‘It isn’t a very healthy climate,’ Nathan said sympathetically, finding a clean shirt.
‘I know. But I don’t seem to catch things, perhaps because I was born out here. Have you finished?’
Clemence was getting a crick in her back from sitting hunched up and her imagination was uncomfortably exercised by the knowledge of what was going on behind her, her ears following every splash, the sound of Nathan working up a lather on bare skin, his sigh of pleasure when he tipped the fresh water over his head, the flap of his shirt as he shook it out.
‘Yes, I’m finished.’
She swung her bare feet off the bunk and grimaced as they hit a puddle. The floor of the neat cabin was awash with more water than she believed had been brought in, there were wet towels on the chairs, dirty clothing discarded into the wet.
‘Tsk!’ She stood regarding it, hands on hips.
‘You sound like my mother,’ Nathan said, standing unrepentant in the middle of the damp disorder.
‘Why are men so messy?’ Clemence demanded. ‘Women aren’t messy; at least, I’m not.’ She bent to pick up a towel and started to mop at a puddle. ‘Mind you, that’s easy to say when one has servants, I suppose.’
‘Do you keep slaves?’
‘No! Papa never did, we don’t agree with it. And since the trade was abolished ten years ago, he was campaigning to abolish keeping slaves, too. But, of course, the planters say it is uneconomic to grow sugar using waged labourers and the Americans rely on slave labour as well, so our planters say it is uneconomic to change because of the competition. It was easier for us, being merchants, to stick to our principles. Uncle Joshua and Cousin Lewis,’ she added with a grimace, ‘are planters.’
‘I’d like to meet those two,’ Nathan remarked. She saw his fist clench against his thigh and once again entertained the fantasy of it lifting Lewis off the floor with a solid punch to his insipient double chin.
‘I hope I never see them again. Are all those clothes dirty? Only I’ll use them to mop up with if I’m going to have to wash them anyway.’
Nathan started to scoop dirty water out of the tub. ‘You shouldn’t have to clean and wash for me.’
‘I’m your cabin boy, remember? And I don’t expect there’s a fat, cheerful washerwoman on board, now is there?’
‘No. How’s your head?’
‘All right, unless I touch it.’ In fact, strangely, she felt better than she had for days. Food and fresh air must be helping, but perhaps it was also the stimulus of taking events into her own hands. From somewhere her courage had returned; however awful this was, at least she was no longer a passive victim. And Nathan knowing she was a woman was not awful at all, although it should be.
It was not going to end happily, this odd relationship with a gentleman gone to the bad. Of course, if this was a sensation novel, she would redeem him by the end of the last chapter and they would sail off into the sunset together to a life of idyllic, romantic love on some enchanted island. Kept alive, presumably, by tropical fruits, fish and the odd shipwreck. But how did you redeem a pirate?
Clemence rolled her eyes at her own folly. She could just imagine Nathan’s reaction to her sitting him down and questioning his motives, suggesting he ought to reform because, basically, he was a good man. He had told her about his fall from grace with the navy, the downhill path that had brought him here. His heart wasn’t in it, she was sure, but he was not going to admit that to her.
And did she want to sail off with him? Of course she didn’t, she was destined for London, a Season and a gentleman of impeccable breeding, wealth, manners and prospects. Miss Ravenhurst could set her sights just as high as she pleased, she thought, finding them resting speculatively on one well-muscled back just in front of her. And she was independent enough to do just as she wanted.
But now she was a laundry maid, not a lady, and likely to be for the foreseeable future. She began to scoop up sodden washing. That olive-oil soap seemed to lather fairly well in salt water and Mr Street would tell her where to hang the laundry to dry.
The door banged back, making her start and drop the clothes. Peering up through the table legs as she crouched to pick them up, Clemence saw the figure in the door. McTiernan.
‘The wind’s picked up,’ he said abruptly to Nathan, ignoring her. ‘You’ll take us through the passage tonight, Stanier.’
She saw Nathan’s bare feet flex on the deck, as though adjusting his stance for action, but all he said was, ‘That’s a tricky passage in daylight, let alone in the dark.’
‘There’s a moon. You’re supposed to be the best, Stanier. We touch anything, I’ll have you keelhauled.’
‘When was the last time Sea Scorpion had her bottom scraped?’ Nathan asked, as though the question of being dragged under the barnacle-encrusted belly of the ship was an interesting academic point.
‘It’s overdue,’ the captain said as he turned on his heel, leaving them in silence.
‘How many times have you done that passage?’ Clemence asked as casually as she could.
‘Never.’ He began to gather up instruments, polishing the lenses of his sextant. ‘I’ve heard about it, I’ve studied the charts, that’s all.’
‘Oh. Mr Cutler will help, won’t he?’ she worried, throwing the wet bundle into a corner and fetching his notebook and the roll of charts, her stomach swooping with apprehension.
‘I don’t think our first mate likes me much.’ Nathan squinted at a pencil point and reached for his knife to whittle it. ‘I think Mr Cutler would be quite happy if we nudged a head of coral or a nice sharp rock. Not enough to do any damage, you understand, just enough to upset the captain.’