Whisper of Magic (21 page)

In the early morning fog, the docks seemed muffled and tamer
than the noisy, colorful ones in sunny Jamaica. Of course, in the gray mist,
she could not see more than a foot in front of her face as Lord Erran helped
her from the carriage.

“You will not rethink this journey?” he asked curtly once
she stood beside him. “I can send you back with the groom. Lady Aster will be
delighted to have your company while I am gone.”

“I am looking forward to steamship travel. The water reminds
me of home,” she lied, studying what little she could see of the dock to hide
her terror. “I am sorry to be a burden to you. If you’ll simply tell me what we
must do, Mrs. Lorna and I will be out of your way.”

His curt tone was painful, but it was better that she not
develop notions based on his silly comments about her looks. He had softened
her heart in ways no other man had ever done. She could not risk such
vulnerability.

She knew the pain of carving someone out of her heart. Her
father’s death was still too raw.

Celeste clenched his lordship’s arm for the scary crossing
onto the ship. Once there, a crew member escorted her to the cabin, along with
the stout, wide-eyed lady Aster had sent as a chaperone. Lord Erran stayed on
deck to discuss the wonders of steamship travel with his friends. Out of the
cold damp, with a brazier to warm their feet, it was almost comfortable,
despite the bobbing of the water beneath them. Trying to pretend she was in a
drawing room, Celeste settled in with her sewing. Mrs. Lorna nervously took out
her knitting.

She didn’t know where they had taken her trunk, but one of
the crew thoughtfully carried in their food basket. Cook knew how to prepare
food for long journeys.

Gentleman that he was, Lord Erran stepped in to ask after
their comfort before they sailed.

“There is not much light, but we are warm, and the bench
cushion is comfortable,” Celeste replied. “Do you know how long we will be at
sea?”

“If the weather holds, we’ll make excellent time, and should
make port by nightfall. If we catch the tide, we may even sail into Newcastle,
where we can hire a post chaise. But this is not a season for predictable
weather, so I can make no promises.”

His voice was all that was polite, but Celeste heard his
underlying concern. She wished she didn’t. Her memories of the storm that had
killed her father were painful. She merely nodded acknowledgment without
expressing her fear.

“We have plenty of food and lemonade, whenever you need it,”
she said serenely.

His eyes narrowed, as if he heard the terror she was holding
in check. It was bad enough that she couldn’t charm him. It was worse if he
could actually hear what she tried to hide. Tensely, she forced a smile,
letting him believe what he must.

“Thank you. I wish to observe the engine room, but I will
join you for luncheon, if you do not mind.” He bowed out, leaving them to the
cozy cabin.

“He is most particular about our comfort,” Mrs. Lorna said
in satisfaction. “I am sure all will be well.”

That certainty lasted only until the ship sailed from the
Thames into the North Sea. At that juncture, Celeste realized the difference
between a large ocean-going vessel and a small river-sized one. They felt every
surge of the waves, every blast of the wind tilting the small craft about. The
roar of the boiler and churn of the paddle seemed to strain as they chugged
northward.

Mrs. Lorna groaned, looked decidedly greenish, and set aside
her knitting.

At least Celeste had experience with seasickness. She urged
her companion to sip ginger root tea with a little honey and when that did not
help, took a bucket from the wall. The lavatory facilities were limited to a
closet and not what one could want when ill. She wiped Mrs. Lorna’s forehead as
she lost her breakfast, and resigned herself to treating her for the rest of
the journey.

The waves and wind worsened by mid-day. Lord Erran clung to
his hat as he blew into the cabin, leaning against the door to close it. Taking
one look at the prostrate woman on the bench, he grabbed the foul bucket and
struggled outside again.

“We’re hoping it’s only a brief squall,” he said when he
returned. “We’re still making good time.”

Until we crash on
rocks
, Celeste thought.
Or a wave
tosses us over. Or the wind blows us to France or whatever is across this ocean
.

“Would you like a sandwich?” was all she said. Perhaps all
that was required for a stiff backbone was the façade of civilization.

“I will not apologize for the conditions,” he said stiffly.
“I begged you not to come. The ship is experimental.”

