Marrying Christopher (17 page)

Marsali shook her head at him, indicating she thought him incorrigible. “You’ll perhaps also recall that when a few drops of Medusa’s blood fell into the sea, it mixed with the foam and became Pegasus, the flying horse. So you see, there is some good to be found in all of us if we but look for it.”

“That seems to be a bit of a stretch in finding the moral to a story,” Mr. Thatcher said good-naturedly.

Marsali ignored him. “Pegasus is easy to see, he’s so large.” She pointed to the sky, her finger tracing the lines that made up the great, winged horse.

“I see him,” Mr. Thatcher said. “And which one is your Perseus?”

“Over there.” She drew her finger along the outline of his body.

“Is he headless, then?” Mr. Thatcher said. “I do not recall that part of the story. I thought only Medusa lost her head.”

Marsali rolled her eyes. “Have you no imagination? The stars only give a vague shape, or part of it. Your mind must supply the rest.”

“Ah,” he said and nodded as if a great mystery had just been revealed to him.

“Lyra, on the other hand,” Marsali continued, “is quite small. But she has one of the brightest stars in the sky.” Marsali stretched her hand once more, pointing to the tiny constellation above Hercules. “Lyra represents the harp that belonged to Orpheus. It was said that his music was sweeter than that of any mortal’s. Even rivers changed course to be nearer his music.”

“Interesting.” Mr. Thatcher brought a hand to his chin as if deeply pondering a dilemma. “My tutor taught quite a different theory regarding the direction of rivers. Much more scientifically based, I must say.”

“If you are going to mock me, I will not share any more of the story with you.” Marsali folded her arms across her middle and turned away from him, pretending offense.

“I was only offering a second opinion, but I shall henceforth keep those to myself during the telling of these fascinating tales.”

He spoke as if he expected her to share more than these two, and an idea came to mind, that they might spend more evenings like this together, talking beneath a sky full of stars. The feeling that had begun with his touch swirled about inside her, a sort of warm anticipation. She hadn’t had friends before this voyage. And inasmuch as she found Lydia amusing and felt grateful for her companionship, it was with Mr. Thatcher that she felt the greater connection. She enjoyed his teasing as much as his seriousness. Even just sitting beside him when they both were silent felt distinctly pleasant.

“Do go on,” he said, sounding more repentant now that Marsali had gone a minute without speaking.

“No interruptions,” she said sternly, looking back at him. “This is the tragic part of the story. You must listen well.”

“You’ve my solemn promise. I am a great fan of tragedies.”

Marsali bit her lip to keep from laughing at his pitiful expression.
It would be tragic
,
she thought.
If I had not arranged passage on this ship and had not met him.
“Orpheus married Eurydice, but after their wedding, she was bitten by a snake and died.”

“Was it one of the Medusa snakes— before Perseus took care of her?”

“No. And
no
interruptions,” Marsali said. “This is the part of the story where you are supposed to feel terribly sad.”

Mr. Thatcher turned his lips downward in a truly pitiful display.

“Orpheus loved Eurydice so much that he traveled to the underworld to beg for her return. Pluto’s heart was softened by Orpheus’s music, and he decided to allow Eurydice to leave. She was to follow Orpheus, who could not look back until both had left Hades and returned to the upper world.”

“Oh, dear,” Mr. Thatcher lamented. “I can well imagine how impossible my brothers-in-law would find the task of not looking at their wives.”

“Just before Eurydice reached the surface, Orpheus looked back at her, and she disappeared before his eyes. Orpheus wandered throughout Greece until he too was killed. After his death, Apollo placed his harp in the sky, and that is Lyra.”

“To teach us… patience?” Mr. Thatcher guessed. “Or that beautiful music will not get you everything? Or…”

“I don’t really know what the Greeks intended,” Marsali admitted. “I just liked the story.”

“What is there to like about it?” he asked. “And for the record, I’ve changed my mind. I am
not
a fan of tragedies.” Mr. Thatcher’s lips puckered as if he had just eaten something sour. “This is your favorite, you say.”

