by Diane Noble
The women and children proceeded through the cabin door single file, Ruby now holding Oscar and Pearl holding the bucket. They planned to switch turns as soon as they reached the deck because they had disagreed vehemently on who got to hold Oscar until he went for a swim to find his mommy—“who most certainly was swimming as fast as she could to keep up with the Sea Hawk,” both Bronwyn and Mary Rose had repeatedly assured them. But when it came time to throw the little lobster overboard, Ruby started to cry. “But I love Othcar,” she sobbed, clutching him gently to her heart.
“Me too,” Pearl bawled inconsolably. She put her arm around her sister, though seeming more protective of Oscar than of Ruby.
Mary Rose looked to Bronwyn to see what magic nanny-spell she could cast on this event to get their smiles to return. But Bronwyn looked as stricken about throwing the lobster overboard as the twins did.
Mary Rose pictured the bathtub that remained in their cabin and giggled, surprising herself as much as she obviously surprised the others.
The twins stopped their crying and gaped.
“I can think of no reason we can’t keep Oscar.”
“Keep Othcar?” Ruby whispered in awe. “Won’t he die?”
“Not if we arrange for him to have a little water to live and play in.”
Their eyes grew wide, and behind them, Bronwyn grinned at Mary Rose. “I suppose you’ll be wanting Mr. Oscar the Lobster to live in our bathtub, then?”
The twins bounced up and down. “Can he, Lady? Can he?”
“The thought did cross my mind,” she said, though her voice was nearly drowned out by the girls’ shouts. “And I do say ’tis a grand idea for so grand a baby lobster, especially one named Oscar.”
With great solemnity of purpose, the group marched along single file once more, across the deck and to their cabin.
“I daresay, m’lady, we need to get Mr. Thorpe to open the hatch entirely, not just a mere few inches,” Bronwyn said as they traipsed into the cabin.
“Methinks this fragrance that greets us is not that much different than skunk spray,” Mary Rose said.
“Or a barnyard full of cows with noisy dyspepsia,” Bronwyn added, lacing her fingers together to rest her hands atop her abdomen.
“Or Brother Brigham’s beaver-oil curative,” Mary Rose added. “Tonight’s our supper with the captain. Should I lather on the curative and give Oscar a good-night kiss when I give Ruby and Pearl theirs? I shall truly impress, and even perhaps make the captain and his guests swoon.” She stood up, sniffed, and stuck her nose in the air. She lifted one hand dramatically. “‘So good to meet you, Captain Livingstone,’ I shall say. ‘Would you care to kiss my hand?’”
Ruby’s gaze darted back and forth between her sister and Mary Rose. Pearl’s mouth fell open as Bronwyn jumped up to play the role of captain. She took Mary Rose’s hand and with equal drama pretended to kiss it. Then she drew in a deep, audible breath. “’Tis eau de lobster, I believe, m’lady. Or is that the rare and beautiful eau de beaver oil, which I recognize from my fur trapping adventures in the Old West?”
“’Tis the latter, I am happy to declare,” Mary Rose said, casting a mock glance at Bronwyn, who’d now stepped into the role of Brigham. “A healing ointment given to me by my dear Mormon brother, its fragrance sweeter than that of any other animal in God’s kingdom.”
“Sweeter than buffalo carrion, to be certain,” Bronwyn said, raising an eyebrow.
“’Tis sweeter indeed,” agreed Mary Rose, “than even owl vomitare.”
“Vomitare?”
Mary Rose grinned. “Latin for ‘vomit.’”
“Ah,” Bronwyn said, frowning as if in deep concentration. She clasped her hands behind her and paced, head bowed, just as Mary Rose had seen Brigham do a dozen times. Her brow still furrowed, she then looked up and said in perfect imitation of his American drawl, “Ahh, yes, I have it. A word from the Lord…” She slapped a hand to her forehead. “I will use owl vomitare as the base for my next healing ointment…” Bronwyn started to giggle, no longer able to keep a straight face.
Mary Rose fell into a chair and doubled over as their laughter rang through the room. The sound was contagious and the twins joined in, though it was apparent they didn’t know why Mary Rose and Bronwyn were carrying on so.
