by Eloisa James
“Miss Jerningham,” Mrs. Sibbald continued, rather as if she were addressing a recalcitrant scullery maid.
Gabby was already on her feet and greeting Mrs. Sibbald with a charming smile. “Do forgive us—” she began.
But Mrs. Sibbald interrupted. “Miss Jerningham, I might have misunderstood you.” Her bearing indicated that she never misunderstood anything. “I trust that I did not hear you mention nibbled bones?”
Really, Gabby thought to herself, Sibbald couldn’t have entered at a worse moment.
“Oh, no,” Gabby said, her voice soothing. “I was merely telling Phoebe an improving tale from the Bible.”
Mrs. Sibbald’s jaw lengthened. She’d heard what she’d heard, and it didn’t sound like any Bible tale to her.
“The story of Jonah and the whale,” Gabby added hastily. “You know, Mrs. Sibbald, since my father is a missionary, I find it quite natural to relate stories from the Bible wherever I go.”
Mrs. Sibbald’s mouth relaxed slightly. “Well, in that case, Miss Jerningham,” she allowed. “However, I must beg you not to overexcite the child. Excitement is injurious to the digestion. And where is Master Kasi Rao Holkar?”
“I believe Kasi is taking a nap at the present, Mrs. Sibbald. He mentioned a wish to retire.”
“If you’ll forgive me for saying so, Miss Jerningham, you coddle that boy. Prince or not, a deserving tale from the Bible would do him some good. After all, he’s a native. Lord only knows what sort of influences he had as a child.”
“Kasi grew up in my house,” Gabby said. “I assure you that he is as Christian as little Phoebe.”
“An unfeasible comparison,” Mrs. Sibbald announced. “No Indian could be as Christian as an English child.
“It is teatime,” she announced. “Miss Jerningham, your hair has fallen again. I advise that your coiffure receive immediate attention.” And on that lowering note, Mrs. Sibbald left the cabin.
Gabby sighed and sank into a chair, realizing that there did seem to be a large number of wispy curls hanging about her face. Then she felt a tug on her gown.
“Miss Gabby, she forgot me. Do you think I ought to remind her?” Round blue eyes stared worshipfully at Gabby.
Gabby pulled Phoebe’s leggy little body up onto her lap. “I swear you have grown half a head on this trip,” she said.
“I know,” Phoebe replied, looking with disapproval at the hem of her gown. She stuck out a booted leg. “My dress has become so short that my pantaloons are beginning to show!” Her eyes were round with horror at that idea.
“When you reach England, I’m sure that you will have a new dress.”
“Do you think she’ll like me?” Phoebe whispered into Gabby’s shoulder.
“Will who like you?”
“My new mother.”
“How could she not like you? You are the sweetest five-year-old girl aboard this whole ship,” Gabby said, rubbing her cheek against Phoebe’s soft hair. “In fact, you may well be the sweetest five-year-old who ever sailed from India.”
Phoebe pressed closer. “Because when I had to say goodbye to my ayah”—a farewell that seemed to have traumatized her far more than the untimely deaths of two parents she scarcely recognized—“my ayah said that I must be very, very good or my new mama will not like me, since I don’t have any money to bring her.”
Gabby silently cursed Phoebe’s ayah—and not for the first time. “Phoebe,” she said as firmly as she could, “money has nothing to do with whether a mother loves her babies or not. Your new mother would love you even if you arrived in your nightdress!”
And she devoutly hoped it was true. From what the captain had told her, there had been no answer to the letter sent to Phoebe’s only living relative, her maternal aunt.
“Miss Gabby,” Phoebe said, her tone hesitant. “Why did you tell Mrs. Sibbald that your story was of Jonah and the whale? My ayah told me never to tell an untruth—and especially never to a hired person. And Mrs. Sibbald is a hired person, isn’t she? She was hired to accompany me to England.”
Gabby gave Phoebe another little hug. “Your ayah was right in the main. But sometimes a fib is permissible if you can make someone feel happy. Mrs. Sibbald would very much like to think that you are learning stories from the Bible. And when I told her you were, she felt happy.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Sibbald ever feels happy,” Phoebe observed, after thinking about it for a time.
