Marrying Christopher

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “I suppose it is good, then, that I am not destined to be a sailor,” Christopher said, half jesting, though the captain’s words had struck a chord of discomfort. He wanted to believe he could be entirely happy in America. But was that possible having left his sisters behind as he had? He’d not been happy in England, so this was the better choice— was it not? He frowned, weary of thinking on it and wishing the ship had sailed already.

  Captain Gower chuckled. “You may not be a sailor, but I reckon you know just what I mean.”

  “It would seem that I do,” Christopher admitted. “But I have placed my hope in America— that her freedoms and opportunities will be my happiness and a better life than I could ever live here.”

  “She is the reason we stand on this ship,” Gower said. “If I cannot get any Englishmen to sail on her, it’s certain I’d not have convinced any to finance her.”

  “What will your American investors think if we do not sail as planned tomorrow?” Christopher asked.

  “We’ll make up that day or die attempting to,” Gower promised, and Christopher felt the first inkling of uncertainty in his gut. Speed does not necessarily equate with death, he’d told the coachmen just this morning. But might it, if the captain grew careless?

  “Miss Abbott may yet arrive,” the captain said, lighting a pipe he had pulled from his pocket but sounding less hopeful than he had earlier.

  Christopher followed his gaze, scanning up and down the boardwalk, and saw that a lone figure— cloaked and with hood drawn around the face— was approaching, walking slowly past the Irish ship next to theirs. With the captain, he watched as the individual moved laboriously along the wharf, not stopping at the larger vessel but glancing up at the Amanda May and continuing toward them. It was apparent now that the individual was a female— a rather small one, and possibly deformed. She was hunched over and shuffling along as if with great difficulty.

  “How old is this Miss Abbott?” Christopher asked.

  “Young enough to serve at least four years after this voyage,” Captain Gower said. “Or at least that is what Mr. Thomas was led to believe through their correspondence.”

  The woman paused at the gangway, said something to the guards stationed below, then started up the ramp.

  “A new passenger, perhaps?” Christopher suggested.

  “Let us hope so,” the captain said, taking up the lantern once more and heading toward the gangway. “For as much as I want Miss Abbott to arrive, I should like her to look a bit more alive when she does.”

  Christopher followed the captain to midship, then hung back so as not to interfere with the interrogation soon to take place. The woman was taking an extraordinarily long time to ascend the ramp, and Christopher wondered if they ought to offer assistance. But at last her head appeared, hidden in the folds of a winter cloak, her face down, as if keeping her balance required that she watch her every step.

  She stood on the deck a moment, then dropped the bundle she’d been carrying— a sack of flour, it seemed. Captain Gower extinguished the pipe he’d lit just moments before, then stepped forward, lantern held up in one hand, his other on the pistol at his waist.

  “State your name and your reason for boarding my ship.”

  The woman straightened, raised her hands, and pushed back the hood of her cloak, revealing a startlingly young and beautiful face.

  Christopher held back a surprised gasp but was unable to suppress a smile.

  “Marsali Abbott, sir. A Mr. Joshua Thomas arranged for my passage.”

  A passage that has just become far more interesting.

  “He arranged for more than that,” the captain said. “Are you not contracted to be a lady’s maid to his daughter for a period of four years?”

  “I am.” Miss Abbott stood a little taller yet.

  “Mr. Thomas is my colleague, and I would hate to think that he is being cheated,” the captain said. “In addition to having a difficulty with reporting on time, it appears you may have infirmities which prevent you from fulfilling your duties.”

  “I have no infirmities, sir.”

  “Yes, well, it is a pity the medical inspector left hours ago and is not here to refute your claim. He is set to return tomorrow morning— at the cost of one of my finest bottles of port, mind you— but I am of a mind not to bother having him back when it is clear you cannot even walk properly.”

  “I have been walking for over two hours,” Miss Abbott said. “On brick and cobblestone roads in worn slippers not meant to traverse great distances. I assure you, under normal circumstances my feet and legs move quite well. As for the other— infirmity— you speak of.” She untied the strings of her cloak, removed it, and set it on top of the bundle she’d dropped earlier. She turned away from the captain, revealing a knotted shawl bunched at the base of her neck.

  “My journey here was somewhat perilous; this disguise allowed me to make it safely. It seems no one wants to bother with an old, deformed woman.” She turned to face him once more.

  Christopher smiled to himself and wished he might applaud Miss Abbott’s ruse. It reminded him very much of something Grace might have done in days not long ago, when her situation was perilous as well.

  Miss Abbott’s must be very grave indeed, he thought, noting the sack that lay at her feet. He’d brought little with him, but his possessions seemed extravagant compared to what little Miss Abbott owned.

  And what will she think— how will she feel— when she meets our other passengers, Lady Cosgrove and her daughter? Christopher had had the misfortune of meeting them earlier, and his first impression was that both the lady and her daughter were as ridiculous as the number of trunks and parcels they’d brought with them on this voyage.

  “I see.” The captain cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I may have judged your condition wrong, but that does not excuse your tardiness.”

  “It is not my habit to be late,” Miss Abbott said. “The coach refused to take me the entire way, and I was forced to walk from… the center of town.”

