The Nine Lives of Charlotte Taylor by Sally Armstrong

about Alston Point.”
    “It’s a bonnie bit o’ land that juts out into the Baie de Chaleur—that’s what the old Frenchman Cartier called it—the Bay of Warmth. What a dickens would make him call it so I don’t know. It’s only warm by comparison with the North Atlantic. But that’s where the commodore’s built his summer camp. Five large stores an’ all sorts o’ outhouses and such. He even has himself a battery to defend the place.”
    “But who would dare attack him?”
    “Aweel, madam, ye ken the French. Ye canna trust them. An’ now there’s them from the colonies who hate the English, though they were Englishmen themselves a few years before. They’ll be makin’ mischief, be sure. But to say, the commodore has his winter house farther along the harbour.”
    He pours himself another glass.
    “He commands the only trading post in the great northeast, all the lands around the bay and the great forests that grow to the south and the west. Lumber, moose hides, bearskins and furs of all kinds. Whale fat as well—fell guid troke. That’s Scots, madam, for excellent business. Tusks of the walrus an’ the fish. All them waters swarmin’ with cod, herring, mackerel andsalmon—so many they are, the fishing boats make two or three runs a day into the water. Then, in the winter months, the commodore sets his men to shipbuilding.”
    Charlotte feels sleepy, and knows that no matter how talking with Will chases her ghosts and fears away, it is time for him to leave her. Standing, she says, “Will, I confess I must retire. I am tired.”
    “I shall leave you to your dreams.”
    He draws himself up and opens the cabin door. “Sleep well, madam.”
    W HEN DAWN BREAKS two days later, she knows they have left the tropics behind. The water is transformed from turquoise to navy blue, white caps trim the small waves and the salt air, though still warm, is fresh. For days thereafter, the
Achilles
is carried north in the current. By day, Charlotte watches the ceaseless labour of the sailors—the mending, tarring, braiding, patching, climbing, sawing, nailing—and tries not to take an unseemly interest. Yet she wishes she could be part of the crew if only to have something to do. She is instead expected to stroll the deck, rest in her quarters and be available for dinner conversation with the officers.
    She regularly retires to her cabin and takes up her copy of
Clarissa
.
    … But here is Miss Harlowe, virtuous, noble, wise, pious, unhappily ensnared by the vows and oaths of a vile rake, whom she believes to be a man of honour: and being ill used by her friends for his sake is in a manner forced to throw herself upon his protection; who, in order to obtain her confidence, never scruples the deepest and most solemn protestation of honour
.
     
    So it was for Clarissa. But I have escaped all vile rakes, Charlotte thinks. And am I not, in fact, the one who never scruples the deepest protestations of honour?
    There is a knock and when she opens the door, it is Will, who had not spoken to her since his late-night visit.
    “The captain would have you join him for dinner, madam.”
    “I dine with the officers each evening, Will. Is this one to be different?”
    “The captain asks if you could join him in his quarters for dinner.”
    “Ah. Very well. Thank you, Will. Tell Captain Walker I would be most honoured.”
    “I will, madam. Dinner will be at eight.”
    S HE ATTEMPTS to lift her hair with pins and combs, but her success is limited. Here for a second time she would be the private guest of the commodore. She thinks again of his grave, weathered countenance, the brilliant shock of white hair, the perfect poise with which he takes command of his vessel. And wonders again of his intentions.
    At eight, Harding comes to escort her on the short walk to the captain’s cabin, it being a deck up.
    Walker’s private quarters are a frank delight, with every appointment possible in so small a place. The furniture is of