“I certainly haven’t seen any sign of gentlemanly behavior from him.” Albert chuckled. “The man looks like he was raised by savages.”
“I suppose a year without a barber might do that to a person,” Hope said at last, bristling. “I do hope rescue will come before your appearance more closely resembles his, given how abhorrent you find beards.”
“It is more than the beard.” Albert flicked his hand in the air dismissively. “But I suppose you have not studied him as closely as I have. I do worry for your safety, and Irene’s, when he or the sailors are about. Neither of you should be left unattended.”
Hope bit her tongue and let her eyes wander into the trees, looking for something, anything, different to talk about. She caught sight of a tree bearing fruit and pointed. “Oh, look. Should we gather some of those? They look like apples.”
Albert’s displeasure showed plainly when he followed the line of her finger to the tree. “We haven’t any baskets. And they look like crab apples. I would leave them for now. Perhaps come back when they’ve had a chance to ripen. If we are even here that long.” As he kept walking, she had no choice but to keep pace with him.
Though Hope’s sense of direction was not especially remarkable, she sensed well enough that their path had begun to loop back toward the clearing. Good. Making idle conversation with Albert had done nothing for her morale.
“We have been here for several days,” Hope said, gathering her skirt in one hand to step over a particularly troublesome rock. “How much longer do you think it might take?”
“With no way to signal we are on this particular island, I cannot say.” Of course Albert would bring the conversation back to his plans. “But do not fear, Miss Everly. I will not let you die an old maid upon this rock.”
Hope’s spine stiffened. “That is hardly something I worry over, Mr. Carlbury.” She did not turn to look at him, but hastened her step. Speaking of her marital state to this man, no matter their circumstances, remained distasteful to her.
She heard his boots against the ground, thumping at a quicker rate than her pace, and the nape of her neck sent a prickle of icy worry down the rest of her spine. Like a doe stalked in a forest, she became aware of how much larger and stronger her pursuer was than she.
I have nothing to fear from Albert.
Telling herself that fact did not erase her uneasiness. When he drew even with her and took her arm in his strong, long-fingered hand, Hope’s immediate reaction was to jerk her arm away.
But he kept hold of her. Staring down at her with a puzzled frown. “Are you in a hurry to return to your boredom?”
When she spoke, her voice came out with a tremble she hoped he did not hear. “The doctor said not to be gone long.”
Albert regarded her with perplexity, still holding her arm. How could he be so unaware of the discomfort he caused, touching her thus? Holding her against her will, however gentle the hold? He released her at last and it was all Hope could do not to bolt away from him again.
Though she had always found him repugnant, Hope had never been afraid of him. Of any man. But before that moment, when he threw her maidenhood into her notice, without the bounds of society to protect it, everything tilted. Albert might keep his distance when a world of rules said he must. But if they stayed too long trapped on the island, would he be as much a gentleman as Alejandro, or become more insistent in his suit?
“We had better not worry the doctor, then.” Albert gestured to the path, for her to lead. Though Hope disliked having him behind her, she nodded her thanks and continued on her way, as fast as before.
When she came out into the clearing again, at nearly the same place they had entered the trees together, Hope’s gaze collided almost at once with Alejandro’s where he sat near the coals of the fire, weaving a basket. Even from a distance of several yards, Hope thought his eyes lit up when he saw her, only to dim again as they took in Albert coming to stand beside her.
Albert said something, but Hope did not pay enough attention to reply. She whispered her excuses and returned to her place by the doctor and Mrs. Morgan.
* * *
Though he was not as intimately acquainted with Miss Everly as he wished, Alejandro read the expression she wore with ease. Her lips were pale, as he imagined the rest of her would be was she not sunburnt, and her eyes were round. Something had frightened her, and given the lack of a similar emotion on the face of her companion, Alejandro drew his conclusion.
When the woman sought out the married couple instead of her young friend, that further drove the idea into his head. What was the nature of the relationship between Miss Everly and Carlbury? The man acted as though he had a right to stand near her, to speak for her. The strong-willed woman continually made her own decisions, yet she never directly rebuffed him.
No one else seemed concerned with the two of them spending time together. It wasn’t Alejandro’s business to worry over Miss Everly’s relationships with the others. Not at all. And he’d been forced into the life of a recluse for over a year. He knew nothing about the connections of the people around him, and almost nothing of people in general. At least it felt that way.
The professor tottered over, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and wearing no shoes or stockings, though he had retained both in the wreck. The older man lowered himself with a grunt onto the grass next to Alejandro. “What are you making, sir?”
“A basket.” One would think that was evident enough. Alejandro held it toward the man for his inspection. “More mouths to feed means more food to gather and store. This will help.”
“Sound thinking, to be certain.” The professor huffed and scratched at his temple. “I am having a blasted time here, Córdoba. Have you seen any plants that might make a fair stand-in for tobacco?”
Alejandro studied the sallow look of the man’s face, the deep circles under his eyes, and then watched the man’s trembling fingers go back to his leg. “No. Not as such. Though I imagine if you take one of the doctor’s herbal creations, it will help. You smoked a great deal before, sí?”