“You could be right,” Gabby replied. “But in that case, Phoebe, it is even more important not to overset her.”
“Do you think that if I told my new mama that I had some money it would make her happy? Would it make her like me?”
Gabby swallowed. “Oh, sweet pea, I am only talking about little fibs. You couldn’t say such a thing to your new mother! That’s a big untruth, as opposed to a small one. And it is very important not to tell even small untruths to important people like your new mother.”
There was an unconvinced silence.
Gabby thought desperately. Really, for all her eagerness to have children, she was beginning to see that it was far more difficult than she had imagined.
“Are you bringing any money to your new husband?” Phoebe’s voice was muffled because she had her face pressed to Gabby’s shoulder.
“Yes,” Gabby said reluctantly. “But that money will not make Peter love me.”
Phoebe’s face popped up like an inquisitive robin from its nest. “Why not?”
“Peter will love me for myself,” Gabby said with quiet conviction. “Just as your mother will love you for yourself.”
The little girl hopped onto her feet. “Well, then, why did you tell Mrs. Sibbald that Kasi was in his chamber having a nap? That wasn’t true, and it didn’t make her happy.”
“A different kind of rule,” Gabby explained. “My sweet Kasi is frightened to death of Mrs. Sibbald.”
“What kind of rule?” Phoebe inquired.
“You have to protect the weak from the strong,” Gabby said, and then amended herself. “That’s not exactly right, Phoebe. You know what Kasi is like. Handing him to Mrs. Sibbald would be like feeding the goat to the tiger.”
There was a slight noise behind the screen protecting the tub from plain sight. The little girl peered around the screen. “Kasi Rao, it’s time to get out of there.” She put her small hands on her hips. “What would Mrs. Sibbald say if she could see you in the tub with all your clothes on?”
“Let him stay there if he prefers,” Gabby called across the room.
But Phoebe shook her head firmly and stated, with a force that Mrs. Sibbald would have admired, “It is time to have tea, Kasi. You needn’t worry. I won’t let Gabby talk about the tiger again.”
A very slender boy with innocent eyes that took up half his face peeked around the corner of the screen and then checked, unwilling to emerge from the safety of the corner.
Phoebe took his hand and tugged. “There is no one here but us, Kasi.”
Soft brown eyes darted back and forth between Gabby’s smiling face and the hand she held out to him. Kasi wanted to come out, obviously, but it was so far across the room, and the room was so very open.
Phoebe pulled at him impatiently. “Mrs. Sibbald thinks you’re napping, so you’re quite safe.”
“We’ll have tea together,” Gabby said reassuringly, as Kasi gathered his courage and hurtled himself to her chair, sheltering under her arm like a chick that had strayed from its nest. “Are you hungry, little brother?”
“Kasi isn’t your little brother,” Phoebe said. “He’s a prince!”
“Well, that’s true. But his mother was related to my father’s first wife. And he grew up with me, so I feel as if he is my brother.” Kasi had stopped trembling and was playing with the locket Gabby wore around her neck, humming a tuneless, happy song as he tried to open the catch.
Phoebe came around to the other side of the chair and leaned against Gabby’s leg. “May I see the picture of your husband again?”
“Of course you may.” Just before they set sail for England, a miniature of her future bridegroom had arrived. Gabby gently took the locket from Kasi’s fumbling hands and opened it.
“Is he waiting for you in London, Miss Gabby?”
“Yes,” Gabby said firmly. “We shall all be met at the dock, Phoebe love. Your new mother will meet you, and Mrs. Malabright will meet Kasi, won’t she, sweetheart?” She looked down into Kasi’s pointed little face.
To her satisfaction, he nodded. She had been reminding Kasi every day that Mrs. Malabright was coming to see him when the vessel landed.
“And then what will happen, Kasi?” she prompted.
“Live with Mrs. Malabright,” he replied with approval. “I like Mrs. Malabright.” A shadow crossed his eyes and he added, “I don’t like Mrs. Sibbald.”
“Mrs. Malabright will take you to her house, and you needn’t ever see Mrs. Sibbald again,” Phoebe said, rather bossily. “I will come visit you though. I will visit you secretly, and I won’t tell anyone where you are.”
