Marrying Christopher

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “If ignorance is found in watching one’s mother waste away from illness, dying a piece at a time, little by little, day after day, then you are correct.” Marsali added more laundry to the overflowing pile by the door. “Or perhaps it is knowing that my future is bound to a man reputed for cruelty and who has, quite probably, ended the lives of those previously indentured to him. If this is what you envy, Lady Cosgrove, then I pity you indeed.”

  “Ignorance may have been the wrong word,” she conceded in a rare moment of admitting to anything less than perfection. “Nevertheless, I find myself wishing I was in possession of your willpower and determination.”

  “You are.” Marsali opened the door, carrying the basket of used rags with her. “You’ve more strength than you give yourself credit for. And when the need for it arises, I’ve no doubt you’ll reach inside and find it.”

  Christopher adjusted his cravat and tugged down his vest before approaching Lady Cosgrove as she sat in one of the chairs Captain Gower had brought up on deck. Instead of leaning against the back of the chair, she sat perched on the edge, her spine unnaturally straight, one hand tightly gripping the handle of the white parasol held loftily over her head.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Cosgrove.” Christopher removed his hat and settled in another of the chairs, leaving the one between them empty.

  “What do you find good about it?” she asked, her tone icy.

  “The weather is quite fine,” Christopher said. “We’ve encountered very little storminess, in this time of year known to be most vulnerable to that sort of thing.”

  “Hmph.”

  “The breeze is light. We are making good headway. The sea is calm and beautiful.”

  “That is a matter of opinion.”

  “True,” Christopher conceded while wondering how anyone could dispute its beauty. Both the blue sky and ocean provided an endless horizon. The air was clear and clean, the scent of the ocean so much more pleasant than that of the city they’d left behind. Out here a man could imagine and dream any possibility and believe he would achieve such.

  “But you are well and your daughter nearly so,” Christopher said. “Surely you cannot argue against that happy news.”

  “I cannot,” Lady Cosgrove said stiffly.

  A tiny step in the right direction. “Miss Abbott has worked a miracle if I’ve ever seen one. You would think she and your daughter were sisters or longtime friends, at least, with the way she has so lovingly cared for her.”

  Lady Cosgrove looked at him sideways. “Lovingly does not seem to be a word I would have thought to be in your vocabulary, Mr. Thatcher.”

  Tread carefully. “Only occasionally will you find it.” Christopher smiled. “For example, when I am referring to the care given me by our faithful servants. And, as Miss Abbott has been like a faithful servant to your daughter, that term seems most appropriate.”

  Lady Cosgrove faced forward, her nose tilted upward. “I have yet to witness Miss Abbott acting the part of a faithful servant.”

  Christopher nodded, pretending to agree. “I believe that is because she was not raised as a servant but rather brought up in a home with servants herself. Her father was quite wealthy and well connected in France.”

  “Not so well. Look what the girl has become— an indentured servant is less respectable than those who have served for years, who have remained loyal to one family and dwelt at the same estate for decades.”

  “So society tells us, but one cannot fault Miss Abbott for seeking a better life.” He recalled his grandfather having explained the principle of longtime servitude to him once, when telling him that Harrison’s family, his ancestors, had been serving at his estate as far back as the dukedom existed. “I believe Miss Abbott shows much promise. Whomever she serves will be fortunate to have her. Miss Abbott will be loyal to a fault. In addition, she has lived both in England and on the Continent, and that experience will, no doubt, prove valuable in less-civilized America.”

  “What is your point, Mr. Thatcher?” Lady Cosgrove somehow managed to peer down her nose at him, though he was clearly taller, even seated as they were. “All this talk of Miss Abbott grows tedious.”

  He decided to change tactics. Honesty is not the best policy. It is the only policy, Grandfather had said. Christopher very much hoped Lady Cosgrove felt the same. “I would like you to consider hiring Miss Abbott to be your daughter’s lady’s maid. Once we reach New York, it would require an upfront payment to the man she is indentured to, but then she would be your faithful servant for a period of four years. And, as she appears to be quite fond of your daughter, I’ve no doubt she could be persuaded to stay on beyond that term.”

