Marrying Christopher

by Michele Paige Holmes

  Now we end this. “Mr. Murphy over there will have my head or report me to the captain if I dance so closely with you ladies.” Christopher jerked his head toward Murphy and found the man had fallen asleep, his back propped against the rope.

  “He won’t care. He won’t even notice.” Miss Cosgrove giggled again.

  “Might not your fiancé have something to say about us standing so close if he was about?” Christopher suggested.

  Miss Cosgrove opened her mouth, presumably to argue, but was interrupted before she could say another word.

  “Perhaps if I show you.” Miss Abbott stepped forward.

  Coming to my rescue?

  Her smile seemed a bit smug as she linked her arm through his and steered him away from a crestfallen Miss Cosgrove.

  “You owe me,” he muttered when they’d begun to sashay down the deck.

  “I?” She feigned a look of innocence. “What have I done but rescue you from an awkward situation?”

  “Which you landed me in first.” But he could not truly be angry with her, not when conversing with her and feeling the slightest touch of her arm against his set him to feeling so strangely pleasant.

  “Please do try to be kind,” Miss Abbott whispered. “She has had a difficult time of it and is attempting to make the best of her situation.”

  “Difficult?” Christopher asked, certain they could not be discussing the same woman. “Miss Cosgrove is to be married to one of the wealthiest men in New York.”

  “Who is quite a bit older than she is, and whom she does not know. Not to mention she’s just left her home and her friends and everything familiar behind forever.”

  Miss Abbott’s insight left him speechless. Where he’d seen only a spoiled, petulant young woman, Miss Abbott had seen suffering. As they made their way back toward Miss Cosgrove, the pout upon her face almost made him feel guilty. Almost.

  Miss Abbott stepped aside once more, this time shrinking into the shadows, away from the lantern light. Christopher bowed to Miss Cosgrove. “Milady, shall we try once more? This Irish dancing ’tis a wee bit different, but nothin’ the likes of which ye cannot handle.” His false brogue elicited a smile, and she linked her arm through his as her knee raised in a hop.

  They galloped about the deck, nearly kicking poor Murphy on one turnabout, until Miss Cosgrove’s initial disappointment seemed to have fled.

  “This is ever so enjoyable. I’ve never danced as the Irish before. Mama says they’re a filthy people and she wouldn’t ever sail on a boat they’re on, but I feel their music is lovely. And their singing, too. I should like to have pipes at my wedding, I think. I wonder what Mr. Vancer would think of that. Maybe he could hire one of the men from that ship? Maybe I could ask him when we arrive— but no.” Her pout returned. “We’re going to get there weeks before that other ship does.” She sighed heavily, then brightened at once. “But no matter. Surely there are droves of Irish folk in New York. See how many are on that ship alone. I’m sure I can find at least one to play his pipes for us.”

  “I am certain you can,” Miss Abbott said, joining them again and rubbing her eyes tiredly. “But now we had best get to bed. We have worn poor Murphy out, and he’s a long day ahead of him tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Miss Cosgrove agreed, turning away from Christopher as if he was not there at all. “And we mustn’t be late for breakfast. Captain Gower is already cross about our delay.”

  Miss Abbott neither agreed with nor denied this statement but carefully steered Miss Cosgrove toward the common room. Christopher lagged behind, wanting to enjoy the cool breeze he’d come outside for in the first place.

  When they’d gone several paces, Miss Abbott stopped, then turned back suddenly. “Just a moment. I forgot something.” She ran back and knelt beside Mr. Murphy. “Thank you, sir. You may ‘wake up’ now. I’m taking Miss Cosgrove inside.”

  To Christopher’s astonishment, one of Murphy’s eyes cracked open, and half of his mouth curved upward. “Thank ye, miss. Couldn’t take no more of that one tonight.”

  “I know,” Miss Abbott whispered, then stood.

  “How come you let him pretend to sleep, while I had to dance with her?” Christopher muttered under his breath as she passed.

  Miss Abbott shrugged. “Because you’re a gentleman— whether you like it or not.”

