Etta blanked the thoughts out of her mind by sheer force of will and stood, setting the jacket beside the gown. Her hands itched with the need to be busy, to play the violin until her head emptied and she sank into music. Instead, she dug through the layers of blankets in the trunk, feeling for the silver hairbrush she’d seen somewhere at the bottom.
The bristles felt like they were made of some other, stiffer kind of hair. She examined the fine detailing of leaves and flowers on the silver back, surprised that Sophia had included something so beautiful and nice for her to use—not, say, a small rake that would tear out her hair by the roots.
By the time she’d worked one stroke through the nest of knots, Etta wasn’t so sure a rake would have been less painful. She worked with agonizing care, biting her lip to keep from crying. The hair spray she’d shellacked on before the concert hadn’t been washed out by the salt water, but had only hardened. It might have struck her as sort of impressive, if her scalp hadn’t been on fire, and what hair she could work through the brush hadn’t been standing straight out like a stretched cotton ball. Both the pitcher and the basin in this cabin were empty, and Etta was too proud to steal some water, even if Sophia was asleep.
There was a faint scratch and knock at the door. She held her breath and stayed quiet, hoping whoever it was would assume she was asleep. Instead, after another knock, the door cracked open, and a small face peered inside.
A young boy, the one she’d seen on his hands and knees scrubbing the deck, kept his face turned down, his hands folded in front of him. “Oh! I hate to trouble ye, but—”
His face was an explosion of freckles against pale pink skin, topped off by gorgeous red hair that seemed wasted on a boy. His eyes were a bright, clear blue, and as he looked up, they popped out wide.
Etta had the sudden painful realization that, while her hands had stopped working and returned to her lap, the brush had not made the journey with them. It dangled from the side of her head.
“Miss!” he gasped. “You didn’t—terribly sorry, I only—I just need the captain’s, that is, Mr. Carter’s jacket?”
With as much dignity as she could muster, Etta pointed to the bunk. “It’s just over there. Tell him I’m sorry I kept it so long.”
The whole time she’d been using it as a security blanket, it hadn’t even occurred to her that he might not have another one.
Idiot. She was embarrassed by her own rudeness.
The boy scampered and plucked the jacket up, all scrawny limbs and big ears. She turned back to her work, trying to disentangle the brush without ripping out any more of her hair. The creak of the door hinges never came.
“Don’t ye have any pomatum, miss?” he blurted out. “Looks painful the way ’tis.” Then, going white in the face with fear, added, “Apologies—”
“No, it’s all right,” Etta said, thinking quickly. “I don’t have any…pomatum. Or water. Could you possibly get them for me?”
Nicholas had said to use the boys if they needed anything.…Etta wasn’t sure what the expected behavior was here, but the boy didn’t seem troubled or even wary of the request. In fact, he bounced into action. “S’all right, miss, I’ll be back. I’ll give the jacket to another boy to brush, and bring some fresh water for ye. Me mum taught me how to do her hair right and proper, like a lady—” He caught himself on the next breath, steadying himself so he stood straight, thin shoulders back. Looking at him now, Etta guessed he couldn’t be more than twelve, maybe thirteen. “If you be needing the help, miss?”
She did need help, all right—both the kind he was offering and the kind she had just realized he could provide. Sophia had warned her not to be too familiar with anyone on the ship—anyone in this era, really—but now she had a justified excuse for keeping him around, wringing what information she needed out of him. Etta pressed her lips together to keep from smiling, hiding the excitement rippling through her. “I’m Etta Spencer—what’s your name?”
“Jack, Miss Spencer.” He gave a little bow.
True to his word, he did return—with a pitcher of warm water, a rag, and a canister of something that smelled wonderfully spicy and sent a cramp of hunger through her empty stomach.
Jack was serious about his business; when Etta tried to help him rinse and towel her hair off, he gave her a stern look. She bit her lip to keep from smiling and let him go about his work stoically, applying the spicy mixture—the pomatum, she guessed. A few minutes into being groomed like a delicate lapdog, Etta put her plan into play.
“Jack, are you a member of the prize crew? Or one of the Ardent’s boys?”
He puffed out his chest as he announced, “Prize crew, miss, and one of the best at that. Captain Hall keeps us all trained right and proper.”
Perfect. Exactly what she’d hoped for. “Could you tell me about the men?”
Jack pulled back, giving her an incredulous look. “Well…they drool and snore and fart like any other man, I promise ye.”
She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “No, I mean…how about their names? Where they come from? What they do when they’re not working. I’ve always been so curious about that.”