“Here I have told you of my family but asked nothing of yours. Are you the first in your family to make this voyage— the brave one to travel to America?”
“You are not poor company at all,” Marsali said. “I was lost in thought, as I believe you were as well.” She smiled at him, realizing how perfectly comfortable it had felt, standing at his side, neither of them speaking. Their silence had not been awkward but companionable. “And just because you fed me, do not feel obligated to entertain as well. I daresay Miss Cosgrove will take care of that for both of us— for the entire ship.”
Mr. Thatcher laughed, easing her worry that she’d spoken rudely already.
“I did not mean to sound unkind,” Marsali hurried to say. “Miss Cosgrove is lovely and vivacious.”
He leaned closer. “And a person in her company can hardly get a word in edgewise. If one is to have a conversation on this ship, I fear it will have to be when she is busy attending to her mother. So you had best hurry and answer my question, or I shall be left curious in the event Miss Cosgrove returns. Do you leave family behind?”
“No one,” Marsali said, letting out a happy breath. Her aunt and uncle didn’t qualify. She held her arms open wide. “This ship is my passage to freedom.”
“I thought… are you not making the voyage under indenture?” The concern in Mr. Thatcher’s voice touched her.
As if I might have already forgotten I will owe four years for these four weeks of freedom. “I am,” Marsali said. “My sister, Charlotte, arranged the indenture for me. She and her husband traveled to America four years ago. I have been waiting to join them ever since, and finally I am going. A Mr. Joshua Thomas has paid for my voyage, and in return I am to be his daughter’s lady’s maid for a period of four years.”
“That seems a rather hefty price for one crossing.”
Marsali shrugged. “It was the best Charlotte could find. Oft it is five to seven years that are required. Do not feel pity for me,” she said, noting Mr. Thatcher’s solemn look. “I am quite happy with the arrangement. Being a lady’s maid will be far better than serving at my aunt and uncle’s home.”
“Your own relatives treated you as a servant?” His brows drew together, and his lips turned down even more.
“Servant is perhaps a generosity when describing how they treated me, but let’s not speak of that.” She forced a smile. “It is behind me, and my sister will be waiting at the end of my journey. The plantation I am to serve at in Virginia is not so very far from her, and I have hope that we shall be able to visit fairly often. As Miss Cosgrove so perfectly expressed at breakfast, I am very fortunate.”
“As am I,” Mr. Thatcher agreed, and Marsali felt relief that the subject of her background was— hopefully— safely behind them.
“But you are leaving your sisters behind, not going to them,” she said, feeling far more concern over his situation than her own. She finally dared ask what she’d wished to earlier, hoping that if he did not wish to speak of it he would simply tell her. “Were you displeased with their choices, with the men they married?”
“Heavens, no,” Mr. Thatcher exclaimed. “I spent a great deal of the previous year working to see them wed to such fine men. It was a love match for both, and I couldn’t be more pleased.”
“Yet you are leaving them,” Marsali said. “And feeling sad for it.”
He turned back to the rail, leaning his elbows upon it, and glanced at her sideways. “You are too astute, I see. I shall have to be wary of you.”
“I am sorry,” Marsali rushed to apologize. “I did not mean to pry.”
“And I did not mean to sound so harsh.” He placed a hand over hers on the rail for a brief second, then pulled away. “No harm done,” he assured. “I have been rather surprised by my own melancholy. I have wanted to go to America for so many years now, have dreamed of it and planned for this day. But it seems I did not consider how difficult it would be to part with my family.”
“Your parents remain in England as well?” Marsali asked, then bit her lip as she realized she’d pried yet again.
“My parents are both dead,” Mr. Thatcher said. “My mother died when I was quite young— I do not remember her, truth be told. And my father died last year— at no loss to my sisters and myself. He was not a good man. It is perhaps because of him that I feel compelled to leave England. I want to begin anew in a place where Thatcher is not a name that precedes itself in a poor light.”