  Lady Cosgrove’s mouth opened widely, then closed, bringing to mind a few of the unusual fish Christopher had seen on this voyage.

  “How very audacious of you to presume to tell me whom I should hire as a servant— when it appears you are little better than a servant yourself.”

  “There is no shame in serving others,” Christopher said evenly, “and I have spent a portion of my life doing that. Just as I’ve spent a number of years living with my grandfather, who was the seventh duke in a rather long and prestigious line.”

  “Was,” Lady Cosgrove said. “He is dead now. And once more you are no one.”

  “If you view my connection to him as the definition of who I am— or was,” Christopher said. Her attitude annoyed him, but it did not come as a surprise. “He was my mother’s father, so I remain untitled— unworthy of company such as yourself.” He made to leave, believing his cause to be lost, when she spoke again.

  “I am sorry for your loss. And I understand your plight more than you may think.”

  “I have no plight,” Christopher said. “I am my own man, responsible for my own future. It is likely that— even had a dukedom been offered me— I would have refused it in favor of this journey and the subsequent opportunities.”

  “Then you would have been most foolish,” Lady Cosgrove said. “For a man, at least, may be secure in the knowledge that he will have an income for the duration of his life. But a woman is not so fortunate. I have buried two husbands— both men I cared for deeply. And upon the deaths of each, I found myself to be virtually penniless, without home or income.”

  “And with a daughter to support,” Christopher added quietly.

  Lady Cosgrove gave a brief nod, then immediately resumed her straight-backed posture. “In truth, I am powerless to choose so much as a servant or a gown or a cup of tea. Beyond the clothing that Lydia and I have brought in our trunks, we have nothing. Much of our jewelry was sold to sustain us these past months, until we received the offer from Mr. Vancer. From this point on it is he upon whom we are both completely reliant. I can only hope that Lydia’s being forced to a marriage of convenience turns out as fortunate as my marriage did.”

  “For both your sakes, I hope so as well.” Christopher rose from his chair, the optimism he’d felt at the beginning of their meeting having completely vanished. Are there any ladies who are not misfortunate?

  “Good day to you, Lady Cosgrove.” He tipped his hat.

  “And to you. I am sorry I cannot help with your request.”

  “As am I,” Christopher said, feeling that her admission was something at least. Though it would not help Miss Abbott at all.

  Marsali watched as Mr. Tenney poured champagne into her glass, then proceeded around the table. Beside her, Mr. Luke swirled the amber liquid appreciatively before taking a drink. On her other side, Mr. Jones— ever seeming uncomfortable when away from his engine room— covered his glass with his hand.

  “None for me, thank you. I’ve got to be clearheaded to see to things below deck.” To Marsali, he said, “Never could hold my liquor well.”

  “I do not believe there are many men who can,” she said, thinking of her uncle. “But it is an admirable one who admits it.”

  In answer to her compliment, Mr. Jones stared at his place setting, his face flushing red to match
his hair.

  Marsali leaned closer. “Please do not be flustered by all this unexpected formality,” she whispered. “In truth, I am not at all certain anymore which fork is to be used first either.”

  He braved a glance at her, an appreciative smile lighting his face. “I’ll not tell if you don’t.”

  “Our secret,” Marsali whispered, bringing a finger to her lips. “We must only watch Lady Cosgrove for our example, and all will be well.”

  Their example sat on the other side of the table between Captain Gower and Mr. Thatcher, directly opposite them. As Marsali looked up from her whispered conversation, she found Mr. Thatcher watching her, a most peculiar look— one she could not quite decipher— upon his face.

  “Here, here.” Captain Gower tapped the side of his glass with his spoon. “I know at the start of our voyage I said there was to be none of the fancy and formal found aboard my ship, but tonight I’m breaking my own rules. Why, you may ask. Because today the Amanda May clocked a record nine knots per hour— for six consecutive hours. We have now shaved an additional day off this voyage and will be arriving in New York one day earlier than planned, though we left England a day late.” He glanced at Lady Cosgrove. “Most of you should be very pleased to hear this.”