Celeste glanced down at the woman on the bench, but Mrs.
Lorna seemed to have fallen asleep. She met Lord Erran’s gaze. “Do you read
minds or are you simply assuming that I’m complaining?”

He looked uncomfortable. Rather than answer, he poked
through the basket and found a sandwich wrapped in brown paper. He took one of
the small lemonade containers and sipped from it, and handed her another.

“You . . . convey what you’re feeling when
you speak,” he said, apparently thinking it through as he spoke. “You have this
marvelous voice, one that could soothe babes to sleep or melt a man into a
puddle of wax. I’d love to hear you sing. But underneath . . . you
are raw emotion. If you sang an unhappy song, I might fling myself into the
sea.”

Celeste stared. He did not seem pleased to disclose this, so
it was not flattery. “No one has ever told me that my voice made them
suicidal,” she replied, striving to understand.

“I don’t think anyone else hears what I hear,” he admitted.
“And the converse is that when you are happy, it makes me unreasonably pleased.
But I think others hear only what you
want
them to hear, which is dangerous.”

“If I want people to hear my unhappiness, I have only to
voice it?” she asked in doubt. “I have only ever tried to wheedle them into
doing what I want.”

The ship lurched, and he steadied himself on an overhead
beam. “Your family hasn’t noticed this? You never experimented to see what else
you could do?”

“I’m rather amazed that you know what I do and admit it,”
she said, somewhat testily. “No, my family never noticed. Jamar and Nana seem
to know and mostly ignore me. I don’t believe I’ve ever upset them as you say I
can.”

“It’s good to know that not everyone is affected.” He bit
into his sandwich as he pondered the preposterous. “It’s possible that once
people are attuned to you and recognize what you’re doing, it’s easier to block
out the charm.”

She frowned and thought about that. “Are you saying our
gifts are different, that you must bellow authoritatively to make people do
what you wish? I can hear when you really want to shout, and I admire your
restraint.” Celeste opened a sandwich and nibbled at the cucumber filling.

“I only discovered my oddity this past year, with my first
courtroom case.” He paced the tilting floor. “I terrified a judge into not only
returning my client’s home, but into demanding that his landlord pay him
damages. I was furious that a scurrilous landlord would evict a poor man with
three small children. I fear I was outrageously bombastic in his defense, and
it was most certainly not my knowledge of the law that brought the entire
courtroom to their feet, shouting, ready to stone the landlord—and the judge, if
he did not side with me. It was an ugly scene that could easily have evolved
into riot. I wasn’t certain if we’d escape with our skin intact.”

“I would like to do that,” she said fiercely. “I would sue
Lansdowne and bring the rafters down about his ears.”

His smile was almost fond and caused an irrational flutter
beneath her breastbone.

“I don’t think it works that way. I think you would bring
them to tears with your plight and even the earl would beg to shower you in
gold, or whatever you asked. Yours is a rather more gentle persuasion that my
riot-inducing ability. And I feel like the veriest sapskull even saying this.” He poked around in the basket
and produced an apple.

“There have been great orators over the centuries,” she
said, unconcerned. “It is not real magic. If I had real magic, I’d bring back
my father and slay Lansdowne. I don’t know why your speaking ability bothers
you.”

“Oration and what we do are two different things,” he
asserted. “It is possible that what we do is related to Mesmerism, but I would
have to study a science that seems little more than Aster’s foolish astrology
to find out. Besides, I want to win cases honestly, on their merits, not with
an unfair advantage based on emotion or voodoo that is neither just nor
logical.”

“Politicians win elections by saying things people want to
hear,” she argued. “There’s not a great deal of difference as far as I can see.
You believe in your case. Your opponent believes in theirs. Only the future
will tell who is right. It would be terrifying if you could stop the wind, but
you’re only doing what generals have done over the ages—asserting your
authority. Generals are not always right.”

He didn’t look convinced. It was sad that he was the one
person she could not persuade, and rather terrifying that he could
hear
how she felt as she argued.

The floor tilted ominously, and bucket and basket slid
toward the door.

