She pictured them there— two little girls with a kindly, bearded man between them— and felt a lump rise in her throat. She wondered if her father was still able to see the night sky and enjoy it, or if heaven itself was among the stars. Or even one of them?
Pulling her eyes from the chart, Marsali tilted her head back and found the North Star, then the Plough quite easily. Pegasus was next, big fellow that he was.
“That is quite a different view than in London.”
Marsali jumped and brought a hand to her pounding heart. “Mr. Thatcher. You startled me.”
“My apologies.” He inclined his head politely. “I did not mean to startle— or interrupt. Would you prefer that I leave you?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Not at all. I— would like it very much if you would join me.” She felt surprised to realize that she meant it. She’d wanted to be alone but somehow knew that Mr. Thatcher’s presence would not take anything away from her night spent in memory. She patted the space beside her on the deck.
He hesitated. “Are you certain? I have the feeling I’ve just interrupted.”
“You have.” She grinned before he could look abashed. “I have been thinking of my father, remembering when he taught me about the stars and trying to recall his voice when he shared with me the stories behind the constellations.” She patted the deck once more. “But I welcome your company. Dwelling overlong in the past does one no good.”
“Well… since that is the circumstance—” Mr. Thatcher plopped down beside her— “I feel an obligation for keeping you from something that will do you no good.”
“See. There you go, being a gentleman again,” Marsali teased.
He scowled. “Never have I had such trouble avoiding gentlemanly behavior as since I’ve made your acquaintance, Miss Abbott. I must conclude that you are not at all a good influence upon me— though my sisters would likely claim the opposite.”
Marsali laughed. “It is in your blood, as Lady Cosgrove would say, as she did at breakfast when she learned you are the grandson of a duke. I think you cannot escape that, no matter how much you may wish it.”
“I have never wished to sever that tie, not in the manner you speak of, at least,” Mr. Thatcher said politely. “I had no desire for the title, mind you, but the association with my grandfather is one I cherish. He was a fine man, a gentleman in the truest sense. It is the ties to my father and his name I wish to leave behind.”
“You might have petitioned the courts to have your name changed,” Marsali suggested. “It could have allowed you to stay in England with your sisters.”
Mr. Thatcher appeared to consider this for a moment. “I think I should still have felt discontent. I cannot explain it exactly, but for many reasons, I felt compelled to make this journey, to see the new world and try my hand at a life there.”
“You will do more than try your hand,” Marsali predicted. “You will succeed at whatever it is you choose to do.”
“Let us hope so,” Mr. Thatcher said quietly, his eyes meeting hers with a look that felt oddly personal. “But here I have done what I told myself I must not when I approached you. I’ve interrupted your study of the stars. From this chart, I take it you are quite a serious student.”
“Not really.” She leaned forward, intending to roll up Captain Gower’s map, when Mr. Thatcher’s hand gently clasped her arm, stopping her.
“Don’t put it away. Please go on with what you were doing. I promise to be quiet, but if I am disturbing you, you may send me away.”
You are disturbing me. It felt as if a tiny, pleasant fire had started where his hand was touching her, much as she had felt that day he had placed his hand upon hers as they’d stood at the rail. The warmth spread quickly to her middle, a feeling of contentment mingling with something else— some emotion she was not familiar with. She glanced at Mr. Thatcher, and her heartbeat quickened inexplicably. As if he sensed the effect he was having, he withdrew his hand and leaned back casually, bracing himself on his arms.
Marsali looked down at the chart, trying to force her thoughts back to constellations while wondering what had just happened to make her react so.
I am not frightened of Mr. Thatcher, not in the least. She stole a second glance at him and found he had his face upturned as he studied the sky. Good. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed how he’d flustered her.
Her fingers traced the chart once more before she raised her eyes to the sky, searching for Lyra. “The constellations are both easier and more difficult to find than I remember. My father was always the one to point them out, so I never had to do more than follow and search in the direction he pointed. Locating the shapes on my own isn’t so simple.”
