No matter, she told herself. I will simply have to earn his good graces.
“Your ship is splendid,” she said sincerely.
“I rather think so.” Captain Gower smiled, and it changed his face completely, giving Marsali hope that there was a fair man within.
“Mr. Thatcher has asked for a tour of her once we are underway. You may join us in that if you like.”
“Yes, please.” Marsali’s hopes soared. Perhaps the captain would treat her as the other passengers. And I should like to see Mr. Thatcher again. The thought caused a queer little flutter inside, as had his unexpected kindness the previous night.
“Breakfast will be served shortly, and you can meet the other passengers. Perhaps you and the young Miss Cosgrove will get on well. She looks to be about your age.”
Marsali’s smile broadened. This was more than she had hoped for. To make a friend on this voyage would be lovely— to have idle hours in which she might enjoy visiting with another female. To sit at tea and live as I once did— even if only for a few weeks. “I should like that very much.”
“Then let us go in.” The captain held his arm out to her, and Marsali hesitated but a second before she placed her hand upon it. How long has it been since a gentleman offered me his arm? She had not expected such a courtesy from the captain, of all people, but she took it as a good sign— that perhaps he regretted being so gruff with her the evening before.
They returned to the common room and found that the table closest to the captain’s quarters had been set with linens, plates, and silverware. The captain seated himself at a lone chair at the head of the table, and Marsali slid onto the bench to his right, uncertain of where she should sit. It seemed odd that just this one table had been set when there were so many cabins. Where is everyone else to eat?
Mr. Thatcher’s door opened, and he stepped out into the hall. “Good morning, Captain, Miss Abbott.” He nodded to each, then joined them at the table, sitting directly across from her.
She had not realized or noticed last night how tall he was or how broad his shoulders were. He wore the clothing of a gentleman, but his stature somehow bespoke a man used to physical labor. Neither had she noticed the deep blue of his eyes— eyes that held a hint of good-natured mischief as they met hers briefly, giving Marsali the impression that he knew she’d been appraising him.
“Good morning, Mr. Thatcher,” she murmured, keeping her gaze downcast and noticing that his hands did not have the finely aristocratic look her uncle’s and his associates’ did. In spite of herself and her inherent wariness of men, she felt intrigued by Mr. Thatcher. At the least she wanted to thank him again for his kindness but sensed she should not say anything in front of the captain. After all, it had been he who had scolded her as if she was a child and then sent her to bed hungry.
The doors closest on either side of the captain’s quarters swung open, and two ship’s boys entered, each bearing a large tray laden with various bowls and platters. The smaller of the two boys struggled under the weight of his tray but managed to set it safely on the table.
The captain pulled a pocket watch out of his vest. “Eight o’clock sharp. Good work, lads. You may tell Mr. Tenney I said so as well.”
“Yessir,” they said in unison and left the same way they had come.
Punctuality, Marsali realized, is of great importance to the captain. No wonder I incurred his wrath last night. She would make certain not to do so again.
The captain removed the lid from a platter and began dishing eggs onto his plate. Marsali’s stomach grumbled with hunger, and she glanced away, taking her time with unfolding her serviette so as not to appear too eager. She doubted she could expect a hearty breakfast like this every day throughout the voyage, but this morning, at least, it appeared they were to eat very well.
So long since I have done that either. The captain finished with the platter of eggs and passed it to her.
“I’ve already explained to the other passengers that we’re not as fancy as some are used to here. The men I’ve hired to crew this ship have better things to do than stand here and pull out chairs and pour drinks. And I don’t see the need for washing more dishes than necessary. One plate, one fork, one knife, one cup per meal. Keep it simple, I say. And we’re all able-bodied and can fend for ourselves, aye?”
“Of course,” Marsali said, feeling only gratitude that she was not expected to serve. But she wondered about the other passengers, as it was obvious the majority had yet to take their meal. Who will serve them, and where will they eat?
