Marrying Christopher (28 page)

She has two weeks of lost conversations to make up for
,
Marsali told herself as she listened good-naturedly while she ate.

“Mother bought the tonic from that horrid man with the red hair— no offense to you, Mr. Jones.” Lydia paused long enough to send an apologetic glance his way.

“None taken.” Mr. Jones, looking increasingly uncomfortable, consulted his watch for perhaps the tenth time in the past half hour.

Counting the minutes until he can return to his engine room?
Normally Marsali felt sorry for his apparent anxiety and the need for him to be below deck so often. But just now she could not entirely blame him for wanting to leave. Even the stifling heat of the engine room might be preferable to another hour of this same story. Lydia was already telling them— for the third time— every detail she could recall about the night her mother had purchased the tonic from the man at the wharf.

“And to think he told us that
you
had authorized such a sale.” Lydia cast a doleful look toward the captain. “And do you know how much that cost? It took the very last of our money, plus one of Mother’s—”

“That’s enough, Lydia,” Lady Cosgrove cut in sharply. “There is nothing to be done about it now, and we needn’t continue recounting our folly to the captain.”

Lydia appeared to wither in her chair. “Yes, Mother.” She slouched lower, looking— for the first time all night— quite as ill as she had been.

“What have you been reading lately, Miss Abbott?” Mr. Thatcher asked, both changing the topic and kindly drawing everyone’s attention from Lydia. “I believe we are each nearing the end of the captain’s library.”

“She has been reciting poetry to me,” Lydia said, answering before Marsali could. “I adore listening to her. Today she recited some of Mr. Burns’s poems with a perfect Scottish accent.”

“As my grandmother used to recite them to me,” Marsali said. She cherished her memories of her grandmother nearly as much as she cherished those of her father.

Lady Cosgrove made a
tsking
noise in the back of her throat and shook her head as if Marsali had just announced she had been reading the most scandalous gothic romance novel.

“I should like to hear Mr. Burns’s poems myself sometime,” Mr. Thatcher said, causing Marsali’s heart to give a joyful leap, for which she swiftly and silently scolded herself.

Don’t be a ninny.
But it was impossible not to feel happy at the hint that he wished to spend more time with her.

“Have you perhaps had some time
alone
in which to read?” Mr. Thatcher asked.

She puzzled over his emphasis of the word
alone
, though she had stolen a few minutes to herself. And it had been heavenly. “Just today I finished
The Last of the Mohicans
.”

“And did you find the story
up
lifting?” Mr. Thatcher’s brows rose, and his eyes shifted upward.

Lydia giggled. “Oh, you can’t have read Mr. Cooper’s book or you would not have asked such a silly question. It is a most tragic story.”

Marsali had the feeling that Mr. Thatcher still would have asked and that they were no longer discussing the book.

“But I have read it,” he said. “Last year— in my quest to learn everything possible about America.”

“Do not let fiction be your guide,” Captain Gower cautioned.

“It is not at all an uplifting story,” Lydia continued. “Poor Cora is killed, after all.”

“I see your point,” Mr. Thatcher said. “Though for some reason I believed the book might make Miss Abbott feel as if she had…
attained new heights
.”

He knows.
At once she understood the direction of his hints.
He knows I was up in that boat.
Marsali narrowed her eyes at him, and he answered her with a roguish grin.

Insufferable man.
But it was with some difficulty that she held back her own smile.

“Are there not times, Miss Abbott, when we find literature boosts us
aloft
in this world?” He reclined in his chair, and his grin turned lazy, as if he had all the time in the world to watch her squirm.

And she was beginning to. Did Mr. Thatcher
wish
her to be in trouble? Usually she did not mind his teasing, but if the captain discovered what she had been up to— quite literally— he might well be upset with her.

With the toe of her slipper, she nudged Mr. Thatcher’s shin beneath the table and sent him a silent plea to cease speaking of her respite above the deck.

He winked at her as he had yesterday when they were washing Lydia’s gowns.
What is he about?
Marsali dared not look at him again but took a few seconds to compose herself as she cut a piece of her meat. Perhaps he
was
still upset with her and had only pretended kindness yesterday and was now intending revenge. But Mr. Thatcher did not seem the type, and he
had
helped her, staying with her and assisting until every last article of clothing had been washed and hung out to dry.

Maybe she was simply reading more into his words.
My own guilt is sabotaging me.
Yet she had not felt guilty about her slight break of the rules until now. At the time, whatever action was required to escape Mr. Luke’s company had seemed more than justified.

And she had taken great care when climbing into that boat, both with her steps and to make certain she was not seen. She’d waited several minutes— until the time the crew had changed shifts and no one was near to observe her.

Unless Mr. Thatcher was spying on me.

While Marsali had been thinking, Lydia had been retelling the story of
The Last of the Mohicans
to Mr. Jones and her mother, the only two at the table who had not read the novel. “It is good you have not read it, Mother,” Lydia exclaimed at the end of her long summary. The horrors those two women endured would give you nightmares. You would never have agreed to sail to America.”

“I shall have nightmares now, thanks to you.” Lady Cosgrove looked longingly at her glass as if wishing that something other than water would appear in it. “And I did not exactly agree to come to America. It was the only option left open to us.”

“A difficult position to be in,” Captain Gower said sympathetically.

“Tell us, Miss Abbott, what were your thoughts while reading the novel?” Mr. Thatcher persisted. “Did it almost seem as if the story took you from the ship to another place… high above the ground?”

You go too far.
He
was
attempting to get her into trouble with the captain
.
She could see no other reason for Mr. Thatcher’s continued line of questioning and his not-so-subtle hints.

