A Regency era courtesan gives up her empire for love and discovers how binding her connections truly are to the noblemen she used to serve.
*****
In the sequel to Courte...
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~ Tuesday March 30, 1813 ~
After two fortnights on board the HMHS Surety, I had spent more time on my back than I had during my career as a courtesan. I knew exactly how much space stood between my arse and the planks above my bunk, and the number of rivets holding those planks together. They nearly matched the number of times I had sworn after hitting my head.
I had read The Wartime Field Dressing Handbook, gifted to me by my dear friends Admiral Thompson and his daughter Alice, enough times that I dared anyone challenge me to recite the instruments in a field surgeon's kit. I expected I could do the job of any of my bunkmates. The true test would come when we received our first load of wounded.
While I'd been warned that the boredom would turn to mayhem when that day came, I was eager to feel useful. Sadly, I would not be in the infirmary. My skills would continue to atrophy in the laundry facility unless I could convince the head nurse of my remedial aptitudes. And Matron Orwell was a tough, old gal.
"Ye awake up there?" Collette knocked on my bunk as she climbed down below me. "Colonel Smith called a safety drill."
"Not again. We've endured six safety drills since leaving London." I adjusted my nightdress so my derriere was not exposed and ducked my head to navigate the ladder. We were stacked three high, the ladies in my barracks, which made the descent precarious, especially during rough seas.
Collette smiled at me, exposing the gap in her teeth. "Do I need to quote our beloved colonel? Preparedness could save yer life!"
Her reminder was unnecessary. Colonel Smith had drilled the words into our heads since our first day at sea. And his wife, Marjorie, did not take any lip from the crew either. After losing their only son during childbirth and nearly kicking off herself, she had followed her husband on every tour of duty. Like Matron Orwell, she was as tough as rivets.
I followed Collette and a handful bunkmates into our privy, where we did our best to wash up in the small, odorous confines. Baking soda and vinegar may have cleaned the surfaces, but it did little to cover the smell.
Up on deck, below a dense curtain of clouds, I waited with my female comrades for the colonel to arrive and lecture us on the ship's safety features. Would it be a quiz on the proper methods for lowering a lifeboat? How swiftly we could tie knots in rope? Where to locate the nearest emergency bell? I could not imagine anything he might come up with to prepare us more than we already were.
"Attention!" The command carried across the deck like a swinging boom. The sort of command a person obeyed regardless of where or who it came from. Colonel Smith marched toward us as we formed ranks. Even with the sun buried behind a layer of grey, the vast collection of medals adorning his lapels shone like polished cutlery. "Cadets! Sound off!"
We began shouting our names as the colonel walked the line, inspecting our level of dress and the condition of our boots. I had come to believe he enjoyed directing the women of the ship, seeing that each one could hold her own if thrown into battle. While it was clear some would prefer to hide below deck at the first sign of trouble, the majority of us had tossed aside the damsel in distress role long before boarding the ship.
