Marrying Christopher (13 page)

Christopher caught the tiniest bit of yearning in her last sentence and glanced at Miss Cosgrove sharply. Her smile was as bright as ever, but he saw through it to the sadness Miss Abbott had told him of the night before.
She was right.
He felt certain he would never have noticed Miss Cosgrove was anything but annoyingly cheerful had he not been told otherwise. For some reason this bothered him.

Here he’d been feeling so pleased with himself for noticing Miss Abbott’s distress and coming to her rescue and befriending her, when the other young lady on board had been distraught as well. Considering that he had always prided himself on his ability to look out for, protect, and especially to be intuitive about anything to do with his sisters, his lack of intuitiveness in this situation seemed almost shameful.

But neither Miss Abbott nor Miss Cosgrove are my concern
,
he justified.
It is time I stopped behaving as if they were. This is
my
time, my freedom, and I have earned it. I have no place being concerned about their affairs.
Christopher pushed back his chair and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, Captain.” He had a book with him already and tucked it beneath his arm. “I believe I shall take advantage of being out of doors before we leave port— in case I am predisposed to being ill, as the captain has warned. Good day.” He turned toward the door.

“What a splendid idea, Mr. Thatcher. May I join you?” Miss Cosgrove practically jumped out of her chair. “What is it you are reading? Perchance, might it be poetry? I
adore
poetry.”

Perchance might a man have five minutes peace on this voyage?
Christopher gritted his teeth and forced a smile. He looked back toward Miss Cosgrove and happened to catch Miss Abbott struggling to hold back a grin— or outright laughter?— as she pretended great interest in her bowl of porridge.

“Of course you may join me,” Christopher said in his most pleasant voice. “And shall we invite Miss Abbott as well?”

At this her head snapped up, and she exchanged a look with him.

Do not think to foist her off on me all day
,
he sent her way.

I wasn’t!

Maybe not, but you were certainly enjoying my discomfort.

Guilty.
Miss Abbott glanced away.

Christopher’s look turned smug. “Shall we, ladies?” He took a step toward the door. Miss Cosgrove was already prancing down the aisle, and he heard the reluctant scrape of Miss Abbott’s chair as she stood to join them.

They are not my responsibility
,
he repeated to himself.
But if I must endure the company of one throughout this voyage, I should at least be allowed the companionship of the other as well.

“Fire her up, Mr. Jones!” Captain Gower called from the top of the stairs leading below deck. An answering bellow carried up to him, and Marsali watched as he left the stairwell, crossed the deck, and proudly assumed his place at the wheel.

Mr. Thatcher and Miss Cosgrove both stood at the stern, the latter busy waving two handkerchiefs at once and calling farewell to the crowd assembled below. Marsali preferred standing at the side of the boat, close to where the gangway had been. Holding the rail, she leaned over, eager to see the first churning of the wheel.

A trickle of steam had been spouting steadily from the smokestack for some time, but all of a sudden this turned to puffy white clouds, growing larger by the minute. People standing on the dock pointed and exclaimed, causing Miss Cosgrove to become even more animated, her handkerchiefs flapping and snapping in Mr. Thatcher’s face. Marsali smiled to herself, all the while feeling guilty for having abandoned him to such a fate. But she’d spent over an hour walking the deck with them this morning and felt she had earned a moment alone.

Shouts came from below, and Marsali peered over the rail in time to see the first movement of the wheel. This coincided with the first movement of the ship as she turned away from the docks. Most in the crowd cheered, though she noted more than a few somber faces.

And not because they are sad to see us go.
There were those, the captain had explained earlier, who wished the
Amanda May
ill, for if she succeeded, she stood to challenge— even pose a threat to— the other shipping lines.

“The steam engine is going to change the world,” Captain Gower had predicted. At this moment, Marsali couldn’t help but think he was right.

Fascinated, she watched as the wheel gained momentum. Quickly the distance between shore and ship increased. Steam puffed from the tall stack, and the wheel churned through the water at a steady pace as the
Amanda May
moved away from the harbor and out to sea.

First Officer Luke stood beside Captain Gower at the wheel and the helmsman on the other side. Marsali guessed that Captain Gower wanted his moment of glory as they left port— and likely another when they arrived in New York— but that much of the work of steering the ship would be left to his officers in between. She’d been introduced to these men and others shortly before departure and had quickly discovered that Mr. Luke was one to avoid. He could easily match Miss Cosgrove for dialogue, but his was even more self-centered. Listening to him— as Marsali had been trapped into for a good ten minutes earlier— one would think Mr. Luke was the captain and had built the entire ship himself, with his bare hands. She hoped his duties would keep him very busy throughout their voyage.

Captain Gower, on the other hand, continued to impress her. When all had been assembled on deck he offered a prayer for their safe journey.

Marsali would not have guessed him to be particularly religious, but when he had petitioned the Lord not only for their safety but for the safety of the families they left behind, she had seen him in a different light. The
Amanda May
, Mr. Thatcher had explained, was named after the captain’s wife, and she and their two children would be anxiously awaiting his return. Marsali wondered if the captain’s obsession with speed had anything to do with a desire to see his family more frequently.

I shall have a family to see soon as well.
Charlotte was a mother now, to a little boy who had just turned one. Marsali had liked Charlotte’s husband, Matthew, when she’d known him in Manchester, and the thought of sitting at a table with the three of them— with
family
— filled her with yearning that felt almost like a physical ache.

Holding to the rail, she carefully made her way to the bow, having no desire for any further look at England and her past, though she could not deny the air of excitement on board and on the docks behind them. She felt glad for this, for the captain especially. His ship may have met with superstition, but those watching her leave port of her own accord, without any tug or wind to aid her, had to be impressed.