“I was quite caught up in the story,” Marsali admitted. “As with any good novel one enjoys, I did feel transported to another time and place.”
So there
,
she finished silently.

From the corner of her eye Marsali glanced at Captain Gower and found, to her concern, that he appeared to be paying close attention to this exchange. Lydia, on the other hand, was openly pouting, nonplussed, no doubt, about the sudden turn in the conversation.

Internally Marsali prepared for the next onslaught of battle, her mind searching for possible retorts to anything else Mr. Thatcher might imply or hints he might drop that she had gone where she was not supposed to.

He is only jealous that I thought of it first.
But if Captain Gower discovered what she had done, he might decide to have her chaperoned during the day as well.
To this point the captain had been quite liberal in allowing the passengers to move about as they pleased. Surely Mr. Thatcher realized that such freedom— or hers, at least— would be in jeopardy if he tattled on her.

Their eyes met over the rim of his glass as he spoke again. “I am glad to know the story elevated you to a place you had not previously imagined.”

She was imagining herself punching him, yet having difficulty holding back laughter, as that would surely give her away. But, oh, she could tell he thought himself clever.

And full of mischief tonight.

“All good literature is uplifting in one regard or another,” Marsali said as she raised her chin and met his gaze head-on. “We see the
beastly
behavior of characters and learn that we must hold ourselves to a higher standard. Or we read of a story where much happiness is found, and it gives us hope that our own may yet come to pass, in spite of those who would stand in our way of finding it.”
Do not ruin this one thing for me. Allow me a few pleasures in the time I have left. And join me in them, if you will.
There was plenty of room in the boat for Mr. Thatcher to read as well, should he wish to escape Miss Cosgrove’s attention, which, now that she was up and about again, would likely be directed at him.

“Well said,” Captain Gower raised his glass to Marsali.

“Agreed.” Mr. Thatcher inclined his head toward her in a gesture of surrender. “To Miss Abbott, her love of literature, and her ingenuity in finding clever solutions to her problems.”

“What solutions? What problems?” Lydia glanced back and forth across the table from one to another. “
What
are we speaking of?”

“An important and somewhat private matter,” Captain Gower said, surprising Marsali. “Miss Abbott, Mr. Thatcher, I would like to see both of you in my quarters in
one
hour.” He exchanged a pointed look with Mr. Thatcher, making Marsali feel slightly ill.
The captain already knows I was in that boat.

She felt the sting of Mr. Thatcher’s betrayal and cast her eyes down at her plate, lest he notice her hurt.

Which is entirely absurd
. She had been in trouble before and would no doubt be in it again at Mr. Thomas’s. And surely the captain would do little more than reprimand her and have her activities more closely watched. It was the thought that Mr. Thatcher was responsible for putting her in this tight spot that wounded her. She would never have done the same to him.

But then she cared for him— far more than she should have— and it was at once apparent that his feelings for her were not the same.

Precisely one hour later, Marsali knocked upon the captain’s door. It opened at once, and Captain Gower beckoned her inside. Marsali stepped into his cabin, her worry momentarily forgotten as she took in the vast array of unusual objects on the tables lining the walls. She had not been sure what a captain’s quarters would look like, but she had definitely not expected this.

The crammed tabletops explained why he always ate with the passengers and never in his private quarters. There was nowhere in here
to
eat, no surface over which to spread a map or even write a letter.

“Are these all your inventions?” Curiosity momentarily overtook her concerns as she moved closer to the nearest table and bent over to peer at a glass globe resting in a wooden stand. A wire was coiled around a metal piece at the bottom of the globe, and a second wire, connected to another contraption, lay beside it.

“Not mine alone,” Captain Gower said. “I have collected many of these. Often they were projects well begun but, for one reason or another, could go no further. I find it interesting to study them and to learn from their potential. Occasionally, I am able to improve upon them.” He picked up the second wire and touched it to the one coiled around the globe. It sizzled, and Marsali jumped back.

“Not to worry,” Captain Gower assured her. A second later the glass globe flared, then lit as a wick inside a lantern would.

She clapped her hands. “How marvelous. But there is no flame or fire?”

Captain Gower shook his head. “Not in the sense you are thinking of. It is a
quantity of electricity
.” He pulled the wires apart, and the light died.

Not very practical
, Marsali thought. A lantern might not be as bright, but at least one did not have to hold it the entire time it was lit.

The captain had picked up another item with a small keyboard similar to that of a pianoforte. The object was awkward and bulky, with folds or wrinkles of some type of material making up much of it. Taking each side in one hand, he pushed the folds together, and a screeching sound came out. When he pulled it apart, a similar yet different sound was made.

Marsali watched and listened, fascinated, as the captain repeated the process, pressing on various keys so that it began to sound almost musical.

“It’s an instrument?” She stepped closer, wishing he would allow her a turn.

“It is called an accordion,” Captain Gower said, “though I am no musician and cannot do it justice.”

After a few more pulls and pushes, he set the accordion back on the table and was about to move on to showing her the next object when the sound of someone clearing his throat stopped them both.

Marsali turned around and was startled to discover Mr. Thatcher sitting in a window seat on the other side of the room. Tucked into the alcove as he was, she had not noticed him upon entering.

“Good evening, Miss Abbott.” He rose from the seat and stepped forward, quickly closing the space between them so they stood very near to one another. Marsali glanced over her shoulder at Captain Gower, but he was not looking at them as if anything was amiss. Instead, he nodded his head as if he had been expecting this very scenario and was now encouraging Mr. Thatcher in something.