“I will not!” Anne shot back. “No son of mine will ever go to sea.”
They seemed to find her comment witty and so responded with boisterous laughter. “How many are you feeding this day?” the chef asked.
“I haven’t checked. Let me have a trayful, and I shall return for more later if I need to.”
“The doctor and captain are glad enough to have you on board, ma’am.” The chef began ladling out steaming bowls of soup made from dried peas and salt pork. One of his assistants piled hardtack on the side of her tray. “Saves them a ton of worry and woe, it does.”
Anne smiled at him and said, “I just do what I can.”
“Mind you don’t make yourself ill. The way you carry on, you work harder than those what’re earning the king’s shilling.”
Anne hefted the tray and started back, carefully timing her motions to the roll of the ship. Typically the passengers were expected to eat after the sailors had been fed, but the cook did not mind her coming and getting food for those too sick to move. She entered the passenger hold and, as always after being on deck, found the air to be very stagnant and smelly. No wonder, since the weather had halted all but the most basic of washing. From the bunks and hammocks lining the room, several pallid faces watched her with mixtures of hunger and misery.
She set the tray down on the center table and took the first bowl over to Mrs. Cox, who greeted her with a subdued moan. “Go away, I beg you.”
“I will not. Please, you must eat.”
“It smells vile.”
Anne did not respond, but she was secretly amazed the woman could smell the soup at all. She sat on the dank mattress next to where Mrs. Cox was lying and said, “Must I feed you myself?”
The woman groaned as she labored to sit up. She took a few tentative bites, her expression giving clear indication her stomach was rebelling against the food. “That’s all.”
“No, four bites more. For the baby.”
This was enough to persuade Mrs. Cox not only to swallow four more spoonfuls but to hold it all down. She forced the last one down and then collapsed. “No more.”
Anne set down the bowl. “Would you now take a turn on deck with me? The fresh air will do you a world of good.”
“Perhaps tomorrow,” Mrs. Cox said weakly. Her gaze was pinched and squinty, both from her recent illness and now the strain of the voyage. “Thank you. You are so good to us. So very kind and good.”
“An angel in mourning,” said a voice from a neighboring bunk. All the passengers knew of Anne’s losing Cyril. There were few secrets among them.
Anne rose from the bunk and occupied herself with giving aid to the others who were ill, also helping to wash and change one of the babies. After checking on John, she joined some of the passengers for prayer and the evening meal.
Soon after, the candles were extinguished and they all settled in to endure another turbulent night at sea. Anne lay alongside her small son and reflected at how the nights had become her enemy.
It was during these times, when she was no longer busy caring for others, that she saw the work for what it was. She was fleeing as hard as she could from her grief and Cyril’s absence. She shut her eyes, willing herself to give in to sleep. Her final thought was how perhaps this was why she did not much mind the storm outside, as it seemed only to reflect what she felt within herself.
Chapter 22
Nicole sat by the window in Harrow Hall’s morning room, thinking that if she were asked to rename March, she would call it the Month of Change. The February winds had carried on till almost the middle of March, storms born in the wilds farther north that had swept in with armies of snow and blistering cold. Just the day before, the clouds had advanced across the sky, the windows shivered from the great blasts of wind, and the manor’s chimneys blew like cold brick trumpets. Then that evening all went quiet and still. And with the night descended a bone-chilling frost.
Now in the morning, the world remained imprisoned by the cold. The front lawn was transformed into glistening pinpricks of silver and green. When Nicole had entered the morning room, she lit the fireplace, taking pleasure in the simple chore. Then she made tea and enjoyed it along with her breakfast of dark bread and honey, the Good Book laid open before her.
