Page 57 of The Cornish Widow

Chapter Twenty-Six

Jack was quite right, as Harriet had been nurturing a hope he would be, and the voyage north from Roscoff was a far less bumpy ride, helped by being out on deck in the fresh air. He made a comfortable seat for her and Theo on the sails again, which also happened to be in the most sheltered spot in the ship, as the edging, which Jack told her was called the gunwales, rose towards the front. She settled there with a warm feeling of coming home that she couldn’t quite identify nor fathom. After all, The Fly was not her home, so why should she feel like this?

Their day passed in comparative comfort, as the weather held fine, and a following wind chased what clouds there were across the sky much as it was doing to The Fly on the azure surface of the sea. Somewhere in the middle of the voyage, just after they’d eaten a welcome noonday snack of barley bread and cheese, washed down with horn beakers of Cornish cider, a new experience for Theo, a school of dolphins found the ship. They followed her for some time, leaping out of the water or skimming just beneath the surface like sleek blue-gray bullets.

Theo knelt, on Harriet’s insistence, beside the gunwales watching this aquatic display with delight, and even the crew, who must have seen all this many times before, took time to ooh and aah over their followers. After a bit, with his friend, Will, taking a turn at the tiller, Jack came and stood with Harriet while Theo admired the dolphins from his position of safety, bringing with him a flask of much-needed water.

He’d removed his coat and wore only an unbuttoned waistcoat over a white shirt open at the neck to reveal his darkly curling chest hairs. Harriet averted her gaze and fixed her eyes on Theo, to whose waist she’d insisted on attaching a spare rope, much to his disgust and the laughter of the crew, especially young Clemo who’d been particularly mocking of what he called ‘the landlubbers’.

Jack settled on the sails a few feet away, stretching his long, boot-clad legs out in front of him. “We only take the tiller an hour at a time usually,” he said. “Because it takes it out of you to stand there for too long at a time, keeping her as close to the wind as possible. A man can have enough of steering a ship.” And there was she thinking a man liked nothing better than to pose with the tiller of his very own ship. She controlled the smile that threatened to appear.

Theo jumped up. “Can I go and help Cap’n Will with the tiller then? In case he gets tired?”

Jack nodded. “But no running on deck. Your mother’ll likely kill me if you hurt yourself.” He grinned. “Or fall in.” Wise words. He must have a good idea what being a mother was like. Perhaps Talwyn was responsible for that. They seemed to have a close bond, with him growing up hardly ever seeing his father.

Theo, having prevailed upon Harriet to remove the rope from his waist on his solemn promise not to go near the sides again, departed in as close to a run as he could manage without actually running, and Jack leaned back on the pile of spare sails. Harriet regarded him in silence for a moment or two. It might be a good idea, before he brought up last night, to get him talking about The Fly, then he wouldn’t be able to remind her of her reprehensible behavior. Or talk of anything else that might discomfort her. “She’s a beautiful ship,” she said. “How long have you had her?”

He was almost prone now, as though soaking up what warmth there was in the fast fading sun now he was out of the wind, and she had to look down at him. At the provocative hint of hairs on his chest, the shadow of stubble on his firm chin, the way loose curls of his hair flopped over his forehead… Good heavens. She was getting carried away here. She straightened her spine with determination.

He’d closed his eyes. “Not long. Will has his own ship, The Black Joke, which is off right now doing legal journeys. We have to let them do that as much as possible so as not to draw untoward attention from the authorities. As for The Fly, I’d wanted a ship of my own for a long time, so I had her built round in St Ives, in Thomas’s boatyard, to my own design. Well, I had input, but he had the final say as he’s the expert. She’s fast as she can carry so much sail, but she’s also capable of carrying a good weight in cargo. Like we have today.”

Having asked him about what was probably his favorite subject, she had to expect a full and detailed reply. “Why did you call her The Fly?” She brushed strands of hair out of her eyes. A bonnet would have been useful. Her face was going to be very tan if she wasn’t careful, and Bertha would remark on it, for sure. A lady’s complexion should be milky white, not tanned like that of a man or a farm worker. Only working women looked like that.

Bertha. No. She would not think about Bertha until that worthy was standing before her. What would be the point? Lydia. No, she had to put off thinking of both of them for now, as dwelling on them would do her no good but make her feel guilty when none of this was her fault. Events had swept her up into this seaborne adventure. Adventure? Was she now seeing this trip through rose-tinted spectacles? Was she, heaven forbid, enjoying it as much as Theo?

Jack opened one eye. “When I was a boy, my father gave me a little crabbing boat to sail about in near the coast. Blue painted, with a red sail, just like the bigger fishing boats. I loved that little boat. She was called The Fly, so it seemed only natural to call the ship I commissioned myself after her.”

So his father had seen enough of him to furnish him with gifts. Maybe not such an absent father as he’d led her to believe, or rather, as she’d assumed. Possibly more active in his life than Ben had been with Theo. That wouldn’t have been hard. Somehow, the image of Jack as a boy of Theo’s age, off in his own little sailing boat, appealed.

“And did you fish for crabs with your boat?”

He nodded. “You don’t precisely fish for them. You put down baited traps and wait for them to crawl inside. A bit like lobster pots. I caught a good few and made myself a bit of money selling them round at the market in Penzance.”

At the stern, Will was allowing Theo to think he was in charge of the steering, standing behind him with his hand steadying the tiller where Theo couldn’t see. Young Harry was sitting on a coil of rope, whittling at something with his pocketknife. The boy Clemo was doing something to one of the sails that involved a rope. Goodness knows what, but the boat was fairly skimming along, water spraying up from the wake she was leaving. Harriet had never realized a ship could feel so fast—almost like a horse at a canter. From on land they appeared to crawl like snails.

“She is a sleek creature,” Harriet said, reaching out to touch the gunwale. “Like one of those dolphins. A wild creature of the sea.”

“A mermaid, maybe.”

She smiled. “Indeed.”

He’d closed his eyes again and now fell silent enough to be asleep, but he wasn’t, because after a bit he opened both eyes again and looked up at her. “I’m glad you told me all of that. Last night.”

Oh no. How could he bring it up and embarrass her so? Had he no sense of decorum? She bit her lip.

He reached out a hand and caught hers before she had time to snatch it out of the way. “I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me.”

Oh. She stayed silent, longing to pull away but knowing that if she did he’d just hang on all the tighter. He was that kind of a man.

“Have you never told anyone else?”

What? Who did he imagine she could ever have told about this? She shook her head, keeping it turned away from him and staring out over the gunwales. His hand was warm and a little rough on hers. The hand of a man who worked with ropes and sails alongside his men.

“You were very brave to tell me.”

Would he not take the hint from her reaction and let the subject drop? Had he no sense of propriety? “It was the wine talking.” Her answer came out in a tight mutter.

“There’s truth to be had in the bottom of a bottle.”