“But the stars seem closer here, and brighter,” Mr. Thatcher said.
“Yes.” She nodded her agreement. “So even though I must find them on my own, once I make out their shapes, they seem clearer than I remember them being at home.”
“There is nothing to block out their light here,” Mr. Thatcher suggested.
“A unique experience we shall perhaps never have again,” Marsali said. “On the Continent there were hills and village lights and trees and clouds to contend with. But our conditions tonight are as near to perfect as one might find. We should be able to locate most anything. Do you have a favorite constellation?”
He shrugged. “Not really. Or I’ve never thought about it, at least. I am guessing you do.”
“Oh yes. I always found the stories of Perseus and Lyra most stirring, especially the way Father would tell them.”
“Will you share them with me?” Mr. Thatcher asked.
“Surely you know them already,” Marsali said. She couldn’t imagine otherwise; neither could she imagine why he might wish to hear her renditions.
“I am not overly familiar with the stories.” Mr. Thatcher crossed his legs and leaned forward, as a child anticipating a bedtime story might. “You must remember that I had no schooling or tutors until I was fourteen years of age. My sister taught me to read and write, but beyond that I had very little knowledge of the world— or skies above it. Grandfather did his best to remedy that, but I had much to learn and little time in which to do it, so some subjects— like astronomy— were neglected.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Marsali said, feeling sad for him. “It must have been quite difficult not having a father who would teach such things to you.” Her father had taken every opportunity to share the world with his girls. She and Charlotte had grown up knowing the names of the flowers and trees and the birds and insects that visited them. They had learned about the creatures inhabiting the sea as well as the stars residing in the sky. And every outing with Father had been simply delightful. The idea of learning about nature from a book or a tutor seemed nearly as terrible as not learning it at all.
“I did not know differently,” Mr. Thatcher said. “It is you I feel sorry for— having lost your father, who cared for you deeply.”
“I suppose we could both sit here and feel sorry for each other, or ourselves, but it does not do to dwell in the past,” she reminded him.
“You seem to keep a rather tight rein on your thoughts,” Mr. Thatcher observed. “You abstain from feeling overly melancholy regarding the past, and you refuse to worry over the future. I am left to assume that you are one who lives very much in the present, for the here and now.”
“I think of the future as well,” Marsali said. “But worrying about it will do me no good. For the duration of this voyage, I intend to enjoy every minute— every second— of freedom it affords me. It is a blessed thing to be able to use my time as I wish.”
“Will you use it now to tell me the stories of Perseus and Lyra?” Mr. Thatcher asked.
“Of course.” Marsali moved her foot from the chart and allowed it to roll back onto itself. “You have studied Greek mythology, I presume?”
“Somewhat,” he said. “But I should like to hear you tell the stories— as your father told them. And in telling, perh
aps it will assist you in remembering.”
He was right, of course, as she had been right in believing that his company would not take anything away from her evening or memories. Rising up on her knees and tucking her skirts in around her once more, Marsali began. “It was Perseus who beheaded Medusa and then killed a sea monster to save the princess Andromeda.”
“Medusa was the creature with a head of snakes?” Mr. Thatcher held up a hand and wiggled his fingers.
“It was actually her hair that was made up of snakes,” Marsali said.
“Ugh.” He pretended to shudder. “Can you imagine if each spoke as much as Miss Cosgrove does?”
“No. I cannot.” Marsali pressed her lips together and attempted to appear stern. “That was most unkind, Mr. Thatcher. We must show compassion to our traveling companion, remember?”
“She is impossible to forget— or avoid,” he said. “I timed her today. Miss Cosgrove spoke for six and a half minutes straight before taking a breath long enough for me to interrupt. And the worst of it is, I really have no idea what she spoke of during that entire time.”
Marsali shook her head at him, indicating she thought him incorrigible. “You’ll perhaps also recall that when a few drops of Medusa’s blood fell into the sea, it mixed with the foam and became Pegasus, the flying horse. So you see, there is some good to be found in all of us if we but look for it.”
