Ten Days at Sea

Fiona looked interested, then suddenly something seemed to occur to her, and she lifted the bed clothes and looked down at herself.

"Ah. I appear to be...somewhat unclothed?" she said, somewhat unsure.

"Yes, sorry about that. I promise I held my hands over my eyes," Brett said, fighting back a smirk. "I had to examine you. I'm sorry I wasn't able to ask your permission, but you were somewhat out of it."

She nodded back. "Yes, I suppose so. Next time though, please, ask first. You never know what I'll answer!"

She had a glow in her face, and twinkle in her eyes, and Brett was hit with a sudden surge of desire. She was pretty much his perfect woman, at least in appearance. In personality, well, the jury was still out on that. No such thing as Love at First Sight. His parents had drilled that into him, for sure.

Something else occurred to her. "Hey, do you have a shower on this boat? A proper one? Not one of those drip things like in my yacht?"

Brett nodded, glad to have something else to think about. "Sure. Back behind the door, each cabin has its own shower room. It's not hotel quality, but it's pretty good."

If anything, the glow in Fiona's face intensified. "Oh, I've been so waiting for one of those. The shower on the boat was... basic. And I could rarely use it when at sea, because, fresh water, you see? Once the storm hit, well, I couldn't use it at all. And I soon learned that soap doesn't work in sea water. I should have thought to bring some sea water soap with me, but it just didn't occur to me. So... quite ripe by now, you see."

She coquettishly raised armpit and sniffed humorously, holding the sheet against herself.

"Quite the pong, I'm afraid. I'm surprised you didn't find me from just following the stink."

Brett smiled again. Her good humor was infectious. Speaking of that... he had to ask.

"I don't mean to speak out of turn, but you seem... well, you've stared death in the face. You must have thought...?" He didn't finish the thought, suddenly thinking it wasn't a smart thing to be saying.

Fiona's face faltered a little, then recovered, as though she was gathering strength.

"Well. British you see. Stiff upper lip and all that. Honestly though, yes, there were times when I thought I was a goner, for sure. But... well, you can't just give up, can you? I did my best to get fresh water, eat whatever I could find, ration the supplies, just...survive really. At some point, someone was going to find me. I just had to stay alive till they did. I mean, what's the alternative? Jump overboard and drown myself? Cut myself and hope there were sharks? None of that sounds very palatable, does it? What would you have done?"

"Well, yes..." Brett said, stroking his chin. "When you put it like that, yes, I suppose you are right. Never really thought about it, to be honest. Not something you want to..."

"No," said Fiona, staring off into the distance. "Be glad you don't have to," she added quietly, after a moment's reflection.

"So..." asked Brett, a few seconds later, more to fill the silence than anything, "is there someone we need to notify? Someone you want to talk to?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Fiona. "Yes, of course. Should have thought of that immediately. Sorry, the prospect of a hot shower made everything else slip my mind. Yes, well, Daddy, of course. He'll be beside himself by now, I'm sure. And, Eric, I suppose."

"Eric?" asked Brett, with a sinking feeling.

"Yes. Husband. Well, in name, anyway. Daddy loves him more than I do, I think. No brothers you see. Essentially, he needed someone to pass on the title and family lands to. Daddy is very old fashioned that way. Apparently, Eric is 'an incredibly handy bloke to have around', and Eric, it has to be said, apparently feels the same way about Daddy. When they get talking, the brandy and cigars come out and I might as well not be in the room. It's terribly boring, frankly. Eric certainly wasn't my first choice, but Daddy had his heart set on Eric, as the best of the bunch."

"I'm sorry," said Brett, a little confused. "Best of the...bunch?"

"Oh yes. Suitors. Once you've come out, you get a lot of them, all sniffing around for the title and a girl's hand in marriage. Still quite old fashioned."

"I'm sorry," said Brett, again. "I'm quite lost here. Coming out? To be honest, I still don't even really know who you are?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You mean you've been chatting me up and no clue who I am? Really. What a world." She rolled her eyes dramatically.

