Free A Different Sort of Perfect by Vivian Roycroft Page A

needle in the
ship?"
    One eye peered cautiously about the mainmast. Another
appeared from behind some rigging, and others followed, until again
the entire crew stared. Not at the captain. At her. And then at the
captain.
    Air returned to the quarterdeck. At least she wasn't
alone in being the target. She inhaled hard, drawing the dampness
deep inside.
    But Wake didn't glance back at the rest of the crew.
"Oh, Mayne, sir, in course. Nobody sews a quicker nor neater seam
than him."
    "Then have Mayne assist you, and anyone else you
need. Let's see if you can't get something sewn together for her
before quarters." Captain Fleming nodded to her, then turned to Mr.
Abbot and began speaking in a low voice.
    All the eyes swiveled to her. Including Wake's, sharp
glittering blue like the sea on the horizon.
    The air went away again. If someone didn't fix that
soon, she'd faint.
    And on the thought, Wake's eyes crinkled in his
weathered face and the barest edges of his lips curled higher. He
jerked his chin to a gangling young man at the foot of the
quarterdeck's ladder, and together the two vanished for'ard, Wake
muttering and Mayne nodding, carrying the cloth between them.
    She knew nothing of them, nothing of their sewing
skills nor their fashion sense, and they'd done little more than
glance at her for sizing. Captain Fleming said they could sew. Sew
what? A sail? Men's clothing? If she rushed after them, she could
give them directions and—
    —make herself appear silly, not to mention admitting
her lack of trust in their competence. No, that was impossible if
she wished to be considered a member of the crew. And with a sudden
rush, she knew to the last full stop how much she yearned for just
that.
    With the fog retreating and dampness slowly trickling
down the back of her neck, Clara sat on the for'ard quarterdeck and
copied out the new muster, first alphabetizing them in Titus
Ferry's book and then a second time onto a full sheet of foolscap,
carefully aligning the names into rigid columns and spelling them
precisely. Only when Hennessy brought her a sandwich and mug of
sweet, lemony ginger beer did she realize how the morning had flown
past, with bells ringing and bosun's pipes twittering and the hands
racing to and fro. She'd missed all of it through her
concentration. But the muster was done.
    In the afternoon she pulled out her lace-making. But
she still felt the weight of those stares and her trembling hand
kept dropping the tiny little cotton thread from the absurdly small
hook. Instead she pulled out the wrap she'd started a few days ago,
stripes of lovely cream, tan, and brown hooked like tambour, only
with a comfortable size yarn and hook, and without the net. The
sedge stitch combination of single, half-double, and double crochet
stitches all in the same spot formed sweet little pillows within
the stripes; unlike her attempts at sewing, or knitting, or
netting, or embroidery, this would actually be something she could
wear without a blush. Shepherd's knitting, Father said it was
called, but the French word crochet fit it better.
    "Lady Clara?"
    Staunton's voice. She glanced up, and her cramped
neck screamed at her.
    "Yes, Mr. Staunton?" She rubbed the back of her neck.
"Oh!"
    In his hands he held an indigo blue garment with
white trim. It was folded and discreet, details hidden away. But
not a stitch in the cunning stand-up collar seemed hurried nor out
of line, better than anything she could have created.
    "It's beautiful!" She set her crochet aside and shook
out the dress. They'd made it after the pattern of Staunton's
uniform jacket, with an open front filled in by a modest stretch of
white, white patches on the collar, gathered beneath the arms and
bosom, and loose sleeves to the elbow with white edging. It flowed
down to her feet in the perfect length, not so much material it
would billow and catch on the ship's workings, not so little it
would be constricting. It wasn't the ghostly muslin that was all
the rage,