Free The Birthright by T. Davis Bunn Page B

“Ah, reading, I see. French or English?”
    She held it out. “English, sir.”
    “Ah. The Bible. Most noteworthy of you, Miss Harrow.”
    “I cling to it, sir,” she said quietly.
    “And why is that, pray tell?”
    “It is the only time when I am certain God is with me still, and that I have not strayed too far from His will for me.”
    For some reason, her words seemed to relax the captain a bit. He leaned against the stair’s top pillar and cocked his hat slightly back on his forehead. His working uniform was salt stained and patched in several places. The gold on his shoulders looked faded, the seams frayed. Even so, the dark blue added to his austere presence.
    “A woman who can speak straight. Good. Very good. I shall try to match you with my own words. I have observed you closely these weeks, Miss Harrow, and have come to the conclusion you are cut from an uncommon fine cloth.”
    “Why, sir—”
    “No, no, pray let me finish. You are neither flighty nor a flirt. You do not use your station to offer querulous demands. Nor do you use your remarkable beauty to stir up my crew. I have spoken with my wife, whose judgment I hold in great esteem, and she feels the same way. So I have come to ask if I might offer you a few words of advice.”
    “Most certainly, sir.”
    “Very well, then.” He took a great breath and launched with, “You are clearly worried over what you shall face upon your arrival in England.”
    “Terrified,” she admitted.
    “I would therefore urge you to use this time on board to, shall we say, hone your tactics. Take the measure of your saber. Practice your thrust and parry.”
    “I…I am sorry, Captain, but I don’t understand.”
    “You rarely speak at dinner. You hold yourself like a little mouse trying to squeeze into the tiniest of holes. I have observed how you shrink whenever one of my gentlemen offers you a kind word. You have difficulty speaking even with the ship’s surgeon, who is the meekest man who ever walked a foredeck.”
    Nicole hung her head. “I am so very afraid of making a mistake.”
    “Don’t be. It’s utterly natural, but not necessary. Those not already smitten have nonetheless found you acceptable. They would be honored to be of service, if not beg for your…no, no. Let no more be said upon that.” When she did not respond, he went on, “My advice, Miss Harrow, is this: Do not hide yourself, nor show such shame here on board. My wife has shared with me a bit of your story. It is, if you will permit me to say, marvelous. Learn to deal with society through these people who already think well of you.”

    The evening routine was now well established. The two ladies would retire to their sleeping chamber when the crew arrived to turn out the great room. Nicole had learned to slip into the fine dresses herself, submitting when necessary to Emily’s help with out-of-reach buttons. But tonight the weather had grown chill, with a strengthening wind straight out of the north. So Nicole selected the heavier dress of midnight blue, which she could do up unaided. The dress had a high collar and long sleeves and small froths of lace that tickled her chin and wrists. The buttons that ran up the front were the only adornment. Yet nothing else was required, because the buttons were matched pearls as big as her fingernail—thirty-six of them—spaced less than an inch apart and marching from below her waist all the way to her chin, with another six down each forearm.
    As usual, Emily inspected her. She nodded her approval, then asked, “Shall we take a turn on deck?”
    Always before, Nicole had declined, preferring to remain seated on her bed, dreading the moment ahead when she would walk through the doorway and be met by the assembly of ship’s officers. They were a grand lot at these dinners, for the captain had begun his career in the Royal Navy and held a strong liking for spit and polish. The officers stood stiff and proud in their best uniforms, bowing