“Yes,” Kasi said with a contented lilt in his voice. And he returned to playing with Gabby’s locket.
“Do you like your new husband, Miss Gabby?” Phoebe asked.
Even looking at the miniature portrait of Peter, of his soft brown eyes and wavy hair, made Gabby’s heart beat faster.
“Yes, I do,” she said softly.
Phoebe, who was a true romantic, even at age five, sighed. “I’m sure he already loves you, Miss Gabby. Did you send him a picture of yourself?”
“There wasn’t time,” Gabby replied. And if there had been, she would not have sent one. The only portrait her father had ever commissioned made her look horribly round in the face.
She tucked the locket away again.
But even as she, Phoebe, and Kasi munched on dry toast, which was the only treat offered now that they had been at sea for weeks and weeks, Gabby couldn’t help daydreaming about her betrothed and his gentle eyes. Somehow, by the grace of God, she had been given a fiancé who was everything she had dreamed of: a man who looked perfectly capable of carrying on a quiet conversation. He seemed as unlike her cold, ranting father as possible.
Gabby’s heart glowed. Peter would obviously be a devoted and loving father. Already she could picture four or five small babes, all with her husband’s eyes.
Every day the ship drew farther and farther from India and thus farther and farther from her father’s frenzied reproaches: Gabrielle, why can’t you put a bridle on your tongue! Once again, Gabrielle, you have embarrassed me with your graceless behavior! And the worst of all: Oh, God above, why have you cursed me with this disgraceful chit, this prattling excuse for a daughter!
Her happiness grew with each ocean league that passed.
Her sense of confidence grew as well. Peter would love her, as her father never did. She felt as if Peter’s sweet eyes were already looking into her soul and seeing the Gabby inside: the Gabby who was worth loving, the Gabby who was not merely impetuous and clumsy. The real Gabby.
YES, A GLIMPSE OF Gabrielle Jerningham, along with insight into her dreams, would have shaken Quill to the backbone.
But since Quill was not overly given to the imagination, nor had he ever demonstrated the gift of precognition, he convinced himself that Miss Gabrielle Jerningham would make his younger brother a very good wife indeed. And when he encountered Peter at his club later that evening, he told him so.
Peter was in a tetchy mood, and well on the way to being drunk as a lord. “I don’t follow your reasoning.”
“Money,” his brother replied shortly.
“Money? What money?”
“Her money.” Quill had a flash of guilt, talking about Gabrielle as if she were a commodity, although in a sense she was. “With Jerningham’s money, you can afford those clothes you love so much.”
“I wear the very best clothes now,” Peter said loftily, with the smug understanding that he stood at the very pinnacle of London fashion.
“You wear clothes that I pay for,” Quill replied.
Peter chewed on his lip. It went against the grain—and against his fundamentally kindly nature—to point out that his elder brother’s money would all be his someday, unless a miracle cured Quill’s migraines.
Yet it would be pleasant to have his own money, no doubt about that.
Quill saw the telltale interest in Peter’s eyes and laughed, his heart lighter. He slapped his brother on the back and left the club.
VISCOUNT DEWLAND, not unversed in the vagaries of seabound vessels and their schedules, had sent young George, an undergroomsman, to the East India docks on the morning the Plassey was due. But after two weeks of sending George to the docks, the master and mistress left for Bath in the hopes that a course of waters would aid the viscount’s health. Kitty left anxious instructions with Codswallop that they should be summoned the very moment there was news of the Plassey. And every evening for another three weeks, young George returned to the house somewhat the worse for wear, having spent his day in the pubs that lined the dock.
It wasn’t until the second of November that the Plassey finally glided into her berth and the coxswain dropped anchor with a ceremonious splash. Young George headed back to St. James’s Square on the spot.
But he entered a quiet house. The future bridegroom, Peter, was rarely seen these days. His valet said he was sulking, a source of great amusement downstairs. Sulking because he didn’t want to marry an heiress!
