Marrying Christopher

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “No need to watch over Lady Cosgrove and her daughter tonight,” the captain said congenially. “I’ll get Tenney to check in on them, and I’ll ask Murphy to make his bed outside their door. He can alert me if he hears anything unusual.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Christopher said. “Good eve to you, then.” He nodded, then strode away, around the tables and toward his own cabin.

  Behind him the captain chuckled. “Cannot ask you to watch out for Miss Cosgrove when you’ve more than you can handle with Miss Abbott.”

  “Captain?” Christopher pivoted to face him, but Captain Gower had just exited the saloon through the doorway to the kitchen.

  Christopher entered his cabin and closed the door behind him, then crossed to the bed and sat alone in the darkness.

  Helping a woman, admiring her, enjoying her company, and even befriending her were all acceptable actions for a man in his position— or at least he had managed to convince himself they were. But feeling as he had a minute ago was entirely different. Entirely unacceptable.

  Yet he could not seem to rid his mind of Miss Abbott, of how it had felt to hold her in his arms and the ache he had experienced in leaving her. Christopher leaned forward, head in his hands. At this rate, I’ll be as besotted as my brothers-in-law by the time we reach New York.

  And that would never do. Grace and Helen had as much power over Nicholas and Samuel as if they were connected by a string. Christopher had witnessed the process firsthand— the not-so-covert glances exchanged between Helen and Samuel, the conversations that hinted at their attraction to one another, Helen’s blushing and Samuel’s clearing his throat as if he’d gotten something stuck in it. Almost overnight those seemingly harmless actions had turned to an obvious and shared affection that made an otherwise sensible man do rather nonsensical things, like carrying his wife out of doors in only her nightdress so he could show her the hundreds of roses he’d spent weeks planting for her.

  Nicholas was no better. He followed Grace around like a lovesick puppy, running ahead of her to pull out her chair, offering her bites of his own meal from his fork, constantly staring at her, even in public, as if to reassure himself that she was well and his.

  Such fanatical behavior is not for me. Christopher sat up and ran a hand through his hair, exasperated with himself for his wayward thoughts. Yet he knew he had no one but himself to blame. He was the one who had first reached out to Miss Abbott. He had joined her on deck and asked her to dance. He’d lent her books and invited her to walk with him. I am my own worst enemy.

  Instead of doing a jig on deck when they’d danced, he should have been doing a jig that he was free of worrying over anyone other than himself. But he did not see how that was possible now, not when he knew Miss Abbott and, worse, knew of the trouble awaiting her.

  He groaned. I am a bigger fool than both Nicholas and Samuel combined.

  At least they had seen a future ahead of them. Marrying his sisters had made sense for each man, had led them down a path of happiness, albeit one where each had turned rather soft and acted somewhat ridiculous.

  But there could be no ending like that for Christopher and Miss Abbott. He could not afford to entertain any thoughts about her as more than a friend— more than an acquaintance, really, as they would part ways in another two weeks’ time. So he had best start acting like that acquaintance now.

  Instead of imagining what it would feel like to kiss her. Christopher fell back on the bed, grabbed the pillow, and clamped it over his face.

  As if that could somehow block out the thoughts running through his mind and the feelings pulsing through his heart.

  Marsali left her cabin with both the star chart and lantern in hand and walked the length of the saloon with deliberate noise, allowing the parchment to crinkle and stomping her feet in exaggerated steps. She opened the door and shut it soundly behind her, then waited a moment, hopeful that Mr. Thatcher might join her. When he did not, she held back a sigh of disappointment and resolutely took up her place on deck, determined to enjoy the night anyway. Mr. Murphy was nowhere to be seen, but First Officer Luke strode over and greeted her heartily, his moustache curving upward and twitching in a way that almost made it appear he had a small creature residing on his lip.

  “Captain Gower has told me of your affinity for the stars.” He gazed heavenward as he spoke, hands clasped behind his back. “I, too, find them fascinating.”