  Surprisingly, Captain Gower’s mood had improved by breakfast the next morning. Christopher had been awake when the Liverpool Port Authority had come aboard early and given the captain clearance to depart at ten o’clock. Only, the larger ship, the one docked beside theirs, was scheduled to be tugged out before the Amanda May.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Captain Gower said confidently as he spooned oatmeal into his bowl. “The whole lot of ships here could leave before us and we’d overtake them within a few hours.”

  “Exactly how fast can your ship travel, Captain?” Miss Abbott asked.

  “We’ve tested her at six knots per hour when the sea is calm. Of course, she’ll be a bit slower with the wind against us and much faster with the wind in our favor.”

  “I should like her to go very fast,” Miss Cosgrove said. “I do hope the elements will be with us on our journey.”

  “We shall need more than the elements on our side,” Lady Cosgrove said sourly, sounding as much the opposite of her daughter as one could. Looking at her furrowed brow, pinched nose, and pursed lips was almost painful, and Christopher noted that her skin held a greenish tint this morning. She wasn’t eating much either, aside from the small corner of toast she’d nibbled at.

  “Sea legs— that’s what you need,” Captain Gower said. “Some of you will get them faster than others. We’ve buckets for those who feel they will be ill. I suggest all of you take one to your cabins today. Stay abed if you’re not feeling well. A day or two out, and most will be right as rain.”

  Most was not likely to include Lady Cosgrove, Christopher guessed.

  “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be needing to stay in my cabin,” Miss Cosgrove said. “And a bucket won’t be necess—”

  “But it’s good to have you all together at breakfast today,” the captain said, effectively cutting off Miss Cosgrove before she could get going on another of her breathless monologues. “Lady Cosgrove and Miss Abbott, I do not believe you have been properly introduced to one another yet, so allow me. Lady Cornelia Cosgrove, this is Miss Marsali Abbott. Miss Abbott, Lady Cosgrove.”

  Miss Abbott turned to Lady Cosgrove with a warm smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I have enjoyed your daughter’s company immensely already.”

  Christopher thought the word immensely might be overdoing it a bit. If Miss Cosgrove merits such praise, how would Miss Abbott describe her interactions with me thus far?

  “Marsali… such an uncommon name. It wouldn’t happen to be Scottish, would it?”

  Christopher saw at once through Lady Cosgrove’s seemingly innocuous question. It appeared that Miss Abbott— Marsali, a name as pretty as she was— did as well. Though he had known her less than two days, he recognized the fighting look that now flashed in her eyes. It was the same she’d given him last night when he’d challenged her to see who could dance the best. But this morning, behind her intense gaze, Christopher thought he glimpsed vulnerability as well.

  “I am named after my grandmother, Marsali MacDonald, of Scotland.”

  “Ah, I see.” From Lady Cosgrove’s tone Christopher saw that she did not care for this information. He wondered if her distaste for Scots was such that she would no longer allow her daughter to associate with Marsali on this voyage.

  Perhaps I should claim to be from Scotland as well.

  “And how is it you came to be in England?” Lady Cosgrove continued.

  “My grandmother and her family left Scotland in 1745, after the failed attempt to restore the Stuarts and Bonnie Prince Charles to the throne. They fled to France, where my grandmother later married. My mother was born in France, as was I. But my father was English, and
some years ago we moved to Manchester.”

  “And now you are traveling to America. It would seem that your family moves quite frequently. Looking for a place in which they fit in and are welcome?” Lady Cosgrove suggested as she looked down her nose at Miss Abbott.

  Christopher set his glass down rather forcefully on the table and shot a look at the captain to see how he was taking to one passenger verbally abusing another. But Captain Gower seemed oblivious and was busily consulting his pocket watch and a chart he had laid out before him.

  “Yes,” Miss Abbott said. “You could say that we have been searching for our place. And England was most certainly not it. France was lovely. I should not have minded if we had continued on there. And I have always wanted to see my grandmother’s homeland. Her stories and descriptions of the Scottish highlands were enough that I think it must be the loveliest bit of ground on earth. But it is America that my sister calls home now, and so it shall be for me as well.”