“Would you rather I stay here through this storm, or should
I leave?” he asked, glancing at the stormy clouds through the porthole.

That was a terrible question to ask when he could tell if
she lied.

By evening, it became obvious that the ship would not make
the mouth of the Tyne at a reasonable hour. Erran gathered up hammocks from
below and carried them to the cabin, where Miss Rochester sat on a smaller
bench and sewed by the light of an oil sconce. Her useless companion still lay
groaning on the larger seat.

Erran seriously regretted letting the lady talk him into
this. No matter how much he wanted to succeed at the task of removing the
Rochesters to their own home, he
knew
better than to travel with a woman, and still, he’d let her overcome his common
sense with female illogic. At the moment, he was just relieved that he wasn’t
being battered by bitter complaints. Yet. As the ship pitched and night fell,
he braced himself for a tirade.

“Even if we can sail upriver and reach port tonight, it will
be too late to disembark and find an inn,” he explained as he hooked up the
hammocks. “We will have to sleep on board.”

The storm had mostly passed, but the sea was rough. Miss
Rochester cast her moaning companion a look of concern. “I don’t suppose there
are blankets or pillows to make Mrs. Lorna more comfortable?”

“I’ll find blankets. Is there anything in your trunks that
might be rolled into a pillow?”

She wrinkled her patrician nose. “My petticoats will have to
do. I’ve more linen in my sewing basket. I can wrap them in that.”

Expecting the usual female complaints, Erran was surprised
by her calm resilience, but he refused to give her the pleasure of knowing it.
He nodded curtly. “I’ll leave you to prepare for bed. I trust our crew, but
once we’re up the river in Newport, the ship will be accessible to thieves. I
cannot in all conscience leave you alone. If Mrs. Lorna sleeps on the bench, I’ll
take this other hammock.”

He watched in satisfaction as her eyes widened in alarm, but
still
, she said nothing. He’d really
wanted her to speak so he could judge whether she hated the idea or not. But
she was perceptive and had learned to stay silent to give him no hint.

After he’d correctly judged her relief beneath her earlier
cold declaration that he could leave or stay, she was rightly wary of speaking.

She wanted him near
her.
To his disgust, Erran was learning how a beautiful woman could inflate
his pride. Previously, his only relationships with women had been of the
mutually satisfactory physical kind. He’d never tried to please one.

He wanted to please Miss Rochester.

The companion did not do no more than moan while they made
arrangements. By the time Erran returned with blankets, Miss Rochester had
turned off the lamp so he could not admire the full effect of her slender form
without billowing skirts. But he was painfully aware of her as they arranged
the hammocks and blankets in such close proximity.

Their chaperone was almost completely useless.

Acting on his urges was a sure way to fall into the parson’s
mousetrap. Unlike most of his infamous family, he did not intend to support a
raft of bastards.

“We will be in Newport by morning?” she whispered as they
settled into their respective canvases.

“If the tide is right, we’ll be there before midnight. In
the morning, I will find transportation north. Lady Aster has given me a list
of inns where we might stop for the last few days of our journey. You should
sleep better tomorrow night.”

“I have not slept well since we left Jamaica,” she said
sadly. “I will be content to sleep at all.”

Erran had no reason to feel guilt at her admission, but he
winced at her honesty.

***

Two men had to haul Mrs. Lorna into the dinghy the next
morning.

“I don’t think she is well enough to travel further,”
Celeste murmured in dismay as they climbed up the embankment from the river,
with Mrs. Lorna still clinging to one of the crew.

She had passed a restless night with Lord Erran only a few
feet away. He didn’t snore, but she had been painfully aware of his masculine
proximity. He had been the perfect gentleman, though. She had almost been
disappointed.

“We’ll find an inn to break our fast and discuss what to do
next,” Lord Erran said grimly, casting about for transportation.

They pried the older woman, moaning, into a battered open
carriage. The crew tied on their trunks, and Lord Erran rode with the driver as
they traversed pitted roads to the inn that had been recommended. Celeste held
up Mrs. Lorna’s head and patted her hands and watched their surroundings with
interest.