Charley heard the ship's bell and sat up, listening. It took her a moment to do the calculation in her head, but she figured it out.
"Eight bells of the first watch!" she announced proudly.
"Very good, Doctor! Next we will have you box the compass and we will make a sailor of you yet."
"Perhaps," Charley said with a smile of her own as she rose to her feet. "But those bells tell me it's later than I thought, and should retire to my bunk."
"I hope you will join me again tomorrow evening for a game of chess," Captain Fletcher said.
It was a temptation, and one she knew she should reject, but Charley found herself agreeing to a chess match on the evening to come, and made her goodbyes.
As she washed in the privacy of her own space, Charley hummed to herself, softly. No, there was much about her new existence that was not prudent or even in her best interest, but at the same time there was a part of her that was glad she was not yet in Jamaica.
Chapter 8
Charley sat straight up in her bunk, gasping for air in the dark. It was the same nightmare. The one where she was stark naked, standing on the deck of the Fancy , and the crew was pointing and laughing at her.
Except for Captain Fletcher. He was not laughing.
She ran her hand over the cold sweat covering her face. One didn't have to be a physician to know that keeping secrets, living a life of deception, could at the very least lead to troubled nights tossing and turning.
Charley drew up her legs and wrapped her arms around them, leaning her head against her knees.
Would she have it any other way? Each day aboard the Fancy brought new interests, new challenges. The men respected her, and addressed her as "Dr. Alcott."
She would never be Dr. Alcott in England or Jamaica.
She would never have David Fletcher as a companion in England or Jamaica either.
But she had him as a companion now. They talked, long into the evening hours, about politics and war, medicine and literature. They played chess together. Captain Fletcher was the superior player, but not so much that she couldn't give him a run for his money. She had been ready to dismiss him as a pretty pirate who cared only for booty, but there was much more to him than that, and she risked losing her heart to this American sea rover.
Who was she trying to fool? The privateer had stolen away her heart, all unbeknownst to him. Someday there would be a reckoning of some sort, or she finally would make her way to Jamaica, but for now she could enjoy his nearness, his laughter, his arguing with her and stimulating her mind.
She would study him from across the chessboard, through her lashes, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on his next move. His long fingers would hover over a chess piece, then return to rest on the table. She'd had to put her own hands beneath the table and grip them to keep from reaching across to stroke the tanned skin, the heavy bones at his wrists.
Sometimes, in the privacy of her bunk, she indulged herself in the fantasy of standing up before Davy Fletcher and disrobing, showing him who she really was. In her fantasy he would throw the table aside and pull her into his arms, and kiss her, and tell her she was all he'd ever dreamed of.
Ridiculous. He was more likely to rear back in disgust at her unfeminine form, or throw her in chains for pretending to be a man. Such a fantasy was dangerous to her peace of mind but she could not stop dwelling on what life could be like if it were not Dr. Alcott and Captain Fletcher sitting across from one another, but Charlotte and David.
He kept trying to convince her to throw in her lot with the Americans and abandon England. She knew he meant well, and genuinely had her best interests at heart. But he was inviting Dr. Charles Alcott to come to America. There was no place there, or in his life, for Charlotte Alcott.
Charley heard the ring of the first bell of the morning watch and she rose from her bunk, knowing she'd never get back to sleep. She
"Eight bells of the first watch!" she announced proudly.
"Very good, Doctor! Next we will have you box the compass and we will make a sailor of you yet."
"Perhaps," Charley said with a smile of her own as she rose to her feet. "But those bells tell me it's later than I thought, and should retire to my bunk."
"I hope you will join me again tomorrow evening for a game of chess," Captain Fletcher said.
It was a temptation, and one she knew she should reject, but Charley found herself agreeing to a chess match on the evening to come, and made her goodbyes.
As she washed in the privacy of her own space, Charley hummed to herself, softly. No, there was much about her new existence that was not prudent or even in her best interest, but at the same time there was a part of her that was glad she was not yet in Jamaica.
Chapter 8
Charley sat straight up in her bunk, gasping for air in the dark. It was the same nightmare. The one where she was stark naked, standing on the deck of the Fancy , and the crew was pointing and laughing at her.
Except for Captain Fletcher. He was not laughing.
She ran her hand over the cold sweat covering her face. One didn't have to be a physician to know that keeping secrets, living a life of deception, could at the very least lead to troubled nights tossing and turning.
Charley drew up her legs and wrapped her arms around them, leaning her head against her knees.
Would she have it any other way? Each day aboard the Fancy brought new interests, new challenges. The men respected her, and addressed her as "Dr. Alcott."
She would never be Dr. Alcott in England or Jamaica.
She would never have David Fletcher as a companion in England or Jamaica either.
But she had him as a companion now. They talked, long into the evening hours, about politics and war, medicine and literature. They played chess together. Captain Fletcher was the superior player, but not so much that she couldn't give him a run for his money. She had been ready to dismiss him as a pretty pirate who cared only for booty, but there was much more to him than that, and she risked losing her heart to this American sea rover.
Who was she trying to fool? The privateer had stolen away her heart, all unbeknownst to him. Someday there would be a reckoning of some sort, or she finally would make her way to Jamaica, but for now she could enjoy his nearness, his laughter, his arguing with her and stimulating her mind.
She would study him from across the chessboard, through her lashes, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on his next move. His long fingers would hover over a chess piece, then return to rest on the table. She'd had to put her own hands beneath the table and grip them to keep from reaching across to stroke the tanned skin, the heavy bones at his wrists.
Sometimes, in the privacy of her bunk, she indulged herself in the fantasy of standing up before Davy Fletcher and disrobing, showing him who she really was. In her fantasy he would throw the table aside and pull her into his arms, and kiss her, and tell her she was all he'd ever dreamed of.
Ridiculous. He was more likely to rear back in disgust at her unfeminine form, or throw her in chains for pretending to be a man. Such a fantasy was dangerous to her peace of mind but she could not stop dwelling on what life could be like if it were not Dr. Alcott and Captain Fletcher sitting across from one another, but Charlotte and David.
He kept trying to convince her to throw in her lot with the Americans and abandon England. She knew he meant well, and genuinely had her best interests at heart. But he was inviting Dr. Charles Alcott to come to America. There was no place there, or in his life, for Charlotte Alcott.
Charley heard the ring of the first bell of the morning watch and she rose from her bunk, knowing she'd never get back to sleep. She
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