When she heard four bells chime in the morning watch, Rosalind was sure she would not be able to sleep again. She had managed to seek out her rest when, exhausted from the battle, she had been rocked to sleep in the embrace of the rowdy men celebrating their spared lives, but now the ship was eerily silent. Not a single soul made a sound and there was only the sound of waves and the breathy creaks of the Dauntless's timbers to lull one into sleep.
That would have soothed Rosalind had she been in a quiet mood; as it was, she restless, unhappy, perturbed, and certain feelings weighed heavily upon her spirit. When she closed her eyes to rest, disquiet snatched slumber from her mind and came to settle in her breast. She felt ragged and raw, as though something had begun to eat away at the contentment of her soul.
And so she rose and threw on her robe. Bare feet made little noise on the timbers of the deck, their planks worn smooth by the rough, naked soles of the sailors as Rosalind ghosted out of her cabin. After a mere ten steps, she rapped upon a cabin door.
She heard a low snarl from inside. It sounded barely human; had someone told her there was an irritable wolfhound in attendance and not an exasperated Vice-Admiral, she would hardly have disagreed.
"Beggin' y'pardon, sir," she said, the a thick accent and a man's low rasp coming as naturally to her as her own voice. "It's Miss Marlowe, sir."
In a breath the door had been wrenched open and there stood Rosalind's father, his shirt awry, his clothing all in disorder. A quarterdeck growl was rolling from between his clenched teeth, rumbling all the way up through his straight, steely posture, when he saw her.
"I didn't lie," she told him, smiling as winsomely as she could. "It does concern Miss Marlowe, sir."
He gave a little sigh and then a smile. He took her hand and pulled her into the cabin. There was barely enough room to turn about, let alone for two people to sit together. But closeness had always been Rosalind's shared pleasure with her father, and so the room was sizeably ample to allow him to settle her onto the hammock as he took up a seat on the stool by her feet.
"My dear, what in Heaven's name are you doing out of bed?" he asked, as though he already knew "And at such a time?"
"I could not sleep," she told him. She had been staring at her hands but lifted her eyes to him now. His gaze was upon her and she knew she did not have to explain - she had felt it, and he must have, too, he was as disquieted as she. "I feel...restless."
Her father nodded. Rosalind would have gone on had she been speaking to anyone else. With her father there was no need; not only that, but even in his presence, even in feeling his firm gaze upon her, in being seated so close by him, that ragged worry had begun to mend, the soothing comfort of his presence stitching neatly to repair her frayed spirit.
"Not the battle, surely? That did not disturb you?" he said.
"It could never have bothered me," she retorted, momentarily irked that he would question her bravery. She glared at him until he amended his statement.
"I know that, my dear girl," he said, and gave her a glowing smile. "I, too, found it difficult to sleep - an uneasiness plagued my mind." Upon conclusion of his sentence, he frowned, as if angry that he could feel uneasy.
Rosalind said nothing, letting herself counter the rumbling sigh that he produced with a comforting hum of her own. His eyes fell to his hands and both were silent for a moment, until the Vice-Admiral's voice, at its lowest and most piteous, a voice that no one save Rosalind had ever heard, quietly asked:
"Suppose I had been killed, my dear?"
"Papa, do not talk like that," said Rosalind, and she surged forward to grasp his hand in both of hers. She fought against the grief that threatened to overwhelm her at the very thought of her father being killed and so she stared as hard as she could into his eyes.
He smiled at her and laid his remaining hand on hers, squeezing them tightly. "Oh, my darling girl, don't look at me so, or you will be the death of me."
Neither one of them laughed at the pun. Rosalind dared her father to make another such jest as she glared firmly up into his face.
"Come, Rosalind, we must think seriously. Imagine I had been killed - where would that leave you?" he asked. "What would become of you then, hm?"