In fact, the only family member in residence was Quill, who was seated in the back garden, reading through reports compiled by his secretary. Since his accident some six years before, Quill had been denied the normal pursuits of an English gentleman. So he had turned his considerable intelligence to investment. Not one of his teachers at Eton—where he was widely considered the most brilliant lad to pass through the school in years—would have been surprised to learn that those investments had paid off in spades. Although he had made his first fortune by speculating on the East India Company, Quill now owned a wool factory in Yorkshire and a buttery in Lancashire.
But he preferred speculation to ownership. He employed some fifteen men who scurried hither and yon all over the British Isles, investigating copper mines and coal companies. He had recently begun to send out his investigators secretly, given that a rumor of Erskine Dewland’s interest in a certain firm was sure to drive up its value on the London Exchange.
At any rate, Quill’s mind was wandering from the assessment of Maugnall and Bulton, dimity manufacturers, that he held in his hands. The garden path was drifted with fallen leaves. During the first year of Quill’s convalescence, he had spent hours planning the gardens visible from his bedroom. Now the young plum trees had gamely put forth fruit, and late apples occasionally fell with a gentle plop at his feet.
But for some reason, in the last weeks he was restless even here. He failed to concentrate on the many reports that awaited his opinion. He walked up and down the paths, but could think of no significant improvement to the garden. The delights of the last five years seemed stifling, the garden a walled prison, his study a dusty cage.
Young George stood politely until Quill raised his eyes. He didn’t wait for a question; the young master never spoke unless he had to. “The Plassey has docked, sir, and Mr. Codswallop does not know Mr. Peter Dewland’s whereabouts—”
Quill stood up. “Inform Codswallop that I shall fetch Miss Jerningham myself.”
That was just what he needed: a trip down to the bustling docks. Even if it was to fetch his brother’s bride.
Thirty minutes later, his elegantly hung cabriolet rounded Commercial Road. He threw the reins to his tiger and strode down the dock road himself rather than trying to weave the carriage down the crowded street.
Suddenly a voice bellowed, “Hi! Dewland! Hello, sir! Are you here to see a shipment come in?” Mr. Timothy Waddell couldn’t suppress his curiosity. Everyone knew that whatever Dewland touched turned to gold. He wou
ld love to know the man’s opinion of the Domiago cotton he’d just bought on speculation.
“Not today,” Quill responded.
He turned away, his face so unwelcoming of further communication that Waddell quailed and didn’t ask for an opinion of the cotton.
“Damned cold bastard,” he muttered, watching Quill disappear into the crowd.
Quill didn’t notice the man’s affront. It hadn’t occurred to him that Waddell expected more than a simple answer.
When he reached number fourteen, Quill’s eyes fell on a woman, obviously a passenger recently disembarked from the Plassey. As he approached, Quill realized that she was holding a child by the hand. In all likelihood, Peter’s bride, being a delicate Frenchwoman, had waited for an escort before she left the vessel.
He strode to the end of the dock, unerringly picking out the Plassey‘s purser. “Where shall I find Miss Jerningham?”
The purser smirked. “Right behind ye, int she?”
Slowly Quill turned around. The woman was looking at him inquiringly. Damn! Quill thought. And damn, damn, damn! Miss Jerningham was beautiful. No doubt about that. She had the most luscious, ripe mouth he’d ever seen, and her eyes…her eyes were brandy-colored, a warm, sweet hue. But it was her hair that caught Quill’s attention. It was golden-brown, the color of burnished brass—and it was falling, loops and curls of it, falling into rumpled curls that made Gabrielle Jerningham look as if she had just risen from bed. A happy bed. In fact, she was quite the opposite of a poised, elegant Frenchwoman. Damn.
Then he realized that he was standing stock-still, staring at the woman without even introducing himself.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, walking over and sweeping a deep bow. “I am Erskine Dewland, and I shall soon have the pleasure of becoming your brother-in-law.”
“Oh,” Gabby said faintly. There had been an awful moment when she thought that he was Peter, her future bridegroom. Now she realized that although Erskine had a faint resemblance to his brother, he was nothing like the Peter of her picture. No, Erskine was rather terrifyingly masculine. Too large, for one thing. And his eyes were so…so commanding.