Authors: T. G. Ayer
It just wasn't fair. My brothers, Damon and Pharo, had been permitted to remain behind. Not for the first time, I railed at the fact I was a girl, and the youngest at sixteen. Da always indulged me, at least according to Mum and the coven, but I agreed with him and often argued the point with my mother. Coven leaders must be strong and fearless, capable of controlling the kind of power that came with such a great responsibility.
And since I knew Gramps had taught her to ride a horse in trousers, Mum had very little she could say in the matter.
I was the first in line to disembark. My feet itched to set foot on soil again, to still the constant roll that seemed to permeate everything about sea travel. I conveniently forgot the two days I'd spent during heavy seas disgorging the contents of my unhappy innards into the lavatory. I was sure it happened to everyone.
I strode down the ramp, bag in one hand, cat in the other, eyes roving the dock for my greeting party. As I set foot on the glorious ground, I felt my whole world shift sideways and had to catch myself from falling. If the roll of the ship was bad, this sudden heaving was worse, as though the very earth shook beneath me.
“Allow me.” A hand met my elbow and O'Brien was there, holding me steady. I glanced up, knowing my shock showed on my face and hating the weakness behind it, especially in his eyes. But he made no effort to take advantage and simply smiled, dark hair falling over even darker eyes. “Rather disconcerting, isn't it?”
I merely nodded, feeling the sway of the ground lessen as a few moments passed. “Whatever is it?”
“Merely your body adjusting to the stillness of land again,” he said, letting me go slowly to assure I was still upright and not about to collapse on him out of the blue. How hideously embarrassing. And, for the moment, I feared I'd misjudged him. “You'll adjust again, soon enough, I wager.”
Already feeling better, the vague, nauseated feeling I remembered from my two days of sickness lingering with unhappy clarity, I reclaimed my balance on my own and offered my hand.
“My thanks,” I said. “For all the courtesies you showed me on board.” I swallowed my pride and tried a smile. “I know I wasn't the most genial of passengers.”
“Not at all, Miss Burdie. It was surely a pleasure.” He really was much kinder than I'd given him credit for and my good feelings toward him grew. And then he went and ruined it all again by looking at my chest. Anger surged within me. I was no object to be admired, but a power to be feared. When he asked, “May I escort you?” my first reaction was cold arrogance.
“Thank you, but I have an escort.”
His eyes flew wide, cheeks red under the lamplight. “My apologies for being so forward.” He retreated with a bow and I instantly regretted my anger. “Have a safe and pleasant visit to London.”
As O'Brien retreated back up the gangway, my anger went with him. I sighed at my own foolishness. I could at least have made sure he secured my baggage for me while I waited for my escort to arrive. My eyes scanned the hansoms lined up near the dock, searching for some indication that one of them was for me.
Then, like a ton of bricks falling from the sky, it hit me. What had O'Brien said? We were half a day early. Which meant no one even knew I was in London yet.
I could have used O'Brien's offer of escort after all.
Not to be undone by a simple matter of time, I shuffled myself off to one side out of the jolting pile of people and dug into my bag. Fortunately, I retained my mother's correspondence with my hosts here and there, neatly printed on the crisp envelope, was the address I needed.
I marched purposely to a hansom and nodded to the black-clad driver. “Have you been hired, good sir?”
He immediately took my bag, smiling and bowing, teeth yellow from an excess of tobacco, breath vile but face kind. “My pleasure to drive you, lady,” he said. My bag quickly found the top of the carriage as I handed him my baggage claim. The door closed beside me as I settled into the cracked leather seat, my blanket over my knees, wicker cat basket on the opposite bench.
Within moments the hansom rocked, once then twice. My driver's face appeared at the window, the soft harbor breeze carrying both the scent of his smoke laden breath and the stench of the quayside into the carriage, almost enough to make me dizzy.
I quickly told him the address in question and, to my great relief, he disappeared from my window and mounted the front of the hansom, clucking to his horses and we were away.
Perhaps it was merely paranoia, from being in a new place all alone, but I was certain for a moment a figure in a hooded black cloak watched me from beneath the glow of a gas lit lamp post, head turning as I drove by. Surely it was my over active imagination and my need for some small comfort, so far from home.
I shrugged it off, certain I was mistaken. And it wasn’t as if I were in any sort of danger. Instead, I gave one last look back toward the ship that brought me to London, wishing suddenly I could simply buy passage back to New York and my family. The jab of home sickness was unexpected and made tears rise in my eyes. I firmly grasped my welling of emotion. It would not do for the daughter of Thaddea Hayle to show such pathetic sorrow in the face of an adventure.
I turned around and squared myself for the journey ahead, a ride that had nothing to do with the hansom.
Visit:
http://pattilarsen.com/