“Of course I’m listening, Honoria. Do go on.” Would the woman never stop talking? She sat across from him in the lounge, her mouth running non-stop except when she stopped to sip her after-dinner Cognac. The hell of it was he hadn’t heard a word she’d said nor did he care to. Lord help him, here they were, not a day into the voyage and he’d already had enough of the obnoxious Honoria Leffington, childhood friend notwithstanding. So far, she’d complained about the food, accommodations, and the lamentable fact her maid was in steerage, therefore inaccessible, as if she, Honoria, wasn’t the one who’d been too miserly to pay for a second-class ticket.
“…and I’m curious, Garth. Why did you say that?”
“Say what?” He’d better pay attention. He would grin and bear it because he must, for his mother’s sake. He always kept his promises, so yes indeed, he would escort Honoria safely to San Francisco or perish in the attempt, and it might be a blessing if he did.
“I’m talking about that conversation you had with that young woman in steerage, the one with the blond hair. It sounded as if you knew each other.”
“We met briefly one time.”
“It also sounded as if you didn’t like each other.” Honoria lifted her chin and aimed a cold, hard look at him. “What could you possibly have in common with a steerage person?”
Enough was enough. He smiled pleasantly. “Let’s change the subject.”
“Oh, very well, although I can’t help but wonder…”
She was off again in that awful grating voice of hers. Easy to shut her out. Good question, though. She’d been observant enough to catch the enmity between himself and the “steerage person.” Come to think of it, why did that conversation with the prickly Miss Tinsley leave him with a twist in his gut? Letty, she was called. More to the point, why should he care? He had no interest in why she was going to California by steerage or what she would do when she got there. Not his concern. An image he couldn’t get rid of floated in front of his eyes: Letty kneeling beside that silly friend of hers, blond hair tumbling in graceful curves around her shoulders, full breasts clearly outlined under the bodice of her blue gown, gray eyes sparkling with defiance as she looked up at him…
“Garth? You are not paying attention. Your mind is a million miles away.”
“Don’t be silly, Honoria. I heard every word you said.”
“Then you know I wish to go to bed now. Will you escort me to my cabin?”
“But of course.”
They started down the hallway. “When will we get to Panama?” she asked.
“Twelve days, if all goes well, but it might not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you hear what the captain said? He thinks there’s a storm coming.”
“Am I in danger?”
Typical Honoria, thinking only of herself. “A little bad weather won’t hurt us.” True enough, but having made this journey before, he felt sorry for the poor souls in steerage. Stuffed into the dank bottom of the ship, they’d all get seasick, and not a breath of fresh air to relieve their misery. Letty. He hoped she wouldn’t suffer, although why he should give a second thought to a woman who despised him, he didn’t know.
Chapter 6
“What a wonderful morning. What a wonderful view. Isn’t it nice, Elfreda?” Letty and her maid stood by the railing looking out over the choppy Atlantic Ocean. She and most of her fellow passengers had rushed to take advantage of their turn to be on deck, their brief morning hour of sunshine and fresh air. Only two stayed behind, lying in their bunks with queasy stomachs.
“They should give us more than an hour.” Elfreda wrinkled her nose. “That breakfast was terrible.”
Amazing. Her hostile maid had actually spoken two whole sentences to her. “I agree, it was pretty bad.” Actually, worse than bad. Freddy had brought their breakfast in a bucket this morning. She could hardly choke down whatever it was. He cheerfully called it porridge, but she and her fellow passengers called it slop. They’d eaten it, though, since they didn’t have a choice.
Elfreda slanted a glance at her and frowned. “The food’s not going to get any better, just like I knew.”
Would wonders never cease? Elfreda had spoken again. Now was the time for the question that up to now she hadn’t dared ask. “Why did you come on this journey? You didn’t have to, you know.”
Her maid gave her another glance, lips pursed in disapproval. “Miss Letty, because I’m your maid and you pay me, I’ll do what you ask, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you about my personal life.” She turned from the railing and started away.