  “Indeed.” Marsali had learned through previous unfortunate experience that First Officer Luke took his position a bit too seriously. His rank had obviously gone to his head, enlarging it to the point that it was a wonder it did not tip precariously off his bony neck. “Are you a particular fan of Greek mythology as well?” she asked politely. This must be how Mr. Thatcher feels whenever Lydia accosts him.

  Officer Luke appeared somewhat taken aback by her question. “If you mean all that nonsense about gods and demigods, the underworld and the like, then no. I have to say that I am not.”

  The stories of ancient Greece were not necessarily her favorite reading material either, but Marsali at least recognized that the constellations and the myths went hand in hand.

  She sat and unrolled the chart, holding the lantern above it while she tried to determine which constellations she might be able to find now that she must deal with the waxing moon’s interference. Aside from that first night of the new moon— the same that Lydia had become so ill— Marsali had not been out to stargaze again and had missed the best opportunities, when their view of the moon was slight.

  Mr. Luke raised a straightened arm to the sky, his fist directed at the North Star. “Just checking our latitude,” he said importantly as he tilted his head back and squinted in the direction of his extended arm.

  He does not actually expect to impress me, does he? Any fool knew latitude could be gauged using the North Star as a guide. She certainly hoped the first officer did as well. “Isn’t a sextant usually employed for that task?”

  “Well, yes.” He lowered his hands. “But it’s late, and this will do.”

  “Let us hope so.” If he wished to risk the captain’s wrath if they went off course and were delayed, so be it. She was in no hurry to arrive in New York. Still, she glanced toward the wheel and felt relieved to see the helmsman stationed there.

  “Besides, I am not officially on duty tonight.”

  “Oh?” Marsali cringed inwardly, guessing what was coming next.

  He lowered his hand. “Would you care to accompany me on a moonlit stroll around the deck, Miss Abbott?”

  I would not. The airs with which he spoke suggested it really wasn’t a question at all so much as a generous offering of time to be spent with him, of which she would be a fool to refuse.

  She glanced up and caught him preening that ridiculous mustache of his, curling one end around his finger, then patting it in place. She supposed she would have to walk with him. The ship was small enough that they encountered each other at least once a day and had to endure each other’s company at dinner every other night. There was no point in making a situation awkward. Better I am annoyed and he is oblivious. The moon seemed too bright for stargazing anyway.

  “Let me put this chart away.” She rolled it up, then extinguished the lantern and stowed both safely beside a folded sail.

  Mr. Luke did not offer a hand to help her up as Mr. Thatcher had but continued swirling the other side of his mustache. So much for gentlemanly behavior. She stood on her own, and only then did his elbow jut out as if awaiting her hand. Marsali pretended not to notice and instead folded her arms across her middle and focused her gaze upon the sky as they began to walk. “Are you familiar with the tales associated with the constellations, Mr. Luke?”

  “A sailor has little use for stories, Miss Abbott. The stars are not something men gaze upon with fondness. They are a tool of navigation. Why, I could safely guide us to any point on this ocean using only the stars as my compass.”

  New York will do fine. “No doubt such
skill is why Captain Gower hired you.”

  “And a wise choice it was.” Mr. Luke’s chest puffed out. “While he is busy playing with his steam engine and other inventions, I am steering this ship across the Atlantic and into port.”

  Marsali could think of no comment to this, so she made none but did not doubt Captain Gower would have had plenty to say had he heard such claims from his first officer.

  They reached the stairs leading to the lower deck, and she glimpsed a familiar figure darting toward the saloon door.

  “Mr. Thatcher,” she called before stopping to consider what she was doing.

  He paused, stiffened, and turned toward them.

  “What is he doing about at this time of night?” Mr. Luke grumbled.

  “Mr. Thatcher enjoys stargazing as well, don’t you?” She looked directly at him as she hurried down the stairs, silently begging him to stay and save her from further enduring the company of the insufferable officer.

