by Jody Hedlund
Such a kiss would certainly help to divert their attention from the storm.
But just as vividly as she pictured the shared moment of affection, she pictured Twiggy in the stairwell, the rich landlord’s arms wrapped around her, their bodies pressed together, and their lips intertwined.
“He’s just a friend, Mercy,” Twiggy had told her later. “That’s all. Just a friend.”
Mercy ducked her head away from Joseph. She didn’t want a kiss. Didn’t want intimacy. Didn’t want to chance any affection. The last thing she wanted was to become like Twiggy, dependent upon a man, falling into his arms for comfort, and having babies every year. She would be different. She was stronger than that.
“If you tell me a secret about yourself, Mercy, then I shall do likewise.”
“I’ve no secrets, sir.”
“I implore you to call me Joseph.”
She hesitated.
“Please.” His lips brushed against the hollow of her ear as he whispered the word. His plea reverberated in her body to her bones, turning them to liquid. The curve of his mouth and his warm breath were enough to make her want to arch up into him, to bury her own lips into his neck.
She swallowed the desire and instead nodded.
“Then say it,” he said.
“Say what?”
“My name.”
“Joseph,” she whispered.
His fingers at her back tightened, and his breathing turned ragged.
She wanted to speak his name again, knowing that it pleased him, that somehow she had power over this man—although she didn’t understand how that could be.
Just as before, he was the first to break the connection. He let his hand fall away from her back and lifted his face so that his mouth was against her hair now. “Tell me secrets from your childhood, something no one else knows.”
The cogs in her mind were stuck like wheels in the mud after a heavy rain. She tried to think of something that might interest Joseph, but no matter the memory that came to mind, it was too pitiful to share with him.
“Tell me why you call your mother Twiggy.”
Mercy expelled a breath, allowing herself to relax, even as the ship continued its deathly rising and plunging. “Twiggy didn’t want us calling her Mother. She didn’t want the rent collector knowing she had so many children.”
Mercy went on to tell him about rent day, known as Black Monday, the day the women lined up outside the pawnshops with anything they might be able to sell so they were ready for the rent collector. He’d evict tenants who couldn’t pay up or charge more for those who’d added people to their already-crowded living spaces.
“Twiggy thought she could fool the rent collector about how many youngun’s were hers, and yet he always knew.”
Joseph was unnaturally silent as she finished answering his question.
Had she disgusted him with the tale? Part of her wanted to bury her face in her hands in shame, for her past was so different from his. How could he even begin to understand what her life had been like? And how could he still want her for a friend?
Before he could apologize or say something to try to make her feel better, she pushed aside her woeful past and changed the subject. “What about you? I’d be right pleased to hear about your family. They’ll be a mite more interesting than mine, that’s to be sure.”
Again he was strangely quiet. The moans of the other passengers blended with the incessant creaking of the ship’s timbers and the pounding against the hull. The dampness, the stench, and the filth of the mattress beneath her didn’t give her pause. Instead, it reminded her of the hell she’d left behind, the hell that most of these immigrants hoped to leave behind.
Like her, these people had stepped out of the only existence they’d ever known. They’d shown great courage in taking such a risk, embarking on a long, difficult journey, crossing an ocean in an attempt to find a glimmer of hope—a new life for themselves upon foreign shores.
But had they traded one hard life only to be swallowed up by another that was just as hard, just as stormy and fathomless?
She began to think Joseph wouldn’t speak any further when he blurted, “My mother, father, and brother perished of cholera when I was away at boarding school.”
Mercy listened without speaking as he shared the devastating event, the guilt he still carried that he hadn’t been with them in their last hours, that he’d been spared when they hadn’t. In the span of one week, he’d lost everyone he loved and was left behind, alone in the world.
She didn’t offer him an apology or say anything to try to ease his pain and loss. Instead, she hugged him tighter, suddenly understanding there were different kinds of desperation that drove men and women from their homes out into the deep unknown.
A strange quiet awoke Joseph. After hours of the storm waging battle against the ship, battering her and beating her nearly into flotsam, Joseph was afraid of what would be left of the vessel if she survived.
Truthfully, he hadn’t expected they’d live through the night. With the storm having turned into hurricane intensity, and with the ship plunging from fifty-foot waves, he’d waited for the swell that would finally grip the Tynemouth and not let go.
There had been one point in the night when a wave had crashed against starboard and rolled the ship broadside so dangerously that he whispered what he thought to be his last prayer. Somehow the ship had slowly righted itself and had endured many more hours of abuse at the hands of the angry sea.
He’d contemplated more than once his jest to Mercy that maybe he was like Jonah. Maybe God was angry at him for walking away from the dispensary and leaving Dr. Bates to flounder and possibly even have to close its doors. Maybe the storm really was his fault, and if he gave himself up and allowed the crew to throw him overboard, God would then calm the sea.
Was he indeed running away as Bates and his aunt had insinuated? He’d thought he could ignore their questions, but last night had shown him he could sail far away, yet he couldn’t escape the mighty hand of God reaching out and beckoning him.
