Authors: Michelle; Griep
The duchess smiled. “You are a rare one, Miss Morgan. I have appreciated your candor, spoken with such grace and humility. An exceptional trait in a servant. You, I shall remember.”
Blinking, Eleanor fought another round of tears. Had anyone ever been so kind? “Thank you, Your Grace. Neither shall I forget you.”
“Pack up your things and ready yourself to leave. I will return shortly with a note of reference.”
The duchess departed before Eleanor could think how to reply. In truth, though, what more was there to say? She relit the candle and tucked her two spare gowns into her traveling bag. By the time the lady returned, Eleanor had dressed haphazardly, slipped into her mantle, and tied her hat ribbon tightly beneath her chin.
“Here is the note, and also some money.” The duchess stood in the doorway, holding out her hand. Creased and folded, a single banknote rested atop her palm along with a small parchment. “I grant ’tis not a large amount, but it should at least keep you fed on your journey.”
Eleanor hesitated. She wasn’t owed any wages for several more months. It didn’t seem right, taking money from this lady. Still, her own paltry coins would get her nowhere.
Duchess Brougham stepped into the room only so far as to set her offering down upon the bureau. Before she turned to leave, she reached toward Eleanor, then slowly let her hand drop. “Godspeed, my dear.”
With the closing of the door, the candle sputtered, fighting for life in the shadows left by the lady’s departure. Eleanor stood, dazed, knowing she should move, should breathe, should … something. How had her life come to this? And worse, what did the future hold? Gooseflesh rose on her forearms, and she fought the urge to whirl about and dive beneath the bedstead. She hadn’t realized that allowing self-pity to enter her thoughts also invited fear to tag along, hand-in-hand.
Bear up. Bear up!
Despite her inner rallying cry, her heart skipped a beat. Too bad the silly thing didn’t quit altogether, sparing her the horrors of traveling alone, unprotected. Bowing her head, she closed her eyes.
My precious Lord;
My only hope;
My Saviour, how I need You now.
C
lutching the ship’s railing with white knuckles, Eleanor closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The salty tang of sea air did little to remove the stench clinging to her skirts and skin. Would she ever escape it? After seven weeks of sharing a coffin-sized pallet with two other women, it would take a miracle to scrub away the reek that soured her body, mind, and spirit.
Water purled against the hull, and she sighed, thoroughly sick of the sea. If land weren’t sighted soon, she just might pitch herself into the black waters below and be done with it. For a moment, she held her breath, calculating just how long it would take before abandoning life to a cold, cold grave—then shivered from the horror of her twisted thoughts.
“Frightened, miss?”
The question pulled her safely back to the topside of the
Charming Lucy,
where she stood with one of her bunkmates. “No more than you, Molly. No more than any of us.”
“Aye … I suppose.”
Eleanor glanced at the woman beside her, surprised once again at the courage contained in such a small frame. She herself could barely endure the voyage with the loss of comfort, her dignity, her dreams—and even her small valise, which had been stolen before she boarded. But Molly had lost so much more.
She laid her fingers atop Molly’s arm, hoping to impart some measure of compassion. “Forgive me. I am a poor companion today, I think. I cannot imagine what you must be feeling. I am so sorry your husband … that he …”
“La, miss, don’t fret.” Molly patted her hand, then pulled back. “’Tis a sorry lot the fever took him. Dreadful way for Freddy to go, but his suffering’s ended now. And truth be told … I hardly knew him.”
Eleanor gasped. “But you were his wife!”
Molly cast her a sideways glance.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. Would she never learn to keep her thoughts to herself? Why did the very same qualities she’d abhorred in her father flourish in her like so many weeds? “Oh, Molly, I have no right to voice such an astonishment. Please forgive—”
“No offense taken, miss. Why, you’ve been the gentlest soul I’ve encountered on this whole journey. The thing is”—she peeked farther down the railing where the finer ladies gathered, then inched closer to Eleanor—“Freddy and I were wed naught but two days afore we set sail, and even then I’d known him scarcely a fortnight. He was a charmer, but a stranger, nonetheless. Why, I feel I know you and Biz better than I ever did Freddy.”
Eleanor frowned. Overhead, the sun ducked behind a cloud, as elusive as Molly’s words. Though the woman’s sentiment was common, Eleanor could barely understand it. Marriage for a governess was out of the question, but it didn’t mean she hadn’t considered what it might be like to be wed. If the opportunity were ever offered her—which it never would—she’d marry for love alone. Nothing less. On that she would not be moved.
