Waltz in the Wilderness

by Kathleen Denly

  “Indeed?”

  “Goodness, yes. What’s more, I think we should take advantage of it.” He turned to gain the captain’s attention. “How about it, captain?”

  Captain Swenson turned from his conversation with the elderly man. “How about what, Mr. Gray?”

  “How about a dance?”

  Eliza stared at her dinner companion. A dance? How were they to have a dance when there were no other ladies present? Were the women from the second table to be included? Did he plan to recruit the married women from steerage for this entertainment?

  “A splendid idea!” The captain stared at Eliza as he continued. “I cannot think of a more pleasant way to spend the evening.”

  As soon as supper was completed, the guests all rose and drifted toward the stairs. The captain offered his arm to Eliza. She took it, forcing a smile.

  Once the first-class passengers were all above deck, the other men, seeing there would not be enough ladies to go around, persuaded the captain to send stewards to fetch the second- and steerage-class passengers. Soon the deck was swarming with passengers, and the musicians were taking their place.

  As the captain swung her to stand before him in preparation to dance, Eliza looked past him.

  Mr. Clarke stared at her from a few feet away. He leaned back against the rail, outside the group of passengers paired together on the impromptu dance floor. As usual, he was frowning.

  As the musicians tuned their instruments, the captain announced that the first dance would be a quadrille. The dancers took their cue to form the necessary squares. Several men paired together for want of female partners.

  A small boy from steerage stood beside his mother. He waved at Eliza and she waved back.

  The music began and she forced her attention back to the captain standing beside her.

  As soon as the quadrille came to an end, the musicians began what sounded to be a polka, but the captain waved at them to stop. “No, no. Give us a rest, now. Let us have a waltz so that we might catch our breath.”

  Oh, no. A waltz among so many men? Oh, why hadn’t she prepared an excuse?

  A few of the men paired with other men protested but were ignored. The impromptu band switched to a slower tune.

  She seized the folds of her skirt. What should she do?

  Mr. Gray stepped closer, as if to request her next dance. The captain moved in, taking her hand and placing his right hand on the small of her back. The would-be dance partner retreated.

  “Please excuse me, sir. I am not familiar with this dance.” Eliza tried to step out of the captain’s arms, but he held her in place.

  No. Her mouth was like cotton. Should she cause a scene? Mr. Clarke! Her gaze found his.

  He straightened away from the rail.

  “Do not worry, my dear.” Captain Swenson’s low tones drew her attention as his leer slithered down her body before returning to her face. “I will teach you all you need to know.”

  Eliza pulled again at the hand he squeezed. “I beg you would excuse me, sir. I am fatigued.”

  The musician’s completed their introduction.

  The captain’s bruising grip tightened on her hand as he pushed her back to begin the dance. A hand landed on his shoulder.

  Mr. Clarke’s glare would set the sails ablaze. “Sir—”

  “Sail ho!”

  Everyone but the two men before her turned toward the faint white of a ship’s sails some distance beyond the bow, a speck in the deepening twilight.

  Captain Swenson aimed a narrow glare at Mr. Clarke and released Eliza, then stalked toward the bow.

  Mr. Clarke snatched her hand and led her against the flow of passengers following the captain. Where the captain’s hand had been rough, cold, and bruising, Mr. Clarke’s hand, though also rough, was warm and strong, yet gentle. His hold provided an odd comfort. However vexing he may be, his intentions had always been honorable.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, he released her hand. “Miss Brooks, I have no wish to cause you further offense, but—”

  She held up her hand, her mouth tipping up on one side. “But you feel it would be better if I were to retire, now?”

  His shoulders relaxed. “I do.”

  “For once, we agree, Mr. Clarke. Good night.” She gave a small curtsy and dashed down the stairs.

  Chapter 9

  Eliza checked her watch. Too early for breakfast, but she could still catch the sunrise. Surely the captain would still be abed at such an early hour. She craved a few minutes of solitude to enjoy the beauty of a new day.