"I'm Fiona. Fiona Birmingham-Hart. That's hyphenated. I'm the Lady Fiona, in fact. My father is the Duke of Ipswich, back home in Blighty. Eric, my husband, is due to inherit the title when dad shuffles off, specially selected for the privilege. I get to sit around and look pretty and pump out children, which is the use that women of station back home tend to get put to. Well, I may have been married off to some fella I didn't chose, but I'm damned if I'm just sitting around, having luncheons with other vacuous ladies in waiting. Stuff that for a lark. I want to get out into the world. I want to do something. Hence the sailing."

"Oh, I see. Well, errr... do I have to call you something? Is there a title we should use?"

She chuckled. "Well, as long as it's not 'Oi, you', I think Fiona will do just fine. Let's not go down the fi-fi route though, please. I get enough of that from Mother, and frankly, I hate it. So twee." She made motions of sticking her fingers down her throat and once again, Brett was mesmerized by her vitality.

"Right. Well, so... I'll go talk to the captain and see if he can set up a ship to shore call. It's a little complicated to set those up, but we can at least get a message to your husband? Eric... is he also Birmingham...er..." He'd lost the name somehow.

"Hart. Yes. But I would bother. I doubt he's even noticed I've gone, to be honest. He is inattentive at the best of times. Out of sight, out of mind for him. He's far more worried about breeding his prize bull than he is in his wife. No, try Daddy. Duke of Ipswich. Just get a message to the UK government and they'll find him. If I know Daddy, he's probably already doing his damndest to get a call placed here."

"Fine. OK. Yes. I'll do that," stammered Brett, disappointedly. "Let me..."

"You know what I really could use?" said Fiona, as Brett rose to leave. "A cup of tea. God, what I wouldn't give for a decent one. It's been almost two weeks since I had one. I suppose all that went down too?" she said, sadly.

"Let me go look," answered Brett, on firmer ground now, since he was pretty sure some of that had been pulled out. "You shower, and I'll be back with whatever we got out of the boat, OK?"

"Sounds like a plan!" she agreed, laughing. "Go. Before you see something you shouldn't!"

Brett left the cabin, carefully closing the door behind him, and went in search of the cabin where they'd stashed what they'd gathered from her craft.

Forty-five minutes later, he was back at her cabin door, cup cradled in his hand, large plastic pelican box on wheels in another. It was one of the new travel cups, that were all the rage around the world, with the wide base to keep it stable.

He knocked on the door, listening carefully for a response. "Hello inside? Can I come in?"

He dimly heard a "Wait a second..." and then a minute later, the door opened slightly. He saw a vision of alabaster skin, wrapped in a large towel -- one thing the line of ships did not skimp on was towels -- with another wrapped around her head, through the crack.

"It's you, isn't it, Brett?" she enquired, through the crack in the door.

"Yes. Got something for you," he answered, brandishing the cup.

"Is that...?" she asked, hand on her mouth.

Brett just grinned back.

"Oh. My. God. Marry me!" she exclaimed, throwing back the door.

"Here you go," he said, handing her the cup. "We found some tea bags in a plastic container, and they were dry, so it was one of the things grabbed. This," he said, gesturing at the large pelican case, "Has some of your clothes in it. This is what we got out of the draws and that wouldn't fit in the closet in your cabin. There's more back at in the other cabin, along with everything else we salvaged. You can go through them later? I thought you might want some new clothes now?"

"Oh god, yes. I take it back. Let's just spend a week having a long dirty weekend. Best offer right now."

Fiona was clearly delighted, and, after Brett dragged the box in and dumped it on her bunk, immediately opened it and started rummaging around. "You got my delicates! Well... good, I suppose. Let's see..."

She pulled out a T-shirt, a bra, some panties, and some sweat pants, and eyed them critically.

"Well, they could use a wash, but not too pongy. They'll do for now. You don't happen to have a washing machine on board, do you?" she said, not paying attention and not expecting an answer.

"Actually, we do. Next deck down. You are supposed to buy your own detergent, but you can use mine?"

"You do?" she squealed. "Wow. I really did luck out. Fantastic. I'm going to drink my tea, put some clothes on, and then we can go and do some laundry. Wonderful news!"

And then she looked pointedly at Brett.

He just stared back, even more mesmerized. Her lithe body was apparent under the towel even with the gash on her arm and the bruise on her head. She was very attractive, never more so as she was at that moment, vulnerable, with no mask hiding her true feelings.

Eventually she coughed, politely, and he suddenly realized that not only was he staring, slack jawed, but she wanted to get dressed and he was preventing that.