“Sí.” The professor plucked at a bit of a grass and put the end of it in his mouth. “I’ve never been so long without a pipe. I even enjoyed a cigarro, once. Have you had them?”
The manner Spaniards had of rolling tobacco in leaves or paper to smoke had fascinated him as a boy. “My father said they would make me cough. They were not considered appropriate for a man of my standing.” Alejandro shrugged. “But I tried one. Once. My father was right.”
The professor laughed and then started coughing himself. Alejandro reached for the new cup he’d made and dipped it into the water pail, then offered it to the older man.
“Thank you,” he wheezed, then threw back the entirety of the cup’s contents. “Ah. Water. I cannot say I have ever liked the stuff. Give me coffee before water, rum before coffee, and bourbon above all. Though I did visit the Pacific Islands once. They had a different drink there.” He hummed to himself, obviously trying to recall the name of whatever he had imbibed.
Alejandro said nothing. The professor did not seem to require any answering conversation. He remained quietly humming to himself long after Alejandro knew the topic had been passed over. He kept at his basket weaving.
“We ought to make some sort of cistern for water collection,” the professor said abruptly.
Alejandro chuckled. “We say cisterna. The word is Latin.”
“So it is.” The professor beamed at him. “Our tongues borrow much from that father language, does it not? Yet yours is fully formed from it. I do so marvel at the distinct differences between cultures and languages. One can almost trace the roots backward, I would think, merely by counting the number of words associated to one another, until finding the language first spoken by man.” He sighed deeply, then waved a hand. “But that is not a subject for discussion at present. The cistern. What do you think of that idea?”
“To collect rainwater?” Alejandro considered it. “More people, more water. My well can
keep up, but it would be good to have more water available here instead of all down at the beach.”
“I imagine the ladies would appreciate it.” The professor had not wandered from the clearing for more than a few minutes at a time. He seemed as content to remain in his own thoughts as Miss Everly wanted to explore.
Alejandro’s gaze traveled across the clearing to where Miss Everly leaned against the tree, her eyes closed but her mouth moving as she spoke with her companions. Was she tired? Did she need rest? They had not eaten as much as she was likely used to, even with the additional forays into the trees and fishing every day. Perhaps she only lacked energy.
It was not his concern.
“A cisterna we shall make.” Alejandro kept twining his dry strip of bark through the slats he had formed. “It will not be difficult.”
The professor went back to humming while Alejandro puzzled through a plan for a rudimentary water-collection system that would end with a basin full of clean water to drink.
Each time his eyes drifted again to where the doctor, his wife, and Miss Everly sat beneath the trees, he snatched it back to stare at his hands. Work-roughened, sun-browned, calloused hands. They had never been particularly fine. Though raised the son of a don, Alejandro had worked alongside his father’s men as long as he could remember. He went with the vaqueros to hunt cattle when he was ten years old. A scar on the back of his left hand well reminded him of that event, of both the thrill of the hunt for the wild cattle, and then the horror when he watched his father’s men race across a meadow to spear the largest of the beasts.
That was something he had planned to change upon his return to Río de la Plata. The Americans raised their beasts and harvested them differently, more efficiently, and used the animal less wastefully.
But he would never have the chance to implement his plans or try his hand at raising cattle in the new way.
He rose, startling the professor out of his dozing state. Alejandro gripped his half-made basket in one hand and curled the other into a fist. “Perdón, Señor.” He did not wait for a response, but went into the trees, walking away from the people who had reminded him a world existed beyond the blue vastness surrounding his small island.
15
“This is hardly appropriate, Grace.” Though she spoke her protests in a hissing whisper all the way down to the shore, Irene never actually suggested they go back to the shelter.
Hope tempered her response to soothe her friend rather than goad her. “We will be perfectly safe. And careful. We told Mrs. Morgan what we were about.” In fact, Hope had tried to convince the doctor’s wife to join them. She had faith in her ability to help the injured woman, now on her way to full recovery, down to the water and back. But Mrs. Morgan had insisted the two young women go and bathe themselves alone, pointing out that her husband could assist her to do the same at another time.
The relationship between the doctor and his wife continued to comfort Hope somewhat. They were thoughtful and kind toward each other, much as Hope had seen in her own parents’ interactions. They reminded her of home.
“But what if something happens?” Irene asked when they stood only a few feet from the lapping waves. “What if an eel bites you, or a wave carries you away?” She sat on the sand and started unlacing her half boots.
“Then I trust you will run for help, or scream loud enough to attract attention.” Hope tugged at the laces of her dress. The soiled garment had grown heavy with dirt and looked more suited to a fishmonger’s wife than a gently bred young lady. Irene had to help her get all the laces undone, then she helped her friend. Next came their stays.
When they were only in their shifts, bare toes nearly in the water, Hope and Irene exchanged grins. Irene’s was nervous, her eyebrows pulled together. “I haven’t been sea bathing in years,” she admitted quietly. “It was too cold in England.”
Hope took her hand. “Only up to our knees. Come on.” She tugged her friend into the water.
Irene’s disposition had continued to sour up until the moment Hope suggested they wash themselves.
What was it about cleanliness that just the idea of obtaining that state once more lifted an anxious woman’s spirits?
