Experience, as I swiftly learned, does not equal expertise. I wanted a gradual introduction to the world of physical intimacy, complete with all the grace notes I had read in those books I was not supposed to find. Instead, I got...
I flinch. Four years have passed since I ended the relationship, and I still do not know how to put words to what I got. The memory is pure emotion, and that emotion is not disappointment. It is grief and fear and anger with myself for not ending the entanglement sooner.
Looking back, I realize he took advantage of my naiveté. At the time, I blamed myself. I had not been clear about what I wanted. I had not set limits. I had not explained. Yet even if that were true—and I do recall being quite clear in my expectations—he still took advantage. Our first time, I thought he was only pushing up my skirts to touch me. After all, that is what he said. “I want to touch you.” Instead...
There were no “grace notes.” It was animal rutting, and I am endlessly shamed to admit I did not end the relationship forthwith. I told myself he’d been overcome by passion, as he claimed. I told myself it would get better. I told myself any mistake was mine, and this was ultimately what I wanted, so why was I complaining?
It did not get better. He had no interest in making it better. Why would he? He got what he wanted.
I have had two lovers since. Both were single-night affairs. One was an older man who promised me “delights” and delivered little better than my first lover. The other was a young man who’d been most enamored of me, and with whom I finally saw the door to true pleasure open... only to have him slam it shut by declaring there would be no more of that until I agreed to marry him.
I do not know whether Nicolas was extending a discreet invitation to intimacy. He seemed to be discussing sexual matters as easily as he might discuss the weather. Or as easily as men might discuss it amongst themselves.
No, Ihadcaught the currents of flirtation there. It was not a frank and analytical discussion, but it was still only risqué flirtation, of the sort the French are famous for. I still wish I had pursued it.
9
The moon isnotfull. I suspect if it were, Nicolas would not be making this nighttime journey. It’s another overcast night, with a quarter moon, and we are in the skiff again, headed north toward Whitby. No lantern lights our way, but Nicolas navigates with expert skill.
We pass the seaside town and continue heading north until I spot a ship moored in a cove.
I turn to look at him. “Is that...?”
“A pirate ship?” He smiles. “Oui, crécerelle. It is indeed a ship of the sort used by pirates—or privateers. More specifically, it was the one sailed by me.” He wrinkles his nose. “Well, no, I did not sail it, beyond assisting when required. It is the ship sailed by my crewmates.”
“What is it doing here?” I gaze around. “You cannot tell me it is hidden. We are scarcely five miles from Whitby, and that is far too large a ship to conceal.”
“Mmm, you would be surprised at how well we could conceal it, when such concealment was required.Mais non, it is docked here for a much more banal reason. A legal battle.”
“Ah, over ownership, after the crew was accused of—” I clear my throat. “Nefarious deeds which they did not commit.”
He smiles my way. “You need not be so circumspect. The officers were accused of treason. I believe them innocent, but only a fool would stake his life on such a thing.”
“As the charge was treason, though, the Crown seized the ship.”
“It did. All her goods were forfeit. The ship, however, is owned by my captain’s benefactor, and that is the bone of contention over which they battle. By this point, I suspect both sides have lost interest, and so she sits in this cove, slowly rotting.”
He steers the skiff around to the side, where it disappears in the shadow of the huge galleon ship. She is a glorious creature, rising from the water, her sails tight against their masts, the curve of her jutting prow like a proud chin lifted against the night.
Nicolas steers to where a dark rope hangs hidden in those shadows. He gives a pull, and down comes a rope ladder.
“You hide your goods here?” I say.
“It is the last place they would expect to find them, non?”
I laugh softly at that.
He gives the ladder a tug, making sure it’s secure. “It is safe, and it is dryer than my cave.”
He motions for me to climb the ladder. I do, and he holds it steady. My arm gives a brief complaint at being asked to climb again, but it does no more than that. Once I am on the deck, Nicolas starts up, leaving the skiff secured. I wait until he is on the deck with me before I look around.
Look around? No, I scamper around, my leg feeling rested and well. She is not a new ship by any means. Every surface is worn with the patina of age, touched by a thousand fingers. The deck is rough underfoot, which keeps it from being slippery in the mist. I examine the navigation room and the sterncastle and the many masts and ask a hundred questions, all of which Nicolas answers with patience and good humor.
“Would you like the below-decks tour?” he asks when my stream of questions finally slows.
“Please.”
“There are a few areas that are not safe for exploration. I do not exaggerate when I say she has been left to rot. The North Sea is not kind to abandoned vessels. I have applied what minor remedies I can, but the patient, I fear, is not long for this world.”