After a moment Bronwyn sobered. “Oh, dear,” she whispered, sliding into a chair near Mary Rose. “What I’ve just said…do you think it blasphemy?” She looked stricken. “Please tell me I haven’t committed some unpardonable sin by having a critical spirit toward God’s great apostle.”
Mary Rose reached for her hand and held it gently. “If you did, then I did also. But we meant no harm. I cannot believe our antics could be counted against us.”
“There are rules, you know, m’lady.” Bronwyn withdrew her hand. “Certain things we will need to learn as we travel. Brother Brigham has said that when the Prophet receives a word from God about anything, ’tis our God-given duty to obey without question. What if he’s received a word from God that we aren’t to poke fun at his apostles?” Her eyes were round with vexation.
At her words, tears filled Mary Rose’s eyes, but they had nothing to do with fears of blasphemy. And everything to do with the fine line between mirth and sadness.
Bronwyn studied Mary Rose, her concern even more pronounced. “M’lady, what is it? Have I distressed you by speaking of worrisome things? I was speaking of my own sins, none others.” She rose from her chair and knelt before Mary Rose, this time taking Mary Rose’s hands in hers.
Mary Rose shook her head. “’Tis nothing you have said, but I wish you would stop calling me m’lady and simply be my friend.”
Bronwyn studied her face for several moments, and then said, “’Twould not be proper, m’lady. Not as long as I am in your employ. But when we reach America, then perhaps we can be friends.” She held on to Mary Rose’s hands. “But that is not what troubles you, is it, m’lady? I sense there is more, perhaps much more.”
Mary Rose studied the sweet uplifted face before her, sensing she could trust Bronwyn with anything she might tell her. Bronwyn’s faith was strong, her view of the future full of hope and joyful expectation. Mary Rose didn’t want to create the slightest doubt in Bronwyn’s heart by voicing her own doubts about the future; her fears that Grandfather had made a terrible error in judgment in converting to a new religion that didn’t seem to allow for independent thinking; her growing certainty that as soon as they reached Boston, presented their little charges to Hermione, she and her grandfather should book passage on the Sea Hawk’s return voyage to Liverpool.
She gave Bronwyn a gentle smile. “I was lost in thought for a moment, considering everything from Grandfather’s decision to embark on such a journey to the surprise of finding a kindred spirit onboard this ship. An accomplished kindred spirit.” Her smile widened. “Is there nothing you cannot do?”
Bronwyn’s cheeks turned pink. It seemed that she was so unused to such compliments that for a moment she didn’t know how to answer.
“I’ve been fortunate. My father is the gamekeeper of the largest and grandest estate near Hanmer, Wales. My father’s employer, Lord Kenyon, wanted his only child, Cara, to have a companion while being tutored in the classics. I was the logical choice.” Her eyes brightened as she went on. “I soaked up everything our dear old tutor taught us as if I were a sea sponge. The education didn’t stop in the classroom. I had full access to the estate library, day and night. I learned to ride the finest horses in the Kenyon stable, to shoot game, and to ride with Lord Kenyon on fox hunts—dear Cara Kenyon was fearless and her father adored her and seldom went against her wishes.”
“That’s why you knew the William Blake poem.”
“’Tis,” she said, “and hundreds of others.”
“You said ‘Cara was fearless,’ as if something happened.”
Bronwyn’s expressive eyes filled with sorrow as she nodded. “She died after a fall from her father’s prized stallion, a h
orse she was forbidden to ride. We slipped out one night to meet at the stables and took turns riding the stallion and a gentler gelding along the lakeshore in the moonlight. We were heading back to the stables when a rodent skittered across our path and both horses reared. I controlled mine, the gelding, but the stallion went wild.
“I blamed myself, and Lord Kenyon…though he said not…I am certain he placed some of the blame on me.” She looked away from Mary Rose. “Cara loved an audience. If I hadn’t gone along with her plan, she probably wouldn’t have ridden the stallion.”
“Cara was your friend.”
“Yes. The dearest ever.” She looked back to meet Mary Rose’s gaze. “And you remind me of her. I spotted it the moment I saw you.”
She glanced around the room at the wide-eyed twins who’d been silently taking in the conversation, and her demeanor changed. Once again, she was the nanny in charge.
“Girls,” she said to the twins. “Let’s help Lady Ashley choose what she will wear to the captain’s fancy dinner tonight.”
She smiled at Mary Rose. “I have the perfect style in mind for your hair, should you allow it.”
