Cosmo sucked in his ruddy cheeks. Trouble. Whenever Chelsea called him “Uncle Cosmo,” it meant trouble. Any other time she behaved as though he were something kicked out of the gutter. His queasy stomach churned. He didn’t want to engage in an argument with her, at least not before he’d managed somehow to get a share of her four hundred pounds. “Can’t we talk later? After we load the wagon?”
“No, I’d like to speak to you now. Just a few minutes, I promise. Come along, Uncle, we haven’t had a family chat for some time.”
Family chat! Now he knew there was going to be trouble! “Are you packed?” he asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.
“Oh, yes, I’ve been packed since this morning. Come along, Uncle, this won’t take long.”
Cosmo stood inside Chelsea’s room while she closed the door. Not such a bad place, really, but the way Chelsea complained one would think it was an East End slum. Well, he was getting sick and tired of her high-handed ways. She was his niece and he was her protector; she should exhibit more respect for him, and he intended to tell her as much. And as for the four hundred pounds she’d taken from him, she had better hand it over. If he’d known there was more than three pounds in that little purse, he would have fought to the death before letting Chelsea get her hands on it. All manner of mean, grasping thoughts raced through Cosmo’s head as he formed the words that would intimidate his niece into handing over his hard-earned money.
“Uncle Cosmo,” Chelsea began, “I’m afraid I’ve some news for you, and I don’t believe you’re going to like it. We have, you and I, come to a parting of the ways.”
At her words, all color drained from Cosmo’s face. His quick eye took in the packed trunk—a new trunk! No doubt paid for with a part of the money she owed him. Bile rose in his throat. Where would he find a replacement at this late hour? Chelsea’s fair features and womanly figure were more of a box office draw than he’d ever admitted to her.
“I want to better myself, Uncle,” she went on. “We are going nowhere with this shoddy little production, except perhaps to Newgate, and I want no more of it. I’m leaving.”
“You ungrateful little guttersnipe!” he roared in his best “wounded patriarch” voice. “Where would you have been if I hadn’t come along and taken you under my wing when your parents died? I’ve always done my best for you, Chelsea, and this is the way you repay me. I won’t have it!”
“Your best isn’t good enough, Uncle Cosmo.” She pretended a coolness she didn’t feel. “I possibly would have been better off today if I’d gone into service—or even let myself be taken to St. Matthew’s.”
“How can you be so ungrateful? I won’t have it! I’m warning you! I won’t have it!”
Cosmo’s eyes glittered, and something in his tone filled her with apprehension. “What will you do?” she asked, forcing a bravado she didn’t feel. Now she regretted this confrontation; she should simply have left, giving her uncle no opportunity for his tricks.
Cosmo smiled nastily. “I could have Swift Billy in here to force you into the dray. He and Prudence would tear you apart if they knew about the four hundred pounds. Speaking of which, where is it, Chelsea? I want it now!”
“I don’t have it,” she lied. “I used it to pay for my passage out of London. As I told you, I’m leaving.”
Cosmo peered deeply into her tawny eyes. “If what you say is true, we’ll just go down to the wharf and obtain a refund. You see, Chelsea, dear niece, you’re not going anywhere, not without me, at least.”
“You! You’re the reason I’m leaving—to get away from you! I’m sick of this life, of the shabby costumes and men leering and living a hairsbreadth away from the law. I don’t want to waste my life rotting in prison, and as long as I stay with you and your merry band of thieves, that prospect looms closer every day.”
“So it’s the law that frightens you? What would you say if I told you I would have no compunction about turning you over to the authorities? Perhaps I cannot force you to stay with me, but I assure you the police have a place for ungrateful girls like yourself.”
For an instant, Chelsea was taken aback. But only for an instant. “Uncle,” she said smoothly, “if you were to put me in the company of a policeman for one minute, I would tell him how you managed to acquire that pocketwatch you’re so fond of sporting. Let me see”—she tapped her tooth with a fingernail—“that was a gift from a certain Mrs. Hodges, wasn’t it? And I believe there was also an unsuspecting widow by the name of Mrs. Smythe. And aren’t there one or two Mrs. Perragutts floating around near Portsmouth? Both of whom belong to you, am I correct? Do you know the penalty for bigamy, Uncle?”