Nicole was an early riser and had grown to relish her quiet time in the hours before the house and the world awoke. Soon after their return from London, Charles had apologetically told Nicole that he’d no longer be joining her for morning prayer, as he found the extra sleep to be a great strengthener. They had taken to studying and praying together in the evenings instead, nestled as they were on the library’s leather settees. Nicole liked it this way, however, for she’d come to depend on beginning her days alone, in the stillness of the empty chamber. The staff were given strict instructions not to enter the front rooms before Charles had descended the back staircase. Nicole had even managed to get Maisy to understand that she wanted to prepare her own breakfast, that she liked having time to herself in the kitchen.
A new sound crept into the morning room, gradually pulling away from the noise of the crackling fire. Nicole set her finger on the page to mark her place and turned toward the front of the house. Yes, she was certain now. There were horses trotting down the front lane.
She got up from her chair and searched the frosty dawn outside the window, but all she could see was the gently drifting mist, some white-encrusted bushes, and the reflections of her candle and the fire. Then there came the jingle of a harness, the stomp of a hoof, and the snort of a horse as the driver called for the steeds to halt.
Nicole was entering the front chambers when she heard a faint keening sound, so oddly frightening that she felt herself become exhilarated. It sounded like a baby crying. Her entire body clenched up tight.
As she raced across the inner hall the bell sounded. Nicole made it to the front door and then flung it open. She stared uncomprehendingly at the shadowy figure that stood before her, shivering and exhaling tiny white plumes. The frail bundle on their doorstep looked like a beggar wrapped in layers of cloaks and blankets. It was a woman, Nicole determined. It had to be. The shape was far too dainty and narrow to be a man. Besides, the bundled figure held a mewling baby.
“Yes? What can I do for you?” Nicole asked politely.
“You can take little John, sister.” The words were mumbled by a mouth turned rigid by the cold. “My arms have gone all numb.”
“Anne!” The morning light was enough to reveal cheeks so hollowed, her sister looked the victim of famine. Exhaustion had reworked her features, and tragedy her eyes. Nicole scooped up the baby with one arm and embraced her sister with the other. Even with the layers of padding, Anne felt light and fragile as a little waif. “Oh, Anne! I cannot believe you’re really here.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am.” The driver was so wrapped up, only his eyes and bright red nose protruded from his wool scarf. “But the lady said you would be paying me.”
“Of course!” Nicole handed the man his earnings and invited him inside to warm up. She then guided Anne into the morning room and to the fireplace. To her great relief, she saw a figure in a voluminous dressing gown appear through the back doorway, no doubt drawn by the ringing bell. “Maisy! Come help me, please!”
“What is it? What’s going on?” Maisy rushed forward, her eyes widening at the sight of the crying child. “The poor little bairn—he looks half-froze.”
“Go prepare something hot. Soup would be good. Make some of your spiced tea, too. And wake Charles.” Nicole then helped her sister get settled into the chair by the fire. “Why did you not tell us you were coming?”
“I did.” The words had escaped through half-frozen lips. “I wrote you a letter, but perhaps the ship did not make it. The storms were terrible. Is that tea?”
“Yes, but it’s gone cold by now.” Nicole held out the baby to Maisy. “Take him for a moment, will you?”
Maisy received the baby and said, “Gaylord told me hi
s lordship did not retire until late last night.”
“Never mind that.” Nicole pulled another seat up close to the fire. “You look to be freezing, sir. Come, sit here and warm yourself,” she said to the driver.
“Thank you kindly, ma’am, but I can take my comfort by the kitchen fire.”
Nicole turned to Maisy. “Now take the child and lay him down in my chambers and then see to the tea and soup. Raise the household while you’re at it,” Nicole ordered. Then she pointed to the chair and used her most commanding voice. “And you, sir, set yourself down!”
“As you say, m’lady,” he said, then did as he was told.
“But his lordship…” Maisy protested.
“It’s all right. Just go tell my uncle that Anne is here.”
“Anne, the lady of your tales?” Wide-eyed, Maisy drew in for a closer look. “The second changeling? The sister of no blood kin?”