  Most. But not me. Marsali turned her head from the captain and caught Mr. Thatcher watching her once more. His brows rose in question, as if to ask if she was all right. Instead of sending him a reassuring smile, Marsali gave a slight nod and directed her attention elsewhere, not trusting herself to contain her emotions.

  She was not all right, and the reason had very little to do with their imminent arrival in New York and everything to do with the way Mr. Thatcher had been avoiding her. It was as if he could tolerate her company no more than Miss Cosgrove’s. Marsali didn’t understand this change in him, and it pained her. And when, occasionally— as at breakfast the other morning and again just now— he glanced at her in his old friendly and concerned manner, she experienced an unsteady swell of feelings she did not know what to do about.

  Mr. Thatcher had seemed so sympathetic at the beginning of their voyage. Indeed, his concern had so touched her that she’d confided in him as she had to no one before. But something had changed during the week of Lydia’s sickness. And when Marsali had at last felt she might take strolls around the deck once more or join Mr. Thatcher in a lively conversation about a book each had read, he was nowhere to be found. Instead, it had become apparent that he did not wish to see or converse with her. More than a time or two she had caught him hurrying to his room or up on deck the moment she appeared in the saloon.

  And though she had purposely lingered on deck— under Mr. Murphy’s watchful eye— for the past few nights, Mr. Thatcher had not resumed his nighttime habit of observing the stars with her.

  It is probably for the best, she told herself. We will be parting ways in less than two weeks. Perhaps several days less, if Captain Gower’s ship continued to exceed expectations.

  The captain raised his wineglass, and the others at the table followed suit. Even the flustered Mr. Jones lifted his water cup.

  “To the Amanda May and our safe and speedy voyage to America,” Captain Gower said.

  “To the Amanda May.” Glasses clinked together as everyone joined in the toast.

  Marsali took a sip of champagne and felt a tickle as it hit her throat. She placed her glass on the table, thinking she would do well to follow Mr. Jones’s example.

  Two of the kitchen crew entered the saloon, arms laden with platters and bowls. As they started service at the head of the table, Marsali turned her attention to Mr. Luke. Painful though he was to converse with, he did not dredge up any feelings of uncertainty or loss as simply glancing at Mr. Thatcher did.

  “Making the crossing quickly as we are, this is one of the most exciting voyages you’ve made,” she said.

  Mr. Luke gave a polite laugh, giving Marsali the impression that her statement had offended him.

  “Not quite,” he said. “The Amanda May has speed, but our route has been most ordinary. This voyage lacks the excitement that comes with trying to outrun a pirate ship.”

  “Something we should all be grateful for,” Lady Cosgrove said.

  “True enough,” Captain Gower agreed, raising his glass once more. Lady Cosgrove did

  the same, finishing what was left of her drink.

  “Have you had many encounters with pirates?” Marsali asked Mr. Luke, more for a good tale to share with Lydia later than out of real interest. No doubt he had enjoyed several grand adventures, and it seemed likely he would be quite animated in telling them.

  “I have had more altercations with pirates than I have fingers and toes on which to count.”

  Marsali worked to keep her smile from growing too stiff. From the corner of her eye, she caught Mr. Thatcher watching them, an almost bored expression upon his face.

  “Just last year, before I had the good fortune to make acquaintance with Captain Gower, I was sailing with the East India Company. We had a shipment of costly rugs, and rolled inside these rugs we’d hidden even more valuable goods.” Mr. Luke placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward, warming to his topic and frustrating the kitchen crew member attempting to ladle soup into his bowl.

  “What sort of goods were you transporting?” Lady Cosgrove asked.

  “The usual— tea and silks, porcelain. And, of course, opium.”

  “Of course,” Captain Gower muttered. “Dastardly business, that trading company. Be glad you got out when you did.”