At the far end of the room, the second to last door on Marsali’s side banged open. A woman emerged, her petticoats making their entrance before she herself did. Trying not to stare, Marsali watched from the corner of her eye as the frilly, canary-yellow dress and the woman in it made their way toward the table.
“Ah,” Captain Gower said. “Miss Cosgrove has decided to join us. Her mother informed me yesterday that an eight a.m. breakfast time was unacceptably early, but perhaps at least half of their party has changed her mind.”
Marsali followed the young woman’s progress toward them, noting that her excessively full skirts barely fit between the benches and the wall. Marsali could see what it was that had likely changed Miss Cosgrove’s mind about breakfasting at eight. Her eyes at once sought out Mr. Thatcher and were now riveted upon him. Somehow, Marsali doubted he had shown Miss Cosgrove the same kindness he’d shown her in offering food, but he must have done something— aside from being dashingly handsome— to attract her keen interest.
This disappointed Marsali, though she couldn’t exactly say why or even feel justified in her disappointment. She was also discouraged to realize this was the young lady Captain Gower had suggested she might be friends with. Already Marsali could see that prospect was doubtful.
The way Miss Cosgrove’s hips swayed as she walked begged to be noticed— as if her bright dress was impossible to ignore. And she wore nearly as much powder on her face as some of the women Marsali had seen on Lime Street yesterday. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her nails groomed, and an almost overbearing scent of lilacs announced her arrival lest her other tactics failed.
Captain Gower rose from his chair and went to greet her. “Good morning, Miss Cosgrove.” He bent over her hand, kissing it briefly. “May I present Miss Abbott, who joined us late last evening. Miss Abbott, this is Lady Cosgrove’s daughter, the lovely Miss Lydia Cosgrove, whom I was telling you about.”
“Hello.” Marsali smiled, then rose from her chair in unison with Mr. Thatcher. She braced herself for rejection as she turned to Miss Cosgrove. It is apparent I am only a servant. But for these few weeks at least, she longed to be treated as equal with her fellow passengers. She’d been beneath everyone and everything— including her aunt’s dogs— the past four years, and she was dearly tired of it.
To Marsali’s surprise, Miss Cosgrove returned her smile, and it appeared genuine. “Oh, I am ever so glad you’ve come. What a dreary voyage this would have been with only Mama for company.” She clasped Marsali’s hands in hers and squeezed them. “I hope we shall become the dearest of friends.” She released Marsali and, with a flounce of skirts, seated herself on the bench.
Somewhat dumbfounded at such a hearty, enthusiastic greeting, Marsali followed suit.
“There,” Captain Gower said as he returned to his seat. “Just as I said. You’ll be good for each other.”
Marsali was not at all certain about that, but she could not deny that it felt pleasant to not have been instantly looked down upon. None of the ladies who visited at her aunt’s house had ever said they were glad to make her acquaintance, and certainly none would have reached out in a gesture of affection as Miss Cosgrove just had. And surely she had to have noticed my simple, far-less-expensive and less-fashionable dress.
Yet she does not seem to be judging me for it. Nonplussed by such unusual behavior from a woman of an obviously higher social class, Marsali began passing the platters of food h
er way.
“I slept ever so well, Captain,” Miss Cosgrove said. “I know we’re not at sea yet, but I felt the water rocking me all the same. It was so very peaceful and soothing. I just love it. I believe I shall love every moment of this voyage. What time shall we be off today? Might I stand beside you at the wheel, Captain, as you direct us out of port? Shall we require a tug to tow us out, or will we steam out on our own accord? Do you think many will come to watch us depart? If so, I think I should like to be at the rail waving a handkerchief at them all. Oh, aren’t we all so fortunate to be here?” She glanced around the table at each of them in turn.
Her smile was infectious, and Marsali’s initial— and unjustified and unfair, her conscience scolded— assessment of Miss Cosgrove changed. “We are fortunate,” she agreed, feeling suddenly light and happy. England was all but behind her, and a great adventure lay ahead. Being a lady’s maid could not possibly be half as difficult as serving in her aunt and uncle’s home had been. And Miss Cosgrove, with a personality as bright as her frilly morning gown, promised to be great entertainment during the voyage.
