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What was the bloody girl singing for, anyway? Was she training to be a banshee?
Stuffing my head under the pillow, I tried to ignore the noise and think about more pleasant things. Like what would happen when I saw Mr Ambrose again.
Can’t you guess, Lilly? He’ll be overjoyed! What man wouldn’t be when unexpectedly seeing the girl whom he loves most in the world, and who just turned down his proposal like a plate of cold porridge?
All right, maybe I had better think about something else. How about…how about…Ella! Yes, Ella was a safe topic. She would be with Edmund, probably, blissfully happy, anticipating a long and happy life together with the man of her dreams.
Which is a lot more than you’ll have, seeing as you turned down yours.
Sometimes I really hated my inner voice.
‘Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Do…’
But not quite as much as I hated some other voices.
Finally, blessedly, the singing ceased, and I was able to drift off into an uneasy sleep. I dreamt of Rikkard Ambrose singing a tragic aria in soprano about his faithless love, who had left him for her feminist principles. When I had awakened and thanked God on my knees that it had just been a horrible nightmare, I cautiously snuck to the door and listened. No noises. No voices. Nothing. Apparently, Miss and Mrs Harse were doing what I had done—taking a well-deserved nap before the next stage of their journey, wherever they were going.
This was it. This was my chance!
Jumping up and stuffing all my things into my suitcase, I carefully opened the door and peeked outside. No one in sight.
Cautiously, I tiptoed down the corridor. Thank heavens I had broken Mr Ambrose’s cardinal rule and paid the landlord in advance. It was worth it if I could get out of here without a teary goodbye scene with Miss Emilia Harse.
The inn was quiet. While most of Dover was already up and about, most passengers, to judge by the noise coming through some of the thin doors, seemed content to snore the day away. I reached the front door without encountering anyone. Outside, the dull grey sky of a beautiful English morning greeted me, accompanied by the smell of freedom, seaweed, and rotten fish. Following the latter, I easily found my way to the harbour.
I’m coming, Mr Ambrose!
Several steamships lined the docks, interspersed with smaller fishing boats and cutters. Rising above the smaller masts, like castle towers above the treetops, I could even see the huge masts of a great sailing ship. My eyes wandered up and, there, at the mast, I saw flying the flag of the East India Company.
Shuddering, I quickly turned away. That was one ship I would not be boarding.
Turning my head this way and that, I wandered down the docks, searching. After only five minutes, I spotted it: a small steamer painted in cheerful blue and green, on its side emblazoned the name the innkeeper had told me: Rob Roy,[2] Scottish hero, and today, my hero as well, if all went as planned.
Hastily I marched up to the guard beside the gangplank.
‘Please tell me that you’re going to France and you’re weighing anchor soon,’ I demanded, throwing an anxious glance back at the inn. No sign of Emilia yet. ‘Please!’
‘Err…aye, we’re leavin’. In about fifteen minutes, guv.’
‘Wonderful! Brilliant! You’re my saviour!’
And, pressing my ticket into his hand along with a tip that would have made Mr Ambrose faint, I hurried onto the ship and ducked behind the closest funnel. Sinking against the heated metal, I let out a sigh of relief. Safe!
Well, almost.
With bated breath I waited while more passengers streamed on board, and sailors loaded bags of mail. The same bags that, not so long ago, must have contained my own letters to Mr Ambrose. Finally, a bell sounded, and the captain stepped out on the upper deck.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please step back from the gangplank. We’ll be casting off soon. If any passengers are still on land and do not wish to miss the ferry from Dover to Calais, please board now. We shall be departing in approximately five minutes.’
A harried-looking little man sprinted on board, but everyone else seemed to be ready for departure. Especially me.
Get it over with! Go on! Move!
Finally, the bell sounded again.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please step away from the gangplank and hold fast. This ferry from Dover to Calais is now departing. May we have calm seas and fair weather.’
With a deep rumble, the steam engines sprang to life. Smoke spewed from the funnel high above my head. The sailors raised the gangplank, and slowly, ever so slowly, we started to drift away from the docks, gathering speed, wind blowing ever faster in my face.