The twins came to life, crowding in to help. Bronwyn worked her nanny magic once more and before the hour was up, Oscar relaxed temporarily in his bucket, the twins had been scrubbed clean in the lukewarm bathwater, dressed in clean clothes, and three seamen had removed the water from the tub with buckets.
Ruby explained to the tallest and most frightening in appearance that Oscar was going to live with them now, and that the tub was his new home. Therefore, it was important the tub remain in their cabin. The seaman, who wore a patch over one eye and called himself Fitzgibbons, soon returned with a large bucket of seawater. He gave each of the girls a large conch shell from the Sandwich Islands to place in the tub so Oscar would feel at home.
“The Thandwich Islandth.” Ruby’s eyes grew big.
“Aye, m’lady,” he said kindly to the child.
“That’s where our mommy and daddy live,” Pearl said, hugging the large pink shell.
“They’re mithionarieth,” Ruby added.
The obvious question glinted in the seaman’s uncovered eye. His scowl was so fierce Mary Rose wondered if he was planning to shanghai the parents to reunite them with their children. “’Tis a beauteous place indeed,” he said. “And tomorry, if ye’ll bring these conches upside whilst I’m on watch, I’ll teach ye how to blow ’em like trumpets. Maybe just loud enough for yer ma’am and pap to hear ye.”
The twins looked at each other then back to Fitzgibbons as if he was the handsomest, most bighearted man God could ever think of creating.
“Truly?” Pearl breathed.
“Truly,” Fitzgibbons said.
“Croth your heart?”
He crossed his heart, then bowing to them all, he backed his way to the door.
SIX
Cavendish, Prince Edward Island
July 4, 1841
Enid urged Sadie to a trot along the white-sand beach, her senses alert as the filly obeyed the gentle pressing of her heels against its flanks. Bending low, she rubbed Sadie’s neck, laying her cheek against the mare’s mane and combing it with her fingers. “Good girl,” she whispered. “The leg is healing, just as I told you.” She slowed the mare with another gentle command, using her thighs and heels.
“Let’s see how it feels.” She drew the sorrel to canter, holding her breath to better hear the cadence of Sadie’s hooves on the wet sand. As she feared, the rhythm was uneven. “Still favoring it a wee bit, now, aren’t you?”
Enid drew Sadie to a halt. She’d been riding bareback and easily slipped from Sadie’s back. She stooped to inspect the left fetlock, where weeks earlier Sadie’s injury had gone bone deep. It was healing, thanks to Enid’s ministrations of bitter salts, though it seemed too swollen for Enid’s liking. She kicked off her shoes, hiked up her skirts, and walked the filly to the water’s edge.
She smiled into Sadie’s warm and trusting eyes, and then led her into the shallows waves. Sadie nickered, and Enid glanced back. “Don’t complain, dear, the salt water will do your leg good. Trust me.”
She stopped when the water covered the injured fetlock and rubbed Sadie’s velvet nose. The horse seemed to sense the need to remain still and, raising her head, shook her mane and softly snorted.
The surf seemed rougher than usual for a warm summer’s day, almost as if a storm might be brewing. Shading her eyes, she looked west. No clouds building, but the sky had turned unnaturally dark where it met the horizon. And out a ways, a brisk wind created whitecaps.
They left the water’s edge and stood for a moment in the warm sugar-soft sand. Enid dug in her toes, just as she had when she was a child. She closed her eyes and faced the sun, letting her face bask in its warmth.
As always, the thought of Hosea’s ship getting caught in a storm stirred up troubled thoughts in her heart. He was an experienced sea captain, the commander of one of the finest ships—a clipper—ever designed. Besides, Gabe MacKay was with him on the voyage. If ever she could count on the sea to be wary of taking down another ship, ’twould be on this voyage—with such a fine commander and equally fine architect whose heart led him to build the safest and fastest ships ever to sail the seven seas.
But then, one could not count on the sea for much of anything. She knew that as God’s absolute truth, as her husband knew, and especially as Gabe MacKay knew.
She looked out at the dark horizon again and shivered. How far was the Sea Hawk from that line between heaven and earth? Three days out, perhaps, maybe four, depending on when they set sail from Liverpool? And how far were they from the storm that seemed to stir itself into a brooding brew?
“Mrs. Livingstone!”