“You have begun well, then,” Marsali said, glancing at the hand he had touched. “For when I think of the name Thatcher, forevermore it will bring to mind a kind, generous man.”
After her pleasant visit with Mr. Thatcher, Marsali strolled about the deck, careful to stay out of the way of the men readying the ship to leave port. Captain Gower seemed to be everywhere, barking instructions about checking the mooring lines and the sails and asking repeatedly for a final measuring of coal. More than once Marsali heard a bit of murmuring from his men, wishing the captain would trust them to see to their tasks themselves.
But he cannot, Marsali surmised. This ship was his life, and its future and Captain Gower’s largely depended upon the next twenty-five days.
Only twenty-five more days, and I shall see Charlotte. Marsali looked to the west, enjoying the cool breeze and once more anticipating the promises of her new life.
“Captain Gower, those clouds do not bode well.”
Marsali glanced behind her toward the unfamiliar feminine voice and caught her first glimpse of the woman who had to be Lady Cosgrove. She stood beside Captain Gower near the wheel, one gloved hand extended, finger pointing toward the western horizon. Marsali followed her gaze and noticed the clouds for the first time. As it was not yet midday, they weren’t blocking the sun, but their dark grey did appear rather ominous. The wind picked up, blowing wisps of hair about her face, and she realized the breeze was turning to something more serious.
“The wind may not be blowing favorably,” Captain Gower said. “But for us that is of no consequence. We can make headway regardless of any ill wind or weather.”
Lady Cosgrove’s pout showed clearly that his words had not comforted her. She allowed her hand to drop, where it hung limp at her side. Marsali resumed walking and wandered toward the back of the ship, where additional coal— as ordered by the captain this morning— was being loaded.
A stout, well-dressed man strode up the gangplank, spied her, and promptly smiled. “Miss Abbott, I presume.” He carried a black medical bag.
“Yes,” she answered, at once wary.
“You had the captain quite worried last night. I daresay you’re his most valuable passenger.”
Marsali didn’t see how that was possible, as she was his only nonpaying passenger. But she refrained from saying so. “And who might you be?”
“Medical inspector.” He held up his bag. “Promised the captain I’d return today, and so I have. I imagine he was mighty glad to see you. He has to deliver you to a Mr. Thomas in America, I believe.”
“Yes.” Did everyone know of her situation? That this stranger knew of it bothered her. But Charlotte had mentioned a brief medical examination in one of her letters telling Marsali what to expect of the crossing. I will answer his questions, and he will be on his way, and that will be that.
“What do you wish to know?” Marsali held her chin high and looked at him unwaveringly. He was her last obstacle to leaving England. She thought herself very healthy, but if, for some reason, this inspector did not, he could force her to stay.
And what would I do then? It did not bear thinking of. Silently she prayed that he was honest and that her aunt and uncle hadn’t somehow met and coerced him into doing their will, as they had the coachmen yesterday.
“Shall we go into the saloon?” he asked, then led the way. Marsali followed, her unease growing by the minute. According to Charlotte, this should be but a cursory examination, to ensure she hadn’t the morbid sore throat or measles or lice. Could not all of that
have been determined outside?
The inspector held the door open for her, and as she had the previous night with Captain Gower, she preceded him into the long room. She stopped at the first table, wanting to be near to the door and not anywhere near her cabin with this stranger.
The arrangement must have been satisfactory, for he set his bag on the table and got right to work. “Name, please.”
“Marsali Elise Abbott,” she said, thinking the question ridiculous when he’d already ascertained who she was.
He wrote her name on a form of some sort. “Country of birth.”
“France.”
The inspector’s brows rose at this, but he recorded her answer on the paper.
“Are both parents living or—”
“Deceased.” Saying that didn’t hurt as much as it used to. Soon she would no longer be alone in the world.
So long as he lets me go, that is. He was looking at her suspiciously, as if having deceased parents made her somehow less than worthy of this journey.