He put his hand on her cheek and Rosalind, with his palm warming her to her very core, wondered which answer to give him. There was, of course the rational answer, the one her mind had constructed since, as a child, she had grasped both the concept of death and the nature of her father's life.
She could have answered that she would inherit his wealth and his property, and so live her days as an independent, well-to-do woman. That was the answer any person of any intelligence would have given, for it was unequivocally true; Rosalind was her father's only child and his heir by both right and by the will he had drawn up when she was but weeks old.
But in reality, Rosalind had a very different answer.
"I cannot imagine it," she replied.
It was true, for in every imagining of Rosalind's future life, she had always saved the pride of place for her father. She had never imagined marriage, or children, or a husband who would take her away from Taunton. Her mind stubbornly refused to admit any such life without her father and, in her more fanciful moments of her childhood, had fantasized about a shared death in the face of an enemy; Rosalind, leaping before a musket to draw fire off her mortally wounded father, the pair of them dying at the same moment in shared heroics and the glorious sound of battle.
That had, of course, been the ridiculous notion of a twelve-year-old who missed her Papa dearly, and had heard stories of his bravery, but the emotion remained: Rosalind could not imagine herself without her father.
"Then try to, for me," said her father. "Try to imagine where you would be left. If I were to die in action - and no, do not give me such a look, it is highly possible - you would inherit everything I have to offer."
Rosalind could hear the hesitation in her father's voice, the edge of unhappiness, the way his tone grated against his throat as he spoke.
"Everything I am is yours, which is a concern that is especially advantageous where money is concerned," he said, and for a moment the mood lightened as his voice took on an air of gentle self-ironizing. "But suppose I fell into debt, suppose my prize agent suddenly defaulted, and you were left a pauper. What would become of you then?"
"Perhaps my Uncle Marlowe-" she began.
"Your Uncle Marlowe can hardly be trusted with himself, let alone with maintaining a well-bred and handsome lady in the style to which she has become accustomed," snapped her father. His distrust of his brother was both notorious and well-earned which had, naturally, given Rosalind a predisposition to dislike her Uncle Marlowe.
"I could take a place as a...governess," said Rosalind, though the idea of growing old and wan in caring for a richer woman's children made her long for that noble death of her childhood dreams.
"A governess? That is far beneath you, my girl," he said. Both knew it was true. She had had a governess, it was too far beneath her station to become one herself. "No. What I am asking, Rosalind, is some security. Not now, not for years, but some time before I die, I should like to see you..."
He did not need to finish the sentence for Rosalind to know what he meant. She could feel her father's apprehension in the air, could read his fears in the hands that wound close around hers, could see his hopes in the way they creased the corners of his eyes. Most importantly, she could see all that fierce love in his eyes, the way they held hers and scorched her skin.
She understood her duty, understood what he needed of her. He would never force her, she knew. It would break his heart to give her away as though she were a fine horse; he never would. But it would bring him peace, would make him happy, if he knew she was securely provided for.
So Rosalind accepted her duty, for to bring her father happiness was to give herself a blissful peace.
So she rushed forth and threw her arms about his neck, embracing him as tightly as she could. Through their thin nightshirts, she could feel his heart pounding against her chest, that unwavering sign of his vigorous life. He hugged her even tighter, his arms hard around her waist, drawing her into him, their shared, halved soul as close as flesh could allow.
"If that will make you happy," she murmured in his ear. "I will do it. I will do anything to give you peace."
He kissed her cheek and then released her. She went very slowly, reluctant to part herself from his warmth. When he was gone, she felt a little sliver of coldness steal its way between her ribs, until it pricked her heart.
"My darling girl," he said, and the affection would have sounded cloying had it not been for the happy solemnity with which he uttered the words. "You are all I have ever needed to be happy."
Rosalind smiled, and felt that she flushed a deep pink. She would have dismissed that sort of a statement from Isaac all at once - would have called him a fool and mocked him for it. But to be praised in such terms by her father was the greatest accolade she could be given.
