The rhythmic cadence of hammers striking wood echoed through Deptford Yard, a symphony of industry that greeted Bobby as he walked along the Thames. The late afternoon sun caught the water in golden ripples, painting the half-constructed vessels in warm amber light. Two years had passed since his first visit, yet the fundamental character of the place remained unchanged—the smell of fresh-cut oak mingling with pitch and river brine, the shouts of craftsmen coordinating their efforts, the steady progress of England's maritime future taking shape beneath skilled hands.
What had changed, however, were the methods. Bobby paused at the edge of the main construction area, observing with quiet satisfaction how the shipwrights now employed techniques he'd subtly introduced during previous visits. Nowhere were there dramatic departures from sixteenth-century capabilities—nothing that would draw accusations of witchcraft or foreign infiltration. Instead, he had planted seeds of innovation that appeared to develop organically from existing practices.
The hull frames now followed the principle of tangential arcs rather than circular sections, creating more hydrodynamic shapes without requiring mathematical concepts beyond contemporary understanding. Shipwrights had adopted his suggestion of pre-soaking oak planks before bending them against the frames, reducing splitting while allowing tighter curves. Most significant was the diagonal cross-bracing now visible in several vessels under construction—a simple adjustment that vastly improved structural integrity against heavy seas.
"Admiring your handiwork, Lord Kestrel?"
The familiar voice drew Bobby's attention from the nearest vessel. Jennet Hawkins approached from the direction of the administrative buildings, her practical stride unmistakable even before he turned to face her. At twenty-eight, she carried herself with the confident bearing of a woman fully comfortable in her expertise. Her brown hair was arranged in a simple braided coronet beneath a modest cap, and she wore a deep navy wool dress that managed to be both practical for the shipyard and appropriate for receiving a nobleman.
"Mistress Hawkins," Bobby acknowledged with a slight bow—formal enough to satisfy any onlookers while containing a hint of their shared private joke regarding such protocols. "The yard's productivity appears exceptional."
"Indeed, my lord," Jennet replied, dropping into a curtsy that somehow managed to be both technically correct and subtly mocking. "Though we've missed your expert consultation these many months while you've been tending to your grand estate in Kent."
Her eyes—intelligent brown with flecks of gold catching the late afternoon light—held no true reproach despite her words. They had always understood the nature of their association, with no false expectations complicating their interactions.
"Whitehaven demands considerable attention," Bobby replied, falling into step beside her as they moved toward the partially completed frame of what would become a merchant vessel. "Though I find myself drawn back to London with increasing frequency."
"The call of court politics, no doubt," Jennet observed dryly. "Far more enticing than mere shipbuilding."
Bobby smiled at her characteristic directness. "The shipbuilding holds considerably more appeal, I assure you."
Workers nodded respectfully as they passed, several calling greetings to Jennet with the easy familiarity of long association. Bobby noted how she responded to each by name, asking after families or commenting on specific work with genuine interest. She had clearly established herself as a presence in the yard beyond merely being the master shipwright's daughter.
"Your father's implementation of the diagonal bracing exceeds my expectations," Bobby commented as they paused beside the skeletal frame of the merchant vessel. "The increased load capacity alone should prove advantageous for East India voyages."
Jennet glanced at him with a knowing smile. "You speak as though you've witnessed such voyages personally, my lord. A remarkable feat considering the company has barely established its first tentative routes."
"Theoretical projections based on existing data," Bobby replied smoothly, though he couldn't help returning her smile. Jennet had always possessed unusual perceptiveness regarding his occasional anachronistic slips.
"Of course," she agreed with mock seriousness. "Just as your suggestion regarding copper sheathing below the waterline was merely 'theoretical' despite proving remarkably effective against shipworm."
They continued their path through the yard, Bobby pausing occasionally to examine specific techniques or materials. The master shipwrights had implemented nearly all his suggestions from previous visits, though always with practical adaptations suited to current technological limitations—exactly as he'd intended. Revolution invited resistance; evolution created lasting change with minimal disruption.
"Father will be disappointed he missed your arrival," Jennet mentioned as they approached the smaller administrative building that served as the yard's office. "He's meeting with representatives from Bristol regarding their new frigate commission."
"A significant opportunity," Bobby observed. "The western ports grow increasingly important as Atlantic trade expands."
"Indeed," Jennet agreed. "Though not important enough to draw a Viscount away from his Kent estate, apparently." The teasing note in her voice carried no real accusation. "Newfound nobility suits you poorly, Robert. You were more approachable as a mere merchant."