  “I am,” Mr. Luke said. “Though, as you’ve sailed with them as well, you must admit there was a bit more excitement to a trading voyage than there is in transporting passengers across the Atlantic.”

  “I am happy to leave the excitement behind,” Captain Gower said, sounding rather exasperated with the direction of their conversation. “I prefer remaining in possession of all my limbs and, most particularly, my life.”

  “As do I,” Officer Luke said, taking up a roll and preparing to butter it. “And on that particular voyage, with the rugs, I came as close to losing mine as I ever have— ever care to.”

  “Do tell us what happened,” Marsali said when it appeared he would not but had transferred his interest to the food in front of him.

  “We were boarded, of course. Several men were cut down at once. Other pirates went straight to the hold and began searching out the treasure and bringing it up. We offered very little resistance— or so it appeared. But three other officers and myself were barricaded in a room below, with two hidden cannons, primed and aimed at the other ship. One of the officers was killed when the pirates shot through our door. But I held my position, and we fended them off, silencing those who had found us and remaining hidden until most of the blackguards were back on their ship. Then we took aim and fired langrage— bits of scrap iron, nails, bolts and the like— at their deck.”

  “Most often such a move is intended to tear a ship’s sails, disabling it,” Captain Gower added.

  “But it is equally as effective at clearing a deck of the men upon it,” Officer Luke said. “As was the circumstance that day. Those of us left on board were able to fight with and defeat the pirates who hadn’t yet returned to their ship, and those who had— and were laboring under the weight of the rugs— were caught unaware and dispatched through our cannon fire.”

  “Brilliant.” Lady Cosgrove clapped her hands, or attempted to, though they weren’t meeting up quite as well as they had a few moments earlier. Marsali caught the captain’s nod and saw the cabin boy fill Lady Cosgrove’s glass once more, though this time only halfway. It was becoming apparent she couldn’t hold her liquor any better than Mr. Jones.

  “It was dangerous but also exciting. Nine times out of ten the company could best a pirate ship,” Mr. Luke boasted.

  “Really?” Mr. Thatcher asked. “The odds were that good? Must be a lot of inept pirates at sea these days.”

  Marsali had been thin
king the same thing but still found it somewhat audacious of Mr. Thatcher to question the first officer that way.

  “The odds were never that good,” Captain Gower said, answering before Mr. Luke could. “Particularly with one pirate.”

  “Sir Edmund Crayton?” Mr. Thatcher suggested to Marsali’s surprise, and it appeared everyone else’s as well.

  “You know of him?” Captain Gower asked.

  “Yes. You could say that.” A troubled expression flickered briefly over Mr. Thatcher’s face.

  “You may have heard of Crayton,” Mr. Luke said. “But meeting him is something else entirely.”

  “You don’t say.” Mr. Thatcher flexed one of his hands and held it in front of him, studying it almost as if reminiscing. Marsali followed his gaze and noticed for the first time that his index finger was bent unnaturally, as if something had happened to it and it hadn’t healed entirely right.

  “When Crayton and his men boarded a ship, few would return to tell about it,” Mr. Luke said. “But there was one time when he intercepted an East India ship en route from China. Her hold was full of pepper, and when the men saw it was apparent they were going to be boarded, the crew went into hiding below, each reaching into a barrel of pepper and grabbing a fistful before they hid.”

  “Pepper?” Lady Cosgrove asked as she hiccupped, then brought a hand to her mouth.

  “They had guns and knives, too,” Mr. Luke said. “But Crayton and his men weren’t expecting the pepper. Many got a face full when they went below looking to take men and treasure. In the time it took for them to recover, the East India men were able to gain the advantage. I was not personally aboard that ship, but I have heard tell of it many times.”

  “Indeed,” Captain Gower said, appraising his first officer skeptically.

  “Have you ever met a pirate, Mr. Thatcher?” Marsali asked, giving in to the desire she’d had all evening to engage in conversation with him.

  “Just one,” he said. “That I know of anyway. Though with the company my father kept, that is questionable.”