Marrying Christopher (A Hearthfire Romance Book 3) Read online

  Christopher called a thank-you anyway and reached down to lift one end of his trunk. The cabin boy, Marc, already held the other, and together they lifted it easily, Marc’s end rising so quickly that his face registered surprise at the trunk’s light weight.

  “I don’t have much with me,” Christopher said by way of explanation. “Probably less than most who travel across the Atlantic.”

  “Less than them women coming aboard,” the lad said, staring past Christopher.

  Turning so he could walk sideways, Christopher caught sight of the procession coming up the gangway. Two men appeared at the top of the ramp, then four, then six, then eight. Each pair carried a large trunk between them, and piled on top of these trunks was an assorted array of parcels— paper-covered packages wrapped with string, fancy carpetbags, and hatboxes.

  The last pair of men, struggling with their load, stepped aboard the ship as two ridiculously feathered hats appeared behind them, bobbing up the ramp above their owners. Christopher turned away before the faces beneath the hats came into view. He hurried his step. The last thing he wanted right now was to be around women— especially any as frivolous as it appeared these two must be.

  He loved his sisters fiercely and had done his best by them, but now— at last— it was his time. Time to pursue the life he’d dreamed of for as long as he could remember. And he refused to do any little thing that might risk complicating it. Women, in his opinion, tended to complicate a man’s life. Some day far into the future— after he owned his own land and established a successful farm, when he’d built a fine house and had a solid bank account, then he might be interested in a complication of the female sort. But that time was years away. Today he was gloriously single and free from all worries over any female.

  And I intend to enjoy it. He might only be twenty-one, but he’d not had the youth others were afforded. He’d been shouldering responsibility since he was old enough to wander away from home and find his way back again— practically his whole life.

  Marc paused as they came to a door. Holding his side of the trunk with only one hand, he reached his other toward the knob. “Which cabin would you like?” he asked as he pulled the door open and started inside. Christopher followed, careful to duck beneath the low doorway as they stepped down into a long saloon lined with a good two dozen doors on each side and tables and benches running down the entire length of the middle.

  “Which cabin is farthest from the women’s quarters?” Christopher asked.

  “Over there.” The boy inclined his head toward the end of the row on the opposite side. “It’s the one closest to the captain as well.”

  “Perfect,” Christopher said. “I’ll take it.”

  The coach rolled to a stop, jarring Marsali from a troubling dream in which she was back at her aunt and uncle’s house. The carriage rocked as the driver hopped down, and Marsali winced as her head— tender already from hours of knocking against the side— hit the carriage wall again. Thoroughly awake now and grimacing, she pulled the curtain back, eager for her first sight of the wharf.

  But instead of a bay full of ships at anchor, her eyes met a dirty and rather deserted street corner. Lime Street and Pembroke. She did not recognize either name and supposed the coach must be stopping to take on another passenger. The two gentlemen and the lady who had been her traveling companions for much of the journey had disembarked at the last stop, somewhere in the heart of Liverpool. She had guessed that her own stop at the docks would not be long after.

  The carriage door swung open, and the coachman poked his head in. “Last stop. All out.”

  “You must be mistaken,” Marsali said. “I am the only one left, and this is not my destination.”

  “Docks’r over there.” The coachman pointed through the carriage to the window on the other side.

  “Oh. Of course.” Marsali hurriedly climbed down, embarrassed at not having thought to look out the other window. Somehow she had expected the scene to be different— louder and busier, full of people all as excited as she was, eager to be leaving behind this forsaken island.

  “That’ll be another shilling for your trunk,” the coachman said, his hand held out.

  “But I paid you already— when we left this morning.” What kind of fool did he take her for? She’d been sleepy today, not forgetful.

  “Right. You paid me at the first. An’ you pay me at the end— unless you don’t want your trunk, that is.”

  Marsali clutched her reticule tightly to her and frowned, furious with both herself— for not knowing whether or not she was being cheated— and with the unfeeling coachman, who had done nothing that she could see to earn that extra shilling.

  “In your advertisement, it stated clearly that the price for transport from Manchester to Liverpool was exactly six shillings.”

  He nodded. “And so it has been.”

  “But you charged me an extra shilling this morning to load and transport my trunk. And the driver charged me another as well.” For who knows what. Without a driver there would have been no transport of any kind. It seemed rather logical that his fee, at least, should have been included in the original cost. “Then I was assessed a third shilling for the change of horses at noon.”

  “Yep.” The coachman nodded again, exaggerating his movements as if she were daft and was having difficulty understanding. “A shilling at the start, and a shilling now, for me to take your trunk down and restore it to you.”

  “That isn’t fair,” Marsali said. “Such a fee was not advertised. You ought to have been more clear up front.”

  He shrugged. “I guess we’ll just be keepin’ your trunk, then.” He tipped his cap at her, then turned to close the carriage door.

  “Wait!” Marsali held her hand out. “I’ll pay it— or what I can, anyway.” She loosened the strings of her reticule and reached inside, reasoning that she had to have her trunk. It wasn’t as if she could sail across the Atlantic or arrive in America with no underclothes or without so much as a sleeping gown or shawl.

