signed.

“You’re a hard man, Captain Worthy.”

“This is a hard war, Mr. Childers.”

He turned his attention to the dry docks. There was a schooner in one way, and his own frigate next to it. The other four dry docks were empty. He looked to the ways in the distance, and only one showed a ship in progress. “It appears you can use the work.”

“We can indeed,” the shipwright said, the light back in his eyes, and his voice friendly again. If anything, he looked peppier than before his hair-pulling session. He frowned then. “I know Admiral Lord Gardner has his reasons for keeping the Channel Fleet at its station, but—” he gestured toward the frigate’s stern “—you can only defer maintenance so long. When the water’s up to your ass, it’s a bit late, wouldn’t you say?”

It was typical navy graveyard humor. “A bit,” he agreed. He held out his hand to the shipwright, who shook it. They parted friends.

Oliver handed his roster to Mr. Proudy. “We’ll follow our usual pattern. Number ones go first for five days, and so on in rotation. Remind the crew that if all the number ones don’t return, there will be no two, three or four. You might also remind them that their share of the prize money from our last cruise is at Brustein and Carter’s, matched against my roster and their identification.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Proudy said, as he took the roster. He turned toward the Tireless and held it up, to cheers from all on deck.

Oliver turned to Mr. Ramseur. “Is my purser still on board?”

“Aye, sir.”

Oliver took some coins from his waistcoat pocket and handed them to his second mate. “Give him my compliments, Mr. Ramseur, and ask him to have a quarter beef and a package of good lamb chops—maybe a dozen—delivered to the Mulberry. He knows the victuallers better than I do.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And, Mr. Ramseur…”

“Sir?”

“How about you and I watch the shipwright’s progress for the first two weeks and allow Mr. Proudy to escort his lady home to Exeter for some peace and quiet?”

Ramseur blushed, as Oliver knew he would. He grinned then and nodded. “Aye, sir. Shall I tell him?”

“Do. And tell him once he finishes the crew’s assignments, he can leave for Exeter.”