  Christopher caught the slight hesitation in her voice and guessed the captain had as well. What is it she is not telling us? he wondered, then mentally scolded himself for his curiosity. The last thing he wanted was to be interested in this woman’s affairs— no matter that it appeared she’d had a difficult time of it.

  She is not Grace or Helen, he reminded himself. And therefore not my responsibility. He took a step backward, intending to retreat before either party could take notice of his presence. He had a book waiting for him in his cabin— on loan from Captain Gower, who had invited his guests to make use of his shipboard library, small though it was. An evening reading is just the thing to distract me from thoughts of home.

  “Please, Captain Gower, sir. I am fairly exhausted and would be ever so grateful if you would show me to my lodgings. I believe with a bit of bread and a good night’s rest I’ll be better able to answer your questions and pass the medical inspection.” Miss Abbott bent to pick up her cloak and sack.

  “Meals are served promptly on this ship; supper is always at seven o’clock. As you have missed it this evening, you will have to wait until breakfast tomorrow— at eight o’clock sharp— for something to eat.” Captain Gower’s tone brooked no arguing and was more stern than Christopher thought necessary.

  “Very well,” Miss Abbott said, sounding weary.

  Christopher glanced at her and felt a swell of pity and wanted to protest on her behalf. He knew what it was to go hungry— had felt that gnawing, stabbing pain in his gut, had frequently known the dizzying weakness caused by hunger quite often during the first fourteen years of his life. He recognized the pained look in Miss Abbott’s eyes and guessed— by her thin frame— that she was no stranger to hunger herself.

  “Might you show me to my quarters, then?” she asked the captain. “Unless I have missed the appointed hour for retiring for the night and must wait until the morrow for that as well?”

  Weary, but not done for. Chris
topher turned away, hiding his smile.

  “This way,” Captain Gower said gruffly.

  Hurrying ahead, Christopher reached the door to the saloon first. He pulled it open and stepped aside, allowing first Miss Abbott and then the captain to enter.

  “Miss Abbott, this is Mr. Thatcher, another of our passengers this voyage.” The captain’s introduction was stiff, as if he hadn’t really wanted to make it. “Mr. Thatcher, Miss Abbott.”

  “Welcome aboard,” Christopher said, feeling grateful for more than the renewed possibility of tomorrow’s departure.

  “Mr. Thatcher is as glad as I am that you have arrived at last,” Captain Gower said, addressing Miss Abbott. “He is most eager to be away from England and would not have been pleased if we had been detained longer.”

  “Then Mr. Thatcher and I have something in common,” Miss Abbott said. “I have been counting down the days until I never have to see England again.” She dipped into a graceful curtsey, even cumbered as she was by the large sack. “Mr. Thatcher.”

  “Your cabin is this way,” the captain said. “I’ve put you close to mine so as to see you come to no harm. Mr. Thomas and his daughter are most eager for you to arrive safely and have given me that charge.”

  Miss Abbott made no comment to this but followed the captain down the women’s side of the saloon, while Christopher walked down the other side, toward his own cabin, also near the captain’s quarters on the other side.

  So much for not being near any women, he thought when Miss Abbott was shown to the room directly across from his, though he found this did not bother him nearly as much as he’d thought it would— or as much as it would have if Lady Cosgrove or her daughter were situated so close to him.

  “Good night, Captain, Mr. Thatcher.” Miss Abbott went inside her cabin and closed the door behind her.

  “Not sure she’s what Thomas is expecting,” Captain Gower muttered and headed for his own quarters at the end of the long room.

  “Good night, sir,” Christopher said, then stepped inside his room and closed his door as well. He hesitated but a moment, then retrieved the bundle on the top of his trunk. Miranda had sent him with enough food to last a week, and though it wasn’t as fresh as it had been three days ago, the crusty bread and cheese would be better than nothing. Quietly, Christopher stepped outside his cabin, leaving his door ajar so as to make as little noise as possible.

  Instead of walking down the aisle to the end of the tables and the narrow passage in front of the captain’s quarters to the other side, Christopher climbed on top of and over the benches and table in front of him, stepping quietly onto the floor in front of Miss Abbott’s cabin.

  He raised his hand, intending to knock softly, when he heard weeping from the other side of the door. He tensed, then withdrew his hand and stood there, undecided.

  What am I doing? Had he not— just this morning— made a vow to enjoy his freedom from responsibility for any female? To enjoy worrying about no one but himself? To keep his life completely uncomplicated? And yet here he was, about to do something that would likely displease Captain Gower. Something that at least borders upon meddling in his affairs— and Miss Abbott’s.

  She was not his responsibility. Christopher knew this, and it alarmed him that here he was, acting as if she were anyway. Her hunger and hardships and anything else having to do with her were not his concern.

  So why am I here? Why could he not turn around and go back to his cabin and pretend he had not noticed the hunger and the sadness in her eyes, pretend that he did not hear her heart-wrenching weeping this very moment?

  Because I cannot— not when I am able to do something to assist her. To ignore Miss Abbott’s distress would have meant disappointing Grace. And she had raised him better than that— as had his grandfather, having finished what his sisters had so well begun during the six years they had lived with him.