“The very same.” Nicole gently unwrapped Anne’s layers, rubbing thoroughly her frigid limbs. “Have someone stoke all the fires and prepare a hot bath. I shall be right in to see to the baby.”
Three weeks after Anne’s arrival, Nicole sat in the morning room and observed another dawn. Spring had finally arrived, heralded by the first crocuses pushing up through the earth. She reflected on how her world seemed transformed by Anne and the baby’s presence. Nicole had difficulty imagining the time before their arrival. Anne had brought neither happiness nor cheer into the manor. Instead, Anne had come burdened with a funereal sadness. Yet her appearance had transformed everything, for Anne had brought with her the one thing Nicole had lacked most—a sense of purpose.
Only this morning, Nicole’s thoughts were far removed from Anne and the baby. Her second cup of tea had long since grown cold, and her breakfast remained unfinished. She loved these quiet moments before the day’s activities began. Normally she would delve into the Good Book and draw near to the Divine. But today her attention shifted back and forth between the passage in front of her and the previous day’s events. She had attended a party given at one of the adjoining estates. Simply because Anne had arrived did not mean that Nicole’s social duties had ended. Yet now there was something to give her relief from what she had felt was far too empty a life. Now there were others who needed her. So it was that Nicole could depart for such functions with a sense of fulfillment that had been utterly lacking since her arrival.
Yesterday’s reception had started off as most such events did, a swirl of carriages and fancily dressed people and lighthearted chatter. Then one man in particular had stood out from the crowd—Lord Reginald Harwick. He was one of the members of the House of Lords along with Charles, and a landowner of several large estates. He was in fact quite handsome in a craggy, forceful kind of way. There was something of the pirate about Lord Harwick, a sense of power that pervaded everything around him. But his domineering air had left Nicole wondering if he heard her at all. He had sought to win her with his charm, together with the blinding attributes of his wealth and might. There was a definite magnetism to the man. Certainly she had found more substance to him than she’d seen in many of the other would-be suitors, with their foppish manners and snobbish talk.
So Nicole was pleased to accept his invitation for a quiet walk out on the terrace. There he had addressed her with the blunt manner of one accustomed to wielding power over others. “I’ve seen you before, you know. And we have been introduced,” he said.
“I am sorry, sir, but I do not recall.”
“Oh, I would not expect you to remember. I was one of a hundred men all bowing and scraping about you like courtiers before the queen of France.” He wore an ensemble of black on black. The only hint of color on his person was a flashing cravat, which looked woven from threads of real gold. He adjusted it now as he eyed her and continued, “The only reason I accepted this fellow’s invitation was because of my desire to see you again. I made certain you and your uncle had agreed to come.”
“You do me great honor, sir.”
“I speak the truth, m’lady. I care naught for hunting, nor the trappings of country life. My estates are for creating wealth and making employment for those who depend upon me for their livelihoods.”
“It’s nice to know that you are concerned with the welfare of others, sir. I do not find enough of this.”
His eyes were gray and sharp in the torchlight. They searched her hard. “I have heard you follow the ways of your Lord Charles when it comes to such matters.”
“Yet you are a man of fairness and just causes?”
“Like every loyal subject, I must uphold the Crown and the Church.” He paused, then added more softly, “When it suits me.”
The night seemed suddenly chillier. “Perhaps we should rejoin the others, Lord Harwick.”
He turned with her, moving up close enough for her to catch a whiff of some strange scent. Nicole was immediately reminded of the fragrance of the Orient—mysteries and spices of which she was not aware. She knew she should move away but found herself drawn to the man and his haughty force.
“I hold no small amount of power in court, Miss Nicole,” Lord Harwick said. “May I call you that? No small power, I assure you. There are always barriers to the transference of title and inheritance, especially when the bonds are tenuous between one generation and the next. A discreet word spoken within the royal chambers can make a remarkable difference.” He hesitated, his hand spread firmly against the closed door that led back to the ballroom. “I make it a point to be a good ally to my friends. A worthy and potent supporter.”
