Chapter Twelve
August 27, 1817
Elizabeth blew out a breath of frustration. She pulled out the knot Brand had tasked her to tie while they sailed the River Orwell.
“Patience, Lizzy. It won’t go any quicker if you’re annoyed.” Amusement threaded through his voice as he adjusted the sail. “Duck, love.”
She’d barely done as instructed before the boom swung across the deck. The fickle wind filled the sail which allowed the sloop to change directions. Ever since he’d found her on her walk around noon and invited her to go sailing with him, she’d allowed the nautical world to catch her up in it and give her an escape. For two hours the captain had taught her the basics about sailing, and she reveled in the new knowledge.
Except about knot tying.
“Explain these to me again. My mind has them muddled,” she asked with a peek at Brand. Flutters filled her belly, for here in his element, he was magnificent.
Without his jacket and waistcoat, and as the breeze rippled through his loose lawn shirt causing the placket to gape, he was the perfect image of a pirate. His silver-shot midnight hair ruffled and disheveled, his eyepatch speaking to mystery and wicked delights, it was no wonder she had trouble tying knots when he guided the craft like the mischievous rogue that he was.
“The most useful knot aboard any sort of sailing vessel is the bowline. It forms a fixed noose at the end of a line that can’t run or slip. We mostly use it to secure sheets to the clew of a headsail.”
Oh, drat.What was a clew again? She pressed her lips together and thought over all the terms he’d taught her. Ah yes, the corner of a sail. “Right. Proceed.”
He flashed her a smile that scattered her thoughts and had her twisting the rope in her hands into a mess. “Two bowlines can also be used to connect two lines. The advantage of a bowline is that no matter how tight it grows after being employed, it can always be easily untied.”
“I understand that type of knot. It’s like magic.”
Rich laughter emanated from him. “Not magic, but close enough.” When he glanced at her, tingles danced down her spine. Longing for something she couldn’t name set up deep inside her. “Which one is proving your downfall?”
“This dratted stopper knot.” She held up her hand. Rope was tangled around her fingers and not in the tidy formation he’d shown her.
“Silly widget.” Brand secured his line. He dropped anchor near a cove on the far side of Ipswich that lent itself to collecting the wind and more shallow waters that kept both fishermen and townsfolk away. Then he joined her on the coil of rope and took up a line himself. “Watch.”
“I watched you demonstrate it before,” she said with some annoyance. Why couldn’t she master this one thing?
“To keep a line from pulling through a block or rope clutch, a knot should be tied in the end of it.”
“I know!” She shook out the mess and held up her piece of rope.
“The easiest way to tie a true stopper knot is by using your hand as a form.” He wriggled his fingers with his palm facing her. “Just loop the end of the line twice around your palm, tuck the working end under the two loops, and then pull the loops off your hand.”
“Why is this so difficult?” she asked of the rope. Another huff of frustration left her, and she sorted the rope again, to do the knot over.
“Go slow and don’t force it.” Brand held up his hand. “Working back to front, pass the working end twice around your open palm.” His voice was soothing and respectful. “After you have two full wraps, pass the working end under the wraps on your palm away from your thumb. Then use the end to pull the knot tight as it slips off your hand.” As he talked, he tied his knot and let the whole thing dangle before her eyes. “Now you.”
Elizabeth did as instructed. The knotted end of the rope fell off her palm just as he said it would. “I tied it!” She kept looking at her handiwork. “I finally learned it.”
“Now do it again.”
“So mean, Captain.” But she unraveled the knot. When she completed the task a second time, the knowledge came quicker, and she was able to hold up the properly knotted rope with more confidence. “Ha!”
“With a few more lessons, you’ll be a fit sailor.” He winked. “Tell me what aft means.”
“The back of the ship.”
“And port?”
“The left side when facing the bow.”
“Good.” He tugged the rope from her hands and laid both it and his on the deck. “What does windward mean?”
“Ooh.” She scrunched up her nose. “The direction the wind is blowing. Which is opposite of leeward.” Nautical talk was a veritable language all its own.