Marrying Christopher

by Michele Paige Holmes

  Fear seized Marsali. What if the medical inspector lied? What if he has told the captain I am not fit to go? Or worse, what if her aunt and uncle had somehow discovered which ship she was to sail on? It was entirely probable, as she had told both the driver and coachman which dock she was to be delivered to.

  She stood quickly and went to the door. Mr. Thatcher had already retraced his steps and held it open for her. They ascended the stairs to the deck and found the captain engaged in a war of words with a stranger.

  “I’m telling you it that it does not matter whether or not you’re able to leave of your own accord. As of this moment, all ships scheduled to depart this afternoon are required to stay in port. We’ll not chance the storm taking any lives before you’re out to sea. After that, it’s your own neck you’re risking. But here, we’ve the authority to say who stays and who goes and when you do it.” The man stood with feet planted wide. One hand held his cap in place to keep it from blowing away in the strong wind.

  “Port authority,” Mr. Thatcher whispered, nodding to the badge on the front of the man’s jacket.

  Marsali brought a hand to her own head, feeling wisps of her hair escaping from her hastily repined bun. “We’re being delayed, then?” What now? What else?

  Captain Gower’s lips pressed together, his face beet red, as if it was about to burst. Marsali was well acquainted with looks of rage and did not wish to be anywhere near. She took a step back, retreating into the saloon once more, but not before a quick glance at the sky confirmed that it had darkened and that the ominous clouds were closing in.

  Mr. Thatcher followed her and closed the door behind them, pushing it hard to secure it against the wind. “May I suggest that a rainy, stormy day is one of the best kind for reading?”

  “And staying in one’s cabin is likely the best course when the captain’s mood is foul,” she added.

  “That too,” Mr. Thatcher agreed, a wry smile curving his lips. “Let’s see about getting you a book.”

  The storm passed quickly, the thunderclaps and downpour lasting less than an hour, but Captain Gower’s mood remained foul the remainder of the day and into evening, as Christopher suspected it would until they left port. Quite possibly the captain would remain upset until they’d made up the time they had already lost.

  Twenty-five days. Could they really cross the Atlantic in such a short period of time? He hoped so and yearned— possibly almost as much as the captain— to find out and especially to see America’s distant shore.

  Along with the captain’s mood, the storm had altered the air so that it was warm and muggy. In the narrow cabin it felt particularly stifling, and so Christopher left his room, intending to go up on deck, where the air might feel a bit cooler. Cautiously he peered into the common room, wary lest the door on the opposite side at the far end might open as well. Miss Cosgrove had been his shadow much of the day, save for those times her ailing mother had summoned her, and warm though his cabin was, he felt he might prefer that over any more of Miss Cosgrove’s chatter tonight.

  In the space of less than twenty-four hours, he believed he had learned her entire life history and much of her ancestors’ as well. Lady Cosgrove’s second husband— not Miss Cosgrove’s father— had died six months earlier, necessitating the removal of Lady and Miss Cosgrove from their luxurious town house in London. As their fortune had been tied to Lady Cosgrove’s husband, they were forced to seek new means of support, and that had come in an offer of marriage— for Miss Cosgrove— from a Mr. William Vancer, a thirty-four-year-old American businessman and old family friend.

  Christopher could not help but feel sorry for the man and hoped that either his business took him frequently from home or he was indeed a very good family friend and well aware that his soon-to-be bride could talk the hind leg off a donkey, as Miranda would have put it.

  Chuckling to himself, Christopher recalled his dear servant’s use of the phrase. She’d been speaking of me. At fourteen he’d been rather curious and quite a handful for his grandfather to take on. And, as Miranda had almost always been with at least one of his sisters during those first relief-filled years, free of their father for a time, she’d been with Christopher as well. And let me know just how she felt about that duty.