Apparently Molly held other convictions. From the corner of her eye, Eleanor studied the woman’s profile. Long lashes, surprisingly smooth skin, hair the rich color of dried tea leaves fresh from the Indies, though it’d not been washed in two months, or more. Yet even garbed in a filthy gown, there was no denying Molly’s beauty. Surely many men had vied for her attention.
The ship canted, and Eleanor grabbed the railing. “Why, Molly? Why marry a man you did not know? The gentry do it out of necessity, but surely you were not forced into such a union.”
A small smile curved her lips. “Nah, weren’t nothing like that. Freddy, he … well, he had this dream. It were like a faerie tale, miss. Freddy said after our five-year service, we’d have a little house on a little plot of land, with little ones runnin’ around everywhere—all bright eyed and full bellied.”
Her smile grew, lighting Molly’s whole face and nearly pulling Eleanor headlong into Freddy’s dream.
“Freddy’s words filled me clear up with hope, miss. First time I ever felt so light. Like I were floating. You ever felt that way?”
A shadowed memory fought to surface. Light, love, promise … despair. Even after all these years, the hurt was too deep, too raw. She blew out a sigh, dispelling the smallest whispers of remembrance, refusing to examine them. “Not often enough, I am afraid.”
“Fear? Pah!” The words barged in from behind, accompanied by the clink of chain and drag of a cannonball across wooden planking.
A wad of chewed tobacco hit the deck beside Eleanor’s skirt. A wiry woman, all bones and bluster, stared at her with eyes so blue and intense, it was a dare to simply meet her gaze. Eleanor couldn’t help but smile. There was nothing subtle about Biz Hunter. The woman was inappropriate from the tip of her cursing tongue to the bottom hem of the man’s waistcoat and jacket she wore over her filthy skirt. Even so, Eleanor admired her spunk and daring, though she claimed to be a year junior to Eleanor.
“Fear’s for cowards!” Biz’s voice rose to rival the flapping of the sails. “You won’t last a day if you give in to such weak-kneed rot.”
“We can’t all be as brave as you, Biz.” Molly’s quiet tone couldn’t have contrasted more.
“Aye.” Biz cocked a brow. “That’s a truth now, ain’t it?”
In light of the sun, which had finally decided to break free from the clouds, a smirk slanted a defiant streak across Biz’s face. Was the woman truly so fearless? Eleanor brushed an errant strand of hair from her eyes to gain a better view. “Do you not have a care who your new master will be?”
“Hah! I know who my master is.” She thumped her thumb against her chest. “Me!”
“I own I’m a bit nervous.” Molly smoothed her palms along her skirt, again and again, further wearing the threadbare fabric. Any more of that and she’d need to patch her patches. “Starvation in a familiar alley seems a mite more comforting than perishing on a foreign street.”
Biz snorted. “The way I heared it, we’re going to a land o’ milk an’ honey. And the way I sees it, the law did me a favor by packing me off on this tub o’ boards. Good riddance to London town.” She flourished her hand in the air, as one might flick off a horsefly.
Eleanor bit her lip instead of rolling her eyes at the woman’s dramatics. No sense refuting Biz’s embellishments. She lifted a smile to Molly instead. “I am sure Biz is correct. Whoever puts down money for you would not willingly see you perish. That would be a bad investment.”
“La, miss.” Molly quit smoothing her skirt. “Yer so smart.”
“Not smart enough to travel with the real ladies, though, are you?” Biz nodded toward the upper-class passengers clustered near the bow. “I wonder why.”
The challenge hung heavy on the air, like a squall about to break. As much as she liked Biz, she also wouldn’t mind slapping the smirk off the woman’s lips. “Curiosity is a dangerous virtue at times.”
“And other times it pays off.” Biz’s eyes gleamed. Was she provoking on purpose, or did she really know something?
“All right, me beauties.” One of Captain Fraser’s men sauntered along the bulwark and joined them at the railing. The smell of hemp and hard work accompanied him. This was a change, for other than lewd comments, the sailors mostly kept their distance. Eleanor had thought it strange at first, until she realized were she in their shoes, she’d stay an arm’s length away from death and disease as well.
The man lifted a finger, indicating the stairwell to the hold. “Time to take it below.”
Eleanor squinted over her shoulder, calculating the sun’s height. “Our time is not yet finished. We are allotted an hour at the rail.”
“I says it is.” He folded his arms, his stance ending further discussion.