Bobby raised an eyebrow at her boldness. Few would address a Viscount by his given name in public, regardless of previous acquaintance. Yet this straightforwardness had always been what he valued most about Jennet Hawkins—her refusal to be cowed by social hierarchies or conventional expectations.
"The title changes nothing essential," he replied quietly. "I remain precisely who I've always been."
"A cryptic statement from a cryptic man," Jennet observed with a slight smile. "Come, several of the yard masters have gathered at The Anchor. They'd be honored by your presence, regardless of your elevated status."
"The Anchor it is," Bobby agreed readily, relieved at the prospect of ale and straightforward company after weeks navigating court politics surrounding Elizabeth's transition. "Though I suspect they merely wish to extract trade intelligence over multiple rounds of drinks."
"Naturally," Jennet laughed. "Information flows more freely with each empty tankard, as any shipwright knows."
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The Anchor Inn buzzed with the controlled chaos typical of establishments serving working men at day's end. Unlike the refined taverns near court where aristocrats engaged in careful political maneuvering over watered wine, this riverside establishment offered honest ale, substantial food, and conversation uninhibited by excessive deference or calculated advantage.
Bobby sat at a long trestle table surrounded by shipwrights and carpenters, his fine doublet increasingly out of place as the evening progressed. He had discarded his formal outer garments hours ago, rolled up his sleeves, and fully embraced the camaraderie of men who valued practical skill over hereditary privilege.
"Another round!" called James, the yard's master carpenter, slapping a coin on the rough-hewn table. "In honor of our distinguished visitor who drinks like a proper sailor despite his fancy title!"
Cheers erupted around the table as fresh tankards appeared. Bobby raised his ale in acknowledgment, noting how the men had gradually relaxed in his presence as the evening progressed. Initial awkwardness regarding his title had dissolved after his third or fourth demonstration of genuine knowledge regarding their craft, combined with his willingness to match them drink for drink.
"You've brought good fortune to this yard, Lord Kestrel," declared John Fletcher, a weather-beaten man responsible for caulking operations. "Them designs you suggested to Master Hawkins doubled our commissions these past eighteen months."
"Simon recognized their potential," Bobby deflected modestly. "I merely offered minor refinements to his existing excellence."
"Ha!" barked another shipwright from further down the table. "Minor refinements that somehow made our vessels outperform anything else on the Thames!" He drained his tankard before continuing. "Three of our merchant ships returned from Antwerp four days ahead of schedule last month. The owners couldn't believe it."
Jennet, seated beside Bobby, leaned closer to be heard above the growing rowdiness. "Your 'minor refinements' have transformed my father's reputation throughout England," she said, her voice carrying a hint of accusation beneath the surface appreciation. "Yet you speak as though you've merely suggested rearranging furniture rather than revolutionizing hull designs."
Bobby studied her over the rim of his tankard. Unlike most of the men surrounding them, who showed increasing effects of the strong ale, Jennet maintained remarkable clarity despite matching him nearly drink for drink. Her cheeks carried a flush of alcohol, and her movements had grown slightly less precise, but her sharp intelligence remained undiminished.
"True innovation requires collaborative implementation," he replied. "Ideas without practical application remain merely theoretical."
"Again with your philosophical deflections," Jennet chided, though her tone remained light. "You haven't changed at all, have you? Still the same mysterious merchant who appeared from nowhere two years ago, speaking with the knowledge of a man twice your age and the authority of someone who's personally built a hundred ships."
Before Bobby could respond, a group of sailors from a recently docked vessel entered the tavern, bringing fresh energy and demands for ale. The already boisterous atmosphere elevated further as tales of recent voyages mingled with shipyard gossip. Several of the younger apprentices began an impromptu singing competition, their voices growing progressively less tuneful with each round of drinks.
"To successful voyages!" shouted the master rigger, raising his tankard high. "And to Lord Kestrel, who drinks like a commoner despite his noble blood!"
"Hear, hear!" came the enthusiastic response from around the table.
Bobby accepted the toast with good humor, noting how his title had transformed from initial awkward formality to something approaching a friendly joke as the men grew increasingly intoxicated. This easy camaraderie with working men—impossible to find in court circles where every interaction carried political calculation—reminded him why he had always preferred settings like The Anchor to palace banquets.
"Your capacity remains impressive," Jennet observed as Bobby drained another tankard without apparent effect. The shipwrights had begun a drinking contest that had already claimed several victims, now snoring with their heads on the table. "I've yet to see you truly affected, regardless of quantity consumed."