  The true mark of a gentleman, Christopher, lies in how he treats others— both his peers and those who have less than he. Titles and fortune have nothing to do with it. How a man regards those less fortunate than he is determines who and what he really is.

  Christopher raised his hand once more, knocking as quietly as possible on Miss Abbott’s door.

  The weeping on the other side ceased at once, followed by a series of hiccupping breaths.

  The cabin walls are rather thin. I’ll do well to remember that.

  “Who is it?” Miss Abbott’s teary voice asked.

  “Mr. Thatcher,” Christopher whispered. “I’ve some food for you. I’ll leave it outside your door.” He set the bundle down and returned the way he’d come, sliding over the table and benches quickly and entering his own door just as he heard Miss Abbott’s open.

  She glanced down at the parcel at her feet, then stooped to pick it up. Christopher started to push his door closed.

  “Thank you.” She sounded bewildered, as if no one had ever before done her a kindness.

  “You’re welcome.” Christopher opened his door a hair more and met her gaze across the width of the saloon. “No one deserves to go hungry.” He smiled encouragingly. “I hope the food does you good.”

  Miss Abbott clutched the bundle to her and nodded, then retreated into her cabin once again. Christopher closed his own door as well, then walked across to the bed and collapsed on it, hands clasped behind his head and a smile on his face.

  No doubt about it. His heart felt lighter than it had since leaving Yorkshire. Since leaving Grace and Helen. Miss Abbott was not his sister, and it certainly wouldn’t do to become too close to her or too involved in her problems, but perhaps he could do her a bit of good— show her a bit of kindness— during their journey.

  There would be no harm in it, he reasoned, as she had already had a post to go to— an arrangement of indenture for the next four years. But for the next few weeks, he might try being her friend and lightening her burdens— whatever they were— inasmuch as he could while they sailed together. If doing so assisted her, he would be glad of it.

  He felt glad of it already, and a bit foolish as well, to realize he’d not separated himself from the responsibility for his sisters quite as much as he’d believed he had. Apparently watching out for females in distress agrees with me after all. Grace and Helen would have laughed to hear him admit that. But, then, he supposed, they had both probably realized it already.

  With reluctance Marsali placed Charlotte’s still-unread letter on the table beside her bed, then left the security of her cabin and stepped out into the connecting hall. It seemed an unusual arrangement, with nothing separating the women’s quarters from the men’s excepting the long row of rectangular tables running down the middle of the room. Perhaps, as with the modern steam engine employed on this ship, this arrangement of closely clustered cabins was also in vogue. If nothing else, she knew it had to be better than the other option— traveling below deck in steerage, as her sister had four years earlier. The difficult voyage had nearly killed Charlotte— one of the reasons she’d been so reluctant to have Marsali make the same journey.

  But I am making it now. And in none too shabby conditions. Her cabin, while tiny, was private— the first room she’d enjoyed all to herself since a child. The bed was comfortable, and the washbasin and stand appeared new. Had she still been in possession of her trunk, it would have fit nicely along the wall. And the louvered, circular window at the rear of the cabin let in sufficient light that she might sew or read— had she any books, or anything with which to sew.

  Holding back a sigh, Marsali tried not to think of her trunk and belongings left behind yesterday. She was aboard the Amanda May, they would shortly be traveling toward America, and that was all that mattered. In a few short hours the ship would be underway, and she would be reading Charlotte’s letter and learning all about America and Virginia, where her sister lived.

  The common room was empty, and Marsali worried she’d missed breakfast. But it couldn’t possibly be eight o’clock yet. She’d watched t
he sky turn from dark to pink through her window this morning. I am early. That is all, she told herself, then walked the length of the room and stepped outside into the morning sunshine.

  The air felt warm and muggy already, and she guessed it would be another hot day. And I shall not have to spend any of it hidden beneath my winter cloak. Marsali shuddered, yesterday afternoon’s frightening situation still all too close.

  She pulled the door closed behind her and set out to explore the ship. The majestic smokestack was almost directly to her right, and this she stared up at, impressed already by its height and girth. She would have liked to see the pipe installed and imagined that it must have been quite the feat to set it in place.

  A short distance past the smokestack was the wheelhouse. It was this feature that had helped her locate the ship last night, as none of the other vessels at dock had any such contraption. Moving to the rail, Marsali leaned over the side, studying the immense wheel and trying to comprehend what it would take to set such enormous paddles churning. She’d no doubt that once they were, the ship would move in record time. Rather than feeling frightened by this, she found the sight and possibilities exhilarating.

  “You’re up early.”

  Marsali looked over her shoulder and found Captain Gower standing behind her. She turned to face him, her back against the rail.

  “I am always up early. I do not believe I could sleep late if I tried.”

  “That is well, as you’ll not have much opportunity for that beyond this voyage.”

  Marsali forced a smile, though she did not appreciate the reminder of the period of servitude that awaited her. She hoped Captain Gower would not treat her differently than the other passengers, that he would not continuously refer to her indenture, but it seemed that perhaps he would.