  “Well said.” Christopher raised his glass in a toast, catching Miss Abbott’s eye across the table.

  “Oh yes,” Miss Cosgrove chimed in as she raised her glass as well. “I do so love to travel. We’ve been to ever so many places, and it’s always a glorious time meeting new people and having new adventures. America promises to be the grandest of all. Where does your sister live, Miss Abbott? My Mr. Vancer lives in New York, in one of the largest mansions ever built there. He designed it himself, and it has twenty-seven bedchambers, which, I am told, is quite a large number for America. It also has a grand garden. But, of course, Mr. Vancer still travels to England and Europe every couple of years as well, so I shall be able to return to visit.”

  Christopher caught the tiniest bit of yearning in her last sentence and glanced at Miss Cosgrove sharply. Her smile was as bright as ever, but he saw through it to the sadness Miss Abbott had told him of the night before. She was right. He felt certain he would never have noticed Miss Cosgrove was anything but annoyingly cheerful had he not been told otherwise. For some reason this bothered him.

  Here he’d been feeling so pleased with himself for noticing Miss Abbott’s distress and coming to her rescue and befriending her, when the other young lady on board had been distraught as well. Considering that he had always prided himself on his ability to look out for, protect, and especially to be intuitive about anything to do with his sisters, his lack of intuitiveness in this situation seemed almost shameful.

  But neither Miss Abbott nor Miss Cosgrove are my concern, he justified. It is time I stopped behaving as if they were. This is my time, my freedom, and I have earned it. I have no place being concerned about their affairs. Christopher pushed back his chair and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, Captain.” He had a book with him already and tucked it beneath his arm. “I believe I shall take advantage of being out of doors before we leave port— in case I am predisposed to being ill, as the captain has warned. Good day.” He turned toward the door.

  “What a splendid idea, Mr. Thatcher. May I join you?” Miss Cosgrove practically jumped out of her chair. “What is it you are reading? Perchance, might it be poetry? I adore poetry.”

  Perchance might a man have five minutes peace on this voyage? Christopher gritted his teeth and forced a smile. He looked back toward Miss Cosgrove and happened to catch Miss Abbott struggling to hold back a grin— or outright laughter?— as she pretended great interest in her bowl of porridge.

  “Of course you may join me,” Christopher said in his most pleasant voice. “And shall we invite Miss Abbott as well?”

  At this her head snapped up, and she exchanged a look with him.

  Do not think to foist her off on me all day, he sent her way.

  I wasn’t!

  Maybe not, but you were certainly enjoying my discomfort.

  Guilty. Miss Abbott glanced away.

  Christopher’s look turned smug. “Shall we, ladies?” He took a step toward the door. Miss Cosgrove was already prancing down the aisle, and he heard the reluctant scrape of Miss Abbott’s chair as she stood to join them.

  They are not my responsibility, he repeated to himself. But if I must endure the company of one throughout this voyage, I should at least be allowed the companionship of the other as well.

  “Fire her up, Mr. Jones!” Captain Gower called from the top of the stairs leading below deck. An answering bellow carried up to him, and Marsali watched as he left the stairwell, crossed the deck, and proudly assumed his place at the wheel.

  Mr. Thatcher and Miss Cosgrove both stood at the stern, the latter busy waving two handkerchiefs at once and calling farewell to the crowd assembled below. Marsali preferred standing at the side of the boat, close to where the gangway had been. Holding the rail, she leaned over, eager to see the first churning of the wheel.

  A trickle of steam had been spouting steadily from the smokestack for some time, but all of a sudden this turned to puffy white clouds, growing larger by the minute. People standing on the dock pointed and exclaimed, causing Miss Cosgrove to become even more animated, her handkerchiefs flapping and snapping in Mr. Thatcher’s face. Marsali smiled to herself, all the while feeling guilty for having abandoned him to such a fate. But she’d spent over an hour walking the deck with them this morning and felt she had earned a moment alone.

