by S. G. Rogers
“Thank you, my dear. I was fond of dancing when I was your age.”
“Do let’s have an encore, Cavendish,” Carl said.
“Yes, please, Cavendish,” Louise begged. “Dance with one of us.”
The dapper man gave each of the young ladies a mischievous look in turn, until his gaze fell upon Belle. He gave her a sweeping, courtly bow.
“Miss Oakhurst, will you do me the honor?”
She curtsied. “Why thank you, sir.”
Stephen and Wesley exchanged a grudging glance of admiration as Cavendish and Belle danced a graceful, fast-paced waltz with dazzling changes of direction.
“I think we’ve been eclipsed, Wesley,” Stephen said.
“Perhaps you have,” Wesley murmured. “I’m not even in the same solar system.”
“That man is no common valet, Your Grace,” Mrs. Van Eyck said.
“He’s quite uncommon, Mrs. Van Eyck,” Wesley said. “I count myself fortunate to have him in my employ.”
The dancers were breathing hard when the waltz ended, and the group clapped with enthusiasm.
“Miss Oakhurst, thank you for indulging an old man,” Cavendish said.
“You’re still in your prime, Mr. Cavendish, and quite energetic,” Belle said. “In fact, I could barely keep up with you.”
“But you did keep up with him, Miss Oakhurst,” Mrs. Van Eyck said. “Where did you learn to dance?”
“From Monsieur Caron, the dance master in Mansbury. He teaches the sons and daughters of the local gentry,” Belle said.
“You must have been one of his best pupils.”
Belle smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Van Eyck. Actually, I assist Monsieur Caron in his studio.”
“That explains why you’re so accomplished,” Louise said.
Mrs. Van Eyck returned to her chair, Cavendish replaced Stacy at the piano, and the members of the dance club resumed their practice. Because he was more assured, Wesley found the second half of the afternoon more enjoyable than the first.
When the meeting broke up, Belle murmured something about writing a letter to Errol and left quickly. Everyone else dispersed, and as the August sun raced toward the western horizon, Cavendish and Wesley made their way back toward their cabin.
“Miss Oakhurst was extremely dispirited this afternoon,” Cavendish said.
Wesley was taken aback. “What are you talking about? She was almost more exuberant than I’ve ever seen her!”
“A brave attempt to mask her feelings. I admire her intestinal fortitude. She has, as they say, grit.”
“She quarreled with Stephen Van Eyck while you were dancing with his mother. Perhaps that was it.”
“Actually, I believe her upset stemmed from your practice with Miss Van Eyck.”
“How could she possibly know about that?”
“I saw the hem of Miss Oakhurst’s skirt on the stairs several minutes before practice was to begin,” Cavendish said. “The gold trim was unmistakable. When I saw her next, her smile was quite forced.”
“Why would my practice with Miss Van Eyck disturb Belle?”
“Didn’t you mention Miss Oakhurst had offered to teach you?”
Wesley stared at him, bewildered. Is he suggesting I hurt Belle’s feelings somehow?
“Thank you, Cavendish,” he said finally. “You can go into the cabin, if you like. I’m going to stay on deck for a little while.”
When he was alone, Wesley wandered toward the ship’s railing. The boat had skirted Nova Scotia all day, and the shoreline was still in sight. Icy winds from the north chased the blood from Wesley’s fingers, and he was obliged to stuff his hands into the pockets of his frock coat to keep them warm. He inhaled a lungful of salty air and blew it out slowly. The notion that he’d hurt Belle bothered him. Maybe Cavendish is wrong. Of course, the man hasn’t been wrong about anything else. Is it possible I overreacted this morning because I was jealous of Stephen? Belle’s encouraging words to Carl certainly proved her kindness. She’d even prevented Wesley from making an embarrassing mistake at the beginning of their waltz, and later tactfully blamed the music.
Cavendish appeared at his elbow. “Excuse me, sir, but it’s awfully chilly.” The valet had brought Wesley his overcoat and was holding it ready.
“Thank you, Cavendish, but I’m going inside.”
The valet folded the coat over his arm and stepped back. “After you, Your Grace.”