“That seems to be a bit of a stretch in finding the moral to a story,” Mr. Thatcher said good-naturedly.
Marsali ignored him. “Pegasus is easy to see, he’s so large.” She pointed to the sky, her finger tracing the lines that made up the great, winged horse.
“I see him,” Mr. Thatcher said. “And which one is your Perseus?”
“Over there.” She drew her finger along the outline of his body.
“Is he headless, then?” Mr. Thatcher said. “I do not recall that part of the story. I thought only Medusa lost her head.”
Marsali rolled her eyes. “Have you no imagination? The stars only give a vague shape, or part of it. Your mind must supply the rest.”
“Ah,” he said and nodded as if a great mystery had just been revealed to him.
“Lyra, on the other hand,” Marsali continued, “is quite small. But she has one of the brightest stars in the sky.” Marsali stretched her hand once more, pointing to the tiny constellation above Hercules. “Lyra represents the harp that belonged to Orpheus. It was said that his music was sweeter than that of any mortal’s. Even rivers changed course to be nearer his music.”
“Interesting.” Mr. Thatcher brought a hand to his chin as if deeply pondering a dilemma. “My tutor taught quite a different theory regarding the direction of rivers. Much more scientifically based, I must say.”
“If you are going to mock me, I will not share any more of the story with you.” Marsali folded her arms across her middle and turned away from him, pretending offense.
“I was only offering a second opinion, but I shall henceforth keep those to myself during the telling of these fascinating tales.”
He spoke as if he expected her to share more than these two, and an idea came to mind, that they might spend more evenings like this together, talking beneath a sky full of stars. The feeling that had begun with his touch swirled about inside her, a sort of warm anticipation. She hadn’t had friends before this voyage. And inasmuch as she found Lydia amusing and felt grateful for her companionship, it was with Mr. Thatcher that she felt the greater connection. She enjoyed his teasing as much as his seriousness. Even just sitting beside him when they both were silent felt distinctly pleasant.
“Do go on,” he said, sounding more repentant now that Marsali had gone a minute without speaking.
“No interruptions,” she said sternly, looking back at him. “This is the tragic part of the story. You must listen well.”
“You’ve my solemn promise. I am a great fan of tragedies.”
Marsali bit her lip to keep from laughing at his pitiful expression. It would be tragic, she thought. If I had not arranged passage on this ship and had not met him. “Orpheus married Eurydice, but after their wedding, she was bitten by a snake and died.”
“Was it one of the Medusa snakes— before Perseus took care of her?”
“No. And no interruptions,” Marsali said. “This is the part of the story where you are supposed to feel terribly sad.”
Mr. Thatcher turned his lips downward in a truly pitiful display.
“Orpheus loved Eurydice so much that he traveled to the underworld to beg for her return. Pluto’s heart was softened by Orpheus’s music, and he decided to allow Eurydice to leave. She was to follow Orpheus, who could not look back until both had left Hades and returned to the upper world.”
“Oh, dear,” Mr. Thatcher lamented. “I can well imagine how impossible my brothers-in-law would find the task of not looking at their wives.”
“Just before Eurydice reached the surface, Orpheus looked back at her, and she disappeared before his eyes. Orpheus wandered throughout Greece until he too was killed. After his death, Apollo placed his harp in the sky, and that is Lyra.”
“To teach us… patience?” Mr. Thatcher guessed. “Or that beautiful music will not get you everything? Or…”
“I don’t really know what the Greeks intended,” Marsali admitted. “I just liked the story.”
“What is there to like about it?” he asked. “And for the record, I’ve changed my mind. I am not a fan of tragedies.” Mr. Thatcher’s lips puckered as if he had just eaten something sour. “This is your favorite, you say.”