  Shouts came from below, and Marsali peered over the rail in time to see the first movement of the wheel. This coincided with the first movement of the ship as she turned away from the docks. Most in the crowd cheered, though she noted more than a few somber faces.

  And not because they are sad to see us go. There were those, the captain had explained earlier, who wished the Amanda May ill, for if she succeeded, she stood to challenge— even pose a threat to— the other shipping lines.

  “The steam engine is going to change the world,” Captain Gower had predicted. At this moment, Marsali couldn’t help but think he was right.

  Fascinated, she watched as the wheel gained momentum. Quickly the distance between shore and ship increased. Steam puffed from the tall stack, and the wheel churned through the water at a steady pace as the Amanda May moved away from the harbor and out to sea.

  First Officer Luke stood beside Captain Gower at the wheel and the helmsman on the other side. Marsali guessed that Captain Gower wanted his moment of glory as they left port— and likely another when they arrived in New York— but that much of the work of steering the ship would be left to his officers in between. She’d been introduced to these men and others shortly before departure and had quickly discovered that Mr. Luke was one to avoid. He could easily match Miss Cosgrove for dialogue, but his was even more self-centered. Listening to him— as Marsali had been trapped into for a good ten minutes earlier— one would think Mr. Luke was the captain and had built the entire ship himself, with his bare hands. She hoped his duties would keep him very busy throughout their voyage.

  Captain Gower, on the other hand, continued to impress her. When all had been assembled on deck he offered a prayer for their safe journey.

  Marsali would not have guessed him to be particularly religious, but when he had petitioned the Lord not only for their safety but for the safety of the families they left behind, she had seen him in a different light. The Amanda May, Mr. Thatcher had explained, was named after the captain’s wife, and she and their two children would be anxiously awaiting his return. Marsali wondered if the captain’s obsession with speed had anything to do with a desire to see his family more frequently.

  I shall have a family to see soon as well. Charlotte was a mother now, to a little boy who had just turned one. Marsali had liked Charlotte’s husband, Matthew, when she’d known him in Manchester, and the thought of sitting at a table with the three of them— with family— filled her with yearning that felt almost like a physical ache.

  Holding to the rail, she carefully made her way to the bow, having no desire for any further look at England and her past, though she could not deny the air of excitement on board and on the docks behind
them. She felt glad for this, for the captain especially. His ship may have met with superstition, but those watching her leave port of her own accord, without any tug or wind to aid her, had to be impressed.

  Marsali stood at the bow a few minutes more, looking back toward the wheel a time or two and enjoying the breeze on her face. What a wondrous thing it was to have time in which to simply stand and do nothing but appreciate the blue of the sky and the ocean, the feeling of being alive. She hadn’t seen much of the outdoors the past few years— there hadn’t been time for anything but work— and she found that her senses craved it. The cry of a gull, the spray of the water, and the salty scent of the ocean all filled her with joy. It felt as if her life had finally begun— just now, at this very moment.

  I am coming, Charlotte. As much pleasure as she took in standing on deck and feeling the wind in her face, Marsali felt even more enthusiasm for the letter now tucked inside her pocket. She’d put it there this morning, anxious to read it at last, as soon as they were underway.

  She left the bow and walked to midship, where she settled on a crate in the shade beneath the main sail. Eagerly, she withdrew the precious paper, careful to hold it tightly. She didn’t want to chance having the wind catch the letter and blow it away, but neither did she wish to return to the stuffiness of her cabin when the day was so fine. The breeze here beneath the sail was not too strong and felt refreshing. Wisps of hair that had previously blown about now fell softly on either side of her face. Marsali took one of these and twirled it around her finger a moment— an old childhood habit— before summoning the courage to open the letter.

  The last one I shall have from Charlotte before I see her again.

  “Miss Abbott, would you care to join us as we bid farewell to England? She’ll not be in our sights much longer.”

  Marsali looked up from the envelope she’d been about to open and found Mr. Thatcher standing above her, eyes screwed tightly in a rather desperate look— one that begged for assistance. Miss Cosgrove hovered just behind him, but her eyes were puffy and her cheeks red and splotchy, as if she had been crying.