  He frowned, suddenly worried that he had not changed all that much from that boisterous, unschooled boy. Perhaps Miss Abbott had thought him as annoying as he found Miss Cosgrove when earlier today he’d rambled on about his family while neglecting to ask anything about hers. He would have to do better when he saw her tomorrow— assuming Miss Cosgrove took a breath long enough for either of he or Miss Abbott to speak.

  After a moment of waiting in the saloon with no one else having appeared, Christopher reached behind him and shut his door as quietly as possible. Instead of traveling to the far end of the long room to the entrance most often used, and the one nearest Lady and Miss Cosgrove’s rooms, he opened the door to the right of the captain’s quarters. This brought him through the galley, vacant now, save for the cook, dozing on a cot near the barrels of salted pork.

  Christopher walked past the cook and opened another door, this one with steps leading to the upper deck near the bow of the ship.

  With a quick glance at the wheel, he saw not the captain but one of his men positioned there, guarding it from any mischief, Christopher supposed. He could only feel glad to not have run into the captain. A glance behind him at the gangway showed crew members stationed at the top. Likely more were at the bottom as well, the captain wanting to take no chances on acquiring any last-minute stowaways.

  Four other men sat by the mooring lines, one nodding to Christopher as he turned from them, intent on making his way to the other end of the ship. He found it preferable to look out at the water and imagine what was waiting beyond it than to look to shore and continually recall those he had left behind.

  He was not the only one who’d had the idea of escaping either the heat or the past or both, as Miss Abbott already stood at the rail, close to one of the lanterns hanging overhead and at nearly the same spot where she’d joined him this morning. He felt pleasantly surprised to see her— rather the opposite of how he felt whenever Miss Cosgrove approached. For half a second he wondered if Miss Abbott had been waiting for him, then immediately chided himself for the thought.

  She could not have known he would come up on deck, and even if she had, it wasn’t as if she had sought out his company, other than once this morning, to thank him for his earlier kindness. She’d spent the afternoon in her cabin, seeming to prefer to be alone. But Christopher supposed it might be all right to ask her how she had enjoyed the book he’d lent her earlier.

  He approached her from behind, then stopped suddenly as he noticed one of the crew sitting a short distance away, knife in hand, as he cleaned his fingernails and stared intently at Miss Abbott.

  Feeling a lurch of alarm, Christopher resumed walking, lengthening his stride until he came up beside her. “Miss Abbott,” he began.

  “Good evening, Mr. Thatcher.” She smiled, not seeming the least bothered by his intrusion.

  “Pardon me,” he continued. “But I do not believe it is safe for you to be out here alone like this at night.”

  “But I’m not alone.” She smiled, then looked over her shoulder at the man Christopher had just spied watching her. He no longer sat a short distance away but had moved closer and was standing now, his eyes on Christopher.

  “Mr. Murphy has had the misfortune to be assigned my chaperone by Captain Gower.”

  Murphy scowled as if recalling that particular conversation. “State your business with the lady, an’ be off,” he mumbled.

  “No business,” Christopher said. “I was just out to enjoy the cool air and thought to make sure she was safe.”

  “Would that I’d had the two of you to watch over me previously.” Miss Abbott sighed, and her lips turned down. “But I do thank you for your concern, Mr. Thatcher.” To Murphy she said, “I assure you he is perfect
ly harmless. Please allow him to stay so I might enjoy his company.”

  Murphy grunted his assent, then moved back into the shadows near an enormous coil of rope.

  “Pleasant sort of fellow, isn’t he?” Christopher remarked under his breath.

  “I cannot blame him,” Miss Abbott said. “Being saddled with the task of looking after me cannot have been in his job description.”

  Christopher chuckled. “I suppose not. Good of the captain to think of it, though.”

  “It is only because he is concerned that I arrive in good health for Mr. Thomas. I gather they are business colleagues of some sort.”