“But I didn’t mean—” Too late. Her maid had crossed the deck to the other railing and stood with her back to her, her turbaned head held high as she rigidly gazed at the sea. Dear Lord, the last thing she’d wanted was to make Elfreda madder than she already was, but she guessed she’d succeeded.
Mary had overheard. “Your maid isn’t very friendly, is she? Looks like she’s got a chip on her shoulder.”
Letty shook her head. “Elfreda’s just tired. She’ll be fine.” Why had she said that? Why go to the defense of a woman who could hardly tolerate her? She had no idea why she was defending Elfreda, other than she’d been with the Tinsleys for years, hardworking and loyal. She was part of the family; therefore, no outsider would be permitted to criticize.
Their allotted hour on deck flew by. Before it was up, the sky had darkened and the gentle rock of the ship had turned into more of a definite roll. When Freddy came to herd them back to their cabin, he remarked, “Looks like a full-blown gale is on the way. Better tie everything down and stay in your bunks.”
His advice wasn’t necessary. Not long after they returned to the cabin, everyone—Letty and Elfreda included—began to feel queasy. The rolling of the ship got worse. Occasionally it took a deep dip and bounced straight up, causing queasiness to turn into full-blown seasickness. By the time Freddy brought their dinner, an unappetizing mess of salt meat, rice and prunes, no one could eat. The very smell of the food caused a chorus of anguished requests to please, just take it away. More miserable each minute, Letty lay in her bunk fully dressed. By now, she hadn’t the strength to change to her nightgown. Never had she felt this bad. Hours ago, she’d lost her breakfast, but her stomach refused to believe it was empty, and she kept dry heaving. Because of high waves, the portholes were closed, and the smelly air, bad enough to begin with, turned into a stench, a combination of vomit, chamber pots no one had the strength to carry up and empty, and the overpowering reek of a roomful of sick people. Letty could hardly breathe. This was horrible, lying in her narrow bunk, her stomach clenching at the thought of food, having to breathe the incredibly stifling air. Everyone was moaning and groaning, she included.
Sometime during the night, she must have slept because she awoke to the feel of a hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes to find Elfreda kneeling next to her, a tin cup of water in her hand. “Drink this,” she said.
Letty managed to prop herself up on one elbow. She took the cup, gulped down the water to the last drop, and fell back exhausted on her pillow. “Thanks, Elfreda, I needed that.”
“You’ve got to keep drinking water.”
“Yes, I know. How are you feeling?”
“Not as bad as you.”
“I really appreciate—”
“Anything else you need?”
“I’m surprised you’d bother, considering your opinion of me.”
Elfreda gave an amused sniff. “I’d give the devil himself a drink of water if he looked as bad as you.”
Letty hadn’t the strength to find an appropriate answer. Right now, all she cared about was living through this terrible night and getting well again. But on the other hand, if she didn’t live through the night, she’d be relieved of her misery, and that would be all right, too.
In the morning, nothing had changed. The ship still rolled, pitched, and bounced. Every woman in the c
abin lay sick and moaning in her bunk. At seven o’clock, Freddy brought fresh water but didn’t bother bringing breakfast. He knew better.
He returned at ten to announce they could not take their turn on deck. “The seas are too rough. You’d have a hard time staying upright.”
“As if we’d want to stroll the deck,” Betsey called from her bunk.
Letty didn’t join the chorus of feeble voices agreeing with Betsey. The air in the cabin had become so putrid and stifling she was about to suffocate. Her only hope had been their hour on deck when somehow she would have dragged herself up there and breathed fresh air. Now she must stay below, hardly able to breathe? No! She didn’t care what they said, she’d get to the deck or die trying. Pushing with all her strength, she sat up and swung her feet to the rough wood floor.
From the bunk above, Elfreda peered down at her. “Where are you going?”
“To the deck.”
“You’ll never make it.”
“If I don’t get some fresh air, I’ll die.” She put on her shoes and tried to stand, but a sharp roll of the ship caused her to fall back into the bunk.
