Marrying Christopher (16 page)

She obviously suspected that he, like Captain Gower perhaps, was not anxious for Miss Cosgrove’s company. Christopher had agreed to be kind to her, but that did not signify spending a great deal of time with her each day. And just now he wished for time alone in which to consider the direction of his thoughts.

The tour had been inspiring, and he felt goaded to action.

If men are able to propel a ship across the ocean using a steam engine and paddlewheel, if twelve thousand yards of fabric can be fashioned into a sail, if an oak tree can be cured, then stripped and planked and those planks made to curve in the shape of a hull…
If such marvels were to be had on a single ship, then surely he was clever enough to come up with a solution to a problem as well.

It was neither his problem nor his affair, but Christopher had about given up that argument with himself as a lost cause. He felt compelled to find a solution, compelled to assist one very intriguing young lady with a certain matter regarding her safekeeping in the near future.

He was not at all sure how he would accomplish such a thing, only that it must be done. There had to be a way, and he was determined to find it.

In three-and-a-half weeks’ time, when they all disembarked in New York, he intended to see to it that Miss Abbott would continue to be safe.

Carrying a small lantern, Marsali left her cabin and crept stealthily down the length of the common room. For once she felt grateful for her old slippers, which, worn as they were, made not the barest sound on the wood floor. She did not wish to wake anyone, particularly Lydia, who would likely ruin Marsali’s plans with her chatter. Most of the time she found Lydia’s company pleasant enough, but tonight was different. It was what she had most looked forward to on this voyage, a quiet evening all to herself in which she might revisit the past and remember with fondness the happiness she had once known.

With care she opened the door and stepped out onto the deck, breathing in the cooler night air and lifting her head to the great display of stars spread magnificently across the black sky above. Tonight was the first night of the new moon, assuring that the sky was at the darkest it would be during their voyage and with the most stars visible. She felt most fortunate the sky was clear as well, with no clouds whatsoever.

With the chart she had borrowed from Captain Gower earlier that day tucked safely beneath her arm, Marsali climbed the steps to the front of the ship. As if he’d been expecting her, Mr. Murphy made his appearance, settling in for what appeared to be an evening of cleaning his teeth. The captain had likely advised him that she would be stargazing, and Marsali found she did not mind Mr. Murphy watching out for her— too much. She’d hoped that tonight he might be available to answer any questions she had, as it had been many years since she’d sat on a hillside in France and studied the stars with her father. But seeing the first bit of meat Murphy dislodged from his teeth changed her mind about moving any closer to him than necessary.

Sitting carefully a good distance away, she set the lantern down, tucked her skirt in around her, and unrolled the chart, spreading it out on the deck before her. It curled again at once, so she placed the lantern on one side of it to hold it down and tucked the opposite corner beneath her slipper until the parchment lay flat.

There they are.
A shiver of excitement passed over her as she studied the patterns covering the page. Hercules and Pegasus, Orion and Cassiopeia. On Captain Gower’s chart they were outlined the same as she remembered seeing them in the sky during her childhood. Her favorites were here, too, though brave Perseus and little Lyra would be harder to find in the sky. She would have to sit very still and concentrate to make them out as well.

With reverence her fingers traced the dotted shapes filling the parchment. She remembered the stories of each and could almost hear the rich timbre of her father’s voice as he shared the tales with her. How magnificent they all were. How much she had loved sitting on the hillside behind their home, far into the night, as she and her father and Charlotte studied the stars.

She pictured them there— two little girls with a kindly, bearded man between them— and felt a lump rise in her throat. She wondered if her father was still able to see the night sky and enjoy it, or if heaven itself was among the stars.
Or even one of them?

Pulling her eyes from the chart, Marsali tilted her head back and found the North Star, then the Plough quite easily. Pegasus was next, big fellow that he was.

“That is quite a different view than in London.”

Marsali jumped and brought a hand to her pounding heart. “Mr. Thatcher. You startled me.”

“My apologies.” He inclined his head politely. “I did not mean to startle— or interrupt. Would you prefer that I leave you?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Not at all. I— would like it very much if you would join me.” She felt surprised to realize that she meant it. She’d wanted to be alone but somehow knew that Mr. Thatcher’s presence would not take anything away from her night spent in memory. She patted the space beside her on the deck.

He hesitated. “Are you certain? I have the feeling I’ve just interrupted.”

“You have.” She grinned before he could look abashed. “I have been thinking of my father, remembering when he taught me about the stars and trying to recall his voice when he shared with me the stories behind the constellations.” She patted the deck once more. “But I welcome your company. Dwelling overlong in the past does one no good.”

“Well… since that is the circumstance—” Mr. Thatcher plopped down beside her— “I feel an obligation for keeping you from something that will do you no good.”

“See. There you go, being a gentleman again,” Marsali teased.

He scowled. “Never have I had such trouble avoiding gentlemanly behavior as since I’ve made your acquaintance, Miss Abbott. I must conclude that you are not at all a good influence upon me— though my sisters would likely claim the opposite.”

Marsali laughed. “It is in your blood, as Lady Cosgrove would say, as she did at breakfast when she learned you are the grandson of a duke. I think you cannot escape that, no matter how much you may wish it.”

“I have never wished to sever that tie, not in the manner you speak of, at least,” Mr. Thatcher said politely. “I had no desire for the title, mind you, but the association with my grandfather is one I cherish. He was a fine man, a gentleman in the truest sense. It is the ties to my father and
his
name I wish to leave behind.”

“You might have petitioned the courts to have your name changed,” Marsali suggested. “It could have allowed you to stay in England with your sisters.”

