A Certain Latitude by Janet Mullany

you by writing the truth about how the Earl of Frensham’s hands are stained with blood.”
    “It’s been done before.”
    “Not by a woman. And then—then my family will forgive me. I will be redeemed. But if we sink, I shall be only the name struck out in the family Bible, a shamed daughter guilty of impurity and of throwing in her lot with the slave traders.”
    “Ah, Clarissa, my love.” His voice was quiet amid the cacophony of the storm. “Sweetheart, it can be only a very little consolation to you, but there is no one I’d rather die with. No one.”
     
    When she woke next everything had changed. Water still sloshed on the floor, but there was less movement, much less—and light. Blessed light. If only she were not so thirsty and her head did not ache so.
    The cabin stank. She supposed she did too, and Allen, whose hand hung on her shoulder. He gave a soft snore.
    She was warm, and that was remarkable, since the candle, their only source of heat had burned down hours, days ago. This must mean…her befuddled brain fought to make sense of it. They had been at sea some five weeks, more or less—she had lost track.
    Above her the berth creaked, and Allen landed with a splash, and an expression of disgust, on the floor. He looked dreadful, eyes red-rimmed, face covered with stubble.
    “Clarissa,” he said in a hoarse voice. “It’s calm. We can get on deck. Surely…”
    She lifted her skirts to her knees and tumbled out, legs weak, into his arms.
    “Oh, damn! My stockings!” Too late she realized she should have taken them off.
    “Never mind about your stockings. What’s important is that you don’t puke,” he said. “Remember, I have money on you.”
    She pushed past him, opened the door, and took a deep breath of fresh air—the hatch was open.
    She was weak and clumsy after days mostly flat on her back and was shaking by the time she got on deck, blinking in hazy morning light. And the smell—a wonderful green smell, heart-breakingly fresh. A seabird wheeled out of the brightness and flew away.
    When was the last time she’d seen a bird?
    The crew, bedraggled and filthy, were at work on deck, mending sails, polishing, scrubbing, putting their ship to rights. They raised a ragged cheer at the sight of Clarissa.
    “Any puking, Miss Onslowe? Mr. Pendale?” Someone called out.
    “Neither of us,” she said with pride.
    One of the men offered her a leather bottle and she tipped it back, and drained it—cider, cool, wonderful—she felt as though she could never drink enough.
    “You could have saved some for me,” Allen said. “What’s that smell?”
    “’Tis land, sir. We’re not far off, now. A few days, maybe. We were blown off course by the storm.”
    Allen, who had received a leather bottle of cider from another sailor, wiped his mouth. He stared at Clarissa.
    “Do I look so dreadful?” She knew her hair hung limp around her face, her clothes were rumpled and dirty, and her stockings were probably ruined. Oh, how she longed to wash, and if only she had some clean linen. But first they would have to swab out the cabins; she didn’t know whether Peter could help them, with so much work to be done on the ship…
    He shook his head. “No. It’s…Shall we visit the galley?”
     
    Stomachs full of coffee—lots of coffee—and ship’s biscuits, with the promise of the last surviving hen for dinner, she and Allen repaired below to salvage what they could of their belongings and start baling out the filthy water that lapped around their calves. She didn’t think it was the sort of work an Earl’s son might undertake, but he shrugged and baled and mopped alongside her. Elizabeth Blight, pale and shaky, also helped, despite her air of fragility—somehow managing to flirt mildly with Allen while she mopped.
    “’Tis not right, a gentleman doing such work,” she murmured.
    “I couldn’t agree more, ma’am. Where is Blight?”
    “Oh, he’s talking to the Captain, I believe. He