Marrying Christopher (32 page)

“I will not,” he promised, covering her hand with his.

“Then I shall attempt to come up with something worthy of your fine suit.” Marsali stood, leaving the table and the room with Lady Cosgrove and leaving him feeling oddly vacant.

“See what I mean about a woman getting under your skin,” Captain Gower said as he reached for a roll and took up his knife.

“Does it ever get better?” Christopher asked.
Will I ever be able to cease thinking of her every minute, worrying over her, wishing she were near?

“Not if you are lucky.” Captain Gower sliced his roll open. “Not if you are very lucky.”

The atmosphere in the Cosgroves’ cabin was stilted at best. When they entered, Lydia looked up from her bed, her eyes puffy from crying. Heedless of what Lady Cosgrove might think of her, Marsali quickly crossed the room, sat, and embraced Lydia.

“You are perfect the way you are,” she whispered. “Do not change for anyone, especially not Mr. Vancer. If he does not simply adore you, I shall come to New York myself and help him to realize his good fortune.”

Marsali pulled back, and Lydia gave her a tearful smile. “Thank you for being my friend.”

“Thank
you
for being mine. Aside from my sister, I have never had a friend before you. We must write to each other when we are in America. And perhaps someday, when we have finished working for Mr. Thomas, Mr. Thatcher and I shall come to one of your fancy masquerade balls.”

“You shall both be my guests of honor,” Lydia promised, squeezing Marsali’s hands. “I am happy for you— truly. Please do not think me envious. I
would
have liked it had Mr. Thatcher fancied me, but Mother would not have cared for it at all, as he has no wealth to recommend him.”

“Do you wish to spend the day in sentimental expression, or are we going to select a gown for Miss Abbott?” Lady Cosgrove’s tone held no sympathy, and— as she had been earlier at breakfast— Marsali was left puzzled that she had offered to help at all.

“I know just the one.” Lydia bounded from the bed, her previous enthusiasm restored in spite of her mother’s harshness. She crossed to the trunks lining the wall and raised the lid of the third. “These gowns have not been worn for quite some time,” she explained. “We had only just come out of mourning at the start of this journey, and we haven’t been to a party or a ball in ever so long.”

She bent over, digging through the prettiest fabrics Marsali had ever seen. Anything from that trunk—
any
of Lydia’s gowns, even her morning frocks— would be better than Marsali’s long-outdated but best green chintz, a hand-me-down from one of the maids at her aunt’s house.

“This one,” Lydia declared, pulling an exquisite silver-grey gown from the very bottom of the trunk. “I wore this at the second ball of my coming-out season. It was one of my favorites.”

“A good choice.” Lady Cosgrove nodded her approval. Marsali stepped forward and tentatively touched the lovely gown.

“It won’t bite you.” Lydia thrust it at her, and Marsali took it, surprised at both its heaviness and how smooth the fabric was.

“It is satin,” Lydia said as if sensing Marsali’s astonishment.

“The lace was imported from Paris,” Lady Cosgrove said. “And all that pleating cost a fine penny. My husband was much astonished when the bill arrived. But Lydia was the envy of every woman in attendance the night she wore that gown.”

Marsali had no words. She had never seen or held a gown so beautiful, let alone worn one. Her father’s active lifestyle and their frequent outdoor excursions had required that most of her childhood clothing be simple. As she’d grown older, her gowns had changed to the more traditional wear of the upper class. A modiste had come from Lyon twice a year, and Marsali had a vague recollection of being allowed to choose some of the fabrics for her gowns. But she had still been young when they’d moved to England, and many of the luxuries they had become accustomed to— including having fine clothing made— had ended with that move.

Now she was used to practical fabrics with little adornment, and it was not often she thought of or pined for anything else. But holding this gown changed all of that.

She longed to wear it, longed to be beautiful and to have all of the extravagances for her wedding day that Lydia had described at breakfast.

Charlotte’s wedding had been simple but lovely.
Because she and Matthew
were
in love.
Marsali did not know if she could make that claim yet— either for herself or Mr. Thatcher, though they each cared a great deal for one another. But to have their day be made special— regardless of their reasons for marrying— suddenly held great appeal.

“Will you really allow me to wear it?” It was all Marsali could do not to hug the dress to her chest or rub her cheek against the soft fabric.

“Of course I will.” Lydia laughed. “Though something will have to be done to hem it. You are quite a bit shorter than I am.”

“Hemming is quite simple,” Marsali assured her. She laid the gown across her arms and lifted the skirt to see what she would have to work with. “I can do an invisible hem, with tiny stitches. It need only be attached to this inner layer. Then, after the wedding, I can unpick the stitches for you, and no one will ever even know it was altered.”

“Try it on, then, and we shall pin it.”

“Have you needle and thread?” Marsali asked, remembering that her sewing kit had been abandoned at Madame Kelner’s.

“We have, though it is embroidery thread. It will have to do, I suppose.” Lady Cosgrove walked through the passageway connecting her room with Lydia’s. “I shall fetch what we need while Lydia helps you change.”

The next hours passed in a happy blur. Once she had the regal gown on, Marsali could hardly bear to take it off. It was amazing how different a fancy gown could make one feel. She stood straighter when wearing it— and not just because of the restrictive stays beneath. She felt like a princess in a fairytale, no longer Marsali Abbott, a girl alone in the world who must work hard for her bread.