“Would that more people had your optimistic outlook,” Captain Gower said, raising his glass to Miss Cosgrove. “Would that they do in the near future, or I shall very shortly cease being the captain of anything larger than a rowboat.” He seemed in jest, yet Marsali detected an undertone of seriousness.
“Not everyone is as impressed by your ship?” she asked warily.
The captain set his cup on the table and faced her. “I had forgotten that you were unaware of our lack of passengers. I explained to the others as they boarded yesterday afternoon.”
“You were not able to fill all of the cabins on this native voyage?” Marsali guessed, wondering if this might have contributed to his irritation at her tardiness.
Captain Gower scoffed. “We did not even come close. Those you see here— excepting Lady Cosgrove— are the sum total of our passengers. It is rather the opposite reaction I had hoped to receive, given the success of the American steamer, the SS Savannah, several years ago, though I gather she was not well received at first either. She made the voyage from shore to shore in thirty days, and it has baffled me since why no one else has rushed to follow suit. Why must we be at the mercy of the wind and weather when we might have a capable engine with which to propel ourselves? Why waste additional weeks when both cargo and passengers might make the journey more quickly? Why”— Captain Gower pounded his fist upon the table, causing the plates and silverware and glasses to jump— “are the English so blasted superstitious and afraid? So much so that I could not fill even a fourth of this ship’s cabins?”
“You answered that yourself, Captain.” Mr. Thatcher managed to respond before Miss Cosgrove, though her mouth hung open with whatever she had been about to say.
“We’re a superstitious lot,” Mr. Thatcher continued. “Your ship claims to travel faster than the weather— to no longer be at the wind’s mercy, or Mother Nature’s. I would venture to say that there are many who see that as challenging God Himself. And what is to stop Him from destroying a ship that claims to be able to outrun His forces?”
“I had not considered it in that light— or that great of detail,” Captain Gower admitted. “But what is to be done to change public opinion? To change a people’s perspective or belief?”
“Time?” Mr. Thatcher suggested. “That, and evidence of your ship’s success. This SS Savannah— is she still running? I’ve not heard of her, but I should think that her continued success would only aid your cause.”
Gower leaned back in his seat and shook his head. “She would not. The Savannah had her moment of glory in 1819. But her luck turned after that. She wasn’t kept as a steamship, and she wrecked off of Long Island in the New York Harbor in 1821.”
“Wrecked! Goodness. How positively dreadful.” Somehow even Miss Cosgrove’s clear dismay came off sounding somewhat upbeat.
Mr. Thatcher pursed his lips, and his gaze turned thoughtful. “Most unfortunate.”
“Yes. Well, we will not have the same misfortune, even modestly begun as we are with but a few fortunate”— he paused to beam at Miss Cosgrove— “passengers.”
Breakfast was finished and the dishes cleared away— by someone other than her— before Marsali had the opportunity to catch Mr. Thatcher alone to thank him. Miss Cosgrove had monopolized both the conversation and Mr. Thatcher throughout the remainder of the meal, though in such a way that Marsali had a difficult time feeling bothered by her. Rather like a new, excitable puppy, Miss Cosgrove seemed to love everything and everyone. That she only took my hands and did not lick me is perhaps a miracle, Marsali reflected after having spent an hour in the young woman’s presence. But such a genuine interest in everything and a love of life was something to be admired— if not envied. Marsali wondered if she had ever been that innocent or happy. She believed she must have been once, but so many years had passed since then that she could not recall.
She came to stand beside Mr. Thatcher at the rail in the spot Miss Cosgrove had only just vacated when her mother had summoned her.
“I wanted to properly thank you,” she said, not meeting his gaze but staring out to the churning waters of the bay, where another ship was being towed out to sea. “I hadn’t anything at all to eat yesterday, and—”
“Nothing?” Mr. Thatcher’s gaze shifted from the water to her face, the concern evident in his deep blue eyes.