Joseph shifted, his muscles stiff and sore from the thrashing they had suffered. At his movement, Mercy stretched, her body still curved into his. The motion made him all too aware of her presence . . . all through the night.
When he’d climbed in next to her, he’d told himself he was sheltering her to keep her safe and to comfort her. Mostly, he’d rationalized that if the ship was sinking, then it wouldn’t matter if he lay next to her and held her in his arms for their last hours of life. So he’d given in to his desire to pull her close—closer than necessary—and had savored every luxurious inch of her nearness.
But now, in the strange stillness that told him they’d survived the storm, guilt rushed in like icy waves, lapping at him, telling him he’d overstepped the boundaries of propriety.
Through the blackness permeating steerage, his senses honed in on the whimpering of a child, the healthy suckles of the Donovans’ newborn babe, heavy snoring, and the slap of waves still rocking the ship.
It was clear most of the passengers were asleep, likely having only recently fallen into an exhausted slumber after the harrowing night. Joseph couldn’t go anywhere yet, not without disturbing and waking the others. Besides, it would still be some time before the sailors opened the hatches and allowed anyone on deck. Even so, he couldn’t in good conscience continue to lie on the bed with Mercy.
Her hand slid from his shoulder down to his rib cage. The trail left fire on his skin. But her even breathing near his neck told him she was resting peacefully, that she wasn’t aware she’d moved her hand and was touching him with such familiarity.
Throughout the long night, she hadn’t done a single thing to encourage his ardor. The problem was, she didn’t need to do anything for his desires to flare to life. His body reacted to her whether he wanted it to or not.
Thankfully, the severity of the storm and their hours of talking had helped keep his mind off her nearness. She’d told him sto
ries of her childhood, her antics with Patience, her love for her other siblings, the care she’d given to so many children and families in her neighborhood.
He’d shared too. But after revealing the depth of his pain regarding his family, he’d stayed away from talking about them again and was grateful she hadn’t pressed him. She’d seemed content to hear his descriptions of India, China, and other exotic places he’d visited.
The truth was, he liked Mercy, perhaps more than he’d liked any woman in a very long time. But if he hoped to guard not only his integrity but also her innocence, he had to put distance between them. She was clearly naïve in the ways of men and much too trusting. And he couldn’t bear to think what might have happened if she’d ended up down in steerage by herself or with another man who might have sorely misused her.
He’d need to warn her to be more careful.
Gently he tried to ease his arm out from underneath her. But she shifted her hand again, this time slipping it around to his back. As before, her merest touch set his skin on fire like sparks from a flint.
He squeezed his eyes closed as if by doing so he could snuff out his body’s reaction to her.
“Joseph?” she whispered drowsily.
The sound of his given name on her lips did nothing to ease the low burning inside him.
“Are we saved?” she asked.
“I believe so.” His voice came out hoarse and pained. He needed to move away from her without delay.
As if sensing the same, Mercy blessedly jerked her hands from him and scrambled up. The spot she’d just occupied lay open and bare. Without her there, suddenly he felt empty and cold.
“My stars, sir,” she whispered, the mortification raw in her voice. “I don’t know what’s a-come over me. I rightly don’t.”
He could feel her sitting and gathering the cloak about her with quick, stiff movements. Although he couldn’t see her features, he could imagine her mussed hair, flushed cheeks, and wide eyes. He had no doubt she was more beautiful first thing in the morning after awakening than at any other time.
What would it be like to wake up next to her every morning? Certainly not as his mistress, but perhaps as something more permanent?
The thought was entirely unexpected. And was completely inappropriate. He shook his head. The wrestle with death during the night had addled him and made him overly sentimental.
He had no wish for a wife at present, had in fact become the expert at avoiding women during his furloughs home. Even if he’d been ready to get married, he wouldn’t dare consider a woman plucked out of London’s slums.
He’d defied convention by working as a doctor. He’d defied convention with his outspoken views on issues. But certainly he couldn’t throw away social expectations entirely by marrying a woman whose station in life was so far beneath his.
Marriage to someone like Mercy would be highly unacceptable. He would be ostracized by his peers, cast out of clubs, snubbed in social circles. He’d lose the admiration that came with his father’s good name and quite possibly forfeit any future chance at serving in the House of Lords.
It was one thing to maintain a free spirit in his youth, to roam the world and delay settling down. Most of his peers had accepted his traveling—at least for the time being. But there was coming a point in the not-so-distant future when he’d have to finally return home and take his place in society.
When that time came, he’d always believed he would find a lovely young woman who would be able to fit into his life. She’d become Lady Colville and would take over running Wiltshire and his London home. She’d mingle among the top echelons of aristocracy and bear him sons, who would inherit his title and fortune.
He couldn’t throw all of that away based on one pleasurable night spent next to Mercy. Doing so would make him a fool. Rather, he needed to clear his head and think rationally.