"Now - run along back to your cabin, before you catch your death of cold," he told her, ordering her out of the hammock with all his officer's command in his voice.
She obeyed the order because she liked his voice when he said it, and because she loved him. She stood, kissed his forehead, and went back to her cabin. But rather than venturing near sleep, she dressed and, wanting some strengthening air, went above.
She emerged from below and immediately took a deep breath of the bracing morning wind. The sun, which had risen some time earlier, hung low in the sky and set the water gleaming with pink and orange, turning the Dauntless's canvas to ivory.
She went to the rail and, leaning her back against it, surveyed the damage done by yesterday's battle. The Dauntless had taken a savaging. Her masts were all intact, as was her rudder, but her sides were riddled with holes and, she had heard, there was three feet of water in her hold. Doubtless she had been in worse condition earlier, but now her lines had at least been tidied and the men, getting to work, were at least making her look more presentable.
Long spars were being hoisted aloft to the sound of carpenter's hammers. By her feet, four sailors were stitching canvas with their hooked, blunt needles. They doffed their hats when they saw her eyeing them, and went back to their labour with a considerably smaller attention to their task.
Rosalind turned her back and opted instead to gaze out to sea. The corvettes, on the whole, had fared much worse. One, of course, had blown up, leaving of the three attackers only the trim little Renarde and her sister, the Belle Margaux. The Dauntless had mauled the Belle Margaux dreadfully, removing her mainmast and shooting her rudder clean away, in addition to inflicting so many holes upon her that she now sagged in the water, towed listlessly behind the Dauntless.
The Renarde seemed to be the exception. She was damaged, of course, but had taken the majority of her injury to her rigging. Rosalind's father said that was because her commander was a sly devil of a Frenchman; he was always coming up on the wind just so the Renarde might have a shot at the Dauntless, but when the frigate sought to respond, she would dart behind the other two corvettes and allow them to be ravaged in her place.
"Damned coward, but a clever man," her Papa had said, as she had dabbed at a long cut above his eye. Now the damned coward was a prisoner on board his own ship, she had come to learn, and so she supposed his clever cowardice had done him little good in the end.
"Miss Marlowe!" she heard someone cry.
She turned her head to the quarterdeck and, avoiding the chips flying from a carpenter's chisel, swept up the half-set of stairs to join Mr. Browne on the larboard side. She supposed he was the officer of the watch, which was odd given that he had the morning watch the previous day.
"Good morning, Mr. Browne - how do you do? How is that cut of yours?" she asked him as he doffed his hat to her. She noted the cut on his forehead looked far less angry this morning and was pleased. It would be a shame to have such a smooth, fair face marred.
He, replacing his hat on his mess of brown curls, smiled brightly at her. "Very well, Miss Marlowe, very well indeed. I have never been so well tended in my entire life."
His flattery was so genuine, so pleasing, that Rosalind accepted it with an honest blush and a smile. She asked after his further health and was rewarded with a warm exhortation of his happiness and his pleasure that she had asked.
He made such pleasant conversation, and flattered her with so much honest charm that she was very sorry to leave him in favour of breakfast. Her unhappiness at leaving him was only heightened when, upon arriving in the wardroom, she was confronted by the irritable Dr. Byrne, the grumbling Mr. Fanning, and the ever-genial Isaac, who seemed barely affected by the poor moods of his companions.
Isaac was smirking as he looked at Dr. Byrne. Dr. Byrne was not returning the gesture. Instead, he glared at everything about him with an ill-tempered air. He was drawn, haggard, unshaven, and when he spoke it was to snap at Mr. Fanning that the big third's elbow was in the butter.
It got him a growl in return from Mr. Fanning, and a stage-whispered assertion that if Dr. Byrne did not like the manners of a seaman, he should never have come to sea.
Dr. Byrne blinked and his bright eyes narrowed. He muttered something nearly inaudible, of which only the words "fucking boor" and "ill-mannered idiot" could be discerned.
