She signed her name in the ledger, thanked Smitty, and hurried to the cabin with her bounty.
If only Gabriel could see her now, Harriet thought half an hour later, slipping on the canvas shoes. She gave her toes an experimental flex. Not so different from dancing slippers. If only she could see herself. From head to toe she was now dressed like a common sailor. Her looking glass and Sheffield’s shaving mirror only let her see a few inches at a time so she had no idea of the total effect, and how badly was she exposed from the rear? What if she lined up her looking glass and his shaving mirror just so…?
Nick handed off the tiller to Bos’n and went below. Miss Chase was probably anxious to get dressed and leave the cabin by now. He’d meant to go down earlier but the sun had finally poked through the cloud cover, allowing him to get a fix on their position. They hadn’t exactly been blown backwards by the storm but it would take several extra days to reach Spain.
He slid the cabin door open … and froze.
Miss Chase froze, too, one hand raised over head, the other low and behind her. More puzzling than her position was her clothing. She didn’t need his help buttoning her gown because she was now dressed like a deckhand. A drawstring shirt was tucked into striped dungarees that outlined her legs nicely, her décolletage hidden by the tightly laced shirt overlaid with a checked wool waistcoat in dark blue. Knowing she would never choose the red silk, he had hoped Smitty would steer her toward the green satin.
“The dungarees are unexpected.”
Her cheeks flushed a lovely pink as she dropped both hands to her sides. “I, ah, didn’t want to inconvenience you any further. I know you have much more important matters to attend to than, ah, acting as lady’s maid.”
Nick finally noticed his shaving mirror in one of her hands, her looking glass in her other. Now he understood her odd pose. “I’d be happy to hold a mirror if you’d like to continue inspecting yourself.” And he wouldn’t mind the chance to openly scrutinize her new mode of attire, especially how it differed in the way it concealed and revealed her figure.
Her blush deepened. “Thank you, no. I’m done. I’ll just be putting this back.” She stumbled as she went to his desk to put his mirror away. He stood, transfixed, as she bent over to put the mirror in the desk drawer.
This could be interesting. He hadn’t realized he’d been looking forward so much to buttoning her in and out of her gown until the opportunity was taken away, but the way the dungarees hugged her derriere offered interesting consolation.
She straightened and held her hands stiffly at her sides. He quickly raised his gaze to her face.
“I’ll just go back up, then.” As the captain, surely he must have more important matters to attend to than a passenger’s apparel. Even if he found that passenger oddly fascinating. When he’d first met Miss Chase in the ballroom, he’d have wagered she’d die before donning a pair of men’s breeches. Certainly that must be true of a teacher from Madame Zavrina’s Academy For Ladies.
His hand on the door handle, Nick paused.
Had the old Miss Chase died when she almost drowned?
* * *
Harriet paced the cabin. Even the captain’s quarters, the most spacious on the ship, were too small to contain her energy. She barely had room for five strides, anyway. Five long strides, with the freedom of movement in the dungarees. It still felt odd to have fabric between her legs. It chafed the inside of her thighs a bit. She’d probably get used to it soon, since men didn’t seem to be bothered by chafing and they wore breeches or trousers all the time. She paused in mid-stride. What would Sheffield’s men think of her dressing this way? It was beyond the pale. Madame Zavrina would never approve. She could never show her face in public if word got out back home in Brixham.
Then she decided it didn’t matter what the crew of a privateer thought. And her reputation would be in shreds simply by being here unchaperoned on the ship should anyone find out. Her wardrobe was irrelevant.
Wanting fresh air, she climbed the ladder to the weather deck, slid open the hatch cover … and froze, her gaze riveted to the starboard gunwale, where the cannon used to be.
Where she’d almost died.
Boards had been nailed over the hole where the cannon had smashed through the side, where she’d plummeted into the sea. The whole catastrophe, from getting her skirt caught to Sheffield’s rescue to being hauled back up on deck, had probably lasted only three or four minutes yet felt like a lifetime. The timid spinster who’d left the village of Brixham couldn’t even bring herself to pull on breeches, and now look at her.
Well actually, no one but Sheffield had seen her dressed thus. With her chin up and shoulders back, Harriet stepped up on deck, prepared for any disdainful reaction.
“Beg pardon, miss.”
Harriet stepped away from the hatch cover as Jack hurried up the ladder and past her toward the bow, a large bundle of canvas balanced on his shoulder. She quickly sat down on the hold cover and tucked her legs in under her, to be out of the way as others hustled past, coming up or heading below again. Most ignored her, though a couple tugged their forelock in deference. No one shouted, pointed, or gasped. As she looked around, her gaze fell on Jonesy at the tiller.
He briefly took in her attire and braided queue, then touched his own queue and gave her a grin and approving nod before going back to scanning the horizon.
Harriet folded her arms. How anticlimactic. Apparently she was the only person who cared what she wore. At home, her reputation could be torn to shreds in minutes if she showed too much ankle or wore the wrong color gown. Here on a ship full of men, they couldn’t care less how she covered her body. Attire that was practical for the task at hand and weather conditions seemed to be the only rule.
How … liberating.
She watched as two men worked together to adjust the angle of the rear-most sail, following Jonesy’s command, and realized she knew very little about the operation of the ship. This was their fifth day at sea, but she’d spent the first three below hiding her maid’s absence from Sheffield, and the fourth in a raging storm and nearly dying. Her innate curiosity demanded satisfaction.
The storm had cleared away, scrubbing the sky bright blue, gentling the seas. Canvas was unfurled on every mast. Harriet watched for a bit, the sun warm on her face, the wind with enough of a chill that she was glad she’d taken Smitty’s advice and worn the wool waistcoat.
Everyone else had something to do. When not adjusting sails, the two other crewmen on deck were busy repairing rope. It looked like picking oakum, work performed in the poorhouse. Harriet shuddered. Tucker, the sailmaker, sat just aft of the foremast on the windlass with yards of canvas spread around him, busy plying needle and thread—possibly the largest needle she’d ever seen—undoubtedly repairing or replacing sails damaged in the storm. She couldn’t sew together a dress from a bolt of cloth by herself, but Harriet would wager she could help sew the seam on a sail, and Tucker could answer some of her questions about the ship.
She headed over.