Bobby shrugged noncommittally. "Perhaps I simply hide it well."
"No," Jennet countered, studying him with that disconcertingly perceptive gaze. "It's more than that. Just as your knowledge exceeds what any single man could reasonably possess, and your physical capabilities surpass normal human limitations." She leaned closer, lowering her voice despite the surrounding noise. "Sometimes I wonder if you're entirely human, Robert Kestrel."
Rather than answering directly, Bobby signaled for another round. The serving girl—a robust young woman named Mary who had been flirting increasingly boldly with several shipwrights throughout the evening—brought fresh tankards while deliberately brushing against Bobby's shoulder.
"Anything else I can bring you, m'lord?" she asked with exaggerated deference, leaning far closer than service required.
"Just the ale, thank you," Bobby replied pleasantly but firmly, immediately turning his attention back to Jennet.
Mary retreated with a disappointed pout, seeking more receptive targets for her attentions. Jennet watched this interaction with barely concealed amusement.
"Even the tavern girls recognize nobility," she observed, taking a substantial swallow from her fresh tankard. "Or perhaps they simply respond to something more fundamental—that inexplicable quality you carry regardless of title."
"I prefer conversation with substance," Bobby replied simply. "You provide that in abundance."
The evening progressed into true night, with candles and oil lamps replacing the faded daylight. One by one, the shipwrights succumbed to exhaustion or excessive ale, sharing stories of their families, aspirations, or maritime adventures before eventually slumping into alcohol-induced slumber.
Mathias Cooper, the oldest man present, spent nearly an hour describing his hopes for his grandson's apprenticeship before falling asleep mid-sentence. Young William Drake outlined elaborate plans to captain his own vessel someday, his ambitions becoming grander with each tankard until he too surrendered to unconsciousness. The master sailmaker revealed his secret passion for poetry, reciting surprisingly decent verses about ocean winds before joining his colleagues in alcohol-induced oblivion.
Each personal history fascinated Bobby—these ordinary lives filled with modest dreams, family connections, and simple pleasures. The shipwrights existed within the comfortable boundaries of sixteenth-century understanding, their expectations limited yet complete within those parameters. They built vessels, raised families, enjoyed tavern camaraderie, and found meaning within these fundamental human experiences.
"You're watching them like a naturalist observing fascinating specimens," Jennet noted, her words slightly slurred but her perception undiminished despite the substantial quantity of ale she had consumed. "What do you see that interests you so?"
Bobby considered her question carefully. "Contentment within defined parameters," he finally answered. "The ability to exist fully within one's circumstances without constantly reaching beyond."
"You speak as though this is foreign to you," Jennet observed, resting her chin on her hand as she studied him. "As though simple human satisfaction remains somehow beyond your reach."
Bobby didn't immediately respond, watching as the tavern gradually emptied of conscious patrons. The serving girl Mary cleared abandoned tankards while stepping carefully around slumbering shipwrights, occasionally pausing to rearrange a particularly uncomfortable-looking sleeper into a marginally better position.
"I should see you home," he finally said, noting how Jennet's normally perfect posture had begun to waver slightly. "Your father will already have concerns about your extended absence."
Jennet's lips curved into a knowing smile as she leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table. The movement caused her bodice to shift slightly, revealing more of her collarbone than proper society would deem appropriate.
"Father knows precisely where I am and with whom," she replied, her words carrying the slight elongation of someone maintaining perfect diction despite significant alcohol consumption. "He trusts my judgment, even when it involves drinking until midnight with a Viscount who pretends he's merely a shipwright."
Bobby chuckled at her characterization. "I've never claimed to be a shipwright. Merely someone with appreciation for the craft."
"Appreciation!" Jennet laughed, the sound drawing bleary glances from the few conscious patrons remaining. "You speak of hull designs that shouldn't be possible with our current mathematics. You describe timber-treating techniques that transform oak into something altogether different." She leaned closer, the ale giving her already bold nature additional courage. "Two years, Robert. Two years since you first appeared at our yard with your 'suggestions' and 'minor refinements,' and still I understand no more about you than I did that first day."
The tavern had grown quieter as the hour advanced, most patrons either departed or unconscious. A single candle on their table cast Jennet's features in warm golden light, highlighting the intelligence in her eyes despite their alcohol-induced shine.
"You speak as though I'm some great mystery," Bobby replied, signaling to Mary for water rather than additional ale.