Isaac gave a strangled laugh and Rosalind gave silent thanks for the fact that Mr. Fanning, who had risen and left the wardroom, had apparently not heard Dr. Byrne's jibes.
Rosalind, who despised poor tempers, lifted her eyes to the irritable physician's until he met her gaze. A weaker person would have flinched back from the open hostility that flared in Dr. Byrne's eyes the moment they rested upon her. His gaze scorched her face and seared her very nearly to her core.
But Rosalind was nothing if not strong, and she met his anger head-on with calm sweetness.
"Are you feeling quite well, Dr. Byrne?" she asked.
Isaac gave another giggle and Dr. Byrne turned his glower on him for a moment.
"No, madam," he snarled. His lip curled as he reddened from the collar of his shirt to the roots of his auburn hair.
"What ails you, sir?" she said, and cocked her head, letting the smile slip off her face. She wanted him to see that she would give him smiles and kindness when it suited her; that his poor temper would ensure coldness if it persisted.
"Oh, Dr. Byrne is ill with a most concerning ailment," said Isaac. "I believe it is a matter of some concern, is it not, doctor? Matters involving the heart-"
"Enough, Mr. Cuthbert," growled Dr. Byrne. He sprang up and made for the door without a bow or any courtesy, not even paid to a lady such as Rosalind or an officer and a gentleman such as Isaac.
"Oh, Stephen, come, do not be so-" began Isaac, his face falling into unhappiness. His teasing, though often irritating, was never unkind or malicious. He teased only when he knew he would not offend his victim greatly, and mocked only with the sweetest of intentions.
"I will not stay here to be the subject of your humour, sir," snarled Dr. Byrne, and wrenched open the door. He turned and nodded curtly to her. "Good day, madam."
Isaac rose, with supplication in his eyes, but Dr. Byrne would not heed him. Rosalind was both sorry and glad to see Dr. Byrne go. She enjoyed his company, but disliked his peevish bouts of temper. She wondered if she could restore his good spirits quickly and in so doing be able to savour peace, harmony, and interesting conversation.
"Dr. Byrne, I hope Mr. Cuthbert has not wounded you deeply," she called. She watched as Dr. Byrne, who had been resolute in refusing Isaac's entreaties, paused instantly upon her word. It gave her a thrill of pleasure. She had given an order - however gentle it may have been it was an order - and it had been obeyed.
He turned to her. "He has offended me, madam."
"It was not his intention, I am sure," she said, and tried a smile on Dr. Byrne. It had little effect. His expression changed little and his only motion was an impatient tap of his fingers against a bulkhead.
"To tease me upon this subject would result in nothing but my taking offense. Surely Mr. Cuthbert knew that," retorted Dr. Byrne, giving Isaac a vicious glare. Rosalind hurt to see her favourite so treated, but she saw that Isaac was smiling once more.
"I knew nothing of the sort. Stephen, let's do be friends," he pleaded. Rosalind, even in her hardest of hearts, could never have refused Isaac anything when he looked so winsome.
Dr. Byrne said nothing but his teeth clenched. Rosalind was surprised to find herself admiring the way his jaw hardened and his eyes flashed. She had heard him name himself unattractive and unappealing and, especially in that moment, could not have disagreed more.
"An excellent idea. If Mr. Cuthbert agreed not to tease you about whatever subject troubles you, could you then be friends?" she asked.
Dr. Byrne ground his teeth a moment and Rosalind tried hard not to roll her eyes in exasperation. This man was infinitely frustrating, with his irritability and his sour moods.
"I suppose," said Dr. Byrne. When Isaac grinned from ear to ear, Dr. Byrne alighted once more in his seat across from Rosalind. Folding his hands in his lap, he leveled a gaze at Rosalind.
Isaac tittered loudly and Rosalind overrode him with the first piece of conversation that came to mind.