  “I haven’t a shilling. Only a sixpence.” She held her hand out, the coin on her palm.

  The coachman snatched it up. “At’ll do. Right, then. Let’s get your trunk.” He walked around to the back of the carriage, and Marsali followed. The driver was already waiting there to help, and Marsali worried that he, too, would assess some last-minute fee— in which case she would have to give him one of her belongings as payment. And threadbare as most of her garments were, it was doubtful he would accept such.

  Yet I am here. What can he do? Eager for her first sight of the ship she was to sail on, Marsali walked past the men around to the other side of the carriage. But there was no water in sight. She turned a hurried circle. No water anywhere.

  “Wait. There’s been some mistake.” She whirled around to stop the coachman from untying her trunk before it was too late. “This is not my stop. My ship departs from the Waterloo dock, and I don’t see any docks anywhere.”

  “I know.” Something about the coachman’s nonchalant manner alarmed her.

  “Then why have you not taken me there?” she demanded, turning quickly searching for the driver, who had disappeared again. “It is what I paid for.”

  He shook his head. “No. You paid for transport to Liverpool. If you want to go to the docks, it’ll be an additional shilling.”

  “I haven’t an additional shilling,” Marsali said, her panic escalating. “I’ve just given you the last of my coin— for the arduous task of removing my trunk.”

  “Guess you’ll have to walk, then,” the coachman said, ignoring both her sarcasm and her plight. Her trunk was untied and fell to the ground with a none-too-gentle thud. Whistling, the coachman flipped her sixpence casually into the air once, then dropped it into his pocket, where it jingled merrily against the other coins resting there.

  “It is quite a racket you have going,” Marsali huffed in a last, desperate attempt to wrangle his conscience— supposing he had one. “To strand a lady
as you are—”

  “It’s not my custom to strand ladies.” His face twisted in a sneer as his gaze roved over Marsali as if she was the vilest creature. “But a woman like you is a different matter. Your uncle said to leave you where you belong. And so I have. Be glad you’ve a bit of daylight left. Maybe you’ve still a chance of making that sea voyage— as some pirate’s chattel, if you’re lucky.” His harsh laughter echoed down the street.

  Marsali reeled backward as if struck. His stinging words sank deep, revealing her true vulnerability just when she’d believed she was at last beyond her aunt and uncle’s reach.

  Will I ever be beyond it? Will I ever be free?

  The coachman stepped up on the side of the coach, gave a shout, and it rolled away. She sat woefully on her trunk as the carriage and the last of her money disappeared. Quickly she scanned the buildings and signs hanging over them. Madame Kelner’s Girls for Hire, Palace of Pleasure, The Starlight— Showgirls and Spirits. She felt suddenly ill. Your uncle said to leave you where you belong. It wasn’t here, just as it had not been in his arms or in his bed, though he’d tried on more than one occasion to persuade her to that end.

  Her head jerked to the other side of the street as she fought panic. Surely there had to be other sorts of establishments here. The Lion Tavern— Women and Ale, Moll’s Club for Men, Archer and Sons’ Wine and Spirits.

  No. Marsali wanted to squeeze her eyes shut against the obvious, but fear kept them wide open, darting to and fro. Dusk settled quickly over the lonely street. Several buildings down, a lone female figure emerged and came to stand beneath a lamppost, leaning against it in such a way, and facing the street, so as to be easily noticed by any passersby.

  Worry over reaching the ship suddenly paled in comparison to the more immediate problem of getting off this street. Before long it would be full dark.

  And I will be here alone— or worse.

  The medical inspector dabbed his napkin to the corner of his mouth. “A fine meal, Captain. If your cook is able to provide such tasty fare throughout the voyage, I daresay your ship will find success based on the merits of its cuisine alone.”

  “Mr. Tenney is an excellent cook,” Captain Gower agreed. “And we are well supplied with a pen for chickens and a stall for a milk cow to sustain us with fresh eggs and cream throughout the journey. We’ve barrels of salted meat and sacks of grain— even nuts and dried fruits. The shorter length of travel makes all of that much easier to provide and store.” He eyed his pocket watch for the seventh time in the last hour; Christopher had been counting.

  It had seemed a long hour to him as well. They had all dined together— Captain Gower, the medical inspector, Lady Cosgrove and her daughter, and himself. Only Miss Abbott, the one passenger yet to board, had been absent. Lady Cosgrove had excused herself shortly after the main course, citing a headache as her excuse for retiring early and requiring her daughter to come along to assist her.

  The meal had become a bit more pleasant after that. At least the captain and inspector were able to carry on a proper conversation now that the chatty Miss Cosgrove had left.

  “Blasted woman is going to delay us,” the captain muttered beneath his breath, but not so quietly that both Christopher and the medical inspector failed to hear it. The latter’s eyes went to a clock on the wall behind the captain.

  “Surely you don’t mean to wait for Miss Abbott,” the inspector said, placing his napkin on the table as if making ready to leave.

  “I may not have a choice but to wait for her.” More than a hint of irritation tinged the captain’s voice.

  “Why?” the inspector asked. “It’s not as if one less person on this ship is going to make any difference, though she does account for a quarter of your passengers.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  Captain Gower attempted a smile, though Christopher caught a glimpse of a desperate sort of bitterness beneath.