“Oh, I’m not going to the cabin. I’m going to speak with Belle.”
Cavendish’s mustache twitched. “Very wise course of action.”
I can’t deny it any longer…I’ve allowed my feelings for Wesley Parker to erode my regard for Errol. Tears slipped from underneath Belle’s lids as she lay on her bed with her eyes closed, full of misery and regret. Better that I should have stayed home and never met the Eleventh Duke of Mansbury! She remembered the first glimpse she’d had of him back in Brooklyn. With his bare head, cuts, bruises, and rawboned wrists sticking out of a threadbare, bloodstained shirt, Wesley Parker had resembled a disreputable street urchin. How had this young American man managed to matter to her so very much in such a short period of time? Perhaps it was because beneath the tough exterior, his vulnerability had touched her heart in ways she could not have anticipated. And now that he didn’t seem to need her anymore, it hurt like blazes.
A tap on the door made her jump.
“Belle, may I have a word?”
Wesley!
“Um…just a moment.”
Belle made hasty use of her handkerchief, and splashed water on her face. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed her suspicions; there was no way to hide the fact she’d been crying. I need an excuse! She grabbed one of the novels stacked on the table and went to open the door.
Wesley peered at her. “Are you all right?”
Belle waved her book in the air. “Forgive me, but I just read the saddest passage. My emotions got the better of me.”
He glanced at the book. “Little Lord Fauntleroy is that sad?”
She had not checked the title before grabbing the book, and Belle felt her cheeks glowing with embarrassment.
“The young boy is forced to separate from his mother for the first time in his life and it’s, er…tragic.” Her chin lifted at the look of skepticism on Wesley’s face. “Was there something you wanted?”
His expression turned sober. “I…um, couldn’t help but notice Stephen annoying you at practice today. Do you want me to thrash him?”
A crooked smile twisted her lips. “A thrashing won’t be necessary, thank you. I reprimanded him for taking liberties this morning at the breakfast table and I hope that will put an end to it.”
“Stephen is a very charming fellow.”
“Mr. Van Eyck seeks to recommend himself to every girl he encounters, but not every girl he encounters finds him worthy of serious consideration. I know I don’t.”
Wesley’s eyebrows rose. “I see. Well, if he should impose on you again, let me know and I’ll put an end to it.”
“You’re very kind, Wesley.”
He frowned. Several competing thoughts seemed to flit across his features.
“Um…thank you again for saving me from a misstep during our waltz,” he said at last. “Cavendish worked very hard teaching me last night, but we didn’t have any music then.”
“Cavendish taught you?” Belle was astonished.
“Yes, it was quite a sight. He and I looked very silly, I’m sure.” Wesley chuckled at the memory.
“But Louise—”
“I asked Louise to practice with me before the dance club. In truth, I was terrified of making a fool of myself in front of you, and I very nearly did anyway.”
His gaze dropped to the plush carpet beneath his shoes. Belle reached out and took his hand. “You could never make a fool of yourself as far as I’m concerned, Wesley.”
Wesley stared at her hand a moment before lifting it ever so slowly to his lips for a kiss. As if releasing a delicate
butterfly, he opened his fingers and let Belle withdraw.
“I look forward to dancing with you again tomorrow,” she murmured.
A fierce light shone in his eyes. “Definitely.”
Smiling, Belle stepped back into her cabin and shut the door. A giddy feeling sent delicious shivers down her spine. Then, as she came to her senses, she smacked herself in the forehead with the palm of her hand. Why am I giving Wesley encouragement? I’ve promised Errol Blankenship that I will be his bride. If I’m labeled a jilt, it will ruin my father’s career just as surely as if I’d eloped with the milkman. I must be losing my mind! And yet…the touch of Wesley’s lips on her hand had affected her more deeply than any physical sensation Errol had ever aroused. What am I to do?
The fine weather held overnight, and the City of New York steamed past the Newfoundland coast the next day. Pods of dolphins appeared on both sides of the ship, gamboling in its wake. In the Gazette, a mention of the dance club apparently engendered much interest and speculation; when Belle arrived for practice that afternoon, she discovered the entire widows’ group perched on chairs to one side, like a shadow. The group’s leader, Mrs. Hamm, gave her an apologetic smile. “We thought perhaps the dance club could use more chaperones.”