“More for the harp than the story,” Marsali explained. “Though now that I think of it, perhaps that is why I refuse to dwell on or in the past. Whenever my father told us that story, he always ended by saying that in life we must never look back, only forward. He said that whatever had happened in the past was of little consequence, but what happened today and then tomorrow was far more important.”

“I believe that he and my grandfather would have regarded each other well,” Mr. Thatcher said. “I should like to hear more of your father’s tales— and wisdom.”

“Another night, perhaps,” Marsali said vaguely, though she had been hoping he would suggest that very thing. “It is late, and I believe Mr. Murphy has long since finished cleaning his teeth.” She inclined her head toward Murphy, sprawled out on the deck, asleep, some distance away.

“He was awake when I arrived,” Mr. Thatcher said. “I take it he really is sleeping this time, though. Which leads me to believe he has judged me and found that I am not such an unsavory character.”

“That remains to be seen,” Marsali said.

Mr. Thatcher rose from the deck and held his hand out to her. She took it and allowed him to pull her up. “
Tsk, tsk.
Behaving as a gentleman again. Well, I suppose that if Mr. Murphy has given his approval, then so must I.”

“I am glad of it— even if it means I must use manners and act civilized when I am around you.” Mr. Thatcher still held her hand, and they stood quite close, facing one another.

Marsali’s heart had begun to race again.
It is this nearness to him.
She’d felt it the day she thanked him and he had first touched her, and again for a brief moment during their dancing. And then again tonight.
It is his closeness and his touch.
How peculiar it made her feel.
How good.
She was loath for him to let go, though she knew he must. “Good night, Mr. Thatcher.”

“Good night, Miss Abbott. I bid you pleasant dreams.” He released her hand, and his own fell away. Marsali resisted the urge to press hers to her cheek. But she took his wish to heart and guessed that tonight her dreams would be pleasant because they would be of him.

“Marsali, wake up.
Please
.”

Marsali opened one eye to find her cabin dark save for a sliver of moonlight shining through her window.

“Marsali.” The whispered plea came once more, urging her out of bed and to her door. She opened it to find Lydia standing in the common room, clad as Marsali was, in only her night shift.

“Mama is ever so ill. You must come.” Lydia reached out and grasped Marsali’s hand, pulling her from her room and out into the hall. Together they stumbled through the darkness to the other end of the saloon and Lydia’s and Lady Cosgrove’s connected rooms. Lydia opened the door, and Marsali stepped inside, her nose wrinkling at once as the stench of sickness overcame her.

“Has she a fever?” Marsali asked, covering her nose and steeling herself for what she knew would have to be done to care for Lady Cosgrove.
I spent four years cleaning chamber pots. I can clean up after Lady Cosgrove, too.

“I don’t know about a fever, but she’s delirious. I’ll light a candle.” Lydia hurried across the room that was bathed in the striped moonlight coming through the slats of the louvered window. “Mama’s been ill since the day we boarded. She doesn’t do well on boats— it’s the reason she chose the
Amanda May.
Fewer days at sea.” Lydia succeeded in lighting the wick, and a small flame burst to life, illuminating the messy cabin, clothes strewn about the floor and bedsheets in disarray. “Mama can’t even bear crossing the channel from the Continent without becoming ill. But today she took a turn for the worse, thrashing about in her bed and crying out. I’ve never seen her like this— Oh!” Lydia doubled over, clutching her stomach.

Marsali rushed to her side. “You’re ill as well— how long?”

“Just this evening.” Lydia continued to hold her stomach as Marsali helped her over to her adjoining cabin and into bed, all the while feeling guilty that she’d not checked on her when Lydia’s absence had been more than obvious today. Instead, Marsali had spent much of the day alone, escaping into another of Mr. Thatcher’s borrowed books. The stories promised a few hours of freedom from worry over her future. And that hadn’t seemed so selfish or wrong—
until now
.

