Marrying Christopher (27 page)

“In my new position as a lady’s maid, it may be that I am required to care for delicate gowns such as this. I should practice so it will at least appear to my new employer that I am familiar with the task.”
From the sideways, skeptical look he gave her, Marsali very much doubted he believed this excuse. Nevertheless, he stepped aside.

“If you insist.”

“I do.” Marsali stepped up to the tub and began running her hands over the fabric as Mr. Thatcher had done. When she felt she’d sufficiently covered the entire piece, she picked it up to move it aside, but it would not move, instead clinging to the board.

“Slip your finger beneath the top like this.” He leaned close, putting his hand in the water again. “Board needs more soap,” he observed after freeing the fabric.

She picked up the lye and rubbed it generously over the board, then placed another section of the dress across it.

“That’s the piece you just washed,” Mr. Thatcher said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Without a word, Marsali pulled it up again— it
was
easier this time; apparently the amount of soap on the washboard did make a difference— and arranged the section beside it.

“That piece has already been scrubbed as well.” He was suddenly right behind her, leaning close, his arms on either side of her as they reached into the tub. “You don’t have to do it this way, but I always turn the fabric in the direction of the tub of rinse water. I start with the back seam and work my way around. That way I know I’ve done it all.” With deft movements, he adjusted the skirt on the board once more. “Watch my hands, and follow them. How well the garment becomes washed depends upon how you move your fingers.”

He placed his hands on either side of hers and began scrubbing. “Move the fabric so that it goes into the grooves of the board and collects the soap, then back, so the soap doesn’t simply sit there but becomes agitated over the garment and does its work.”

“I didn’t realize there was so much to washing clothes,” Marsali said, feeling a bit overwhelmed, and not from the many instructions he’d given her.
I didn’t realize that having a man so close to me would feel so… pleasantly unsettling.

Various members of the crew still milled about the deck, and she knew she ought to scold Mr. Thatcher for standing thus.
At the least I should feel embarrassed. A woman in polite society would never stand so close to a man.
But she was not in polite society, and she could not bring herself to ask him to move.

“Try this.” Mr. Thatcher placed his hands over hers and moved them over the fabric. “When you know how to use it correctly, the board does much of the work.”

“Mmm.” Marsali didn’t trust herself to say more than that, and she was having great difficulty concentrating on the washing itself, the clothing— much of anything but Mr. Thatcher’s nearness. His face was pressed close to hers, his arms around her, his hands gentle but firm as they moved over hers on the fabric. The combination had aroused some new, unfamiliar sensation— overpowering to the point she felt she might wilt right there on the deck.

When they had danced together that second night— not more than two weeks ago— she had held Mr. Thatcher’s hand, but their mood had been jovial and their movements quick. She had enjoyed the light touch of his hand on hers, the music, and having someone to be merry with. But now,
this
seemed different.
Intimate.

Ridiculous. He is showing me how to wash clothing. Nothing more.

When, after another minute, he released her hands and stepped back, she felt vast relief, yet keen disappointment. Wiping the back of her wet hand across her brow, Marsali told herself that her weak knees were nothing more than the result of several nights’ lost sleep from staying up with Lydia. But when she turned to look at Mr. Thatcher and caught him stripping off his shirt, her racing heart indicated otherwise.

He wasn’t a man used to idle days spent in clubs or in other such gentlemanly pursuits. His chest and arms were broad and muscled, as if he was used to a life of physical labor.
No mere washboard did that
, she thought and felt herself blushing again.

A grin appeared on his face as he caught her staring. “Before I joined you outside, I asked Mr. Tenney to heat another pail of water. It should be just about ready. With the amount of clothing to be washed, I knew you’d need fresh water at least a time or two. And since I’m here, I might as well clean my clothes as well.”

“Of course.” Marsali grabbed another petticoat from the stack and tossed it into the tub. She soaped the board, then began scrubbing with fervor.
He has sisters,
she reminded herself. And they had grown up together in unusual circumstances. No doubt he was used to removing his shirt in front of them
. Does that mean he thinks of me as his sister?

“You’ve got the hang of it now,” he said, stepping into her line of view once more.

Marsali bent her head lower, determined to dismiss her errant thoughts and regain control of her senses.

“You’ll find that it isn’t a difficult chore so much as it is tedious,” he continued. “Grace and I would wash gown after gown, for hours and days on end. I think that is perhaps one reason I have been loath to attend balls— the sight of so many dresses is likely to give me nightmares.”

“Do not let Mr. Tenney overhear that you’ve nightmares about women’s ball gowns, or he will think you even more peculiar,” Marsali advised.

“I’m not particularly concerned with what he thinks of me,” Mr. Thatcher said. “When I bid farewell to my sisters in Yorkshire, I made up my mind; from that moment on, I would only undertake to do something if I wanted to do it. Too much of my life to that point had been spent in doing the opposite.” He grimaced as if recalling unfortunate times. “This morning I wished to assist you; what others may think of my choices does not concern me.”

What of me?
Marsali wondered.
Does he care what I think of him?
I am thinking too much of him.
“It was very kind of you,” Marsali said in a voice that sounded strangely choked to her own ears.