"Oh? Right. Yes. Of course. Sorry," stammered Brett. He seemed to be doing that a lot around her. "I'll be going. Yes. Err, I'm in the next cabin, when you are done. Just pound on the door. I'll take you to the laundry. The captain is arranging a call for you -- probably be tomorrow, but at least he's gotten word that you've been found to the appropriate people."

"Oh good. That's very good to know. Thank you. I'll find you in a little bit, yes?" she said, literally fanning him out of the cabin.

Embarrassed that he couldn't apparently take a hint, Brett, turned and stumbled out of the cabin, heading immediately to his own.

He made a call to the bridge to inform the captain that their guest was up and around, and that she'd be requesting a call to her nearest and dearest at his convenience, to which he got a grunted reply. He also explained that she'd be going through what they'd salvaged, doing some laundry and generally getting acquainted with her new home, for the next few days at least. He did ask that the captain prepare the crew for the fact that they had a new guest, and that she was actually minor British royalty, so best be on their best behavior. That elicited another grunt, but Brett was sure that the captain wouldn't want any bad reports percolating to the board of the company that owned the ship, so he'd probably at least put the word out that she was out of bounds.

The captain then indicated that he'd been given light duties -- less than half his regular duty shifts, and their passenger was now his responsibility. He was there to keep her happy and have her the picture of health when they disembarked.

Twenty minutes later, there was a tap on the door, and he opened it to find a much refreshed and rejuvenated Fiona, grinning at him stupidly.

"Okay then, the -- what do you call it? -- the twenty-five-cent tour? My thinking was, let's go look at what you guys salvaged, then we can stop by the launderette, and then we could get something to eat? I'm starving, almost literally." She laughed the last bit, a little self-consciously.

Brett learned pretty fast that Fiona was all about 'making short term plans' then following them to the letter, with almost military precision.

He found himself nodding along. "Yeah, that works. I think Cookie should have some things to eat. He normally has pastries and stuff like that, although..." he glanced at his watch. "It's almost noon. Lunch is probably almost ready. It certainly will be once we are done with those chores."

He nodded again, and then looked inquiringly at Fiona, as she cocked her head at him and smiled a lopsided smile. "What?"

"You are cute when you a confronted by a demanding woman," she said, pursing her lips at him. "Has anyone ever told you that, sir knight."

Brett felt very uncomfortable after that statement, and just didn't know how to respond. They stood, staring at each other for a moment, before he chickened out and coughed, "Right, shall we...?"

Her smile got wider and then she reached out and grabbed his arm, hooking hers through his. "Lead on, good sir."

They went to the storage room where what had been grabbed was stored, and Fiona spent the next half hour going through it, lamenting what had not been saved one minute, and then whooping with delight when, rummaging through, she found something she'd thought lost forever.

Thirty minutes later, she had an arm full of clothes, and her 'delicates', as she put it, in a plastic bag, and was ready for the laundry room.

The laundry was one floor down, and Fiona had quite a time getting down the narrow stairs-come-ladder between floors. Space on a ship was at a premium, and stairs were an afterthought. A container ship was different from most large ships, in that all the storage and people-based facilities were located in one section, at the back, in a large upright building on the superstructure, named "the sail", even though there was no actual sail to be found anywhere on the ship.

Eventually they made it, with much back tracking to pick up items dropped, and somehow, by the time they got there, Brett seemed to be carrying more than Fiona was.

Fiona oohed and ahhed over the laundry facilities, declaring that she'd never seen better -- which was obviously a very large lie, since they were basic at best -- and that it was a lot better than washing her things in a sink and tying them on the mast to dry. The concept of all clean clothes was quite going to her head, after so long without.

Once they were on a wash cycle -- using all three machines in the room -- Fiona announced it was "time for the tour, and then lunch".

Brett took her on a cheap tour, walking her around the sail, showing her the mess, the library, the bridge, where she elicited more than a few longing glances from the crew stationed there at the time. He introduced her to the captain, and they had a quick chat about her making a ship to shore call, which the captain agreed to arrange, after he explained their destination and route. He even took her down to the engine room, where she met Jock, their chief engineer, a dour Scotsman who did not take to her at all.