  “I have in the past.” Mr. Thatcher’s voice was not quite curt, yet neither was it as friendly as she was accustomed to. Marsali supposed she had Mr. Luke’s presence to blame for that.

  “However,” Mr. Thatcher continued, “tonight I find that the moon is too bright for any serious study of the constellations.” His tone seemed almost accusatory as his gaze flitted between Marsali and Mr. Luke. “Good evening, Miss Abbott, Mr. Luke.”

  He nodded briefly, opened the door to the saloon, entered, and was gone, leaving Marsali feeling bewildered and strangely bereft as well.

  Beside her Mr. Luke prattled on as they walked the circumference of the ship, all the while her thoughts circling back to Mr. Thatcher and what she might have done to earn his displeasure.

  The sun momentarily disappeared behind a cloud overhead as Christopher closed the book he had just finished— another from the captain’s library, this one a volume about the various inventions of the early nineteenth century. He’d enjoyed it immensely and wondered, when subsequent editions were printed, what additional machines and contraptions would be found between those pages.

  Clasping his hands behind his head, he lay back on the deck and allowed his mind to wander, imagining a plow that might dig furrows without a horse pulling it or a wagon that might propel itself, much as Captain Gower’s marvelous steamship this very moment.

  The sea was calm today, almost still, yet the great wheel of the Amanda May was turning while steam poured from her stack as she made steady progress toward America.

  “Eight knots this morning,” Captain Gower had announced proudly at the noon meal. “We’ve made up the day we lost to those fools at Liverpool.”

  “Splendid,” Lady Cosgrove said. She was well enough to join them for brief periods, though her daughter remained in her sickbed. “The sooner I am off this wretched ship, the better.”

  “I quite agree with you,” Captain Gower replied, at which Christopher had happened to catch Miss Abbott’s eye and exchange an amused glance with her, causing her to choke on her biscuit.

  Fortunately, Lady Cosgrove— most often oblivious to others— didn’t catch the good captain’s barb.

  And fortunately Miss Abbott’s biscuit caused no serious harm.

  Christopher’s thoughts slid from inventions to Miss Abbott and the troubling idea of her being harmed by a biscuit or anything else. Her situation continued to weigh upon his mind, though he had managed, somewhat, to force other thoughts regarding Miss Abbott from it. Seeing her out strolling with Mr. Luke should have helped, but instead he had felt only annoyed. Christopher had been avoiding her as much as possible— difficult when on a ship together— and he ought to have felt relieved that she had found other companionship in his absence.

  He wondered if she had been thinking at all about what awaited her, though he had not heard her mention it since their brief conversation the morning he had tended her cut. Perhaps she has shared her troubles with Mr. Luke. The idea bothered him. Likely she wishes the ship to slow down. Even caring for fussy Lady Cosgrove had to be better than what Miss Abbott would be facing once they reached America.

  While he pondered her situation, the sun made its appearance again, already heading toward its spot on the western horizon, soon to mark the end of another day. One day closer to New York. The thought still excited him, but not as it had when he’d first boarded the ship— before he’d met Miss Abbott. The end of their voyage would not mark happiness for her, and he could no longer think of his own adventures without worrying over hers. He was doing his best to think of a way he might help her, a way he might protect her from Mr. Thomas and his cruel, if not deadly, practices.

  It was disheartening, though not surprising, to learn that such cruelty existed in America, just as it did in England. Christopher had hoped for better in the new world, but it seemed the fledging country had not yet perfected the liberties and rights its constitution so boldly promised.

  “Been doing a bit of reading, have you?” Captain Gower’s shadow fell across Christopher, and he rose to his feet, the book still clutched in his hands.

  The captain ran a hand over his chin. “I suppose I ought to set a chair or two out here for passengers when the weather is nice, as it is today.”

  “I was quite comfortable,” Christopher assured him.