Mr. Thatcher appeared to consider this for a moment. “I think I should still have felt discontent. I cannot explain it exactly, but for many reasons, I felt compelled to make this journey, to see the new world and try my hand at a life there.”

“You will do more than try your hand,” Marsali predicted. “You will succeed at whatever it is you choose to do.”

“Let us hope so,” Mr. Thatcher said quietly, his eyes meeting hers with a look that felt oddly personal. “But here I have done what I told myself I must not when I approached you. I’ve interrupted your study of the stars. From this chart, I take it you are quite a serious student.”

“Not really.” She leaned forward, intending to roll up Captain Gower’s map, when Mr. Thatcher’s hand gently clasped her arm, stopping her.

“Don’t put it away. Please go on with what you were doing. I promise to be quiet, but if I am disturbing you, you may send me away.”

You
are
disturbing me.
It felt as if a tiny, pleasant fire had started where his hand was touching her, much as she had felt that day he had placed his hand upon hers as they’d stood at the rail. The warmth spread quickly to her middle, a feeling of contentment mingling with something else— some emotion she was not familiar with. She glanced at Mr. Thatcher, and her heartbeat quickened inexplicably. As if he sensed the effect he was having, he withdrew his hand and leaned back casually, bracing himself on his arms.

Marsali looked down at the chart, trying to force her thoughts back to constellations while wondering what had just happened to make her react so.

I am not frightened of Mr. Thatcher, not in the least.
She stole a second glance at him and found he had his face upturned as he studied the sky.
Good.
Perhaps he
hadn’t
noticed how he’d flustered her.

Her fingers traced the chart once more before she raised her eyes to the sky, searching for Lyra. “The constellations are both easier and more difficult to find than I remember. My father was always the one to point them out, so I never had to do more than follow and search in the direction he pointed. Locating the shapes on my own isn’t so simple.”

“But the stars seem closer here, and brighter,” Mr. Thatcher said.

“Yes.” She nodded her agreement. “So even though I must find them on my own, once I make out their shapes, they seem clearer than I remember them being at home.”

“There is nothing to block out their light here,” Mr. Thatcher suggested.

“A unique experience we shall perhaps never have again,” Marsali said. “On the Continent there were hills and village lights and trees and clouds to contend with. But our conditions tonight are as near to perfect as one might find. We should be able to locate most anything. Do you have a favorite constellation?”

He shrugged. “Not really. Or I’ve never thought about it, at least. I am guessing you do.”

“Oh yes. I always found the stories of Perseus and Lyra most stirring, especially the way Father would tell them.”

“Will you share them with me?” Mr. Thatcher asked.

“Surely you know them already,” Marsali said. She couldn’t imagine otherwise; neither could she imagine why he might wish to hear her renditions.

“I am not overly familiar with the stories.” Mr. Thatcher crossed his legs and leaned forward, as a child anticipating a bedtime story might. “You must remember that I had no schooling or tutors until I was fourteen years of age. My sister taught me to read and write, but beyond that I had very little knowledge of the world— or skies above it. Grandfather did his best to remedy that, but I had much to learn and little time in which to do it, so some subjects— like astronomy— were neglected.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Marsali said, feeling sad for him. “It must have been quite difficult not having a father who would teach such things to you.” Her father had taken every opportunity to share the world with his girls. She and Charlotte had grown up knowing the names of the flowers and trees and the birds and insects that visited them. They had learned about the creatures inhabiting the sea as well as the stars residing in the sky. And every outing with Father had been simply delightful. The idea of learning about nature from a book or a tutor seemed nearly as terrible as not learning it at all.

“I did not know differently,” Mr. Thatcher said. “It is you I feel sorry for— having lost your father, who cared for you deeply.”

“I suppose we could both sit here and feel sorry for each other, or ourselves, but it does not do to dwell in the past,” she reminded him.

“You seem to keep a rather tight rein on your thoughts,” Mr. Thatcher observed. “You abstain from feeling overly melancholy regarding the past, and you refuse to worry over the future. I am left to assume that you are one who lives very much in the present, for the here and now.”

“I think of the future as well,” Marsali said. “But worrying about it will do me no good. For the duration of this voyage, I intend to enjoy every minute— every second— of freedom it affords me. It is a blessed thing to be able to use my time as I wish.”

“Will you use it now to tell me the stories of Perseus and Lyra?” Mr. Thatcher asked.

“Of course.” Marsali moved her foot from the chart and allowed it to roll back onto itself. “You have studied Greek mythology, I presume?”

“Somewhat,” he said. “But I should like to hear
you
tell the stories— as your father told them. And in telling, perhaps it will assist you in remembering.”

He was right, of course, as she had been right in believing that his company would not take anything away from her evening or memories. Rising up on her knees and tucking her skirts in around her once more, Marsali began. “It was Perseus who beheaded Medusa and then killed a sea monster to save the princess Andromeda.”

“Medusa was the creature with a head of snakes?” Mr. Thatcher held up a hand and wiggled his fingers.

“It was actually her hair that was made up of snakes,” Marsali said.

“Ugh.” He pretended to shudder. “Can you imagine if each spoke as much as Miss Cosgrove does?”

“No. I cannot.” Marsali pressed her lips together and attempted to appear stern. “That was most unkind, Mr. Thatcher. We must show compassion to our traveling companion, remember?”

“She is impossible to forget— or avoid,” he said. “I timed her today. Miss Cosgrove spoke for six and a half minutes straight before taking a breath long enough for me to interrupt. And the worst of it is, I really have no idea what she spoke of during that entire time.”