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“Of course,” I promise, determined to sort out how Montague came to be on this ship before I do anything. “Soon. Now go.”
I thought she wouldn’t, but suddenly she darts for the ladder, her sore arm making the climb awkward, but I know better than to help. This is my Kat, obstinately independent. All I can see are the soft soles of her slippers before she bends down and tells me, “Don’t dawdle down here. Make haste!”
Again, I’m reminded of the prim, strict governess. This time I do laugh.
Chapter Five
Untangling a Sailor’s Knot
We have been barred from the upper decks, victims to the wail of the ship. It’s like huddling within a strumming instrument, taut rigging plucked by sea gods, the hull a groaning and creaking chorus that puts us on edge. We all have our sea legs, enough that we can hold our stomachs and have distanced ourselves from the other two cabins on our deck. Louvre doors do little to muffle the reality of puking, sloshing buckets, and mournful cries.
At least the sea is calming. We have been waiting it out in the salon, a room that spans the aft of the ship, with a length of windows from port to starboard. Despite a head full of questions, we’re all quiet. I can see Bentwood brooding behind me in his reflection in the wide expanse of windows. His gaze touches me in a way I can’t explain, don’t understand. It’s a relief when he excuses himself to go to see the Captain.
“Well.” Lady E. lifts her gaze from the needlepoint in her lap. “He needn’t feel so guilty. How was he to know danger would follow us?”
Bentwood has been full of apologies, though that isn’t what I saw on his face. I think he was brooding about Montague. Wondering if I knew he would be on board, or worse, whether I’d had a hand in it.
Of course, I hadn’t. I’m no happier than my husband is. Montague is a nuisance and, quite possibly, a danger. Not that he threw the knife. Words, not blades, are his weapons. But could he arrange such an ‘accident’?
I don’t see him as a killer. Not that I know what a killer would look like.
Restless, I rise and make my way to the seat beneath those windows. The storm is breaking, slivers of brilliant light slipping through cracks of darkness.
Once again, Lady E. is fretting about her abigail, whom we’ve yet to reach.
“I do hope Jenny revives soon. Symptoms will worsen with this to-and-froing. The girl has no sea legs to find, and I’m at a loss without her.”
“I can help you,” I offer, turning my back on the rugged sea. “I’m quite good as a lady’s maid.”
“Well,” she admits, “I am not, and Jenny is the only maid between the two of us.”
Putting her handiwork aside, Lady E. stares beyond me. I turn to the sea. The ship is not tossing us to and fro. How had I missed this? No wonder Bentwood left to talk to the Captain.
“As the rains are settling, I’ll go check on Jenny.”
“I will join you,” I say, too restless to sit belowdecks.
I have a soft spot for those who suffer from the sea. My mother did. It killed her. She leaned too far over the rail to heave and tumbled into a storm-tossed sea. The waves swallowed her. We didn’t see her again until she lay lifeless on the beach.
Pushing the memory away, I follow Lady Eleanor up the steep staircase, aptly called ladders. They’re a nuisance, impossibly difficult in skirts. We have two flights to navigate: our deck, the Captain’s deck, and then, finally, above board. We could climb even further. The portals in our cabin look out over the main deck, but there is one more, where we sit and visit. That one, the aft deck, is the roof to our cabins. If a man had to make his way up and down those ladders wearing a long skirt, something would change.
I think of the foreigner, doing just that.
This being a merchant ship, there are only a few guest cabins. All other spaces are filled to brimming with merchandise, post, and, of course, canons. Not that we could put up much of a fight if pirates, or a warship, were to attack, but the ship is painted to look as though we have far more gunpower than we do, and it has enough canons to give an initial impression of fighting power.
Thankfully, the war with France ended last year. One worry to let go of.
By the time we reach blessed daylight, meagre as it is on this grey day, and I’ve considered what all those cannons mean, I’m stunned. Bentwood is a cautious man, who appreciates order. Not a man of risks. Yet he’s giving me this adventure. Unbelievably amazing.
Gratitude washes over me as I stand, feeling free, thrilled by the bracing wind.
The weather is powerful, and the ship still teeming with activity. Grabbing the hatch cap, I hang on and reach for Lady Eleanor who has stepped out into the open area, nearly toppling with the effort. An old sailor catches her, helping her reach me.
“It will be worse where Jenny is,” I warn, “dark with an unholy stench with so many ill from the storm.”
Determined, she braces herself. “I rather worried about that.”
“There’s very little we can do.”