  “Maybe…” The captain’s look was far off. “I envision a time when traveling on a steamship won’t be just for those immigrating. Maybe folks will take to the sea simply because they enjoy it or they want a holiday somewhere far off.”

  Christopher did not want to dash the captain’s hopes, but he had a difficult time imagining such a scenario. Satisfactory though his accommodations were, there was little for a passenger to do on board a ship, and it had taken less than a week before his restlessness had set in. “Those passengers would need to have stronger constitutions than Lady Cosgrove.”

  “True enough,” Captain Gower said. Seeming to come back to the present, he withdrew his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to fill it. “But what have you been reading today?”

  “Quite a fascinating volume.” Christopher turned the book so the captain might view the title. “I should like to see a demonstration of that machine in your quarters, the one that can make the likeness of a person.” If I had such a portrait of Grace and Helen, would it lessen how much I miss them, or would it make my longing to see them just that much worse? “I was thinking that if I was able to get such an image made, I might send it to my sisters.”

  “Ah,” Captain Gower said knowingly. “Thinking of home again, are you?”

  “Not too much,” Christopher assured him. “I think more about America and what awaits us there.” Being around Miss Abbott had lessened his longing for Grace and Helen— until he had recognized the danger in that. I will not be with her much longer, and I do not need another bitter parting, this one on America’s shores. But in spite of his efforts to lessen their interactions throughout the day, he was beginning to fear it was too late to avoid a difficult parting.

  Samuel would say it was worth it. Christopher brushed the thought aside.

  Captain Gower lit his pipe. “If you’d like, you can come with me when I show Joseph’s invention to those wealthy American investors he is so hopeful about. It will be interesting to see what comes of it, though I still cannot believe that making images is the way of the future, not more so than steam engines, anyway.”

  “Time will tell,” Christopher said noncommittally, feeling rather fascinated with both the heliograph and camera obscura. Steam travel was important, yes. But it was not an invention that might apply to all. Very few people traveled across the ocean or a continent, and for those who did not, a faster ship or a self-propelled wagon was of little use.

  But a contraption that could preserve an image… that was something that could be important to all of humankind. What family would not benefit from preserving time, as it were, in a portrait that was not painted? Or having the ability to look upon a loved one’s face when far away?

/>   Secretly, Christopher thought that perhaps Mr. Niépce might be correct in his assumption that the heliograph was an invention of great importance.

  “And have you been conjuring inventions of your own?” Captain Gower asked, his gaze direct.

  “Not exactly.” Christopher had considered— on several occasions since reading Miss Abbott’s letter— of telling Captain Gower of her predicament. Each time, he had decided against it, but they were now halfway through their voyage, and Christopher had yet to come up with a solution to help her. Perhaps the captain, knowing Mr. Thomas as he did, might be able to offer a suggestion. “Rather, I have been wishing I might invent a way to help Miss Abbott with a particularly worrisome problem.”

  “With Lady Cosgrove?” The captain waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not as much of a problem as you think. Miss Abbott knows her place. She was born to servitude. It’s in her blood, whether she wishes it or not. Lady Cosgrove has sensed that and taken advantage of it, is all.”

  “I disagree,” Christopher said. Miss Abbott’s demeanor and upbringing did not seem at all like that of a servant. “Miss Abbott was born to wealthy parents. She was educated and led to expect far more from life than what it has given her.”

  “She has adapted well, then,” the captain said. “And anyway, she has but another two weeks at most to put up with Lady Cosgrove.” He glanced around furtively, as if to make sure the woman herself was not about. “And then we shall all be rid of her.”

  “And it is then that Miss Abbott’s real trouble will begin,” Christopher said. “Just before leaving England she received a letter from her sister in Virginia.”

  “And?” The captain blew out a puff of smoke.

  “Perhaps we should walk,” Christopher suggested, as much to avoid a face full of the captain’s smoke as to avoid being overheard.

  Captain Gower’s brows rose as he appraised him. “This sounds serious.”