“More for the harp than the story,” Marsali explained. “Though now that I think of it, perhaps that is why I refuse to dwell on or in the past. Whenever my father told us that story, he always ended by saying that in life we must never look back, only forward. He said that whatever had happened in the past was of little consequence, but what happened today and then tomorrow was far more important.”
“I believe that he and my grandfather would have regarded each other well,” Mr. Thatcher said. “I should like to hear more of your father’s tales— and wisdom.”
“Another night, perhaps,” Marsali said vaguely, though she had been hoping he would suggest that very thing. “It is late, and I believe Mr. Murphy has long since finished cleaning his teeth.” She inclined her head toward Murphy, sprawled out on the deck, asleep, some distance away.
“He was awake when I arrived,” Mr. Thatcher said. “I take it he really is sleeping this time, though. Which leads me to believe he has judged me and found that I am not such an unsavory character.”
“That remains to be seen,” Marsali said.
Mr. Thatcher rose from the deck and held his hand out to her. She took it and allowed him to pull her up. “Tsk, tsk. Behaving as a gentleman again. Well, I suppose that if Mr. Murphy has given his approval, then so must I.”
“I am glad of it— even if it means I must use manners and act civilized when I am around you.” Mr. Thatcher still held her hand, and they stood quite close, facing one another.
Marsali’s heart had begun to race again. It is this nearness to him. She’d felt it the day she thanked him and he had first touched her, and again for a brief moment during their dancing. And then again tonight. It is his closeness and his touch. How peculiar it made her feel. How good. She was loath for him to let go, though she knew he must. “Good night, Mr. Thatcher.”
“Good night, Miss Abbott. I bid you pleasant dreams.” He released her hand, and his own fell away. Marsali resisted the urge to press hers to her cheek. But she took his wish to heart and guessed that tonight her dreams would be pleasant because they would be of him.
“Marsali, wake up. Please.”
Marsali opened one eye to find her cabin dark save for a sliver of moonlight shining through her window.
“Marsali.” The whispered plea came once more, urging her out of bed and to her door. She opened it to find Lydia standing in the common room, clad as Marsali was,
in only her night shift.
“Mama is ever so ill. You must come.” Lydia reached out and grasped Marsali’s hand, pulling her from her room and out into the hall. Together they stumbled through the darkness to the other end of the saloon and Lydia’s and Lady Cosgrove’s connected rooms. Lydia opened the door, and Marsali stepped inside, her nose wrinkling at once as the stench of sickness overcame her.
“Has she a fever?” Marsali asked, covering her nose and steeling herself for what she knew would have to be done to care for Lady Cosgrove. I spent four years cleaning chamber pots. I can clean up after Lady Cosgrove, too.
“I don’t know about a fever, but she’s delirious. I’ll light a candle.” Lydia hurried across the room that was bathed in the striped moonlight coming through the slats of the louvered window. “Mama’s been ill since the day we boarded. She doesn’t do well on boats— it’s the reason she chose the Amanda May. Fewer days at sea.” Lydia succeeded in lighting the wick, and a small flame burst to life, illuminating the messy cabin, clothes strewn about the floor and bedsheets in disarray. “Mama can’t even bear crossing the channel from the Continent without becoming ill. But today she took a turn for the worse, thrashing about in her bed and crying out. I’ve never seen her like this— Oh!” Lydia doubled over, clutching her stomach.
Marsali rushed to her side. “You’re ill as well— how long?”
“Just this evening.” Lydia continued to hold her stomach as Marsali helped her over to her adjoining cabin and into bed, all the while feeling guilty that she’d not checked on her when Lydia’s absence had been more than obvious today. Instead, Marsali had spent much of the day alone, escaping into another of Mr. Thatcher’s borrowed books. The stories promised a few hours of freedom from worry over her future. And that hadn’t seemed so selfish or wrong— until now.
“I am sorry I did not come to see how you were getting on,” Marsali said. Lydia had become a good friend during the first few days of their voyage, and Marsali knew she ought to have felt concern about her absence today.
Marrying Christopher (A Hearthfire Romance Book 3) Page 12