  The ship’s mild heave and sway of the last two days had changed in the night to an unsteadying dip and roll. She tottered through the empty dining saloon toward the stairs. Thank heavens for the rail.

  Strong winds pushed the hair from her face as she emerged on deck. The sky was gray with the coming dawn, but the sun still slept below the horizon. Ropes rubbed, sails slapped, and waves crashed against the hull. Still, there was something serene about the ship as she shuffled across its slick surface.

  Heavy air dampened her cheeks. A gust of wind threatened to steal her bonnet so she clamped a hand to the back of her head, keeping the cover in place. The ship rolled, sending her off balance, and she tumbled to the wet floor.

  Pushing up with her gloved hands, she scanned the deck. Had anyone witnessed her fall? No other passengers were above deck. The crew were too engaged in adjusting the sails to take notice of her. Thank goodness.

  What was the proper term for what they were doing with the sails? They’d been calling out all sorts of commands to one another during their voyage, but she understood little of what it all meant.

  The dampness of the deck penetrated her gloves. She had better return to standing before her backside grew damp as well.

  Pulling her feet beneath her, she attempted to rise. Her heel slipped and she fell again. Twice more she tried and failed to gain her feet. She growled. Could she crawl toward that rail? Her skirts would get in the way, but perhaps if she—

  An open hand appeared over her shoulder.

  She craned her neck to look behind her.

  “Good morning, Miss Brooks.” Mr. Clarke’s lips were pressed together. Silent laughter shook his shoulders.

  What sort of gentleman laughed at a lady in distress? Then again, she must appear ridiculous, slipping and scrambling on the deck.

  Taking his hand, she joined his laughter as he hauled her to her feet.

  He placed a steadying hand on her arm, and warmth spread from the point of his touch. Once she was steady, he released her arm, keeping her hand. He led her across the deck to a rail, and released her.

  She shivered as she gripped the handrail.

  “You’re cold.” He removed his coat and set it on her shoulders. “Shall I escort you to the stairs?”

  “I want to see the sunrise.”

  “I’m afraid there won’t be much to see this morning.” He gestured to where large gray clouds were moving to block the sun peeking over the horizon.

  “Oh, no.”

  “I think a storm is brewing.” His mouth opened, then snapped closed. His lips parted two more times, but shut again without uttering a sound. He stared at her as if waiting for some response.

  He hadn’t asked a question. What was she supposed to say? “I think a storm is brewing.” Like the light of dawn she’d been hoping to witness, understanding grew.

  She bit her lip. Clouds now completely blocked the rising sun. Another passenger appeared at the top of the stairs and, after a quick glance at the sky, disappeared below deck. She sighed. He was right. She would be safer below.

  She forced a smile. “Would you be so kind as to escort me to the stairs, Mr. Clarke?”

  He beamed at her and extended his arm. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Brooks.”

  At the base of the stairs, Eliza blinked. The dining saloon was crowded. The approaching storm must have woken everyone early. Most frowned as they lounged in chairs or on the
sofas lining either side of the saloon. Some appeared green around the gills.

  The captain stood as she entered. “Miss Brooks, good morning.” His narrowed eyes darted between her and Mr. Clarke, glinting. The other men rose as well.

  Eliza’s neck warmed as she drew her hand from Mr. Clarke’s arm and grabbed the rail. Her lips pressed together. Why should she feel guilty? Mr. Clarke had been nothing but a gentleman. He was engaged, for goodness sake. She had done nothing wrong.

  She lifted her chin and strode toward her chair.

  A sudden drop of the floor sent her falling against the now-slanted wall.

  Another gentleman toppled against her, knocking her bonnet askew. “Beg your pardon, miss!” He scrambled away from her.

  The ship righted itself for a moment before dropping and rising again. Eliza’s bonnet ribbon threatened to strangle her.

  Rain drummed the deck overhead. Roaring thunder filled the saloon. The captain sprinted to the stairs, shouting orders as he disappeared above deck, slamming the hatch behind him.