Nicole reached forward and pulled the door open herself, feeling less like a lady being courted than a city under siege. “It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Lord Harwick.”
Nicole sat and pondered the words of the Bible in her lap together with the peculiar circumstances in which she had found herself. An unexpected peace settled over her, a peace that added to the beauty of the sunrise and made her senses come alive. She breathed the soft odor of woodsmoke and burning embers from the fireplace. From beyond the windows came the sound of birdsong. She spied a squirrel racing from one tree to another. Then from beyond the stone wall that bordered the garden, she heard the metallic chuckle of a pheasant calling his mate.
A voice from behind her said, “May I join you?”
“Anne, of course. Good morning!” Nicole set her Book on the table, then stood and stretched. “How are you feeling today?”
The question seemed to throw her off balance. Anne froze there in the doorway, so Nicole walked over, took her arm, and directed her to the chair opposite her own. The settee was high-backed and stuffed with horsehair, making it as padded as a bed. Anne nestled in deep, allowing Nicole to tuck a blanket over her lap. “Do you always rise this early?” Anne asked.
“It’s my quiet time. I come here and study the Word and remind myself why I am here.” She hovered by Anne’s chair. “Can I get you anything? Some tea, perhaps?”
“In a little while.”
“Does John need tending?”
“He woke an hour ago. I fed and changed him, and he’s gone back to sleep. He won’t awaken again for a few hours. Just sit with me for a time, please.” She waited till Nicole had reseated herself to say, “I feel all I’ve done since coming here is sleep and eat and take care of John. Then sleep some more.”
“You’ve been through a hard journey.”
“It was not the voyage.” Anne’s gaze was empty. “I haven’t rested since the funeral. Not really.”
“I am so sorry about Cyril,” Nicole said, as she had so often before. “He was such a good, dear man.”
“Yes. Yes, he was. I’ve been upstairs thinking about him. Lying there for hours, thinking.” The words seemed to agitate her. Anne’s gaze scattered about the room, clearly wishing to speak of something other than her grief over Cyril. She spotted the Bible opened on the table. “What have you been reading?”
“The Psalms. But not reading—not this morning, an
yway. Just looking up verses I partly remember and seeing how they fit with what I’ve been thinking lately.”
“And what is that, pray tell?”
Nicole thought for a moment. “Perhaps we should wait until you’re better.”
“Why? Or is it that you don’t want to tell me?”
“No, not at all. It’s just…” Nicole felt divided. She had been waiting for the chance to speak with Anne, but the woman seated opposite her was still so frail. “What I’ve been studying is hard to talk about without also telling you why it’s so important to me.”
Anne squinted as the sun cleared the horizon. She sank back further so the chair’s border shielded her eyes. “You have changed,” she said quietly.
“Yes, I suppose I have.”
“I have the feeling I could tell you anything right now, and it would not surprise you.”
Nicole heard a request beneath her words, a testing. “All right. Try me,” she said, matching Anne’s soft tone.
Without getting up, Anne shifted her chair so that her face was more in the shadows that were being thrown off by the chair and the steadily rising sun. “I was awake because I dreamed of Cyril. I’ve never done that before. Before arriving here I often thought of him in my sleep, and those simple notions were always enough to wrench me so I should wake up crying. Many such nights I wept until my heart felt torn from my body.”
Anne stopped there, watching Nicole closely. There was a measuring quality to her look. Nicole responded by folding her hands in her lap and saying nothing. No words could express the sorrow she felt, and certainly Anne was not confiding in her to receive some meaningless platitude. So Nicole sat and waited.
The response must have pleased Anne, for the hollow eyes drifted away from Nicole and over toward the fire. “Last night was different. I haven’t cried since leaving Halifax. The grief is with me always, but more tears now seem useless. Cyril has been gone from me for many months. The tears may come again, but the agony over his passing is over. I don’t know how or why this is so clear to me, but I am certain just the same.”
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