“Don’t do it, Letty,” Mary called weakly from her bunk across the room. Betsey and a few others echoed her plea.
“I’m going.” She forced herself out of the bunk again, took a step to the table and hung on while the ship rolled. When it leveled, she took a few steps more, clinging to whatever was handy. Slowly she made her way to the stairs and crawled, more than climbed, to the top. Emerging onto the deck, she found a dark, dismal sky and a churning sea. Fresh air! She took a deep, delightful breath and held it in. Ah, how wonderful.
She staggered across the pitching deck, grabbed the railing, and filled her lungs again, then again. A wave smashed just below where she was standing. Any higher and she would have been drenched by an icy cold spray. She ought to move, but she couldn’t. She would stay here forever if she could, soaking wet or no. The nausea struck again, causing her to grasp the rail tight and dry heave over the side. Oh, God, what an awful feeling. Her legs went so weak she could hardly support herself. She lay against the railing, gasping, afraid she’d collapse on the deck. How was she going to get downstairs again? She’d probably have to crawl.
“What are you doing out here?”
It was Garth Morgan’s voice, barely recognizable above the whistling wind. With an effort, she turned her head. There he stood, all warm and comfortable in a black jacket, a wool knitted hat pulled down over his ears.
She glared at him. “What does it look like I’m doing, Mr. Morgan?”
“It looks like you’re puking your guts out, Miss Tinsley.”
How insulting. She would like to tell him off with a rude remark of her own, but she didn’t have the strength. “Just go away.” How disgustingly weak that sounded. The ship took a sharp dip, rose straight up, and smashed back down with jarring force. Her stomach rebelled. Moaning, she clutched the rail and heaved yet again. At another time, another place, she would have been beyond horrified she’d lost her decorum in front of a gentleman, but right now she couldn’t care less.
He reached in his pocket and produced a handkerchief. “Wipe your mouth.”
God only knew what her face looked like. She took the handkerchief and did as she was told.
“Let it go,” he said when she was finished.
She opened her hand and watched the white square disappear into the wind. “I owe you a handkerchief.”
“Forget it. You shouldn’t be out here.”
“I couldn’t breathe down there.” The ship tilted sharply. Another surge of weakness hit her. She moaned and leaned over the rail.
He took her shoulders. “I’m taking you inside.”
“Don’t bother.” She moaned again. “Just let me wait for the next wave to carry me away.”
“That’s not going to happen.” His grip tightened. He pulled her away from the railing, circled her shoulders with his arm, and walked her across the slanting deck to the same door Freddy led them through the night before, back when she had a reason for living.
She didn’t resist. Why should she when she really didn’t care where he was taking her? Didn’t care if she lived or died. They got through the door and into the lounge. She welcomed the sudden warmth and realized she was shivering. He led her to one of the sofas. “Lie down. I’m going to get you warm.”
She collapsed onto the soft cushions. How good to lay her head down.
A stern-faced steward appeared. “She’s from steerage, Mr. Morgan? This is the first-class lounge. You know the rules.”
“The rules be damned, Purvis. Get me a blanket. Now.”
“Yes, sir.” The steward scurried away. While he was gone, Garth put a pillow beneath her head and tucked her skirt around her. He pulled up a chair and started rubbing her cold hands. When the steward returned with a blanket, Garth draped it around her. “Relax. Don’t move. You’ll be warm in a minute.”
Her teeth were chattering, but as minutes passed and she got warm, they finally stopped. For the first time she took note of the lounge, which, except for them, was empty. “Where is everyone?”
A smile ruffled Garth’s mouth. “Even first-class passengers get seasick.”
“Then why aren’t you?”
“My father made his fortune in the shipping business. He expected me, his only son, to take over some day. I spent five years sailing the high seas before I realized running a shipping company wasn’t for me.” He reached to pull the blanket closer around her. “Are you getting warmer?”
“A bit.” She’d stop shivering. Her stomach was settling. “Maybe I want to live after all.”