A fine sheen of perspiration formed on Cosmo’s upper lip. Everything Chelsea said was true, but he was not about to give up so easily; perhaps there was still a way to get some of that money after all. “May I ask, my dear, just where you are going?”
“To America,” she lied smoothly.
His eyebrows shot upward. “America! Even first class to America doesn’t require four hundred pounds! Hand the rest of it over, Chelsea, or I’ll call Swift Billy in here, and you know what a nasty little rotter he can be.”
“Call him, then,” Chelsea challenged. “Call him and tell him how there were four hundred pounds in the purse he snatched and explain to him how you gave it to me for safekeeping. I did get the purse from you, didn’t I? If you think that little Neanderthal will listen to reason, you’ve another think coming, Cosmo.”
“You’re an ungrateful witch, Chelsea,” Cosmo growled, recognizing the truth in her words, “and if your poor mother could only hear the way you’ve repaid my kindness …”
“Save your breath, Uncle. My poor mother has been dead for over ten years. Ten years slaving for you, doing your bidding, living off your crimes. It was easy to take an eleven-year-old child and train her to your ways, but the child is now a woman and more difficult to handle.” Chelsea drew herself up to her full height. “I believe we’ve said all there is to say, Cosmo. I’ve already sent the costumes and other property belonging to the troupe out to the dray.”
She turned her back on Cosmo, squeezing her eyes shut, almost expecting him to attack her from behind and throttle her within an inch of her life. He felt betrayed, and perhaps he had every right, but she had her rights, also, and she was making full use of them. A long, long moment later, the door closed behind her.
So this was the way it was to end, she thought, almost ten years of her life. Several minutes later, when the dray pulled away from the doorstep, Chelsea sank down onto the edge of her bed. Already she missed the small security of the troupe. Security. She was on her own now, responsible for herself. Say what she might about Cosmo and his preferred way of life, he had always managed to put food in her belly and keep a roof over her head. Was it wrong to want so much more?
A small, slow tear formed in the corner of her eye. Not only was she leaving the troupe, she was leaving England, her birthplace, and everything and everyone she knew. Quickly she brushed her tears away. It was silly to cry over nothing. She had a chance for herself, and she was going to take it! She didn’t know what life held in store for her, but it had to be better than this. In fact, she would see to it!
Chapter 4
Honoria Harris glanced around her tiny quarters to see if she had inadvertently left anything behind. Penurious by nature, she believed there was no sense leaving anything of value for the landlady. Now, as she prepared to leave her apartment, she felt no regret at leaving England, no aching sense of loss. Later, she knew, when the last sight of England was left behind, she would cry torrents. Not even when she’d received news of her husband’s death in the service of the queen had she felt so desolate, so completely alone.
Jason, who had not given her an argument when she’d said he needn’t come to see her off, had at least offered to make arrangements for a carriage to pick her up at her lodgings promptly at six-thirty. The remainder of her money was carefully pinned to her chemise, and
another packet, a small one containing coins, was tucked into the waistband of her petticoat. She decided the arrangement she’d made with Chelsea Myles was definitely to her liking, as it left her with a little extra, a bit of a nest egg to—as Miss Myles had put it—make her feel less at the mercy of her husband. This way she wouldn’t have to beg if she wanted a ribbon or a bit of lace. It would be a new beginning, and a wiser one this time, she hoped.
As yet, her life hadn’t been idyllic. The youngest of two daughters and not favored with good looks, she’d been pressured into an arranged marriage to the third son of a respectable but hardly wealthy family. Then, when Andrew had died, she’d quickly become the poor relation and found herself at her sister’s mercy. Still, Jason and Barbara had been kind enough, in their way. And Jason had paid for her passage and trousseau. He’d seen to it that she would be married in style. She would not shame him, he had decided, but neither would he allow her to forget that she would always be in his debt.
At first the penurious Honoria had been appalled by the number of new garments Jason had insisted she order, thinking he meant her to pay for them out of her small inheritance. But when she’d learned he was accepting the bill himself, she’d allowed herself the pleasure of delighting in her wardrobe, admiring all the fashionable dresses and fondling the delicate, lacy nightdresses. Her new shoes were of the softest leather, and the gloves displayed infinitely delicate stitching. Jason was sending her off fully equipped to entice a new husband. Secretly, she believed he’d given her the trousseau to compensate for his exaggerations concerning her womanly charms in his letters to Mr. Kane. She knew for certain that he had never revealed her age. As though thirty-three were so old!
