Almost a Lady by Jane Feather Read Free Book Online Page A

Venetian gondolier who resembled Michelangelo’s
David,
tended to abstain from considered reflection on the wisdom of satisfying lust. But that was in situations where she was in control. Here, while she was not afraid of anything, she was not in control of anything. Except her own reactions. She turned a page with a crisp crackle.
    “Biggins should have replaced the water in the jugs,” Cosimo declared from the head in the tone of voice of one commenting on the lack of sedan chairs on a rainy afternoon. Meg made no response. She didn’t want to know what he was doing in there. If he was underlining the fact that they were sharing this intimate space, then he’d certainly succeeded.
    Cosimo reappeared, buttoning a crisp white shirt. He shook out the sleeves and fastened the buttons at the cuff. “Ring the bell for Biggins if you need anything.”
    “When do you think the wind will pick up?”
    “By evening . . . it’ll be too late to make harbor though. We’ll have to stand out to sea until daylight.”
    Meg remembered the rocky outcrops around the island indicated on the chart. “It’s too dangerous to navigate in the dark?”
    “Most of these coastlines are,” he said. “Brittany is the very devil, and some of the Channel Islands are no different.”
    “Why are you going to Sark? What about Jersey, or Guernsey, aren’t they bigger?”
    He had paused by the bookshelf and was adjusting the position of the volume of Dr. Johnson’s dictionary that Meg had thrust back. He turned, his hand still on the spine of the book. A smile curved his mouth and a glimmer of knowing amusement sparked in his eye. “Curious, Miss Meg?”
    “Is it surprising?” she snapped back.
    “No more surprising than your sangfroid,” he said. “I’d expect a woman in your situation to exhibit some signs of dismay. Instead you’re as challenging as a fox terrier.” His eyes narrowed a little. “Who are you, Miss Meg Barratt?”
    “Who are you, Captain Cosimo?” she returned. “Answer me and I’ll answer you.”
    “I, my dear ma’am, am the captain of a sloop sailing to the island of Sark,” he told her with a hint of laughter in his voice.
    Meg shook her head, ignoring the invitation of that laugh. “Not the right answer, Captain.”
    His bow was pure satire. He left her with her book and her empty tray and empty water jugs in the head. And outside the sun was shining. She could feel its warmth striking the back of her neck as she sat on the window seat. Her legs were twitching. She watched her right foot kick out seemingly of its own volition. Then her left.
    Gus hopped to the closed door. “G’bye,” he said. It was an order, not a statement.
    Meg got up and went to open the door. The macaw hopped over the lintel and towards a flight of steps at the end of a corridor. Sunlight poured down from an opening above and Meg could smell the sea and the sun. Behind her were the stale confines of a space where she’d already spent far too much time. She pulled the door behind her and followed Gus up into the sunlight.
    The scene on deck was a mixture of activity and inertia. Men, some shirtless, were sitting around mending sails or splicing rope while a sailor in a loose red smock strummed a guitar. Others washed clothes in big wooden tubs, singing as they did so, while their companions lay stretched asleep in the various patches of sunlight on the decks. The ship rocked lazily on the smooth blue water, while gulls screamed and whirled overhead.
    Meg stood taking in the scene, aware of glances that were openly curious, appraising even, but in no way offensive. She smiled tentatively and one or two touched a fingertip to their foreheads in a half salute. She looked around for Cosimo and saw him up on the quarterdeck, sitting on the deck, leaning back against the railing, face tilted towards the sun, his eyes closed. A picture of relaxation.
    She made her way across the mid-deck, the smooth, well-honed boards warm against her