Sitting on a wooden bench on the deck, she faced the blue expanse of the sea. Such a simply soothing view for something so vast. Oh, if she were still able to paint, she would make a grand painting out of those shades of blue. Not a day passed without her wishing to paint again.
She stretched out the fingers of her right hand to warm them up. After the stabbing incident and the infection, her hand muscles could become rather stiff, the joints would lock up, and pain would bother her for a while. Sometimes the pencil would slip out of her fingers without her conscious thought. Her physician had told her that, with months, maybe years, of long exercises that had brought her excruciating pain, she would still write and sketch. She’d tried that and yes, she could write and do some sketching, but for what purpose? She wasn’t an artist anymore. She’d paid a large price the night of the incident. Back then, she hadn’t known how difficult, long, and painful her rehabilitation would be. How compromised her fingers would be. But Hector had paid a higher price.
Foam curled on the crests of the waves like the curly locks of a white puddle dog. The soft sea breeze shuffled her hair, and she inhaled deeply the scent of the sea. She squinted in the sunlight, scrutinising the horizon as strolling passengers and sailors obstructed the view of what was now Hector’s grave.
Eight years ago, he’d sailed that very water to South America after she’d encouraged him to go. If only she’d known. His ship had sunk well before it’d reached its destination, caught in a storm, and Hector had died with his companions. No survivors. Another ship had witnessed the tragedy but hadn’t been able to intervene. The worst naval disaster in the past decadeThe Timeshad called it. Her chest still clenched for him. How happy he’d been when he’d decided to go. One word from her, and he would have stayed in London. Safe and alive.
Sadness caught her as she imagined being thrown into the angry sea in the middle of a storm with waves several stories tall, thunder, and squalls. Had he died quickly? Had he suffered? How frightened had he been? She shivered in the warm air and rubbed her arms.
She opened her sketch book and started drawing his face or what she remembered of him. His straight nose, cleft chin, and thick eyelashes. But other details eluded her memory, like his charming smile. Its slightly sinful quality was difficult to capture. She winced as her fingers stiffened, sweat dampening her forehead. Not that she ever finished a sketch these days. She’d start, get frustrated, and stop.
“There you are.” In a froth of pink satin and under a pretty parasol, Verity sat next to her. She peered at her sketching book, and her smile vanished. “You’re thinking about poor Hector again.”
“This trip makes me think of him a lot.” She sketched his hair. He’d had long, curly hair the colour of spun gold. But between her patchy memory and her trembling fingers, the lines never quite came as she wished and missed the softness of his hair. “I thought you were taking a nap.”
Verity huffed. “Mother felt sick again. When she finally fell asleep, I left her cabin. I needed a bit of fresh air.”
As Maddie’s fingers struggled to draw the fine details of an eye, she fought the urge to throw the pencil and the sketchbook into the sea. Her fingers refused to move the way she wanted, freezing over the paper. No wonder the academy rejected her, despite the help from the late Duke of Blackburn.
Back in those days, she’d underestimated the struggle of her recovery. The infection hadn’t been the problem, but its effects on her body had stayed. Her heart had broken when she’d realised her hand was no longer as functional as she’d wished. No more delicate sfumato or subtle strokes of the paintbrush for her. The committee of the academy hadn’t been impressed by her work. No amount of exercise had given her fingers the flexibility an artist needed.
“Don’t be too sad.” Verity closed her parasol and faced the sun. The sunlight had turned her skin a lovely golden shade Mother found horrible but Maddie loved. “Tragedies happen. It’s not your fault. Everyone knows Hector wanted to go.”
Maddie sighed. She was both sad for him and for herself, if she was going to be honest. Cramps took hold of her fingers, and she set the pencil aside. The disappointment never failed to hurt her. She guessed she mourned the death of her dream. Better to gaze at the sea and the—she straightened, forgetting about the sketch.
The foam she’d admired earlier didn’t seem to be foam at all but a...blanket? A flag? Whatever it was, the piece of fabric flapped in the breeze. The waves hid it from view rhythmically, but there was no mistaking the fact it was something human made. She craned her neck. The piece of fabric was attached to a pole or something similar. Another wave lifted it, and wooden planks tied by ropes came into view, along with what looked like a body.
A gasp tore out of her as she shot up, the sketch pad falling to the floor. “It’s a raft.”
“What is it?” Verity stood up as well, shielding her eyes with a hand.
“Over there. It’s a raft. My goodness, someone is on it.” She clamped her hands over her mouth. “Good Lord. There’s a person on that raft.”
Verity cried out. “I don’t remember what we are supposed to do or say when a person drops into the sea.”
She gave her sister a gentle shove. “Go find a sailor. I’ll keep an eye on the raft in case the current drags it away.”
Grabbing a fistful of her skirts, Verity ran away. “Ring the alarm as well. It’s right over there,” she tossed over her shoulder.
Right. The alarm. Staring at the raft dangerously floating up and down, Maddie pulled the chain of the alarm hanging on the wall. A deafening, high-pitched ring sounded, making her wince. She couldn’t tell if the raft sailed away from the ship or closer. Passengers came to abrupt stops as the alarm ripped the quiet afternoon.
“What is it?” a woman asked.
“Are we sinking?” another cried.
Maddie waved them away. “Move, move. I must see the raft.”
She squeezed herself through the small crowd gathering on the deck and grabbed the handrail, searching the waves. She sagged in relief when she spotted the raft. Definitely closer.
“Maddie, Maddie!” Verity returned with two sailors at her heels and another one came from the other side of the deck.
Before they asked any questions, Maddie pointed at the raft. “There’s a man over there.”
A mutter spread through the passengers as more people stared at the spot she was pointing to. The sailors leant over the rail, craning their necks.
“Man overboard!” one of them shouted.
Other sailors repeated the yell from somewhere, and soon the shout “man overboard” echoed around her.