He gave an appreciative chuckle. “The storm’s dying down.” He signaled the steward, who was standing by with nothing to do. “Bring us some tea, Purvis.” He looked back at her, his blue eyes warm and filled with concern. “Can you eat something?”
She might be feeling better, but the thought of food still made her stomach turn. “Please, just tea.” Betsey was right. Garth Morgan was uncommon handsome, and that wasn’t all. He had an indescribable masculine aura about him, as if he would observe all society’s niceties but underneath his polite surface lay a will that wouldn’t bend. He was being awfully nice, though. For the moment, she would put her true opinion of him aside.
When Purvis brought the tea, she felt well enough to sit up to drink it. Ah, the perfect cure for her woozy stomach. As they chatted, she grew increasingly more comfortable and decidedly better. Curious, she asked, “What did you do after you went to sea?”
“I wanted to see the country, head west. That’s how I ended up in San Francisco.”
“So what do you do in San Francisco?”
“I own the Golden Phoenix, a hotel and gambling saloon on Portsmouth Square. I also own hotels in two mining towns, Empire and Gold Creek.” A wry smile crossed his face. “Much to my mother’s unending horror and dismay.”
She could certainly understand why. In her own family, gambling was considered a sin. Not that she’d say so. This man had helped her, and she must be polite. Besides, there was something likeable about him. The arrogant attitude he’d displayed during their first meeting had yet to show itself. “So how did you happen to know Charles?”
“When he first came to Empire, he was staying in a boarding house, but he liked to come to dinner at the Alhambra, my hotel. We got to talking one evening. I found him to be fascinating company. Apparently he thought the same of me, and we became good friends.” He cocked his head. “What about you? What do you do in Boston?”
“I play the piano, sing in the church choir, and work as a volunteer at the museum where I mainly pin insects and arachnids—that’s spiders—to boards. People laugh when I tell them that, but they don’t understand. It’s hard to get excited about bugs and spiders, but they’re all God’s creatures, and I find them most interesting.”
She expected he’d laugh in derision like most people d
id, but he nodded with approval. “I don’t think it’s funny at all. The more we know about the world around us, the better off we are.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Wait ’til we get to Panama. You’ll be seeing more of God’s creatures than you would ever wish for.”
“Like what?”
“We’ll be traveling through a rainforest, so you’ve got a lot of creatures you’ll never see in Boston. Giant anteaters, armadillos, tapirs, all kinds of monkeys. The birds are unbelievable, every color of the rainbow—macaws, parrots, parakeets, lots more.”
“How lovely. I can hardly wait.”
“Not so fast. You’ve also got the capybaras, which happen to be the largest rodent in the world. There’s crocodiles who live in the rivers and fresh water ponds, and then there’s your arachnids, as you call them”—he held up his hand and spread his fingers—“some bigger than this. Most aren’t poisonous, but even if they’re not, you wouldn’t want to find a white tarantula in your bed in the middle of the night.”
“Even so, your description gives me something to look forward to. I shall enjoy crossing the Isthmus.”
“No, you won’t. If I’ve given you the wrong impression, I apologize. It’s sixty miles from the Atlantic to the Pacific, across the Isthmus of Panama, sixty miles of sheer, unadulterated, pure hell. From the minute you set foot on the shore at Chagres, your life will be a misery. Do not, by the way, spend the night there, or you might very well not live to see the Pacific. As for the rest…” His brow creased. “I’ve said too much.”
“No, you haven’t. I appreciate your telling me all this.” His words had put a knot of apprehension in the pit of her stomach, but she wasn’t going to let him think she was the least fearful. “Shall we change the subject?”
“Of course.”
They continued chatting. He was easy to talk to and showed a genuine interest in her life in Boston, especially her work at the museum. The storm lessened. Passengers began drifting into the lounge, Garth’s employee, Mathew Hastings, among them. Letty recognized him instantly, the bland little man who had brought the news that Charles was missing and probably dead. They chatted amiably until Letty looked up to see Honoria Leffington coming toward them. Beautifully dressed in a rose-colored, silk velvet tea gown, she looked wan and pale, as if she, too, had been seasick.
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