“We’re delighted to have you,” Belle said.
Nevertheless, she thought the widows’ presence inexplicable until Cavendish trotted down the stairs. Upon his arrival, the widows tittered and patted their hair. The valet, who wore a magnificent waistcoat embroidered with silver thread, paused to give them a theatrical bow before seating himself behind the piano. The ladies sighed with pleasure.
“I think Mrs. Van Eyck must be extolling Cavendish’s virtues,” Belle whispered to Wesley.
Wesley chuckled. “Don’t tell the widows he also knits. He’ll receive five ardent declarations of love before nightfall.”
Practice began. The couples paired off as they had previously, but when Belle waltzed with Wesley, she savored it much more. Not only was he gaining in confidence, but also their friendship had established itself anew. After a good night’s sleep, she’d convinced herself she’d been overwrought the previous day, and that she was merely experiencing premarital jitters. As soon as she was reunited with Errol, she was certain her feelings for him would reassert themselves. In the meantime, she’d behave toward Wesley and Stephen in a circumspect manner.
After her reprimand, Stephen was also acting in a gentlemanly fashion—enough so that Belle’s guarded manner toward him thawed slightly. Stephen managed to incorporate even more style into his waltz, and Belle judged the dance club practice to be the best one yet.
During the midpoint break, Mrs. Hamm sat down at the piano to play The Blue Danube Waltz. Cavendish smiled at the remaining quartet of widows seated on the sidelines. “Could I persuade one of you ladies to dance with me?”
Four ladies rose. After a little awkwardness, the eldest widow prevailed and allowed Cavendish to escort her to the floor. Belle shot Wesley a pointed look. After a startled moment of dawning comprehension, he crossed over to a widow and asked her to dance. Annoyed at having been outdone, Stephen promptly persuaded one of the remaining ladies to join him on the floor. A subtle pinch from Stacy sent Horatio to rescue the last widow. Unaccountably cheerful, Carl leaned against the wall to watch.
“Mr. Stenger appears happy there are no more widows,” murmured Belle to Eva.
“The widows are most certainly relieved there’s only one Carl,” Eva replied.
“Wesley was so gallant just now,” Louise said. “He set a good example.”
“I agree, his behavior does him credit,” Belle said.
“My brother suspects Wesley is partial to me,” Louise murmured. “After all, he did ask me to practice with him yesterday before the meeting. What’s your opinion?”
A worm at the end of a hook could not have squirmed more. How was she to respond? Belle owed her allegiance to Errol, so if Wesley and Louise truly were developing an attachment, she ought not frustrate the relationship.
“Wesley has certainly been very cordial toward you,” she replied. “Any girl lucky enough to secure his good opinion will be quite fortunate, I think.”
Louise studied her a moment. “After the meeting, let’s talk about your fiancé.”
In the second half of the practice, the group began to learn the six parts of the quadrille. Mrs. Hamm kindly assisted on the piano so Cavendish and Belle could demonstrate the figures. Louise squealed when she nearly collided with her brother during a complicated maneuver.
“How will I ever remember the order of figures and which way to turn?” Louise exclaimed.
“Repetition, Miss Van Eyck,” Cavendish said.
“And if that fails, you can always feign an injury and decline to dance,” Stephen said.
Louise considered the idea. “That may work, actually.”
After the dance club was adjourned, the widows clustered around Cavendish to ask his opinions on music. Wesley stifled a smile as he took his leave. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m off to a late afternoon game of shovelboard with Mr. Ley.”
“I’m a fair shovelboard player myself,” Stephen said. “Carl, let’s you and I challenge Wesley and Mr. Ley to a game or two. Horatio, you can take bets should anyone wish to place a wager.”
“Er, I’m too young to gamble,” Horatio said. “Thanks for the invitation all the same.”