  Passengers scrambled to their cabins. One man’s digested supper spread itself across the floor. The stench filled the enclosed space.

  Eliza placed a hand over her mouth. Please don’t let me be sick. With her other hand, she clutched the nearest sofa.

  Wind howled through the ship as the saloon continued to heave and sway.

  A severe tilt pulled her from the wall. She crashed against the table. Dishes shattered on the floor. The table didn’t budge. It must be bolted down. Chairs scraped and tumbled across the room.

  The ship rolled in the opposite direction, tugging her toward the sofa.

  An arm wrapped around her waist. Locked her in place.

  She craned her neck. Mr. Clarke held her.

  He pressed her back against his chest, her bonnet crushed between them. “We can do this.”

  Together, they staggered through the saloon, pausing at the peak of each tilt to grab the nearest table’s edge. After what seemed an eternity, they made it to her corridor.

  “Which is yours?” His breath warmed her ear against the chill of the storm.

  She pointed to her cabin door.

  He led her down the passageway and threw open her door. Shoving her inside, he kept hold of her arm. She steadied herself with the doorframe, and he released her. The ship tossed him against the opposite wall.

  She gasped.

  He waved aside her concern. “I’m all right. Shut your door and get to your berth. Wait there until the storm passes.”

  The ship sent him forward again. He clasped her doorframe to keep from plowing into her, clinging to it through another roll of the ship. He panted, his face inches from hers.

  A dining chair slid into her corridor, smashing against the wall behind him.

  She yanked at the ribbon on her bonnet. “What about you?”

  “I’ll do the same. Now shut your door.” He let go, allowing the ship’s sway to pull him through the corridor.

  July 1853 (6 months before)

  Roxbury, Massachusetts

  Alice tugged at a fingertip on her right glove as the landau bumped up the lane toward the Clarke home. Beside her, Mother nodded encouragingly to Richard who sat across from them, prattling on about his adventures as a sawyer. But Alice couldn’t bring herself to focus on his stories.

  Sweltering in the humidity and midsummer sun, she shifted on the bench, her unseeing gaze directed at the passing landscape. Her future mother-in-law would surely ask about the letters Alice had received from Daniel since their last visit. If Alice lied and said she had not received a letter, Mrs. Clarke would worry that something ill had befallen her son. If she answered that she had, Mrs. Clarke would expect Alice to share the letters as she had done previously. But Daniel’s patience had grown thin, his letters full of questions she wasn’t ready to answer. She could not share them.

  And then there was Benjamin.

  How would Daniel’s brother behave this evening? Since their return from the Summer Ball, he’d refused to escort her to any functions—in direct opposition to Daniel’s standing request. Benjamin had even avoided her at church.

  Had he written to Daniel? No. If Daniel knew, he’d have mentioned it in his letters. Or stopped writing altogether. Neither had Benjamin said anything to his parents, judging by this evening’s invitation to supper.

  The twisted glove pinched her finger. She pulled it free. Would she have a chance to speak with Benjamin? Or had he manufactured an excuse to be absent?

  Richard plucked the loose glove from her hand, a wicked grin splitting his face.

  “Give it back.” She reached for the pilfered accessory, but he held it beyond her reach.

  “I cannot. As a gentleman, it is my duty to rescue anything in distress, and this”—he jiggled the mangled glove—“poor thing is certainly in distress.”

  She shoved her open palm at him. “Oh, stop being ridiculous and return my glove at once.” Out the window, a lone figure hurried off the porch of the farmhouse. Her breath caught. Benjamin. He disappeared into the Clarke’s woodshop. “We’ve nearly arrived. Do not make a fool of me.”

  “How could I, when you’ve already done such a splendid job of it yourself?”

  She glared at him.

  Mother rolled her eyes, an indulgent smile tugging at her lips. “Richard, your sister is correct. We are nearly arrived, so do quit tormenting her. For my sake.”

  “Of course, Mother. Just as soon as she says the magic words.”