Whatever Mr. Tenney and the other crew members might think of Mr. Thatcher, there was no doubt in her mind he was manly in every sense of the word. And a gentleman as well.

Wearing his freshly laundered shirt, Christopher strolled the length of the deck as he considered what options he had available for courting Miss Abbott. Yesterday afternoon’s discovery— finding her busy with the wash— had been most fortuitous, though not at all how he would have thought to begin a courtship. But it had worked, or at least he believed it had. He’d helped her with an unpleasant chore and found it to be almost enjoyable. Having his arms around Miss Abbott as they stood at the washtub had certainly affected him, and by the blush that crept up her cheeks, he guessed she’d been affected by their nearness as well.

Not to mention that he’d impressed her with the skill he was least fond of.
But one must use the resources given him.

He and Grace and Helen had become expert at that very thing over the years, and he laughed that he was counting on those skills to serve him well now.

But what to do next?
He could not take Miss Abbott on a drive. They had already read and discussed several of the books available to them on the ship. He could not even join her for stargazing again, as that pompous Mr. Luke had taken to accompanying her each night. On three different occasions Christopher had gone up on deck at night only to find Mr. Luke already monopolizing Miss Abbott’s attention.

No more
, Christopher vowed.
Not tonight or any other night.
He would speak to the captain about finding other occupations for the first officer’s time.
Mr. Luke, who had scarcely offered more than a penny for Miss Abbott’s protection, did not deserve to be on the same ship with her, let alone to spend pleasant evenings in her company.

The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and Christopher lifted his gaze skyward, noting that the ocean was not as calm today. As they neared America’s shores, the sea was apt to become more turbulent, Captain Cosgrove had said. He’d also mentioned that hurricanes were not uncommon this time of year and had put them all on alert that the pleasant days of their voyage might well be behind them.

Nearly all the days of this voyage— pleasant or otherwise— are behind us.
With their increased speed, Captain Gower was estimating they would arrive in New York this Friday, a mere twenty-two days after their departure. Which left Christopher with only three days in which to both woo Miss Abbott and win her over to the idea of marriage.

Three days, and I haven’t a clue what to do next.
He was discovering that arranging for his sisters’ happiness had been far easier than orchestrating his own. If only he had more time.

The sun reappeared, and Christopher searched the sky, hoping to see more clouds or a storm that might bring a strong headwind to slow the ship.

However, it was not clouds that caught his attention but a faded piece of ribbon fluttering in and out of sight above him. Stepping closer, Christopher saw that it was attached to something inside one of the lifeboats hoisted above the deck.

Could it be?
The ribbon fluttered out of sight once more, then back into his line of vision, and this time Christopher felt almost certain it was the same ribbon he’d seen tied in Miss Abbott’s hair at breakfast. He’d noted the faded color then and wished he might purchase a new one for her— and promised himself that someday soon he would.

But for that ribbon to be inside the lifeboat now would mean…
Miss Abbott is inside that boat.
And to get up there she would have had to climb…
those crates, a barrel… that edge of the rigging.

With a quick glance around him to see if the captain or any senior crew members were about or watching him, Christopher stepped up onto a crate and peered over the edge of the boat, where a glimpse confirmed his theory. Miss Abbott lay on her back, a partially eaten apple in one hand, a book in the other held open before her and covering her face from his view. Her ankles were crossed and peeking from beneath the hem of her skirt, which was spread over the floor of the boat. She’d removed her shoes, and her hair appeared to have escaped its bun. Wisps of brown, along with the ribbon, lifted and fell in the breeze.

She had not noticed him yet, and Christopher ducked out of sight before she could. He climbed down, stepping quietly onto the deck below.

Smiling, he moved away lest anyone see him lingering in this spot and discover Miss Abbott’s hiding place. He was certain that was what it was— a refuge where she might find a few moments’ peace from Lady Cosgrove’s demands and Miss Cosgrove’s chatter.

Captain Gower had pegged Miss Abbott as resourceful and independent. Christopher found her solution more than that. He thought it ingenious and plucky— especially given the captain’s edict about not climbing— and wished he had thought of it himself. Not only was Miss Abbott clever, but she wasn’t afraid of taking chances. A very good quality, Christopher supposed, given that a marriage between them would involve a considerable amount of risk on several fronts.

He was willing to take those. But he did not know at all when or if Miss Abbott would be in agreement.

If only I might convince her to give me a chance.

It was Marsali’s good fortune that Mr. Luke was on duty during the dinner hour. He had been strangely absent this evening, for which she felt grateful. With Lydia returned to the table for the first time since her illness, there was no lull in the conversation, though neither could a person get a word in edgewise, preventing Marsali from engaging in conversation with Mr. Thatcher— the very thing she had looked forward to this evening.

He had been so generous yesterday, helping her with laundry, of all things. She could only hope that whatever rift had occurred between them, that had kept him both silent and away, had been mended and that he would be her friend once more. But it was difficult to tell when neither was able to speak even a word with Lydia’s constant stream of chatter.