Marsali stood at the bow a few minutes more, looking back toward the wheel a time or two and enjoying the breeze on her face. What a wondrous thing it was to have time in which to simply stand and do nothing but appreciate the blue of the sky and the ocean, the feeling of being alive. She hadn’t seen much of the outdoors the past few years— there hadn’t been time for anything but work— and she found that her senses craved it. The cry of a gull, the spray of the water, and the salty scent of the ocean all filled her with joy. It felt as if her life had finally begun— just now, at this very moment.

I am coming, Charlotte.
As much pleasure as she took in standing on deck and feeling the wind in her face, Marsali felt even more enthusiasm for the letter now tucked inside her pocket. She’d put it there this morning, anxious to read it at last, as soon as they were underway.

She left the bow and walked to midship, where she settled on a crate in the shade beneath the main sail. Eagerly, she withdrew the precious paper, careful to hold it tightly. She didn’t want to chance having the wind catch the letter and blow it away, but neither did she wish to return to the stuffiness of her cabin when the day was so fine. The breeze here beneath the sail was not too strong and felt refreshing. Wisps of hair that had previously blown about now fell softly on either side of her face. Marsali took one of these and twirled it around her finger a moment— an old childhood habit— before summoning the courage to open the letter.

The last one I shall have from Charlotte before I see her again.

“Miss Abbott, would you care to join us as we bid farewell to England? She’ll not be in our sights much longer.”

Marsali looked up from the envelope she’d been about to open and found Mr. Thatcher standing above her, eyes screwed tightly in a rather desperate look— one that begged for assistance. Miss Cosgrove hovered just behind him, but her eyes were puffy and her cheeks red and splotchy, as if she had been crying.

“No, thank you,” Marsali said as kindly as she could. She’d indulged them after breakfast, when really all she had wanted to do was go to her room and continue reading the marvelous book he’d lent her. But her conscience had not allowed her to abandon Mr. Thatcher to a morning alone with Miss Cosgrove. Though Marsali found her quite amusing, as well as a great insight to the intricacies of society, she could also appreciate that Miss Cosgrove’s non-stop chatter could grow wearisome, especially for a man. And now it appeared that her chatter had been replaced by tears. Marsali very much doubted that Mr. Thatcher had particularly enjoyed those either.

Notwithstanding he has a fine shoulder to cry upon.
Her gaze flickered over him briefly, looking as handsome in his frock coat today as he had yesterday when describing to her his discomfort as he took leave of his sisters.
And as fine as he looked last night when we danced.

What a pleasant diversion that had been. Though there had been that moment when he’d faced her, when their eyes had met and their fun had seemed to turn to something more— something that both frightened and excited her. Marsali supposed she was a coward for not lingering in the moment and exploring it more closely, but Miss Cosgrove’s timely arrival had seemed the perfect excuse to end whatever it was that had passed between herself and Mr. Thatcher.

I am not free to be interested in any man.
Charlotte had been eighteen when she’d met Matthew, fallen in love with him, and married.
But I do not have that luxury. I am not allowed feelings of my own yet, other than the feelings of responsibility to those to whom I am committed.

“I am truly sorry to decline your invitation,” she said to both Mr. Thatcher and Miss Cosgrove, as they were clearly both waiting for an explanation. His face registered disappointment, though he attempted to hide it. And Miss Cosgrove let out a dejected sigh. Marsali picked up the envelope in her lap. “It is just that I’ve been waiting until we were at sea to read this.” She could not bear to think of waiting even a half hour longer. The letter had been on her mind almost constantly since her aunt’s maid handed it to her two days earlier. A dozen times she had picked it up and been on the verge of opening it, only to tell herself that she should wait. But with their ship underway and England’s shores at last safely behind them, there was no longer a reason to delay reading it.

“Oooh.” Miss Cosgrove’s eyes widened with delight, and she rose up on her tiptoes, leaning closer for a better look. “Who is it from? Have you left a beau behind, or is there one awaiting you in America?”

“It is a letter from my sister,” Marsali explained. “She promised to write and tell me what I must expect upon my arrival in New York and on my journey to Virginia.”

“Oh, do tell us what she says, please.” Miss Cosgrove left Mr. Abbott’s side and with a flounce of skirts— pink today— seated herself on the crate beside Marsali.

“Perhaps Miss Abbott would like to read her letter in private,” Mr. Thatcher suggested.

Marsali sent him a look of gratitude. “That would be—”

“But I haven’t ever had a letter from America,” Miss Cosgrove said. “Mr. Vancer only ever wrote to Mama, not to me. I should love to have a sister waiting for me, especially one who has lived in America for
four
years. She must know everything about it.”

“Likely not,” Marsali said. “Charlotte lives on a modest plantation in Virginia. And I fear—”

“Oh, you needn’t worry I’ll be bored.” Miss Cosgrove leaned in close— so close her chin nearly rested on Marsali’s shoulder.

“Very well.” Marsali held back a sigh. “You may stay as well, Mr. Thatcher,” she said as she caught him sneaking away.

They exchanged a look similar to that which they’d shared at breakfast, only this time it was Marsali who came away with the point.
As if we are playing a game of badminton and Miss Cosgrove is the shuttlecock.
The image brought a smile to Marsali’s face as she remembered playing the game with Charlotte ages ago.

Charlotte.
Without further hesitation, and heedless of her audience, Marsali tore into the envelope, breaking the seal and extracting the letter. With greater care, she unfolded the parchment. Her smile widened as she recognized her sister’s fine script.

“What does it say?” Miss Cosgrove asked. “The sun is blinding, and I cannot see.”