  “I believe so.” The previous evening Christopher had tucked this piece of information away to be considered later. Perhaps if he made a good impression, the captain would put in a word for him with his associates in America. Christopher knew he would need to find employment within a week or two of arriving. He hadn’t allowed either of his sisters or their husbands to give him any money for the voyage or for starting over on the new continent. Accepting the clothing Grace and Helen had presented him with had been difficult enough.

  “Listen,” Miss Abbott said as if he’d been speaking loudly instead of standing in silence beside her. “Do you hear that?”

  “A violin, you mean?” Its strains seemed to be coming from the tall ship beside them, the one overloaded with Irish immigrants. It, too, had been detained today.

  Miss Abbott turned toward the sound, her profile silhouetted in the moonlight. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

  Much like you. The thought came unbidden, as it had the previous night when she’d first removed the cloak from her face. She had a delicate stature, aristocratic features in her high cheekbones and brows, and full lips. He found the combination of her fair skin and dark hair stunning and had not been surprised to learn that she was French.

  But the last thing he wished or needed was to feel attracted to or interested in a woman— even one as sensible and pleasant as she.

  After a few minutes, more instruments joined the first, and the tune turned from melancholy and soulful to a vibrant jig. The sounds of stomping feet soon accompanied this, along with joyful singing and the occasional shout. Christopher almost imagined he could see the larger ship swaying with the rhythm of the dozens of stomping feet inside her.

  “Are they—?”

  “Dancing,” he confirmed. “See the light coming from the windows below deck? That’ll be where their quarters are— one big open area. No private cabins like we have, but plenty of room for dancing.”

  “My sister sailed on a packet like that. She said it was dreadful.”

  “It likely is a good deal of the time,” Christopher said. “But for tonight, at least, all is merriment. They’ve left their homeland behind and are about to sail toward the hope of a better life.”

  “Ooh, listen. They’ve a piper, too.” Miss Abbott’s face lit as the sound of bagpipes carried over the water. Her toe began tapping in time with the fiddles.

  “I don’t see why they should be the only ones having a jolly good time of it tonight,” Christopher said, having difficulty keeping his own feet still. He wasn’t usually one for dancing, but this wasn’t a crowded ballroom filled with a bunch of gossipy, giggling women.

  “Would you care to dance, Miss Abbott?” He asked the question almost before he’d considered it fully.

  “Here?” She glanced about, her eyes darting to and fro over the deck.

  “Why not?” He shrugged. “We’ve got to have a bit of shipboard entertainment— aside from Miss Cosgrove, that is.” Christopher looked over his shoulder. “I’m going to dance with the lady,” he called to Murphy. “Join us if you care to.”

  Murphy grunted acknowledgment and continued cleaning his nails— toenails now— confirming his lack of interest.

  Christopher bowed to Miss Abbott. “May I have this reel?”

  “Is it a reel?” She angled her head, listening carefully.

  “A reel, a jig, a step dance— a waltz. Does it matter?” Christopher said, finding the idea of dancing with her more appealing by the minute.

  “Indeed it does.” She laughed at his ignorance. “I should like to see you try waltzing to such a tune.”

  “We shall see who is laughing and who is fastest on their feet and still standing at the end of the night,” he challenged, holding his hand out.

  Miss Abbott took it at once as her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed together.

  She is not one to deny a challenge, he remembered, recalling her earlier conversation with the medical inspector.

  She gave a slight curtsey. His fingers curved over hers. He would never have been so bold back in Yorkshire or London. But England was behind them now, or nearly so— no matter that her shore was still but a stone’s throw away. Aboard the ship for these few weeks, the rules were different. He knew it, and he sensed Miss Abbott did too.

  “I haven’t danced in years. I’m not sure I remember how.” She cast her eyes down and suddenly tried to pull away. He wouldn’t allow it.

  “I’ve avoided dancing for years.” Christopher grinned. “In England I employed every tactic to avoid the gentlemanly pursuits of balls and dancing. So this ought to be good.” He captured her other hand so that they stood facing one another. “Ready?”

  After a brief hesitation she nodded, and their eyes met as they listened for the right point to enter with the music.