  “The girl is indentured to Mr. Thomas,” the captain explained. At the inspector’s blank look, he clarified. “Mr. Thomas is the wealthy Virginian who financed over 80 percent of the Amanda May. It would seem that the least I can do— seeing how I have failed at attracting passengers— would be to deliver his servant.”

  “Ah.” The inspector nodded. “So Miss Abbott is not just any passenger.”

  “Not at all,” Captain Gower said. “She is to serve as a lady’s maid for Thomas’s daughter. Her current maid’s term of indenture has recently ended, and he was unable to secure a proper replacement. He seems to feel that a young woman from England is the best choice.”

  “Does that not strike you as odd, Captain?” Christopher asked. “I should think America would have plenty of young women, both those born there as well as a great many immigrants recently arrived who would be pleased to have such a position.” He thought of the Irish ship docked beside them. “Why should a man have to advertise and send away, as it were, for a maid?”

  “I do not pretend to know.” Captain Gower tugged at his cravat as his mouth turned down, exhibiting mild discomfort and causing Christopher to suspect that he was not being entirely truthful.

  “I cannot imagine what might have happened to delay her,” the captain said, glancing at his watch yet again.

  “Most unfortunate,” the inspector said, pushing back his chair and rising.

  An abrupt, forced smile appeared on the captain’s face. “Let us at least enjoy ourselves while we wait, gentlemen.” His gaze moved from the inspector to Christopher, a silent plea in it.

  “I’ve a fine bottle of port waiting to be opened in celebration of our departure, and I am most eager to show off some of my latest acquisitions.”

  “Well, now…” The inspector brought a hand to his chin as he considered.

  Christopher felt somewhat surprised at being included in the invitation, but then he was the only male passenger, so it wasn’t as if the captain had many choices if he wished for more company to keep the inspector lingering.

  “Fine port, you say? It would be a shame to pass that up.” The inspector patted his rotund belly affectionately, as if promising it yet another treat.

  When he has already eaten a double portion of everything. Good that he won’t be joining us on this voyage, or the rest of us might go without.

  Christopher stood and followed the two men into the captain’s quarters, two generous-sized rooms, the first of which featured a wide, cushioned seat with a large, paned window behind it. Ornate wood trim framed both the window and the seat and matched the gleam of the polished floors and beams overhead. But the main features of the room were the large tables on the opposite side. These were built in an octagonal shape to fit the space and held an enticing array of objects— none of which Christopher could identify.

  “I collect inventions,” Captain Gower said, striding over to the tables, his chest puffed out as if they were his greatest pride and joy. “A few are my own; several belonged to others who never realized their potential; and one I will be showing to American investors for a friend of mine— Joseph Niépce. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

  Both Christopher and the inspector shook their heads.

  “He has invented a heliograph,” the captain said, as if they ought to know what such a thing was. He moved to the second table and pointed out the box sitting at the end.

  The inspector came closer and bent over, examining it. Christopher lingered behind, interested as well but not wanting to interrupt the inspector’s distraction. He had the idea that this was exactly what the captain had intended, bringing them in here to stall for time until Miss Abbott arrived.

  If he was unable to detain the medical inspector, if the inspector left without clearing all of the listed passengers, their departure would be delayed— something Christopher wanted as little as the captain. He would do all he could to assist Captain Gower in assuring they sailed tomorrow.

  Captain Gower left the inspector to his examination of the objects on the tables and went to a cabinet near the window. H
e removed three glasses and set them on the sideboard below. From a wine rack built into the sideboard, he withdrew a somewhat dusty bottle.

  Christopher watched as the captain removed the cork, sniffed it appreciatively, and with a nearly concealed sigh, began to pour out.

  “I say, Gower. You must be the vainest captain I’ve met,” the inspector said. “With your ship that can move without sails and a special stand of mirrors with which to preen.” He moved closer, attempting to peer into one himself.

  “Ah, but they are not for preening.” The captain crossed the room and handed a glass of port to the inspector.

  “What are they for, then? And what is that box supposed to do?”

  “The heliograph was Joseph’s first attempt at making a picture. The mirrors are used to reflect the light of the sun in order to capture the image.”

  The inspector’s look turned skeptical. “Since when can a mirror paint?”

  “I did not say a portrait, but a picture— an image.” Captain Gower set his drink aside, then carefully picked up two parchments from behind the invention. “A sun drawing, if you will.” He held the parchment out, and Christopher came closer for a better look.

  The first was a landscape, or a likeness of one, but nothing like Christopher had ever seen. The second was a grainy image of a man with a horse.

  “This one was made with Joseph’s camera obscura, another invention he is still working on,” Captain Gower said.

  “I’ve seen much better paintings,” the inspector said, and the captain exchanged a look with Christopher as if to suggest that men in the inspector’s line of business obviously had no imagination.

  “A camera obscura produces a likeness,” Captain Gower attempted to explain once more. He held up the landscape. “Joseph took this one out the window of his house, but a sun drawing can be made of anything. One could just as easily capture you as you are right now, standing there.”