They walked in together, giggling when the water rolled over their ankles, shins, and finally their knees. Irene released Hope’s hand and bent, scooping water up in her hands to rinse her bare arms. Hope did the same, scrubbing at smudges of ash from her time tending to the fire.
Soon they had walked deeper in, laughing and using the water on the back of their necks, their faces, and crouching enough that the water covered them up to their necks. The waves were gentle this time of day, barely nudging against them.
“This is heaven,” Hope said loud enough to be heard, closing her eyes and pretending for a moment she was in a full tub of water back at home. Susan, her maid, would have drawn the bath for her. Hope would go first, and then Grace once the water had been warmed again with a kettle. Their bath would be scented with rose or lavender oil.
Why had Grace always let Hope go first?
“I would never call it heaven.” Irene sounded more weary than disgusted. “But this is one of your best ideas, Grace.”
Hearing her sister’s name spoken often had ceased to fill her with guilt. Rather it gave Hope a reason to remember her family, to know her sister missed her, to know there were people in the world who loved her. “Thank you.”
Irene sighed and turned to face the shore. “If only we had clean clothes to put on.”
“If we find a stone large enough to act as a washboard, perhaps we could remedy that situation.” Hope looked along the shore and pointed to an outcropping of rocks. “There. If we take our gowns there and scrub them against the stones, we could get a great deal of the dirt out.”
“Really? You think a rock would serve?” Irene’s tone was curious rather than skeptical. “Honestly, you must be the most practical woman alive. Why you are not as terrified as I am by all that we have gone through I cannot understand.” She sighed deeply. “It is not a wonder my brother admires you so.”
Hope winced and turned away, unwilling to discuss Albert. “We should hurry to wash the dresses. It will take time for them to dry and we do not want anyone coming to look for us before we are dressed properly.”
“This is what I mean. You are intensely thoughtful.” Irene rose and walked parallel to Hope back to the shore, talking the whole time. “I wish I could be more like you. But I cannot seem to form more than a thought or two before I am overwhelmed with all the horrible things about this island. I try to think on something I might do to be useful, such as gather wood for the fire. But what use would that be? We have stacks and stacks of it already, and it is not as though sticks are difficult to find here. Then I think I ought to help Mrs. Morgan pass the time, as you have, and she is napping or with her husband. There are no chores to do, there is no way for me to busy my hands. I am useless.”
This admission unearthed the guilt Hope had buried. Her thoughts regarding Irene’s behavior had been less than charitable. Expecting her friend to act as though everything was an adventure rather than a miserable circumstance hadn’t been fair.
“You are not useless.” Hope stepped onto the sand, keeping her hem above the ground as best she could while gathering up her clothing. “We were not raised to keep house on an island. Under the circumstances, I imagine many women would behave exactly as you have.”
Irene scooped up her clothing, too, and followed Hope down the beach to the rocks. “Perhaps. But not Mrs. Morgan, who is injured. I should have panicked were I in her position. And you have not acted afraid. Not even for a moment.”
“That cannot be right.” Hope tried to laugh. “I certainly have my fears.”
They arrived at the rocks and Hope showed Irene how she thought they might best scrape their gowns across the rocks, right where the waves lapped at the stone to darken it and wear it smooth. They entered the water, which was considerably cooler than standi
ng in the full sun while on the large rocks, and rubbed their dirt-streaked clothing up and down the gray stone.
“Oh—I tore a seam.” Irene held up the arm of her gown to reveal a three-inch slit. “But look. It is nearly the right color again.”
Hope relaxed as she worked, focusing so fully on the task that her mind did not wander away across the ocean to her family. After several minutes, both women laid their dresses upon the driest rocks, out of the reach of the water, before resuming their sea bathing.
“How long until we can wear them again?” Irene asked, closing her eyes against the sunlight.
Hope allowed her arms to float upward, though she had again sunk into the water up to her chin. “If you wish, you can put yours on right now.”
Irene cracked open an eye and glared at her. “I know you are jesting.”
“Not at all. Haven’t you heard of the practice of dampening your gown before a ball?” Hope asked, unable to conceal a wicked grin. “Not that I have ever done so, though I did see Lady Olivia attend a private crush in such a state. My mother blushed as if Lady Olivia were her daughter.”
“Oh, no.” Irene covered her mouth to hide her own smile. “That is terrible. I can imagine poor Mrs. Everly in that position. She is such a proper gentlewoman.”
Hope nodded her agreement, remembering her mother’s scandalized expression. Once Mrs. Everly had expressed her feelings on the matter, saying she had rather have a daughter like Hope who raced ponies and phaetons than a daughter who would go about wearing practically transparent clothing in public.
“You are so much like her,” Irene said, bringing Hope out of her remembrances.
“Do you think so?” Hope heard the wistfulness in her own voice. Was there anyone as kind and graceful, as full of goodness, as her mother? Grace, of course. But Hope had always been different. Quicker to act than to consider her words, faster to the finish line than to help others along in the race. Where her desire to move, to discover, to act, came from she could not say. Her father was not that way. No one in her family acted as she did. Did any of them even understand her?
Saving Miss Everly Page 13