  “Now,” Miss Abbott declared, and by some unspoken communication, they began skipping sideways down the deck, out of the swath of lantern light, then back again. On their second turn they traveled farther, passing Murphy, who looked at them as if they’d both gone mad.

  As they reached the edge of the upper deck and paused to return the other direction, Christopher kicked up his heels in an attempted jig— and failed miserably, landing sideways on his ankle and nearly falling. Only Miss Abbott’s firm grip kept him from making a complete fool of himself.

  “We shall see who is still standing.” She repeated his earlier words, then pulled one of her hands away to cover her mouth in an attempt to hide her laughter.

  “I meant to do that,” he said. “Trying to make you feel more confident.” Christopher released her other hand and began clapping and high-stepping in a circle around her.

  She held her skirts at the sides and began a jig of her own, pointing her toes in front of her as she skipped about.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not Irish instead of French?”

  She shook her head. “But I’ve Scottish blood, too,” she boasted. “And my grandmother was a fine dancer.”

  “That explains it.” Christopher looped his hand through the crook of her arm, and, facing each other, they began to circle about. Her smile was infectious, and he felt his own grin broaden.

  Grace told me dancing was enjoyable, but I never believed her.

  They passed beneath another lantern, and he saw that Miss Abbott’s face was flushed. Her eyes were bright and merry, and when they locked on his for the merest of seconds, something in her look set his heart racing.

  “Ooh, what are you doing? May I join you?” Miss Cosgrove’s shrill, overexcited voice put an abrupt end to the moment and whatever it was he’d been feeling.

  “How fun! Are they having a party on the other ship? I simply adore parties— and balls. And dancing. What a lovely idea. And in the moonlight too. I shall have to write to all of my friends and tell them I attended a midnight dance on deck only my second night aboard ship.”

  “It’s not midnight,” Christopher cut in before she could say more. She stood before them, hands clasped in front of her and still overdressed in the ridiculous ensemble she’d appeared in at dinner. How many cabins did she and her mother have, anyway? Where do they store all those clothes?

  “Of course you may join us,” Miss Abbott said, freeing her arm from his and stepping aside. “Mr. Thatcher is a most excellent dancer.” She cast a sly look his direction, almost
giving him the impression she knew of his discomfort.

  “Oh, that is good to know,” Miss Cosgrove gushed. “You can practice with me so I may be ready for the soirees I shall be attending once we reach New York. Mr. Vancer is to host a ball to welcome me. And Mother says his family always holds another at the year’s end— a masquerade ball. Can you imagine?” She whirled about. “Everyone comes wearing a mask, so you cannot tell who anyone is. It sounds delightful.”

  Christopher thought it sounded like she ought to need a drink after such a long speech. He was beginning to feel he needed one just from listening to her.

  “Go on and dance,” Miss Abbott said. “The musicians are just starting another piece.” She stepped backward, leaning against the rail, and Christopher could have sworn he saw a bit of mischief in her brown eyes.

  Reluctantly he turned from her and faced Miss Cosgrove. “If the lady would care to.”

  She giggled— a most annoying sound. Whereas Miss Abbott’s laughter is… refreshing.

  Miss Cosgrove walked toward him, her hips swaying dramatically as they were wont to do whenever she moved. He wondered who had taught her such an outlandish swagger and how long it had taken her to master. He was quite certain he couldn’t walk thusly, no matter how he practiced.

  He held his hands out, intending to promenade about with her as he had Miss Abbott, but Miss Cosgrove moved too close for that and placed her hand at his shoulder.

  Panic flared inside him as his nose wrinkled and his eyes began to water from the strong scent of her perfume. “This is not a waltz. It’s a reel.” He most certainly did know the difference and was not about to pretend otherwise with Miss Cosgrove as his partner.

  “I know that, silly.” She swatted the air with her free hand, then placed it upon his other shoulder. “Hands upon shoulders thus, now we slide to the side.”