"Aren't you?" Jennet challenged, accepting the cup of water when it arrived but making no move to drink it. "The mysterious merchant who appeared from nowhere, speaking languages no one recognizes, suggesting improvements that transform everyday ships into marvels, and now..." she gestured vaguely at his attire, "suddenly a Viscount with the Queen's ear and lands in Kent."
Bobby studied her across the table, noting the genuine curiosity beneath her blunt questioning. Unlike the calculated probing he regularly endured at court, Jennet's interest stemmed from honest perplexity rather than political advantage.
"Time changes many things," he offered, deliberately enigmatic.
"Oh stop that!" Jennet exclaimed with unexpected force, slapping her palm against the table. The sound caused several nearby sleepers to stir briefly before returning to their drunken slumber. "You haven't changed at all, have you? Still the same Robert Kestrel who first walked into my father's workshop speaking of hull displacement ratios no shipwright in England had ever calculated."
A wry smile tugged at Bobby's lips. "Is that disappointment I hear, Mistress Hawkins? Did you hope nobility might have transformed me into something more conventional?"
"God forbid," Jennet replied with feeling, the blasphemy slipping out uncensored as it often did when she drank extensively. "Your unconventional nature is precisely what makes you interesting." Her gaze traveled appreciatively over his formal attire before returning to his face. "Though I will admit, you looked far more appealing in simple shirtsleeves with your forearms visible, like the day you demonstrated proper caulking technique to Jenkins."
The unexpected frankness regarding his physical appearance—something court ladies might imply through elaborate innuendo but never state directly—reminded Bobby why he had always enjoyed Jennet's company. Her refreshing directness cut through the pretense that surrounded him at court, providing respite from calculated manipulation.
"Are you suggesting the Viscount's wardrobe requires adjustment, Mistress Hawkins?" he asked, amusement evident in his tone.
"I'm suggesting," Jennet replied, leaning forward conspiratorially, "that beneath all this noble finery beats the heart of a man who understands ships and seas far better than he understands courtly politics." She reached across the table, her hand coming to rest boldly on his forearm. "A man who once spent three hours discussing alternative rigging configurations with my father before taking me against the wall of his back office with such enthusiasm that we broke his calculating instruments."
Heat flashed between them at this explicit reference to their previous encounter. The memory hung in the air between them—Jennet bent over Simon Hawkins' desk, skirts hitched up, Bobby's hands gripping her hips as he drove into her with increasing force while she bit her sleeve to muffle her cries of pleasure.
Bobby's expression remained controlled despite the provocative reminder, though his eyes darkened perceptibly. "Your memory remains remarkably precise despite considerable ale consumption."
"Some memories transcend intoxication," Jennet replied, her voice dropping to a husky register as her fingers traced small circles on his sleeve. "Like your surprising strength when you lifted me onto that desk, or the remarkable size of your cock compared to the two sad specimens I'd encountered previously."
Several feet away, Mary the serving girl nearly dropped her tray of empty tankards, clearly having overheard this explicit comment while passing. Her eyes widened comically before she hurried toward the kitchen, the tips of her ears burning red.
Bobby couldn't suppress a laugh at the server's reaction. "You've scandalized poor Mary."
"She'll recover," Jennet replied dismissively, though a hint of mischievous satisfaction gleamed in her eyes. "When do you return to Whitehaven?"
The abrupt change of subject caught Bobby momentarily off-guard. "My ship departs when the tide allows."
Something flickered in Jennet's expression—a brief shadow quickly mastered. "I had expected as much. Your visits to London grow increasingly brief." She withdrew her hand from his arm, reaching instead for the water Mary had brought earlier. "Will you return for the coronation?"
"Naturally," Bobby confirmed. "I would hardly miss such a historic occasion."
Jennet studied him over the rim of her cup as she took a careful sip of water. "And after? Will the mighty Viscount Kestrel—forgive me, Duke Kestrel now—continue to grace humble shipyards with his prestigious presence? Or will Kent's attractions prove too compelling?"
There was something in her tone—not jealousy exactly, but a pointed awareness of his divided attentions. Bobby considered his response carefully, recognizing this moment as potentially his last opportunity for honesty with Jennet Hawkins.
"After the coronation," he said quietly, ensuring his words wouldn't carry beyond their table, "I will likely depart England entirely."
Jennet's cup froze halfway to her lips. "Depart? For where?"
"Somewhere distant," Bobby replied, unwilling to elaborate on quantum displacement even with someone as perceptive as Jennet. "A journey from which return proves... improbable."
Understanding dawned in Jennet's eyes despite the alcohol clouding her thoughts. "This is goodbye, then. Not just tonight, but..." she gestured vaguely, "permanently."