Biz planted her fists on her hips. “Well I’m not goin’. Not now. Took all my strength to lug this ball up the bleedin’ ladder, and if you think—”
A whistle from high up in the ratlines cut off her words, followed by, “Land ho!”
Shading her eyes, Eleanor scanned the horizon, expecting to see a thin line of green or darkness or … something other than sunlight sparkling off waves.
“Please, mayn’t we stay?” Molly asked. “We won’t get in the way. It’s so stifling below.”
The sailor shook his head. “Captain’s orders. He’s had one too many blighters jump ship, short-changing him on the fare. Ye’re all confined to quarters ’til he holds a fistful o’ coins from a buyer. So as I said, off ye go, my pretties.”
With a last look past the railing, Molly turned to leave. Not Biz. She spit out curses as deftly as she had the tobacco, denigrating the sailor’s appearance, character, and finally, his mother.
He drew back his arm, fist raised.
Eleanor raced between them, holding out her hands. “Please, sir! Surely you will not strike a lady.”
He sneered past her at Biz. “A poxy strumpet is no lady.”
“Ahh, blow it out yer—”
“Biz!” Eleanor warned.
“Bah!” Biz ran her fingers through her tangled hair, scowling. “Yer right, I suppose. I’m a-goin’. I’d rather swelter below with that vomiting lot than stand here sharin’ breath with the likes o’ this one.” She hefted her cannonball with a grunt, then hobble-walked to the stairs, crouched from the weight and the shortness of her shackle.
Once the sailor finished spewing his own string of curses, he turned to Eleanor. “Off with ye, too.”
“Sir, please.” For the moment, all her hope was packaged in this scruffy seaman. Lifting her chin, she sent up a quick prayer. “Allow me to remain. I give you my word I will not run off. Once I find my employer, my debt shall be paid. I am to contact a Mr. Taggerton, who has no idea as to what ship I am on or the day I am to arrive. He merely knows that I am coming. He will, however, pay in full once he discovers that I am here, for he is related to my former employer, Duchess Brougham. So you see, it is imperative I find him.”
“Duchess, eh?” He scratched the stubble on his chin.
Good. Obviously her words had some effect. The tension in her shoulders loosened.
Until he reached over and grabbed the fleshy part of her arm. “No time for prattlin’ now, missy, but if you like,” he leaned closer, his breath hot on her cheek, “I’ll stop by after me duties, and we can talk then.”
She wrenched away, rubbing the spot on her sleeve his fingers had wrinkled. “Please, time is of the essence. I can pay you, if need be.”
A smile spread across his face, exposing teeth the color of mouse fur. “Now there’s a switch. A lady payin’ me. Hah! That’s a good one, that is. Usually I’m the one leavin’ behind a coin, but if that’s the way ye want to play it, I’m game.”
Eleanor frowned. Men. All alike. “The only payment you shall receive is if you allow me to slip away to contact Mr. Taggerton. A few pence ought to close your eyes long enough for that. Your captain shall be paid, none the wiser for my short absence, and you shall have enough money in your pocket to ‘leave behind a coin’ several times over.”
“All righty, then.” His grin flattened into a straight line. “But if you double-cross me, I’ll make it so’s no one with eyes will even look at you twice.”
He glanced over his shoulder to the foredeck, then held out his tar-stained palm. “Let’s have it.”
“Give me a moment.” She turned her back to him and faced the open sea. Hiking her skirt was bad enough. Giving him an eyeful would be worse. Carefully, she lifted the outer fabric of her gown to reveal the petticoat beneath, where she’d sewn the banknote from Lady Brougham into a seam. She patted the area. Nothing but loose threads met her touch.
Her stomach sank.
The sailor’s voice grazed over her shoulder. “There a problem, missy?”
A thousand pinpricks traveled from scalp to toe. Without that money—and more importantly the note of recommendation—her only hope was that Lady Brougham’s letter had reached Mr. Taggerton ahead of this ship and that he was looking for her. For if he weren’t, this was more than a problem. It was slavery.
She’d be sold off to the highest bidder to pay for her passage.
T
rapped. Desperate. Eleanor tried in vain to ignore the strangling emotions as she tipped her face toward the only light intrepid enough to slip through the grate in the ceiling. She’d never longed for fresh air as much as now. With the temperature in the hog pen rising, so did the stench—and it was especially ripe today, with two more bodies yet to be removed. At first, she’d spurned Biz’s slang for the hold. Not anymore. If anything, the term was too generous. Even swine would have a hard time breathing down here. A pox on Lord Brougham and the captain for assigning her such a fate.