“I am sorry I did not come to see how you were getting on,” Marsali said. Lydia had become a good friend during the first few days of their voyage, and Marsali knew she ought to have felt concern about her absence today.

“It’s all right. I wouldn’t have asked you to come now, except Mama is doing so poorly. I was caring for her well enough until this evening, when I started feeling a bit queasy.”

“The sea was rougher today,” Marsali concurred. Her own stomach had felt a bit unsettled at times.

“It was. So I drank that nasty tonic Mama bought from the peddler at the dock, and I’ve felt worse and worse.”

“What tonic?” Marsali tucked the blanket over Lydia and brushed the hair back from her face. Her forehead felt clammy.

“It was supposed to keep us from becoming seasick.” Lydia managed a wry smile, reassuring Marsali somewhat that she wasn’t too ill— yet.

“Here is your bucket should you feel you’re going to be ill.” Marsali placed the pail next to the bed. “I’m going to check on your mother.”

“Thank you.” Lydia’s eyes closed, and she moaned softly.

Marsali took up the candle and hurried through the connecting door. Lady Cosgrove lay upon her bed, unnaturally still and silent. Marsali stepped closer, her heart pounding.

Please don’t let her be dead.
Lydia wasn’t strong enough for that. She needed her mother.
As did I.
Marsali held the candle up over Lady Cosgrove and gave a start as her face came into view. Her appearance was frightening— her skin appeared shriveled, her eye sockets collapsed, her complexion grey. She looked nothing like the woman Marsali had seen at breakfast four days ago.

“Lady Cosgrove?” Marsali summoned her courage and stepped closer to the bed, though what she really wished to do was flee. When Lady Cosgrove did not respond, Marsali bent closer and held a hand over the woman’s mouth, letting out her own breath of relief when she felt Lady Cosgrove’s weak one.

Not dead. Not yet. Nor will she be.
Lady Cosgrove had not been ill until a few days ago when their voyage began, so she could not be
that
ill yet. Could she? Marsali set the candle on the washstand and rolled up the sleeves of her nightgown, prepared to go to work. Though two years had passed, her mother’s illness and death were still fresh in her mind.
I’ll not let Lydia suffer as I have.

Marsali retrieved a cloth from the side of the basin and dipped it into the tepid water. She held it over the bowl and wrung it out, nearly knocking over a before-unnoticed narrow brown bottle at the back of the stand.

She picked it up and studied it, wishing it had a label. This might be the only medicine she had to work with.
But what is it?
Marsali put the washcloth down, then removed the stopper, leaned forward, and sniffed.

The faint smell of garlic wafted from the open bottle. Marsali jerked her head back, and the bottle slipped from her hand, shattering as it hit the wood floor. Shards of glass flew about the room, but Marsali paid them no notice.

Impossible. I only imagined…

Leaning over the bed, she pressed her hands into the mattress and her face close to Lady Cosgrove’s. The garlic smell was stronger here, present with each shuddering breath she took.

No!
Marsali tried to stand but nearly fell, bumping the table and causing the washbasin to tip precariously. Still holding the stopper in her other hand, she rushed from the room to Lydia’s bedside.

“Is this the tonic you drank?” Marsali thrust the cork into Lydia’s line of vision. “That bottle on your mother’s washstand— did you drink from it?”

Lydia’s head moved up and down against the pillow. “We were cheated. It doesn’t work. Even when you take twice the dosage.”

“
Twice
?” Marsali tried to keep the panic from her voice. “How much did you drink?”

Instead of answering, Lydia hung her head over the side of the bed and vomited.

“It hurts,” she moaned. “So very badly.” The blanket fell back as she drew her knees up to her chest. “Help me.”

Marsali held Lydia’s hair aside and tried not to panic.

It cannot have been for long. They were not ill just a few days ago. Lydia was not ill yesterday.
Marsali stood abruptly, knowing she needed help. The captain had not mentioned a ship’s doctor, but surely there had to be one. And surely he would know what to do to assist Lydia and her mother. “I’ll return as quickly as I can. I’m going to get help.”