"Yes."
The single syllable hung between them, weighted with finality that neither had anticipated when the evening began. Jennet set down her cup with deliberate care, her movements suddenly precise despite her intoxication.
"Well then," she said, straightening her posture with visible effort. "We should make proper use of whatever time remains, shouldn't we?"
The blunt proposition, delivered with characteristic directness, caused Bobby to raise an eyebrow. "You've consumed considerable ale, Jennet."
"Indeed I have," she agreed without hesitation. "Sufficient to speak plainly without societal constraint, yet not enough to render me incapable of knowing precisely what I want." Her gaze held his steadily across the table. "And what I want, Robert Kestrel, is to feel your cock inside me one final time before you vanish to wherever fate carries you next."
The explicit declaration hung in the air between them. A lesser man might have immediately accepted such a straightforward invitation, especially from a woman with whom he'd previously shared intimate relations. But Bobby observed the slight sway in Jennet's posture despite her determined expression, noting how her pupils had dilated from more than just desire.
"I value your directness as always," he replied carefully. "But I question whether—"
"Oh for Christ's sake," Jennet interrupted impatiently, the blasphemy slipping out unfiltered. "Must we dance around with propriety now? You've had me against walls and on tables. You've made me suck your cock beneath my father's conference table while he discussed timber contracts ten feet away." Her cheeks flushed, partly from alcohol and partly from the explicit memories. "Surely we're beyond pretense at this point?"
Bobby couldn't help but smile at her frustration, remembering the incident she referenced—Jennet kneeling beneath the massive oak table in her father's meeting room, taking him deep in her throat while maintaining perfect silence as Simon Hawkins and three merchants discussed Baltic timber prices directly above them.
"It's not pretense that concerns me," he clarified. "Your current physical state suggests—"
Whatever he intended to say remained unfinished as Jennet abruptly stood, apparently intending to demonstrate her sobriety. The movement proved too sudden, however, and she swayed dangerously as the accumulated alcohol in her system asserted its influence. Bobby moved with preternatural quickness, rising to catch her before she could stumble into the neighboring table.
"Precisely my point," he murmured as his arm circled her waist, steadying her against him.
Jennet's body fitted against his with familiar ease, her curves pressing through the layers of their clothing. Her head came to rest against his shoulder as she leaned into his support.
"Perhaps you're right," she conceded reluctantly, her words slightly slurred. "Though I maintain it's a terrible waste of our final opportunity..."
Her voice trailed off as exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed her. The combination of a full day's work, excessive ale consumption, and the emotional impact of their conversation had finally taken its toll. With surprising suddenness, Jennet Hawkins—who had matched the shipwrights drink for drink throughout the evening—slumped unconscious against Bobby's chest.
He adjusted his grip to support her weight more comfortably, cradling her against him with careful precision. Even unconscious, Jennet maintained that distinctive quality that had first drawn his attention—a practical authenticity utterly unlike the calculated performances he encountered at court.
Mary approached cautiously, eyeing Jennet's slumped form with concern. "Will she be alright, m'lord?"
"Merely overtaxed by excessive celebration," Bobby assured her. "I'll see her safely home." He gestured toward the collection of snoring shipwrights scattered throughout the tavern. "How much for the evening's consumption?"
Mary calculated quickly. "Eight shillings and fourpence for the lot, m'lord. Though Master Fletcher already paid two shillings earlier."
Bobby shifted Jennet's weight slightly, freeing one hand to retrieve his purse. He extracted a gold sovereign—far more than the total bill warranted—and pressed it into Mary's palm.
"For your excellent service," he explained, closing her fingers around the coin when she tried to protest the excessive payment. "And perhaps some breakfast for these fine craftsmen when they eventually awaken."
Mary's eyes widened at the generous overpayment. "Thank you, m'lord! That's most generous!"
"They build England's future with their hands," Bobby replied, glancing at the sleeping shipwrights. "They deserve occasional indulgence."
With practiced ease, he adjusted his stance to better support Jennet's unconscious form, lifting her fully into his arms. Her head lolled against his shoulder as he carried her toward the door, nodding farewell to the few conscious patrons who stared in surprise at the sight of a Viscount carrying the master shipwright's daughter.
The night air struck cool and bracing after the tavern's stuffy warmth. London's distinctive aroma—a complex blend of river brine, coal smoke, and humanity—filled Bobby's nostrils as he navigated the narrow streets leading toward Simon Hawkins' residence near the yards. Jennet's weight against his chest presented no burden whatsoever, his nanite-enhanced physiology rendering the task effortless despite the distance.
