CHAPTER
8
Mum’s stockinged feet dangled overhead, kicking in unison like she was perched on a tree swing rather than the upper berth of their confined cabin aboard the SSHeidi. “You’ve been awfully quiet since you boarded the ship, ducky. Are you seasick?”
No, just heartsick. And oh so very tired.
Wedged on the lower berth, Clara stared at the metal wall that separated their cabin from Mr. Arthur’s. Since boarding the vessel, she hadn’t uttered a word to her mother about what happened at the docks, partly because she couldn’t bring herself to speak of it just yet and partly because there seemed no point in robbing them both of sleep. “I’m fine, Mum.”
At least she would be, given more time and distance. When they’d reached the Thames Estuary, Clara’s heart had stopped racing, and now, an hour into open sea, the tremors coursing through her body had finally stilled. Yes, she would be fine soon enough. As long as she didn’t let her thoughts stray back to Mr.Forrester’s threats. As long as she was able to find Grand and convince him that the letter and the owl must be destroyed.
Slipping a hand into the pocket of her brown corded silk dress, Clara removed the journal she’d been gifted—not to engage in Grand’s wild suggestion of composing her own travel guide, mind, but rather to serve as a convenient hiding place for the clues she must now collect. Opening the journal to where clue number one now dwelt amongst the blank pages, she ran her fingers over the cryptic words that Grand had inscribed and she had deciphered. The words that even now had them sailing across the North Sea, bound for the city of Amsterdam.
You shall find my next clue in the capital city where your mythical namesake holdsthe firmament upon his shoulders within a mapped marble hall.
Clara yawned. She really ought to change into her nightdress, but the thought of rising from her berth to do so was enough to incite another mouth-stretcher. She returned the journal to her pocket and shut her eyes. Her nightdress could have a holiday. For she was not taking to her feet again until they docked. And perhaps not even then. Perhaps she’d tell Mr. Arthur to make himself useful and carry her across Amsterdam to the—
Feet smacked against the cabin floor. “Care to join us for a moonlit stroll?”
Please be a dream.Clara pried her heavy eyelids open and found Mum standing by the door of their cabin, boots on and laced. Fred was draped about her neck, playing with the pink ribbons dangling from Mum’s straw bonnet. Clara groaned and rubbed her eyes. Why must reality be stranger than her dreams? “Can’t a stroll wait until morning?”
“I should think not. Moonlit strolls hardly ever happen in the morning. For that shy maiden moonlight has a habit of running away at the break of dawn.”
“And ship decks have a habit of being slick and littered with a tangle of ropes. It would be safer to take a turn about in the morning when you’ll have enough light to properly see where you’re going.”And a rested daughter to keep you out of trouble.
“Rubble and rot. I’ve been aboard these sorts of vessels with your father more times than I can recall and have navigated them with surefootedness no matter the weather or hour. Which is precisely how I know there’s no substitute for taking in the sea air whilst the sky is aglow with maiden moonlight’s silvery blush. It is simply magical.”
It was simply reckless. “Be that as it may, I must beg we retire for the night. My current state of exhaustion surpasses that of a perpetually napping hedgehog.”
“You would forgo a magical moonlit stroll and take to your bed at half past eleven?” In a trice, Mum’s fingers were pressed upon Clara’s brow, checking for a fever, then upon her wrist to search for a pulse, then upon her cheek as if to reclaim a lost treasure. “What happened to the little girl who’d steal away from the nursery every night at a quarter past three to play intrepid explorer? The little girl who’d awaken her parents with squeals and laughter as she slid down a ‘waterfall’ banister? What happened to Little Atlas, who once charted courses to exotic lands and daydreamed of romantic adventures?”
Clara pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. She’d grown up and realized her folly too little, too late, to the detriment of those she loved most. A tattered sigh tore itself from her chest. “Romance and adventure are the idealistic scribblings of Austen and Dumas. Like Elizabeth Bennet and Athos, they are not real. Nor do they exist off the page. To believe otherwise is to suffer disillusionment and heartbreak.”
The saddest of frowns draped itself over Mum’s face, bleak and delicate as a mourning veil. “Elizabeth Bennet’s happily-ever-aftermight be a work of fiction, but love is real enough. Sometimes it takes idealistic scribblings to remind us of that truth when the whole of our very real, very dark world makes it feel like a lie.”
Allowing no time for contradiction, she walked out the door.
Clara stared at the rivets lined in neat rows on the cabin wall. Now she’d done it. She’d let her foul mood get a hold of her mouth and cast a bitter shadow over the most cheerful woman to walk the earth. Should she chase after Mum or allow her a moment alone with maiden moonlight? Mum might prefer the latter, but guilt and fear made a sound argument for the former. What if Mum was so upset that she failed to watch her footing on the slick deck? Clara pursed her lips. Or perhaps Mum was right, and she was worrying for naught. Perhaps, this once, she should leave Mum to her own devices and relax.
A scream on deck pierced through the cabin walls.
Clara snapped upright. Good heavens, was the ship going down?
“Murderer!” The all-too-familiar, all-too-loud denunciation seemed to rattle the steamer’s iron hull.
Stars above, what species of trouble had Mum found this time? Catapulting from her berth, Clara flew toward the port bow, where her mother’s indignation combated with the refutations of a gruff male voice.
“I demand you release the prisoners at once!”
“I’m just doin’ me job, marm. ’Tain’t no concern of yours.”
“When God charged humankind to tend the creatures of the garden, it became my concern.”
Beneath the brilliant glow of moonlight, Mum stood boot-to-boot with a squat sailor who held a gas lantern at eye level. The man’s broad chest was a solid mass of muscle, and his patience appeared to be wearing as thin as the strands of hairgreased flat across his brow. Clara’s nose scrunched. Of all the sailors to pick a fight with, Mum would pick the snarling bulldog of the sea.
Said bulldog gave the metal cage in his opposite hand a sound shake. “These varmints are goin’ overboard, and so ’elp me, if you don’t get out the way, you’re goin’ with them.”
Mum planted her hands on her hips. “I’d be amused to watch you try it, lard gut.”
