by Kris Tualla
“Oh?” Torvald went back to washing. “What did they say?”
Dagny took the damp linen cloth from her fiancé’s hand, rinsed it out, and began to wash his back. “They said men love to be pampered.”
Torvald chuckled. “I’m afraid that’s true.”
“How did your afternoon go?” she asked, now that his back was to her and he couldn’t see her disappointed expression.
“Very well. The whole endeavor will be quite successful, I believe,” he replied.
That stopped her. “Endeavor?”
Torvald twisted around and reclaimed the linen towel. “Passing time, practicing my English, and making connections for when we arrive in Boston.”
“Oh.” Dagny felt foolish for not thinking of those things herself. “Of course. That’s preferable to being alone in a new land.”
Torvald shook his head and began to retie his shirt. “We won’t be alone. I have a brother in Boston.”
“You do?” Dagny exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t I? I was sure I did.” Torvald took her hands in his; his skin was cool from the water. “I need to apologize for shooing you out of the salon earlier. I would have loved for you to stay, I truly would have, but the other men were not amenable.”
“I didn’t think of that,” Dagny admitted.
“Many of the men on this voyage are rather rough. They aren’t concerned with a lady’s sensibilities.” Torvald turned Dagny’s hands over and kissed her palms. His lips were warm and dry and the tickle of his breath gave her gooseflesh. “You are far too tender a blossom to be subjected to their inconsideration.”
Dagny’s lips curved in a shy smile. Torvald wasn’t being rude or mean; he was looking out for her as a husband would. “You had my interests foremost in mind, then.”
“Of course I did, my dear.” Torvald squeezed her hands and gave them a little shake. He smiled softly into her eyes, making her knees weak. “So. Are you ready for supper?”
***
Martin sat at the Haugen’s table again, this time with Oskar in his wake.
Oskar took the seat to Dagny’s right, while Torvald sat on her left. Martin sat across from Oskar, leaving the seats across from Dagny and Torvald for Stig and Astrid Thomassen, the couple they dined with the previous evening. He knew the older couple was likely to return this evening; humans were creatures of habit, after all.
If Martin had his preference, however, he would have dined at a different table. Only Oskar’s badgering led Martin to sit with the Haugens again.
An unwelcome diversion, Martin’s attraction to Dagny annoyed him. He decided the minute he saw her in her cabin—tall and shapely, with her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, and her pale blue eyes landing on his—that he would avoid her from this moment on.
Maybe the other blonde, the giggly one that Oskar entertained so thoroughly at the midday meal, would be a more suitable supper companion. The red haired woman was intriguing, but Oskar had expressed his interest there first. It didn’t matter. Martin was not looking for a romantic connection at this point in his life. Not when he planned to spend the next year traveling through the colonies and deciding which place suited him best.
That thought filled him with unexpected excitement. He gave up so much to make this journey, more than most men would. But what lay ahead of him would be guided by his own preferences. An entire continent of possibilities, and his for the taking.
“Why are you smiling?” Oskar asked.
Martin blinked, startled out of his thoughts. “What?”
“You are sitting there, grinning like a madman, and Lady Thomassen just asked if you would pass the bread,” Oskar teased. “What thoughts have you so deeply entwined?”
Martin hadn’t even noticed the couple’s arrival. He quickly handed the loaf of bread to Astrid with an apologetic smile. “I was considering my future in America,” he admitted.
“Obviously you are optimistic,” she responded, accepting the loaf.
“I am,” Martin nodded. “I truly am.”
“And how are you feeling, Lady Haugen?” Oskar turned his attention to Dagny. “What hopes do you have?”
Dagny glanced at Torvald and her expression softened. “I hope to make a happy home there.”
Oskar laid his hand over hers, drawing her attention back to him. “Any home with such beauty in it could be nothing but happy, my lady.”
Martin swallowed a laugh. He glanced at Torvald to see how the man would react to Oskar’s blatant flirtation, and was surprised to find him outwardly unconcerned.