Sleeping against him, Jennet appeared younger than her twenty-eight years. The flickering illumination from occasional street lanterns cast her features in alternating light and shadow as Bobby walked. He found himself studying the subtle changes in her face since their first meeting—slight creases at the corners of her eyes, a firmness to her jaw that spoke of increasing confidence. Small markers of ordinary human aging that would never touch his own unchanging form.
The Hawkins residence appeared ahead—a substantial two-story structure that reflected Simon's prosperous position without excessive ostentation. Lights still burned in downstairs windows despite the late hour, suggesting Jennet's father waited up for his daughter's return.
Bobby approached the front entrance, adjusting Jennet's position to free one hand for knocking. Before his knuckles could connect with the wood, the door swung open to reveal Simon Hawkins himself, still fully dressed despite the hour and with an expression of mingled concern and exasperation.
"I thought I might find her in such condition," the master shipwright observed dryly, his eyes taking in his daughter's unconscious state. "She insisted on rejoining the men once she heard you'd been sighted at the yard."
"My apologies for returning her in this state," Bobby replied as he carefully carried Jennet across the threshold. "The celebration at The Anchor proved more extensive than anticipated."
Simon snorted, leading the way toward a comfortable sitting room where a fire still burned in the hearth. "She inherited her mother's capacity for ale, God rest her soul. Though not, unfortunately, her sense of appropriate limits."
Bobby gently deposited Jennet on a cushioned settee near the fire, arranging her limbs in a comfortable position while Simon fetched a blanket from a nearby chest. The older man tucked the cloth around his daughter with practiced motions that spoke of previous similar situations.
"Will she remember our conversation tomorrow?" Bobby asked, watching as Simon completed his paternal ministrations.
"Doubtful," Simon replied with a sigh. "When she consumes this quantity, her memory develops convenient gaps." He straightened, turning to face Bobby directly. "Though I suspect that might prove fortunate given certain...expressions... I observed on her face when the messenger reported your arrival at the yard."
The subtle reference to Jennet's feelings hung between them, neither man quite willing to articulate the obvious physical relationship that had developed between the Viscount and the shipwright's daughter. While such arrangements weren't uncommon, especially between noblemen and women of lower social standing, they typically remained discreetly unacknowledged.
"She's an extraordinary woman," Bobby said simply.
"That she is," Simon agreed, pride evident beneath his exasperation. "Which makes me particularly grateful for your discretion regarding certain...aspects...of your association." He gestured toward a side table where decanters of spirits stood alongside several glasses. "Will you take a brandy before departing, my lord? The night grows cold."
"Gladly," Bobby accepted, recognizing the offered drink as Simon's attempt to establish conversational normalcy after the awkward moment of acknowledging his daughter's intimate relationship with a nobleman.
Simon poured two generous measures of amber liquid, handing one to Bobby before taking a seat in a worn leather chair near the fire. Despite their societal differences—Simon a master craftsman, Bobby ostensibly an aristocrat—they had developed genuine rapport over the previous two years, bonded by shared appreciation for maritime innovation rather than social convention.
"The diagonal bracing implementation exceeds expectations," Bobby commented after taking a appreciative sip of the excellent brandy.
Simon nodded, visibly relieved at the shift to professional matters. "Indeed. Increases structural integrity by nearly thirty percent based on our tests. The East India Company has already commissioned three vessels with the modified design."
They discussed shipbuilding innovations for several minutes, their conversation flowing with the easy rhythm of men who share genuine intellectual interest rather than mere social obligation. Bobby noted how Simon incorporated nearly all his suggested modifications while adapting them seamlessly to existing capabilities—exactly the evolutionary rather than revolutionary approach he had hoped to inspire.
"I've brought something for you," Bobby said when their technical discussion reached a natural conclusion. He reached inside his doublet, extracting a slender leather-bound volume that had remained hidden there throughout the evening's activities. "Consider it both appreciation for our collaboration and investment in England's maritime future."
Simon accepted the book with evident curiosity, opening the cover to reveal meticulously rendered technical drawings unlike anything available in current shipbuilding manuals. His eyes widened as he turned the pages, each revealing innovations that pushed slightly beyond contemporary capabilities without requiring impossible technological leaps.
"This is..." He paused, struggling to find appropriate words. "These designs would revolutionize our entire approach to naval construction."
"They represent natural progression rather than radical departure," Bobby explained. "Each builds upon techniques you've already begun implementing. The Queen has taken particular interest in your yard's innovations."