Enid turned, recognizing the boy’s voice. It was Brodie Flynn, one of a half-dozen children from a neighboring farm—the old MacKay place, which Gabe had sold to the Flynns within a year after the shipwreck that carried his parents and sister to their graves. At the time, they’d been newly arrived from the Scottish highlands, and perhaps for that reason, their brogue seemed more pronounced than most of the islanders’.
“Mrs. Livingstone,” the child called again, galloping like the wind on an old dun mare with a dark gray mane and tail. The boy’s short flame-colored hair, almost as red as Enid’s, stuck straight out as if uncombed for a month and perhaps last trimmed with his pa’s hunting knife.
“Ma says ye need to get to the harbor right away. A ship’s a-comin’ and she thinks it might be a clipper—though it’s still too far out to tell. Ma says I’m to trade ye horses. Ye’ll take Miss Minnie to the harbor, and I’ll walk Sadie back to the farm, because of her being lame.” He peered down at Sadie’s leg. “Looks good as ever to me, though. Is she healed?”
“Not entirely,” Enid said.
“Folks around these parts think ye part angel, Mrs. Livingstone.”
Enid laughed. “Now, why would anyone think such a thing as that?”
“Because of yer way with animals, that’s why. Horses in particular, but there was that old sow out at the Montgomery farm—the one Mrs. Montgomery named Sweet Eliza Jane so the mister wouldn’t slaughter it for supper. Take that fetlock there; no one’s ever seen a horse mend from something so torn and ugly. Everybody says so. Ye could see clear to the bone inside ’er.” He grinned up at Enid, showing two missing front teeth. “So ye’ll take Miss Minnie, then? I’ll be careful with Sadie. Put her in yer barn, rub her down for ye.”
Enid laughed. “The Sea Hawk is trying for a speed record, child. The captain, much as he might like to, cannot be stopping here. They plan a stopover in Halifax, then they’ll be on their way to Boston. Last I heard, it will be another few days before they anchor, and it will be only for a few hours.”
“But Ma says it might be the clipper,” Brodie insisted, “and ye’ll need to be on your way, otherwise ye’ll miss the captain.”
“I’m quite certain the ship isn’t the Sea Hawk.” Though
Enid spoke with confidence, she couldn’t help the spark of hope the child’s words kindled in her heart. Would her husband ever veer from his set course just to see her, to draw her into his arms? It was folly to entertain such a thought. She knew Hosea Livingstone well. Though she never doubted his love for a minute, he was the master and commander of a ship filled with some two hundred people whose lives depended on his wisdom and decisions. Those decisions could never include the whim of visiting his wife, no matter how deep his love might be. The thought made the back of her throat sting, which surprised her. She wasn’t one to brood over Hosea’s scarcity of visits.
Brodie Flynn slid off Miss Minnie’s back. “I’ll go with ye then, should ye just want to have a wee peek at her sails. Just in the rare event ’twould be the Sea Hawk comin’ without ye knowin’ it.”
Enid ruffled the boy’s hair. “I think someone’s spotted a packet ship, likely bringing us mail from Halifax, sailing a different route to stop at other villages on the island. That’s why the confusion. But now that I think about it, my dear Brodie Flynn, it may indeed be worth a trip to the harbor.” With each schooner that arrived from Halifax, she expected mail from Scotland: a veterinary book from Dr. Fergus Duff in Glasgow, who’d written that as soon as it was published, he would send her a copy.
Brodie’s eyes grew as large as teacups. “Yes, ma’am. Indeed it would.”
“Go back home and tell your ma what we’re up to, and then come by my farm in a half hour.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Barefoot, with trousers rolled above his ankles, he swung over the dun’s bare back, waved to Enid, and rode off.
“And put on your shoes,” Enid called after him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he hollered back.
When they reached the Charlottetown harbor, the schooner Flying Swan had just dropped anchor, its sails gleaming as white as new-fallen snow in the sun. As she suspected, it was indeed a packet ship delivering passengers and mail from Halifax. She drove the buckboard alongside the wharf, just as the harbormaster met the ship’s chief mate to exchange mail packets. Passengers milled, some waiting to board, a few making their way down the gangway, children and valises in tow. The harbormaster stood off to one side of the gangway, checking the list of passengers as they disembarked, and then asking information of those waiting to board.