The girl’s eyes widened, and she looked stunned. “Really?”
“Really. And I know you lost your mother. I don’t want to take her place. Perhaps you and I can just be friends?”
But the girl didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about that idea. She twisted her mouth down in a look of disapproval Ashley had seen Nick make many times. “Perhaps I could teach you how to be a mother.”
“Oh, you could?” Ashley hid her smile and then shrugged inwardly. The girl couldn’t know less than Ashley did. What could it hurt? “Very well. You can start after I finish washing these clothes.”
Rissa shook her head. “I’d better start now. You’re not doing it right.”
Ashley paused. “I’m not?”
“Haven’t you ever washed clothing before?” Rissa asked before kneeling beside her.
Ashley bit her lip, reluctant to admit her lack of knowledge. “Not in a pond.”
“You need a rock. Over here.” The girl picked up Ashley’s wet garments and struggled to carry them to another location, where she knelt by a large flat rock submerged in the water. “You have to rub the dress over this rock, like this.” And she began to scrub the material over the rock, the friction doing more to rid the cloth of stains than Ashley’s half-hearted dunking of the material had.
“We used to have soap,” the girl told Ashley. “We can make more, and I’ll show you how to use it. Just do it like this, then you can hang the clothes on the branch to dry.”
Ashley took over from Rissa, feeling like she was the child as the girl watched her and said, “Good job!” Finally, the task was done, and they started back toward the beach. Rissa was obviously eager to begin her instruction because she told Ashley that mothers had to hold little girls’ hands. Ashley complied, leading the little girl until she realized she did not know the way. Rissa, with a long-suffering sigh, that—again—reminded Ashley of Nick, steered them both in the right direction, and they emerged onto the beach. The bright colors of their clothing seemed to draw attention, and several men turned to look. Ashley felt all but naked without the protection of a chemise and stays, but she kept her head high, not meeting the men’s gazes.
Except one.
She felt more than saw Nick’s eyes on her, and she flicked her gaze to his. He was watching her with something like shock on his face. She followed the direction of his gaze and saw he was looking at her hand joined in Rissa’s. Ashley wondered what he would think if he knew the girl was giving her lessons in being a mother.
Ashley spent the rest of the afternoon with Rissa, who showed her how to make a fishing hook, how to dig for crabs, how to start a fire—a task that particularly unnerved Ashley—and how to draw pictures in wet sand. The last was not strictly a survival skill, Ashley noted, but she applied herself anyway.
By dusk, the beach was crowded with crates, cannons, and rigging. The men were tired and sweaty, and the smell of cooked fish—some of which Ashley (oh, very well, Rissa) had caught—wafted through the orange-tinted breeze. The women cooked the fish, while the men gathered in small groups to drink rum and boast about the hard work they had finished. Rissa tugged Ashley toward one group of men who stood, hands on hips, as a man placed an empty cup on the sand a few feet away.
“A shilling says I can hit it.”
“Two says you can’t,” another man answered. When Ashley and Rissa came into view, the talk quieted. Ashley was well aware the men were careful of what they said in her presence. She was not certain if it was fear she would repeat something to Nick or simply the fact that she was a noble-born lady that curtailed their speech. Tonight, though, she wanted to be one of them. She was certainly not above them.
“I don’t have any blunt,” she said, “but I haven’t had my share of rum yet. I can wager it. What are we betting on?”
One of the men cleared his throat, but Rissa answered. “It’s a spitting contest, and I put my faith behind Lank.”
Lank, it turned out, was a big man with hands like hams who worked under Shanks as a gunner. His opponent was a yardman who Ashley had heard called Mr. Sumner, but who Rissa called Joe. Ashley had some experience with spitting contests. Her brothers had participated in more than their share, and though she was not permitted to join them—or even to be present for such activities—she always found a way. The fun of circumventing the rules superseded the actual event. Since she had so often skirted the rules and been present for the spitting contests and won a few herself, Ashley knew something about the skills required. She did not know whether Lank or Sumner had the advantage, but Rissa had not steered her wrong yet.
“I put my rum behind Lank too,” Ashley said and waited for the other men to make their wagers. Predictably, Lank won and then set about to boasting. Ashley murmured to Rissa, “He is not so good. My brothers could beat him easily. I could beat him.”
“I’d like to see that,” a voice said from behind her. It was Chante—her steadfast enemy. Ashley shook her head, but Chante motioned to Lank. “Mrs. Cap’n say she can beat you.”
“The devil she can! No woman can beat me.”
Ashley shrugged, glad for the excuse to walk away. “Another time then.”
“You too scared to compete, Mrs. Cap’n?” Chante asked. She knew he was taunting her. She knew she should ignore him, but the idea that she was scared—of anything—chafed.
“Scared? Of a few little pirates? Hardly.”
The men grumbled, but Chante held up a hand. “Oh, ho! Then prove it. What do you have to wager?”
Ashley released Rissa’s hand and moved into the circle of men. “I still have my share of rum.”
“I’ll put mine in for her too,” one of the men said. Ashley whipped her head to see who had spoken and felt her jaw drop when she recognized Mr. Johnson. His face was burnt from the long hours he’d spent tied to the topmast under the glare of the harsh sun, but his eyes were clear when they met hers. “Seems as good a way as any to make amends.”
Ashley blinked and then nodded. Like the shot of a pistol, the betting began. Wagers swirled around her, but Ashley kept her gaze on Johnson. Argh, he mouthed. Wonderful. Now she had even more pressure. Her gaze flicked to Chante, who gave her a cold smile. What was he trying to prove? Rissa was watching her too, and Ashley did not want to disappoint the girl. Not that spitting was a very motherly—or ladylike—activity. Maddie would definitely frown on this sort of example.