Honoria checked the tiny timepiece pinned to her bodice. The carriage should be arriving at any minute. She hoped Chelsea would be prompt; it wouldn’t do to make an unflattering impression on the captain, would it? Her conscience pricked her for a moment when she remembered that she’d registered for the sailing as Mrs. Honoria Harris and maid. Since servants were never invited to take meals in the dining room, their fare was greatly reduced. She hoped Chelsea wouldn’t be too upset when she discovered the little ploy; she could always say it was a misunderstanding and profess innocence. Perhaps it wasn’t quite honest, but then was Chelsea Myles being honest with her? As unpleasant as it was to think about it, some nagging suspicions concerning her travel partner persisted.
A furious pumping in her chest forced Honoria to sit down. Every time something went wrong, she had one of these attacks. Without looking in the mirror, she knew that her lips had a bluish tinge and her face was ashen. Too much excitement. Once she was out on the open sea her health would improve, she was certain of it. Most physicians recommended a sea voyage to restore the constitution; why had her doctor objected? Just because she’d been having these episodes more frequently lately? It was probably just nerves, no matter what that quack said.
Honoria took a deep breath and relaxed. It was over, anyway, and what was done was done. She felt weak but eager to get on with her trip. Rising slowly, she grasped the arm of the chair to steady herself, then tugged at her gray linsey woolsey traveling dress and patted the white ruffle near her neck. When she spied her reflection in the mirror, she had to admit that she was the one who looked like the maid. No doubt Chelsea would arrive at the harbor with twelve trunks in tow, all of them crammed with the most luxurious costumes and accessories, and all of them flamboyantly colorful and dramatic. Just once she wished she had the courage to see herself flamboyantly dressed, wearing low-cut bodices and figure-defining undergarments. Her bosom was every bit as generous as Chelsea’s; in fact, they were very close in size. Perhaps, in the privacy of their cabin, Chelsea would allow her to try on Portia’s costume, just to see what she looked like.
A knock sounded at the door; the carriage had arrived. After instructing the driver about the baggage, she left the flat without a backward glance. There were no memories to leave behind.
When the carriage arrived at the wharf at exactly seven o’clock, Honoria was almost giddy with relief. It was true, it was happening, she was really leaving to begin a new life. The giddiness stayed with her, and when she alighted from the carriage weakness overcame her again. A portly, elderly gentleman came to her assistance and was escorting her up the gang rail when Chelsea arrived on the scene. Instantly she rushed to Honoria’s aid, managing to get her aboard ship and settled into their assigned cabin.
“Truly, I don’t know what’s come over me,” Honoria said apologetically. “I suppose it’s all the excitement.”
Chelsea frowned; she didn’t need a sickly companion. A vision of Honoria retching into a chamber pot set her teeth on edge. “Are you ill, Honoria?”
“Not really,” Honoria replied, averting her eyes. “I believe it’s simply the excitement. Please, don’t concern yourself with me. I’ll lie down and rest for a while.”
But Chelsea wasn’t satisfied with the explanation. “If you feel ill now, how are you going to feel once we set sail? Seasickness can be a terrible affliction, I’m told. If it isn’t too late, we could change our cabin arrangements. You might not want me here if you’re ill.”
The surge of panic at the thought of being left alone did terrible things to Honoria’s heart. “Please,” she gasped, holding her hand out to Chelsea, “don’t even consider such a thing. Think of the difference in the passage fare. I’ll be fine. You did say you would help me. Leave me to rest. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
Chelsea wondered if she’d jumped from the frying pan into the fire. A sickly companion in close quarters was more than she’d bargained for. And speaking of close quarters, the cabin they were to share certainly fell far short. Perhaps there had been a mistake; surely a double cabin should be larger than this one—and shouldn’t there be two beds instead of a built-in bunk and a trundle?
Honoria lay back, her hand on her forehead. She felt awful, worse than before. If only she had some tea and brandy … Dare she ask Chelsea to get it for her? A queasy feeling erupted in her stomach as she felt her chest tighten again. This time she didn’t even think twice. “Chelsea, could I impose on you to see about some tea with a tad of brandy?”