Unused to anyone caring at all about her or for her, Marsali felt a peculiar catch in her chest, the same she’d felt last night when she’d opened her door and found his offering at her feet and heard his kind words. “There wasn’t time before my journey started, and I could not afford to purchase anything when the coach stopped at an inn for lunch.”
“Then I am doubly glad to have shared my meager offering last night,” he said. “I hope that is the last time you will go hungry. I know from experience, it is not pleasant.”
“No,” she agreed. “It is not.” Curiosity prompted her to ask under what circumstances he had experienced the same, his fine suit and manners indicating that he came from a better station than she. “I hope a very long time has passed since you have suffered thus. It is difficult to believe that a man of your stature— status,” she quickly amended, but not before she felt her face grow warm, “has ever gone hungry.”
If Mr. Thatcher caught her blunder he was kind enough to pretend not to notice. “It has been many years, but hunger is not something one forgets. As to my social status…” He pulled at the lapel of his jacket. “My sisters gave me this suit as a farewell gift. They did not wish me to arrive in America looking quite the pauper I am.”
The news that he was also poor further buoyed her spirits, though she felt badly for it. But the thought that she had met someone who might understand misfortune as she did was comforting. “Your sisters are talented seamstresses, and they must have saved long to purchase such fine cloth. It seems they care for you very much.”
Her declaration coaxed a smile, albeit a somewhat wistful one. “I’ve no doubt they love me— my coat has barely dried from their outpouring of tears when I left them three days ago.” Mr. Thatcher glanced toward his shoulder. “And they are both talented with a needle and thread, but this suit was purchased. My sisters are married, you see. To fine men who can provide well for them. Grace married an earl and lives on a grand estate. My younger sister, Helen, married his neighbor, Mr. Preston, who is in possession of great wealth and has a fine home of his own.”
Mr. Thatcher’s comments sounded anything but resentful, yet Marsali sensed sadness in his words. She wanted to ask him about this, if he was displeased with his sisters’ choices in their husbands, but did not think it her place. Instead, she directed her attentions to the harbor once more, though still very much aware of his presence beside her. He politely turned his gaze outward as well.
So long have I been out of society that it is likely I have forgotten how to control my tongue. How
am I to ever get used to polite conversation again? The topics covered among the servants downstairs at her aunt’s home had been any and every, and conversations were often gossipy and crude— two traits she did not wish to carry with her into her new life.
Instead, she wished desperately to return to the manners and ways she’d possessed up until her fifteenth year, when life had taken a tragic turn. But already she could see that resuming the ways of a lady was not to be as simple as she had supposed. She hoped her new post would help with that, and watching the young lady she was to serve might be the way to relearn those manners and delicate behaviors she had lost.
She’d been grateful for the captain’s mandate of simplicity at breakfast. It had brought a measure of relief, as she would not be required to remember who served what and from which side and with which utensil each course was eaten and when it was appropriate to begin eating.
Her aunt had never allowed her in the dining room— even to serve. That was too good a task for anyone as low as she; instead, Marsali had been assigned the daily emptying and scrubbing of the chamber pots, the clearing of the table scraps into the slop buckets, the cleaning of ashes from the fireplaces, and every other undesirable chore her aunt could heap upon her.
Marsali worried— and rightly so— that she might have trouble as a lady’s maid. She wasn’t at all aware of fashion, and she was only familiar with a few basic hairstyles— her own hair having been kept short the last few years— but she could sew. It was perhaps the thing that might save her. She would be able to care for a lady’s clothing, to sew and mend anything. To alter or let out or even design a gown. It was the only way she’d managed to keep herself in clothes during her time at her aunt’s house. And it was the skill that had allowed her to secretly put aside the ten shillings for the coach to take her to Liverpool.
“I’m afraid I am poor company,” Mr. Thatcher said quite suddenly. Marsali turned to him, uncertain as to his meaning.
Marrying Christopher (A Hearthfire Romance Book 3) Page 6