Brett had noticed that she was charming to everyone she met, and after being introduced to them by name, thanking them all for her life. She was sincere, and put her hand on them, while looking them in the eye and thanking them for being there for her. The only person it didn't work on was Jock, but then, as Brett explained, he was a miserable bastard and didn't like anyone anyway. But otherwise, Brett was in awe of her people handling abilities, never more than when they encountered Pierre, in the mess.

Pierre was the cook, and a more archetypal French short order cook it would be hard to find. Lanky unwashed hair, perpetual cigarette on his lips, insolence when his food was questioned, French accented sarcasm, and a deeply held personal belief that no woman could ever resist him.

When he saw her coming, he hurriedly licked his hand and slicked back his hair, and put on the phoniest smile. 'Well, mon amor, to our humble..."

"Can it, Pierre," interrupted Brett, not willing to let Pierre go through his whole spiel. "What's for lunch?"

"For you? I have some dog turds I cooked up. For the lady? The very best meatloaf, made with love and flavored to the taste of the best French restaurant. I heard there was someone on board who might appreciate it, rather than these tasteless barbarians, so for you, gorgeous..."

"Does that ever work?" asked Fiona, innocently, breaking into the long speech. "I mean, as patter goes, it's pretty basic. The accent is good and will forgive a lot, but honestly, we are on a shipping container ship in the Pacific Ocean. I've just been rescue from a sinking ship, from almost certain death, and right now I feel like death warmed over. What, exactly, are you expecting here?"

Pierre was disconcerted, women didn't normally directly question him on his motives in this way, and he was at a loss to know the best way to recover. Brett grinned widely, enjoying the experience of Pierre being accosted in this way.

"I...I...I just wanted you to experience some class among all these philistines," he rallied, uncertainly.

Fiona suddenly smiled widely. "Oh, don't take me seriously, Pierre. I'm just having you on. Thank you for the greeting, and for cooking this for me. It's most appreciated. I'm sure we will be great friends," she said, emphasizing the "friends' word, so he would understand that she was not interested in him any other way.

"Still, let's see what we have here..." She took a little of everything on offer smiling at Pierre, who had a very disconcerted look on his face. Then, winking at Brett, she went to sat down and eat.

Brett got his plate full, delivered with a lot less deference than Fiona, and he went to sit with her.

With barely an "I'm starving!" statement, Fiona fell upon he food.

Four mouthfuls in, she stopped. "Oh no," she murmured. Two more mouthfuls. "Oh, this won't do at all. No no no!"

And she got up and went over to where Pierre was now serving two other crewmen who'd come in, both of which were paying her considerable visual attention.

"Pierre, now we must talk. This won't do. No, we can do better than this. I'm sure if we got our heads together, we could better than what's on offer today. Were you rushed?" Fiona's voice was clipped but firm. Even to Brett, she was clearly playing the aristocrat abroad rule to the hilt.

Pierre just stared at her, and eventually said, "Well, it's not exactly the Waldorf kitchen back here..." the French reputation for sarcasm intact.

"I'm sure. However, there is more that can be done here. Do you have some Barbecue sauce anywhere? Perhaps some Worcestershire? What about ground pepper?"

There was more staring, then suddenly Pierre got animated, went back in the galley, there were sounds of rummaging around, and he appeared again, with bottle of HP sauce and a pepper shaker.

"Right, excellent, now, what we are going to do..." started Fiona.

"Hold on. Wait a minute..." protested Pierre, suddenly growing a backbone. "This is MY kitchen. What do you think you are doing?"

Hot woman or not, Pierre was not about to take cooking lessons from the British.

Fiona sighed, and then went straight to the point. "What's it going to take, Pierre? A look at my tits?"

Brett almost snorted his diet coke out of his nose hearing that. It was an incredible juxtaposition -- the words versus the plummy British accent that delivered them.

Pierre's mouth dropped open, and the dangling unlit cigarette dropped into the mash potatoes, unseen by anyone.

"Fine then," said Fiona, and she suddenly just hoisted her top, just for a second, to give Pierre a quick glimpse. No one else was looking at the right angle, and it was all so fast that everyone else in the room was just stunned.

"Now, you've got yours. My turn. Let's do this meatloaf up a bit. And I can give you some tips on the mash too, later. Have you any onion soup mix, for example?"