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“She has been located, but I cannot guarantee she is safe.”
“Was she in danger?” I demand.
“She was, may still be, though she led me to believe she is not.”
“She led you to believe?” incredulous, I fight for reason, “How did she communicate with you?”
We face off, my anger growing with Bentwood’s silence.
“You’ve taken her place,” I realise, “just like you did with that cursed dog.”
A day I could never forget. We escaped our governess, walking down a path where we found an apple orchard. Unfortunately, it was not one of the Bentwoods’ orchards, but owned by a farmer who did not care for thieves.
Bentwood and I were sitting on tree limbs, happily eating apples in the shade. CeCe was hanging from a branch, ready to drop, when a dog charged from nowhere, snarling, snapping at her feet. Bentwood jumped down and ran, distracting the vicious beast. The wounds took months to heal, would have been worse, but the farmer had not been far behind his guard dog.
“You are the one in danger.”
I know it is true. Bentwood drew the danger away from his sister.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
“Of course I do. I trust you with my life, but not with yours. You aren’t telling us everything and that, to me, puts you in more danger.”
A fact I will never forgive if my words prove accurate.
Frustrated, I storm off, ignoring my dread of stifling putrid air, and head belowdecks, imagining Bentwood tossed overboard or lost at sea in a small dingy, dying of thirst with no way of saving him.
Chapter Seven
Poison, Anyone?
Amazing what can be managed at sea: fresh linens, crystal, silver, and a surprisingly good meal.
“Those peas tasted freshly picked,” I commend the captain.
“Early days, Lady Eleanor,” Captain Harris explains, “we always have fresh produce after port, for as long as it lasts. Then it’s dried peas and beans until the next port.”
The Captain’s quarters are spacious enough to seat eight comfortably: Captain Harris, myself, Lord and Lady Bentwood, Montague, the chief officer, and the ship’s surgeon, Mr. Richards. One place remains empty.
“Is there another?” I ask, uncertain if that is some strange sailing custom. There are so many.
“We were expecting another,” the Captain responds. “I don’t approve of late arrivals, but there you have it. Another female.”
“Perhaps she’s gone overboard.”
Lady Bentwood smiles at the captain, who ignores her quip. Montague chuckles.
Bentwood puts his hand over his wife’s, but she shoots him a quelling look. Something passes between them, and she relaxes, quieting. Montague notices.
“Don’t be such a bore, Bentwood,” Montague challenges, “silencing the lady. Quite a feat, but no fun at all.”
This time, Lady Bentwood sends the quieting glance, but it wasn’t necessary. The Captain takes up the cause.
“The Earl understands what is proper for his Countess. There is something to be said of understanding the responsibility and conduct of your station, Lord Montague.”
“A newlywed aren’t you?” the surgeon asks Lady Bentwood. “You’ll soon be accustomed to your husband’s wishes, my dear.”
Smiling, the newly wedded wife slips her hand from beneath her husband’s.