"Mr. Fanning left us in something of a hurry. He is not on watch, surely? I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Browne on the quarterdeck with that purpose," she said. She noted Isaac's little grin the moment she mentioned Mr. Browne, and watched how ill it was received by Dr. Byrne.
"Do you think Mr. Browne a fine gentleman, madam?" said Dr. Byrne. His pale eyes flicked rapidly from her face the moment she let her gaze rest upon him.
"Of course, sir, he is a fine officer and an equally fine man - but that was not my question," she replied. The shortness of her response had been earned - there were limits to her patience, and Dr. Byrne seemed to be deliberately toeing the line of her good temper.
"Mr. Fanning has been given command of the Renarde until we reach Kingston. I'd imagine he's going over now," explained Isaac. He gestured with his knife as he went on. "The little Belle Margaux hardly needs a command, but I think Mr. Grey will have her."
"I find it hard to believe that Captain Spenser gave Mr. Fanning command. One would imagine he would give it to someone he liked," said Dr. Byrne. He cut in before Rosalind had the chance to speak, his tone waspish. "From what I have seen, he dislikes Mr. Fanning immensely."
"You speak plainly, sir," Rosalind told him. He did, it was true - never had she met someone who cared so little for the opinions of others. He was frank, harsh, and often unpleasant. She liked him in spite of it, but imagined that had he not been so ineffably clever and so surprisingly handsome, she would have disliked him on principle.
It earned her the full force of his glare. "I find it tiresome to speak otherwise. Equivocation is not only misleading, it is also irritating."
"And you have no value for politeness?" she retorted. She was wont to speak plainly herself, in some circumstances, but for her own part, she valued tact, grace, and good manners. It was a sign of breeding, of consideration, of distinction.
"I am polite when it is due, madam," he said. He shot Isaac a glare when the second chortled loudly. He said nothing, but Rosalind watched him lean back on his chair, fold his hands in his lap, and eye the pair of them with a lively, amused gaze.
"Then I have yet to meet someone who earns your good manners," she sneered. It was not a jab she would have used had her patience been expended already - her father's request, her own weariness, and Dr. Byrne's perpetual poor humour had worn away at her significant capability for an even temper. "And I would argue there are a considerable number of men on board of sufficent quality to deserve-"
"Such men dislike me, and I them," Dr. Byrne interrupted, not allowing her to speak. She raised her eyebrows and fixed him in a glower that would have made Isaac flinch and beg pardon. It was a glare she had earned from her father, one she had prized on the stony countenance of her Vice-Admiral, and so one she admired in herself. As it was, Dr. Byrne blustered on, unimpeded by her evident displeasure. "What good is it to pretend otherwise, Miss Marlowe?"
Rosalind opened her mouth to speak but Dr. Byrne, in a show of dogged perserverance and spirited anger such as she had not seen, rested his arms upon the table and leaned towards her, lowering his gaze only for the purpose of raising it again and scorching her to the core with it. "And at any rate, how should my conduct to them offend you?"
"Rudeness is distasteful to me, as it ought to be to any sensible, well-behaved lady or gentleman," she replied, quite at her wit's end with his obstinate rudeness.
"Then forgive me only that far, Miss Marlowe," said Dr. Byrne. "I repent for my conduct to them if it displeases you."
Isaac seemed not to dare to mock Dr. Byrne even as the good doctor blushed a deep red. Then, after a moment, he gave a sharp twitch of his head, pushed aside his chair with a squeal of wood against the deck, bade Isaac and Rosalind good day, and left the wardroom by giving a vague mumble of Dr. Hayley requiring his presence.
"There, Rosalind," declared Isaac. "Now you cannot say I drove him away - you did that, I'm afraid."
"Nonsense," retorted Rosalind. "The doctor banished himself, Isaac."
"Oh, if you say so," said Isaac, and gave a smile Rosalind had not the heart to be suspicious of, even though his eyes sparkled with mischief and his face shone with the pink blush of a man with a caper to carry out.