When the hem had been measured and was pinned, she reluctantly allowed Lady Cosgrove and Lydia to help her from it. Then Lady Cosgrove left to speak with Captain Gower, and Marsali and Lydia sat on the bed and visited while Marsali sewed the tiniest, neatest stitches she had ever made. She had no wish to repay Lydia’s kindness by ruining her dress.

“It is doubtful it fits me any longer,” Lydia remarked with a sigh after asking Marsali why she was taking such great care. “I was both shorter and thinner at sixteen than I am now.”

“I should hope you were not thinner,” Marsali said, her eyes going to Lydia’s trim waistline. “Especially considering the week and a half of sickness you’ve just endured.”

Marsali asked Lydia to show her the other gowns in her trunks and enjoyed the ensuing fashion parade and the layers of silks and satins and ruffles and ribbons that began piling up on the bed beside her. Near the noon hour, when the gown was at last finished, Marsali leaned back, resting her head against the wall and feeling a happy contentment.

“And this is the one I wore when I received my very first kiss.” Lydia held a deep purple silk in front of her.

“Your
first
kiss?” Marsali said. “How many have you had?”

“Just two. From the same man.” Lydia smiled wistfully, and her eyes drifted to the window. “I wish now that I had run away with him. Had I known what was to become my fate, I would have.”

Instead of asking of whom she spoke, Marsali tried to steer Lydia’s attention back to the present and the future that was shortly to be hers. “Perhaps you will feel the same about Mr. Vancer. No doubt he has been thinking of you these many weeks, anticipating your arrival.”

“Do you think so?” Lydia sat on the edge of the bed, the purple dress folded over her arm, its memories temporarily forgotten.

“I do.” Marsali sat up straight and scooted closer to her. “He
must
be thinking of you. And I believe that once he comes to know you, he shall care for you a great deal.” It was true— or so she hoped it was. Beneath Lydia’s incessant chatter was a delightful and caring woman. If Mr. Vancer would only allow for Lydia’s nerves and give her time to get past them, he very well could come to love her.

“Has Mr. Thatcher kissed you?” Lydia leaned closer, her hand clutching Marsali’s as if she would not release it until Marsali had spilled all of her secrets.

“He has. Right here.” Marsali pointed to her nose.

Lydia giggled. “That does not count. A real kiss is given on the lips.”

“Perhaps,” Marsali conceded. “Nevertheless, I enjoyed it very much.” Though she recalled her disappointment when he had released her and told her the captain’s quarters were no place for a first kiss.

“Have you fallen in love with him?” Lydia asked. “And has he told you he loves you?”

“He has not,” Marsali said, feeling a bit disappointed with the admission, though Mr. Thatcher’s actions had shown that he cared a great deal for her. “I am not certain what it is I feel for him.” Had
she
fallen in love? Marsali could not be certain, having never allowed her thoughts to stray to that possibility until late last night. “I am very fond of him, and when I am with him I feel different, more alive somehow.”

“Does your stomach quiver like it is made of jelly, and do you feel as if you might faint?” Lydia pressed.

“No.” Marsali shook her head. “That does not sound like love. That sounds dreadful!”

“Oh, but it isn’t,” Lydia exclaimed. “It is wonderful. You feel as if your feet are not quite touching the ground and you are walking among clouds. You are happy for no apparent reason. Your heart seems to swell.” She pressed a hand to her chest.

“I should think that
would be painful.” Marsali rose from the bed on the pretense of putting away the gowns. She did not wish Lydia to see the truth registering on her face, for the feelings she had described of inordinate happiness and walking among clouds rang true.

Lydia changed position to better follow Marsali’s movements. “When you love a man, he is your first thought in the morning and your last at night, and you want nothing more than to be with him constantly. Parting is agony. But when he touches you…”

“Yes?” Marsali looked over her shoulder as she placed a peach dress in the trunk. “What happens when he touches you?”

Lydia batted her eyes coyly. “Well, if you don’t know by now— if Mr. Thatcher has not affected you in any way— then I fear you’ve little hope of it being a love match.”

Marsali did not reply but took her time folding the sleeves of the gown carefully, so they would not wrinkle. The trouble was, she
did
know. When Christopher touched her— even slightly— it was as if a flame ignited inside her. He had been her last thought before she drifted off to sleep for many nights on this voyage. And he had definitely been her first this morning. She suspected Lydia was very much wrong and that theirs
was
a love match— for her at least.

Lydia fastened a string of delicate pearls around Marsali’s neck and stood before her. “Oh, I wish you had a mirror to see yourself.”

Marsali wished the same as she fastened matching pearl earrings in place. Lady Cosgrove had shown continued and surprising generosity, insisting that Marsali have both gloves and jewelry for the occasion and producing each for her to borrow.

“You look beautiful. Just like a princess.” Lydia grasped Marsali’s hands and danced her around the cabin. “If Mr. Thatcher is not madly in love with you already, he will be when he sees you this morning.”

Marsali only smiled in reply. Beyond her conversation with Lydia yesterday, she had not allowed herself to dwell on the possibility of a love match. “Mr. Thatcher is marrying me to keep me safe. Had the problem with Mr. Thomas not arisen, I very much doubt we would be about to speak wedding vows.” For now, she had decided it was best to remember that. She wanted to be a good wife to Christopher and strongly suspected she was half in love with him already. But last night Captain Gower had made very clear to them the terms of their marriage and the strict discipline that they would, in all likelihood, be required to follow.