A Certain Latitude Read Online Free

the crew had disappeared below. The odor of frying bacon, bread and coffee hung in the air from the galley, a wooden structure perched on the deck. The door opened and a crewman, swathed in a linen apron, came on deck and whisked a piece of canvas from atop a large wooden cage. A chorus of clucks arose. He saw her watching and touched his forelock. “Hens, ma’am. Brought aboard last night.”
    She drew closer, interested to see how chickens fared aboard ship. A dozen plump bundles of silver and gray feathers rose from a thick layer of straw, fluffing themselves, wings flapping. The sailor unlatched the cover and tossed in a bowlful of table scraps.
    “Are those Dorkings?” Clarissa asked.
    “Yes, ma’am. Good layers, and when they stop laying, I’ll cook them. They won’t lay when the sea gets rough.”
    He bent to rummage in the straw, looking for eggs, and Clarissa joined him. “You’re the cook? Dinner was very good last night.”
    “Thank you, ma’am. They call me Lardy Jack, on account of my being so fat.”
    The man was as thin as a rake, hair tied back in an old-fashioned queue. He held out the pottery bowl for the eggs Clarissa plucked from smooth hollows in the straw, still warm from the hens’ bodies.
    “Breakfast with the Captain in twenty minutes, ma’am.” He left with the bowlful of eggs.
    The air brightened and the mist lifted, revealing the Welsh mountains to the starboard side and the occasional thin trickle of smoke against a pearly sky. They were apparently making good time— Captain Trent had said it might be two or three days before they would reach the open sea.
    Sailors appeared on deck and busied themselves scouring the boards and polishing brass fittings, while others seated themselves cross-legged like tailors and stitched diligently at huge piles of canvas under the direction of a grizzled, elderly man.
    Allen Pendale, in shirtsleeves and breeches, hoisted himself from the hatch leading to the cabins. Scowling and rubbing at his curly black hair, he tossed his coat and waistcoat aside. He yawned and bent over one knee, hands on thigh, stretching the other leg behind him, heel pressed to the deck, then repeated the action with the opposite leg.
    He launched into a one-sided duel with an invisible rapier, lunging and feinting, light on his feet for such a solid man, as agile and graceful as a dancer, darting forward and back on the deck. Clarissa watched in fascination as his breath puffed into the air and damp patches appeared on the back of his shirt, molding it to his body.
    When he stopped, he saw her, started, and bowed to her. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. I’m hardly decent.”
    She shook her head, embarrassed that he had caught her watching. “It’s a pity you don’t have an opponent. Doesn’t Mr. Blight know how to fence?”
    Pendale shrugged. “He’s not a gentleman.”
    A simple, contemptuous remark made at the moment that Blight stepped from the hatch. Clarissa saw his expression, one of fury and humiliation, and looked away, not wanting to embarrass him further.
    Pendale, either oblivious or indifferent that his comment had been overheard, bent to retrieve his outer clothes, pulled a neck-cloth from a pocket and finished dressing. Clarissa noted that both men seemed to have shaved, and determined that if they could have hot water delivered to their cabin, then so could she and Mrs. Blight. She would talk to Lardy Jack about it, after what promised to be an excellent breakfast.
     
    That day and the next passed pleasantly, with a holiday-like atmosphere aboard. The ship’s boat made frequent trips ashore for fresh meat, milk and cream, joining the Daphne as she meandered slowly toward the sea, the scent of salt becoming stronger each day. In the evenings they gathered on deck in the chill air, warmly dressed, and danced to music provided by one of the seamen, who played the fiddle, and Mr. Johnson, who proved adept on the flute.
    Miss Onslowe, to Allen’s surprise,