“Oh. Um, thank you,” Dagny answered, the pink in her cheeks deepening.
Oskar still held her hand. “You are a woman of great beauty inside as well as out. Your answer proves it.”
“Thank you again, sir. But I fear you are too kind,” Dagny demurred. Her gaze shot to Torvald, nonchalantly deboning his fish.
Oskar raised Dagny’s hand to his lips. “Not too kind at all,” he said before kissing it tenderly.
Dagny pulled her hand away, her cheeks as red as a winter sunset. She turned to Torvald. “Haven’t you anything to say?”
“Oskar—may I call you Oskar?—would you like to join a small group of gentlemen on the deck after supper?” Torvald effused. “The captain has given me a fine bottle of port and I plan to share it with my new friends.”
“Happily, sir. Happily, indeed!” Oskar said with a broad grin. “I appreciate the invitation.”
Torvald’s consideration slid to Martin. “Will you join us as well, Martin?”
Martin dipped a nod. “I would enjoy that. Thank you.”
Dagny was noticeably unhappy with Torvald at the moment. Her jaw set in a most unladylike manner and she focused intently on her food. Why would a sister react to her brother in such a way?
Oskar’s attention—and Torvald’s lack of response—clearly made her nervous. Was Torvald a possessive sibling? Overprotective since the death of the father Dagny loved? Would she be punished in some way for the attention she garnered simply by sitting next to another man?
Perhaps there was something else going on between them. Whatever that something else might be, Martin didn’t care to consider.
When supper was finished, Oskar jumped up to hold Dagny’s chair. Torvald gave her a chaste kiss on the forehead, and Oskar another lingering kiss to her hand, making her frown a bit. Dagny left the dining area arm-in-arm with Astrid Thomassen. When she glanced back, she caught Martin watching her.
Her gaze was so heavy with pointed sadness that it pierced his chest like an arrow. Martin wanted to alleviate her sorrow, but he had no idea what had caused it. Even if he did, it wasn’t his place to do anything about it.
He turned back to Torvald, who was deep in conversation with Stig Thomassen and, apparently, hadn’t noticed Dagny’s parting glance.
“Shall we freshen up in our cabins and reconvene on the deck?” Oskar asked.
Torvald nodded. “I shall retrieve the port and meet you up top. After ten bells, we’ll retreat to the salon for cards. I know some gentlemen who expressed an interest.”
Martin smiled politely. “Perhaps I’ll watch this time.”
“We would be honored to have you, Martin,” Torvald replied. “May I call you Martin?”
Martin lifted one shoulder. “It’s a long voyage in limited space. I expect that level of familiarity will be reached at some point. Torvald.”
Torvald’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Of course.”
Martin slapped Oskar on the shoulder and grinned at his cabin mate. “Shall we?”
Chapter Seven
June 4, 1749
Martin groaned and rolled onto his back. Oskar slept on.
Yester eve the port was delicious. Too delicious. And the whiskey afterward during cards was rich and powerful. Martin remembered staggering back to the cabin after a harrowing experience trying to manage the facilities at the head of the ship. He was sober enough to realize that he was putting
his life in danger, and ended up climbing down and pissing off the side railing instead.
Now his head throbbed, his tongue felt like it was wrapped in a linen towel, and his belly demanded food for the expressed purpose of tossing it back out again just to punish him.
Martin wasn’t a drinker. Never had been. This morning, he reiterated his resolve not to make imbibing a habit, crossing his heart in promise with a stiff finger.
The card games had been enlightening. Torvald lost more often than Martin would have expected, though that was probably a ruse to encourage the other men to play more freely. At some point, Martin was certain, Torvald would begin winning.
His bladder pushed Martin from the bunk. He pissed in the pot; the corresponding relief eased some of the pressure inside his skull. When he began to wash, the cold water felt good on his skin and made his eyes feel like they truly were open. He dressed slowly, with measured movements, trying not to jar his aching head.