  Alice coughed. “Of all the—”

  Richard sing-songed, “Say it.”

  “I will not.”

  “Tsk-tsk. Do you want your glove back or not?”

  Alice turned to Mother for help.

  Amusement sparkled in Mother’s eyes as she shrugged.

  If Caroline were here instead of spending the evening in the home of her future in-laws, she’d make Richard return Alice’s glove. She was better at handling Richard’s vexing moods.

  Alice huffed. “Richard Stevens is the best brother on the face of this earth and any woman would be lucky to marry him. I am forever humbled to live in his shadow.”

  Richard’s mischievous grin stretched from ear to ear. He tossed the glove toward Alice. “There. Was that so hard?”

  Catching the glove midair, she stuck her tongue at him. “You’re an odious pig.”

  He bowed. “I do my best.”

  The carriage came to a halt and Richard flung the door open, leaping out with a laugh. “We’re here!”

  As Alice stepped from the carriage, Mrs. Clarke came onto the porch. “You’ve come!” She hurried down the steps to embrace first Mother, then Alice.

  Richard scooped Mrs. Clarke into a scandalous bear hug and swung her in circles until she begged to be put down.

  She wiped away tears of laughter. “Oh, Richard, you are a dear. You always know how to make me laugh.” She patted her graying brown hair. “I’m sorry Caroline wasn’t able to join us, but I’m glad the three of you are here. Come, let’s go inside. The men are almost finished for the day and will join us shortly.”

  Alice followed her hostess up the stairs. “Will your whole family be joining us this evening?”

  Mrs. Clarke gave her an odd look. “Except for Daniel, of course.”

  Alice’s cheeks warmed. “Obviously.” So Benjamin hadn’t made an excuse.

  “Speaking of Daniel”—Mrs. Clark’s eyes lit—“I’ve just finished reading his most recent letter. How many letters have you had from him since we last spoke?”

  Alice swallowed. “Oh, a few.”

  “And?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten them at home.”

  “Oh dear.” Mrs. Clarke sighed. “I suppose you’ll bring them next time, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  Chapter 10

  January 1854 (Present Day)

  California Coast

  Crash!

  Eliza jerked awake. She rose on one elbow. Some
thing’s different. The ship’s lurching and swaying was restrained.

  Metal groaned, reverberating through the ship. Wood cracked all around.

  Boots thundered on the boards above. Men shouted.

  She clutched the blankets. What was going on?

  “All passengers on deck! All passengers on deck!”

  She leaped from her berth and snatch up her carpetbag. Thank heavens she’d returned Mama’s Bible to it the night before. She yanked open the door and ran down the corridor. Joining the throng of passengers rushing through the saloon toward the stairs, she craned her neck. Where was Mr. Clarke? She didn’t see him in the crowd. He must already be on deck.

  Terrified voices rose above the din.

  “We’ve struck a reef!”

  “We’re going to die!”

  “Nonsense. Captain Swenson has it all in hand.”

  The crush of people mashed Eliza against the wall at the base of the stairs. She struggled to breathe. The handrail pressed into her abdomen. Mr. Gray pushed passed her. His eyes bulged in his flushed face. Someone shoved Eliza into his wake. She must climb or be trampled.

  On deck, she was pushed aside as more passengers spewed from below. She froze on the rocking surface, clutching her bag. Swinging lanterns sliced through the gray of a waning night. Hundreds of people roamed the ship, like an army of ants whose hill had been trampled. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. People were pushing. Shoving. Yelling for their loved ones. Children were crying. A dog ran about barking at everyone. Smoke belched from the hatch where steerage passengers spilled onto the deck. Everyone was drenched by the pouring rain.

  Her bodice clung like a second skin. Her skirts grew heavy. Shivering, she hugged her bag to her chest. I’m going to die. I’ll never see Pa again.

  Her knees gave way.

  Before she hit the deck, strong fingers wrapped around her upper arms, pulled her to her feet.

  “There you are!”

  The captain had found her.