“Are you in possession of all of your teeth?”
“Yes,” Marsali said, insulted he would think otherwise. Must lack of money always be associated with lack of anything else, including caring for one’s hygiene? She forced an overbright smile, showing off as many of her teeth as possible.
“Open your mouth,” he said. She obeyed, and he pressed a small, flat stick of wood on her tongue to hold it down. “Mmm. Very good. No sign of infection.”
Of course not. She’d been blessed with very little illness her whole life— a good thing, as her aunt and uncle quite certainly would not have paid to have a doctor care for her.
“I have always been very healthy,” Marsali assured him.
“We’ll see,” he said, sounding as if he believed the opposite to be true. “Breathe in deeply, please.”
She did, then held her breath and exhaled when he instructed her to. He listened intently, a frown upon his face the whole while.
What? she wanted to ask. What is wrong? Her heartbeat quickened, and she willed it not to, lest he think something amiss with her heart, too.
Please let me go. Please, she chanted silently in her head.
He examined her arms and hands. He snapped his fingers in the air near each of her ears, after which Marsali turned to him, not knowing whether to laugh or express irritation. Perhaps one becomes a medical inspector when he does not do well enough in school to become a physician.
He stepped close and peered into her eyes. “Can you read at all?”
This was too much, and his insult overtook her fear that he might make her stay. Marsali took a step back and looked directly at him. “I read. I write. I can figure sums in my head. I am fluent in three languages, enjoy reciting poetry, play the pianoforte reasonably well, and can sing better than most.” Or she used to be able to sing. Until her aunt had forbid it. “Are those qualifications satisfactory enough to allow me to sail on this ship?”
“Perhaps,” he said, annoyance in his tone. “Most fortunate for you that humility is not a requirement.”
This infuriated her more, and she fumed inwardly. She’d not been trying to boast but merely prove a point— that she oughtn’t be treated any differently from the other passengers simply because she was traveling under indenture. Wealth, or lack thereof, does not make a person good— or bad.
“What other language do you speak, aside from English and French, I presume.”
“Gaelic.” Marsali loved her late grandmother’s language almost as much as her native French.
“Hmph.” The inspector snorted. “That is no longer a language.”
“Simply because one may be ignorant of something doesn’t mean that it does not exist.”
This earned her another shrewd look. “Take your hair down.”
“What— why?” Marsali demanded. This seemed an entirely inappropriate thing to ask. She might no longer be aware of each and every one of polite society’s rules, but she knew enough to realize she was of an age when she ought to wear her hair up and that any man who asked her to take it down was not one she wanted to be near. She looked past him toward the door, trying to decide what she should do.
“I’ve got to check you for head lice,” he said impatiently.
“I haven’t any,” Marsali said. As much as her aunt loathed her, she would have loathed having lice in her house even more, so Marsali had at least been afforded the privilege of bathing regularly.
The medical inspector folded his arms across his chest and gave her a hard look.
“Oh, very well,” Marsali grumbled. At least no one else was in the common room to see. Her fingers searched for her hairpins and hurriedly removed them. She shook her hair free, then bent forward so he might better see her scalp.
He stepped closer and leaned in to examine her head for several long seconds; all the while Marsali fretted continuously and hardly dared to breathe. What if I picked up something on Lime Street yesterday? What if the seat in the coach was infested? What if—
“You may stand,” he said after a minute. “Your hair is quite short for a woman. Are you certain you haven’t had lice in the past, and your hair was chopped off to be rid of it?”
“I am quite certain,” Marsali said. Her hair touched her shoulders now. If he thought that short, he would have been appalled to have seen it a year and a half ago, when her aunt had first taken her shears to Marsali’s braids as she slept. After that, Marsali made sure to keep her door locked at night and to push a chair beneath the knob. The servant girls she shared a room with had not objected to this after they’d seen the way her aunt had butchered her once-beautiful hair.