Once in the dining area, he sat in a quiet corner munching dry toast and oranges. The smell of fishes and sausages on the sideboard was almost enough to send him to the railing, but the bland victuals seemed to be mollifying his abused organs. There was hot coffee as well. Martin downed three cups of the bitter brew and began to feel human again.
Making his way back to the cabin—where Oskar snored impressively—Martin dug out his novel and climbed to the top deck. The brisk, salty sea breeze helped clear his head and he searched out his coil of rope for another session of reading in the sunshine. He settled in, found the page where he left off, and buried himself in solitude and the fictional foundling’s unlikely adventures.
***
Dagny climbed to the deck intending to search out the women’s group. But when she saw Martin reading in the sun, his long frame draped comfortably over a coil of rope, she walked toward him without consciously deciding to.
Seen in the dimmer light inside the ship, Martin’s hair appeared merely a light shade of brown. Lighted by the sun, it proved to be polished bronze, combed through with generous copper veins below and streaks of gold on top. As the constant wind that drove the ship forward ran her fingers through it, Martin’s locks glinted like the precious metals they mimicked. Dagny’s fingertips stroked her palm and she wondered what his hair might feel like if she copied the wind’s actions.
A book lay open against his thighs, its pages fluttering and declaring the man to be, at the moment, asleep. Dagny tiptoed forward and leaned down, pushed by a murderous curiosity, to determine what sort of book a man such as he might read. The pages jumped in the breeze so she extended one finger to lightly hold them still, but even so she couldn’t make out the words.
“It’s English.”
At the deep sound of his voice, Dagny yelped and stumbled back. Her hands grasped random parts of her clothing before landing over her mouth. Her face was so hot, it was certain to set her hair on fire.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Martin swiped a hand over his eyes; eyes so clear and perfect a blue that they might be faceted and set in a crown. Darker than the deepest sky, but lighter than the water that shrugged and wrestled beneath the ship.
A smile curled one side of his mouth. “I’m not accustomed to opening my eyes and finding a beautiful woman examining my lap.”
“Thank—What?—Oh!” Dagny stuttered and stared at Martin in horror. She was further startled when her gusts of indignation failed to coalesce into coherent verbiage.
To his credit, Martin’s face turned red as a ruby. He scrambled to extricate himself from the rope’s coil, the movement of his long arms and legs reminding Dagny of a crab tossed onto its back by an unexpected wave. He righted himself and straightened in front of her.
“Forgive my ill-chosen words, please!” He bowed a little, but kept his intense sapphires fastened to her eyes. “I do beg your pardon, my lady! I was dozing and not fully awake when I spoke…”
Dagny nodded and forced her hands away from her mouth. She pressed them against her skirt.
“Of course. But truly, sir, I was prying.” She straightened as well, recalling his comment that he liked tall women. “Will you forgive me?”
A smile transformed Martin’s features. He was so handsome that Dagny began to wonder if really he was a flesh-made man, or an elaborately created piece of precious jewelry.
He wagged his head a little. “There is nothing to forgive, Dagny.”
She pointed at the book, confused. “Do you, in fact, speak English?” she asked.
Martin flashed her an adorably sheepish expression. “Yes. I do. I spent a year and a half in London learning English,” he confessed. “Then I spent four years at Oxford.”
“You attended Oxford?” Her eyes widened, then narrowed in confusion. “Why didn’t you let on that you speak English?”
He cocked his head at the query. “No one asked me if I did. And it seemed wise not to reveal that particular bit of information just yet.”
“But now I know,” Dagny stated.
“Yes, you do.” Martin scuttled his hands through his hair, drawing Dagny’s eyes back to the tumble of metallic highlights. “Will you keep my secret?”
“Do you wish me to?” she asked, distracted by the play of sunlight yet knowing she sounded like an idiot.
“Please,” he responded.
“Then I will,” she promised, though it felt like a very intimate thing to agree to. A twinge of guilt poked her. To poke back, she added, “If you will do something for me.”