He loped up the stairs, followed by Wesley, Stephen, and Carl. The girls ascended to the saloon deck, where they discussed what to do until dinner. Eva planned to read a few pages of Wuthering Heights, while Stacy was going to write a letter.
“I promised Mama to write something in a letter each day about the voyage,” she said. “I’ll post it once we arrive in Liverpool.”
“By the way, are we playing cards tonight?” Eva asked.
“Yes, after dinner,” Belle said.
“We’ll see you later then,” Stacy said.
As the two sisters headed off, Louise laced her arm through Belle’s. “Now let’s go for a walk on the promenade deck. I want to hear about Sir Errol.”
Chapter Fifteen
Distress Call
WITH THE SHORELINE OF NEWFOUNDLAND in the distance, Belle and Louise strolled alongside the railing.
“Sir Errol Blankenship and I met at a large party in May,” Belle said. “He was newly arrived in town, and all the girls were mad for him. For some reason, he asked to be introduced to me.”
“Yes, but what do you like about the man?”
“Errol is very cultured, refined, and learned. He’s quite extraordinarily handsome, too.”
“What color are his eyes?”
“Hmm, I hadn’t thought about it before. They’re gray, I believe.” She paused to consider the matter. “Yes, I’m sure of it…his eyes are a bluish gray color.”
“Like Wesley’s?”
“Oh, no, Wesley’s eyes are brown…a lovely, warm brown like those of a fawn.”
“Let’s play a little game. What would you say Wesley’s best qualities are?” Louise asked.
Belle laughed. “I thought you wanted to talk about Errol! Let’s see…Wesley is tremendously funny, adventuresome, kind, and generous. He can also be very sweet, too, and thoughtful.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” Louise said.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re in love with him.”
“Of course I’m in love with him! Errol and I are engaged.”
“Not Errol, you goose. Wesley.”
Belle’s skin prickled. “That isn’t true. It can’t be.”
“Of course it is. I asked you to describe Errol and you gave quite the most dispassionate details. Then, when you spoke of Wesley, your entire face glowed.”
“Louise, no. I simply can’t be in love with him.”
“How difficult is it to tell Errol you’ve changed your mind?”
“Since I’ve given my word, it’s impossible. Wesley and I are frien
ds and that’s the end of it. Please, let’s don’t speak of this again.”
“As you wish, Annabelle, but it doesn’t change the facts. You’re in love with Wesley Parker, and I suspect he’s in love with you.”
Wesley and Mr. Ley won their first shovelboard game with Stephen and Carl, but lost the second. Stephen took every opportunity to crow about the victory. His poor sportsmanship set Wesley’s teeth on edge, but since the dinner hour was drawing near, there was no opportunity for a tie breaking game.
When Wesley entered his cabin to dress, his valet was nowhere to be found. Just as he was laying out a fresh change of clothes for himself, Cavendish burst into the cabin.
“Forgive my tardiness, sir. The widows were most persistent.”
“You’re a great favorite with the ladies, Cavendish. I wonder that you never married,” Wesley said.
A red flush stained Cavendish’s cheekbones. “I was engaged many years ago, but bungled things terribly. I thereafter vowed bachelorhood.”
“What happened to the lady, if I may ask?”
“With her considerable beauty and charm, I believe Miss Christianson must have married.” The valet’s usually cheerful energy became muted. “May I suggest we turn our attention to the task at hand? The dinner hour rapidly approaches.”
Wesley and his mother were again seated at the captain’s table that evening, but Captain Howe was absent. In his stead was a uniformed crewman whose wiry red hair, ginger whiskers, and accent revealed his Scottish heritage.
“Captain Howe sends his regrets, but he will much occupied on the bridge for the next twelve hours,” he said. “My name is Mr. Duncan, the Chief Officer.”
Mr. Ley seemed puzzled. “We’ve calm seas and splendid weather. Is something wrong?”
“Not in the least. We’ve entered the Grand Banks.”
“The Grand Banks is a fisherman’s paradise, from what I’ve heard,” Mr. Ley said.
“Yes, but after the Grand Banks we’ll be passing through the most treacherous waters in the Atlantic.” Mr. Duncan paused for dramatic effect. “Iceberg Alley.”