Simon glanced up from the drawings, comprehension dawning. "Her Majesty plans naval expansion beyond her sister's limited program."
"England's future security depends largely on maritime dominance," Bobby confirmed, neither confirming nor denying direct knowledge of Elizabeth's intentions. "Those prepared to contribute to that dominance will find themselves favorably positioned in coming years."
The political implications weren't lost on Simon, whose shrewd understanding of power dynamics extended beyond mere technical expertise. "These designs... they provide significant advantage over anything currently serving in Spanish or French fleets."
"Indeed they do," Bobby agreed mildly, sipping his brandy.
Simon studied the book with renewed appreciation, understanding its value extended far beyond mere technical innovation. The master shipwright who implemented these designs would likely secure royal patronage for decades to come—a position that would establish his yard's prosperity well beyond his own lifetime.
"I'm grateful," he said finally, closing the book with careful reverence. "Though somewhat puzzled by your generosity. Most men guard such advantages jealously."
Bobby's lips quirked into a slight smile. "I take little interest in conventional advantage."
"So I've observed," Simon replied dryly. He glanced toward his sleeping daughter before returning his attention to Bobby. "Jennet will be disappointed to have missed properly saying goodbye. She spoke frequently of your... collaborative discussions... during previous visits."
The deliberate phrasing brought a smile to Bobby's lips. "Your daughter's insights have proven invaluable across multiple domains." He set his empty glass on the side table, preparing to depart. "Please convey my regards when she awakens."
Simon nodded, rising to his feet. "I shall, though I suspect her head will take precedence over any messages initially." He extended his hand in a gesture that bridged the supposed social gap between them. "Will we see you again before your departure from England, my lord?"
"I expect to sail directly from Whitehaven after the coronation," Bobby replied, clasping Simon's hand firmly. "But should circumstances allow additional visits to London before then, your yard remains among my highest priorities."
They moved toward the entrance, Simon carrying the precious book of designs while casting occasional glances back at his sleeping daughter. At the door, he hesitated before speaking.
"I hope you'll forgive an old man's impertinence," he began carefully, "but I feel compelled to note that while Jennet presents herself as entirely pragmatic regarding your... association... there exists certain depth of sentiment she would never willingly reveal."
The observation hung between them, Simon's paternal concern evident despite his carefully neutral tone.
"I hold your daughter in highest esteem," Bobby assured him. "And regret any pain my departure might cause."
Simon nodded, accepting this response as the most he could reasonably expect from a nobleman regarding involvement with a shipwright's daughter, regardless of their unusual rapport.
"Safe journey, my lord," he said formally as Bobby stepped through the doorway into the night. "England's future grows brighter through your contributions."
Bobby inclined his head in acknowledgment before turning toward the river, where The Maelstrom awaited to return him to Whitehaven. Behind him, Simon Hawkins closed his door, returning to the sitting room where his daughter slept peacefully, unaware that her final opportunity for farewell had passed unclaimed.
The mist had thickened along the Thames as Bobby approached the docks, shrouding the waterfront in ghostly white that transformed familiar shapes into mysterious silhouettes. Workers moved through this ethereal landscape with practiced efficiency despite the late hour, loading cargoes and performing maintenance by lantern light that created halos in the surrounding fog.
The Maelstrom rested at her mooring like a predator among lesser creatures. Even at rest, the vessel radiated dangerous capability—her lines sleeker than conventional design permitted, her proportions subtly different from surrounding ships in ways most observers couldn't articulate but instinctively recognized as superior.
Captain Blackwood stood at the gangplank, his tall figure unmistakable despite the mist. Unlike most ship captains whose appearance reflected years of harsh exposure to sun and sea, Blackwood maintained the perfect composure of someone impervious to environmental punishment. His immaculate uniform remained uncreased despite the humidity, and his posture displayed military precision regardless of the hour.
"Your Grace," he acknowledged as Bobby approached, using the elevated title with the same neutral inflection he'd previously applied to "my lord" or "sir" in their private interactions. "We're prepared to depart on your command."
Bobby glanced up at the rigging, where the sails remained furled against the mizzenmast. The fog swirled around The Maelstrom's hull like ghostly fingers trying to maintain hold on the vessel.
"I'll take the helm myself tonight, Captain," Bobby decided, striding up the gangplank. The familiar weight of the ship beneath his feet brought unexpected comfort after weeks of navigating court politics.
Blackwood raised an eyebrow but offered no objection. The crew scurried about with military precision, preparing lines and clearing the deck as Bobby removed his formal doublet, handing it to a waiting crewman.