Martin crossed his arms over his chest. An expression that hovered between respect and caution sculpted his classic features. “What might that be, Lady Haugen?”
She pulled a deep breath. “Help me learn English.”
Relief flowed from Martin. “Is that all?”
“All?” Dagny huffed. “My entire future rests on my ability to communicate once we arrive in Boston!”
Martin waved his hands in a physical apology. “Of course. Yes. No question.”
“Then you’ll do it?” she asked, irritated at the tone of childish hope that dominated her tone.
Martin raked his hair again. Dagny clenched her fists. For an eternity she waited for his decision.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I will help you learn English. But why don’t you ask Torvald?”
“I want to surprise him.”
“Oh.”
“So I’ll keep your secret, and you will keep mine?” she prodded, the childish quality an annoyingly consistent resident in this exchange.
Martin shrugged and stuck out his hand. “Agreed.”
Dagny gripped it and shook it before she thought better of it. “When can we begin?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, rubbing his brow. “Let me think of a suitable place where we can converse without raising suspicions.”
Dagny wanted to hop up and down and whoop with excitement. Instead, she did what she had done all her life with the nuns: clasp her hands tightly behind her back and curl her toes inside her shoes.
“Thank you, Martin,” she murmured. Then she spun on one foot and hurried away before she threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek.
***
What the hell have I done?
Martin watched Dagny hurry away and disappear behind a lashed stack of cargo.
Skitt.
The pounding in his head—which his nap had dulled—resumed as if to punish him for being so utterly stupid.
Falling asleep with the book open on his lap was a careless mistake, albeit one that might have gone unnoticed. But to compound that slip with the promise to help Dagny learn English in exchange for her silence wasn’t a decision he took any time to consider. And he should have.
The fact he spoke English was not of such tantamount significance that his admission would have sunk the ship. If pressed, all he had to say was no one asked me. In any event, his suspicion that Torvald was involved in something nefarious was—to date—unfounded.
Martin had to confess
that his distrust of the man lay in his first unpleasant impression, made the day they sailed. Perhaps he was looking too hard for evidence to back up that impression, reading deeper meanings into Torvald’s words and actions than, in actuality, existed.
If Martin shrugged off the importance of keeping his knowledge of English a secret, he could extricate himself from his promise to Dagny. So why didn’t he make that decision now?
“Because I don’t want to,” he muttered, flipping through the novel to find the spot where he dozed off. Part of his reasoning was rooted in his dislike of Torvald. Helping that man’s sister behind his back was an insult, plain and simple.
Yet another reason jabbed sharp points into his already throbbing temples. The truth was Martin liked Dagny. He wanted to spend time with her, to get to know her better. They had no future, of course, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends on the ship and enjoy each other’s company for the next several weeks.
Martin stared at a page in his book. The words didn’t make sense. He was so distracted by that prospect that his mind refused to cooperate, choosing instead to run through options for where on the vessel that time might be spent.
He slapped the book closed in defeat and looked around. If they sat together on the deck, out in the open for everyone to see, they couldn’t be accused of doing anything inappropriate. On the other hand, Torvald might notice and ask why they were always together, derailing Dagny’s plan to surprise her brother with her newly acquired English skills.
Meeting inside one of their cabins wouldn’t do, since Torvald or Oskar might walk in on them at any moment. In addition to that, the open transoms between the cabins and the passageways prevented privacy. Eavesdropping would require no more than pausing in the hall and cocking one’s head. Martin had no intention of making his conversations with Dagny public, no matter how innocent they were.
That meant going deeper into the ship was their only option.
Martin stood and stretched, pushing his cramped limbs to their limits. While he loved being taller than the average man, there were times when common physical constraints caused him discomfort—and the bunk in his cabin was about to kill him. Tucking his book under his arm, Martin strolled to the narrow stepladder and began his descent into the nether regions of the crowded craft, searching for the perfect hideaway.