“My aunt did not wish me to wear it long,” she said, not intending to elaborate to this stranger, whom she soon hoped never to see again.
“Very well,” the examiner said. “You are fit enough to sail on this ship, though it is apparent you’ve not been well nourished or trained to this point. You’re too thin by half and do not have the disposition of a good servant. Let us hope your employer in America feeds you more and teaches you your place.” He packed up his bag and left the room without another word.
When the door had closed behind him, Marsali sank onto the bench and leaned over the table, her face buried in her arms. Slowly her heartbeat returned to normal as the panic of the past several minutes ebbed away.
At the other end of the saloon someone cleared his throat. Marsali lifted her head and saw Mr. Thatcher emerging from his cabin. She sat up quickly and reached for her scattered hairpins.
He strode toward her, stopping on the other side of the table and seating himself across from her again.
“You must excuse me,” Marsali said, doing her best to reform her bun without a brush or looking glass. “The medical inspector was here and—”
“I heard,” Mr. Thatcher said. “I apologize. I did not mean to eavesdrop; I’d left my door open in the hope of gaining a bit of a breeze in my cabin. And once I heard the start of your conversation, it seemed best I listen to the remainder, lest the inspector act as rudely as his words. He seemed rather a bully. Are you quite all right?”
“Yes, thank you.” She ought to have been bothered that Mr. Thatcher had overheard her conversation, but instead she felt oddly touched at his concern.
“It was most unfair of the inspector to ask you to take your hair down. He did not ask the same of me at all.”
Marsali’s head snapped up, and she caught the mischievous twinkle in Mr. Thatcher’s eye and the twitch of his lips.
“Well, I hope he at least asked why you keep yours so short as well,” she said, teasing him back. “After all, your hair does not even brush your collar.”
“Entirely improper for a gentleman,” Mr. Thatcher agreed with mock sincerity.
“For a woman, apparently, her hair must fall at least to her waist.” Marsali placed the last pin and lowered her hands.
“The more I hear of your aunt, the more she sounds rather like an evil character fro
m the stories my grandfather used to read. Are you familiar with Grimm’s Fairy Tales?” Mr. Thatcher asked.
“No, but I do love to read.” Marsali frowned. “I owned a few books but had to leave them behind yesterday, along with my trunk and the rest of my belongings. It was either that or risk missing this ship, which I could not do.”
“Are they close by? Might there still be time to go and retrieve your things?” Mr. Thatcher leaned forward, hands braced on the edge of the table, as if he was ready to spring into action. And to my rescue again.
For a moment Marsali felt the hope in such an idea. Then she remembered where her trunk had been left and knew she could never risk returning there again. Nor would she want Mr. Thatcher to learn that she had been not only on Lime Street but inside one of the establishments there.
“I am afraid the trunk and my books are lost to me forever,” Marsali said resignedly. Perhaps they would do Kimberly or one of the other girls at Madame Kelner’s some good.
“In that case, you must borrow some of my books during our voyage,” he offered. “And the captain has a small library we are to make use of as well.”
“You are too kind, Mr. Thatcher.” She met his gaze once more and felt comforted. “I imagine your sisters must miss you every bit as much as you miss them, if you were even half so good to them as you have already been to me.”
“Grace and Helen and I are very close,” he said. “We only had each other growing up, and so, of necessity, our bond became strong.”
“How very fortunate you were to have each other,” Marsali said. “I would have given much to have my sister with me these past four years.”
“You shall have her soon.” He rose from the table. “Wait here, and I shall fetch a book or two for you. What is it you like to read?”
“I am not particular,” Marsali assured him. She hadn’t had much time to read at all while at her aunt and uncle’s. And though their library was vast, they had not allowed her to borrow any of the books in it. She’d risked it once and been caught, and the consequential beating had hurt enough that she never dared try it again.
Marrying Christopher (A Hearthfire Romance Book 3) Page 7