"Full canvas once we clear the mooring," Bobby instructed, rolling up his sleeves. "Let's see what she can do with a proper wind."
The deck thrummed with activity as sailors moved with synchronized efficiency. Unlike conventional merchant vessels with their chaotic shouting and redundant effort, The Maelstrom operated with the precision of a perfect machine—each man fulfilling his role without wasted motion or unnecessary communication.
Bobby took position at the wheel, his fingers caressing the polished wood with sudden hunger. How many millennia since he'd physically steered such a primitive vessel? The sensation felt simultaneously foreign and achingly familiar—like greeting an old friend across an impossible gulf of time.
"Lines away!" Blackwood called from the foredeck.
The Maelstrom slipped free of her moorings, gliding into the Thames with unnatural grace. Bobby felt the current's pull through the wheel, the subtle resistance as river water flowed against the rudder. The vessel responded to the slightest adjustment, her hull design creating exceptional maneuverability despite her substantial size.
"Unfurl topsails," Bobby commanded as they cleared the immediate dock area.
Canvas snapped open above, catching what little breeze penetrated the foggy night. The Maelstrom accelerated with surprising speed, water hissing along her hull as she cut through the murky Thames.
Bobby felt something unwind within him as he guided the vessel through London's river traffic. The pure physicality of sailing—the tension of ropes, the resistance of water, the push of wind—provided visceral pleasure unlike the cerebral machinations of court. His enhanced body needed no such exertion, yet his mind craved this tangible connection to physical reality after weeks of abstract political manipulation.
"Full canvas, if you please," he called as they approached the wider portion of the river.
The crew moved instantly, unfurling additional sails that bloomed white against the night sky where the fog had begun to thin. The Maelstrom leapt forward like a living thing, vibrating with barely contained power as Bobby guided her expertly between the slower merchant vessels.
Blackwood took position beside him, watching Bobby's hands work the wheel with evident appreciation. "She responds beautifully to your touch, Your Grace."
"She's unlike anything currently on water," Bobby replied, feeling the ship's subtle movements transmitted through the wheel. "The hull configuration creates nearly thirty percent less drag than conventional designs, while the sail arrangement captures wind patterns most vessels simply waste."
The Maelstrom represented the perfect marriage of technologies spanning three centuries of naval design. Her hull incorporated hydrodynamic principles that wouldn't become standard until the 19th century, while her rigging combined elements from the golden age of sail with modifications impossible without Bobby's knowledge of fluid dynamics. Her weapons systems—carefully concealed beneath innocent-appearing hatches—combined the best of 18th-century naval artillery with proprietary improvements in metallurgy and ballistics.
One day, ships incorporating these innovations would dominate the world's oceans, transforming maritime commerce and warfare simultaneously. The Age of Sail would reach its zenith, creating unprecedented wealth while simultaneously enabling the Golden Age of Piracy as those excluded from legitimate commerce sought alternative paths to prosperity.
As The Maelstrom cleared the most congested portion of the Thames, Bobby surrendered fully to the pure joy of seamanship. He felt the wind shift, adjusting their course microscopically before the change fully registered. The ship responded instantly, her every movement harmonizing with his intentions in perfect synchronicity.
"She knows her master," Blackwood observed quietly.
Bobby didn't respond, too absorbed in the visceral pleasure of driving this perfect sailing machine through increasingly open water. His world narrowed to the feel of wood against his palms, the subtle vibrations through the deck planking, the whispering song of wind through rigging, and the rhythmic percussion of waves against the hull.
The fogbank thinned as they approached the river's mouth, revealing a night sky scattered with stars. The Maelstrom surged forward as they entered the open estuary, her speed increasing dramatically as Bobby trimmed the sails to capture the freshening breeze. Sailors moved across the deck with practiced efficiency, adjusting lines and tending the complex rigging networks that made such performance possible.
Bobby lost himself in the physical joy of sailing—this perfect integration of human ingenuity and natural forces that had dominated maritime travel for millennia before engines rendered wind power obsolete. The wheel transmitted every subtle shift in current and wind through his fingers, creating conversation between man and vessel that transcended mere mechanics.
For these precious hours, Bobby existed purely in the present moment—free from quantum temporal energy's constant reminder of his inevitable displacement, from Elizabeth's political machinations, from Catherine Howard's calculating seduction, from Jane Grey's innocent devotion. Nothing existed beyond The Maelstrom's wooden deck and the endless conversation between ship, sea, and stars.