When Chelsea returned, Honoria sucked greedily at the rim of the cup, traces of the tea dribbling down her chin. “It’s not hot,” she whined. “It won’t help me if it’s not hot.”
The pity welling in Chelsea’s breast died. “I’m sorry, it was the best I could do. I was lucky to get it at all,” she said defensively, remembering the cook’s reluctance to open his kitchen before breakfast in the morning. It had been a mistake to share her cabin with Honoria. She could feel it in her bones.
“Chelsea, as long as you’re unpacking your trunks, do you think you could do some of mine? At least a nightdress and my slippers. A fresh gown for tomorrow. There really isn’t anything else for either of us to do at the moment, and since I’m confined to my bed, we can chat while you unpack.”
Chelsea’s mouth quirked. Well, that settled the question of who was to sleep on the trundle. “Honoria, you have seven trunks. I have only two. I’ll be here all night. You can’t possibly wear everything you own, and at any rate, where do you suppose I would put it all? This cabin is hardly large enough for one woman, much less two. I intend to speak to the purser about this. Surely a double cabin is larger than this.”
“No … no, don’t,” Honoria protested. When she saw the question in Chelsea’s eyes, she added, “No, don’t leave me! I couldn’t possibly stand being left alone. The cabin really isn’t so small, once the trundle is tucked under this bed.” She leaned back into Chelsea’s supporting arms, willing her to stay. Then, the whine back in her voice, she added, “Chelsea, everything will be so wrinkled and we’ll look quite disheveled when we go above on deck. The gowns need to be hung so they smooth themselves. I think it would be best if they were hung now.”
“Cosmo, I think I will live to regret my hasty decision,” Chelsea muttered beneath
her breath.
“Did you say something, Chelsea?”
“No, just talking to myself.” She grimaced when she saw Honoria inch closer to the wall, her hands clutching the coverlet on the bunk. Dear old Cosmo would laugh his silly head off if he could see what she’d gotten herself into. Three months of being a nursemaid.
By the time she’d finished unpacking her own trunk, Honoria was sound asleep. Chelsea tiptoed over to the bunk and stood looking down at the sleeping woman. Carefully, gently, she undid the buttons at the top of Honoria’s dun-gray gown and then removed her shoes. At least she would be comparatively comfortable while she slept. What was she going to do if Honoria became really ill? Who would care for her? Not liking the answer, Chelsea opened Honoria’s trunks and began removing the contents.
From time to time, as she pulled out various garments, Chelsea marveled at the quality of the fabrics and the fine stitching. In her entire life Chelsea had never owned anything half as grand. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the sleeping woman. This was a trousseau fit for a princess. And Honoria, in Chelsea’s opinion, was not a princess. Everything was new, except for a few serviceable gowns, and everything was beautiful. Lace-edged petticoats, satin-embroidered chemises, ingeniously boned corsets, and delicate pantaloons. She itched to try on one gown in particular, a lavender silk brocade. It was a gown for dancing, for tantalizing a man, a gown for bewitching. Delving into the bottom of the trunk, she found a pair of matching satin slippers.
Stunned by the luxuriousness of Honoria’s possessions, Chelsea sank down onto the narrow trundle. How was it somebody like Honoria could have all these fine things while she herself wore what amounted to tatters? It wasn’t fair. Someday, she promised herself fiercely, she, too, would have things as fine, even finer, and a husband to give them to her.
But what upset her more than anything else was the knowledge that Honoria was a lady of class and breeding, attributes she, Chelsea, could never possess. Never, that is, unless she married into them. Now that was something she hadn’t considered, a rich husband. A wealthy gentleman for a husband, someone to lend his own class and breeding and elevate her in this world. A giggle erupted and she choked it down. Why in the world had she thought she had to make her own way in this world? She had something Honoria would never have—beauty. Wasn’t it Helen of Troy whose face had launched a thousand ships? Chelsea’s fingers grazed her delicate chin and the soft curve of her nose. Well, perhaps she couldn’t launch a thousand ships, but certainly there was one little square rigger out there looking for a home port.
To Taste The Wine Page 7