“I never meant anything betwixt us, sir,” Mercy whispered. “Nothing at all. I vow it.”
Joseph pushed himself up so that he was sitting beside her. He had to hunch over to prevent his head from hitting the beam of the bunk above theirs. “Mercy,” he said softly. “Please, say no more. You are not to blame for anything that transpired.”
She was quiet and motionless.
The boat rocked them back and forth. His shoulder brushed against hers, but rather than letting it linger, he forced himself to slide another inch away from her.
“We are forging a friendship, are we not?” he asked, attempting to make sense of their relationship.
“Aye. You’re kind to befriend a woman like me. I do thank ye, sir.”
A woman like me. She understood the disparity in their stations just as much as he did. She’d said it herself last night. “You’re a lord, while I’m a simple poor woman. Who’s ever heard of a friendship betwixt two so different?”
Mercy realized that even friendship was unusual for two people like them, let alone anything beyond that. And she’d never presume more, would never even dream of it.
His response from the previous night came back to taunt him. “Are we so different, really? Perhaps we are more alike than we know.”
Who determined their stations? Why did the world need such stations anyway? Would not the world be a better place if a man simply lived in humility and loved his brother or sister as himself, regardless of one’s birth?
The questions bumped around in Joseph’s mind, like the cargo floating and colliding in the hull’s bilge water following the storm. They were the kind of questions that were noisy during storms but then quieted when the waters grew calm.
He’d wait for the calm, and his troubled thoughts would find a way to right themselves eventually. For now, he’d do best to get up and put distance between himself and Mercy.
“Sleep for now,” he said as he stood and stepped away from the bunk. “I’ll wake you when the hatch is opened.”
She didn’t respond except to lie back onto the bed.
At her easy acquiescence, inwardly he sighed, wishing for a simpler life where relationships didn’t have to be so complicated.
seventeen
The Falklands,” Mercy murmured, unable to take her sights off the meadows with patches of black peat moss and watery bogs, along with the rolling green hills beyond where a herd of cattle roamed freely.
“We be going ashore today too, ain’t we?” Ann asked, squeezing next to Mercy at the side of the ship, where the women crowded together to watch the longboat of passengers being rowed to Port Stanley. Even Sarah had ventured out of the cabin. Though pale and weak from the voyage, she’d gained some tolerance for the sea.
“Aye, they’ll come back for us, that they will,” Mercy assured Ann and the other girls.
The Tynemouth had been anchored in the landlocked basin of Stanley Harbor for several days now. None of the passengers had been allowed ashore, however, because the midwinter winds were forceful when they first arrived, too much to attempt the crossing.
Finally today the winds had diminished and the water was less choppy, apparently safe enough for the crew to begin transporting passengers to the shore. The ship had lost one of its longboats during the hurricane-like storm, so the transportation in the one remaining boat had been ongoing most of the morning.
Mercy turned her face slightly, letting the breeze coming off the water cool her cheeks and neck. Joseph had drawn another map on his hand and explained that they’d sailed nearly to the bottom of the world, and the seasons were opposite here.
In London during early August, the streets would be unbearably hot. The sun would bake the garbage, the waste ditches, and even the River Thames so that the stench was insufferable in almost every part of the city. Flies would be out in endless swarms, as would the children trying to escape their sweltering homes.
But here in the Falkland Islands, winter was just beginning to lessen its hold. Though the wind was frigid and the spray of the water icy, the bright green of the meadows and hills filled Mercy with awe. So did the wild
life—the black-browed albatrosses flying overhead and the sea lions calling out noisy greetings from the rocky shore.
Early that morning, she and Joseph had seen penguins through his spyglass. “King penguins,” he called them. She’d been delighted to watch them waddling along, tall and straight and proud, their beaks pointed in the air with a snooty attitude. She was hardly able to tear herself away when they heard the first stirrings of passengers beginning to awaken and emerge from their cabins.
Since the storm a fortnight past, she’d taken to meeting Joseph at first light next to the rope that kept the women confined to their portion of the deck. She stood on her side and he remained on his, and their time together was always brief, well before any of the other passengers were awake.
She hadn’t exactly planned to meet him there every morning, but after they’d come up from steerage after the storm, he escorted her back to the rope. When she ducked under and tried to give him back his cloak, he’d told her to keep it for the day since it was still raining, and he’d offered to get it from her the following dawn.
When she met him the next morn, the air was damp and foggy, so he’d suggested she keep the cloak another day. One morning had led to another, and he always had a reason for why she ought to have his cloak a day longer.
And she always came up with excuses to make herself feel less guilty about breaking Mrs. Robb’s rules by spending time with him. After all, she needed to find out how their patients in steerage were faring, whether he needed her assistance, or how she might help the women who were still weak and sick from the storm.
The past few mornings he’d brought his spyglass to their meetings. They’d taken turns spotting various animals, with Joseph identifying them for her, describing their habitats and giving other fascinating details he’d learned from a book he was reading in his spare time.
Mercy searched the shore for any sign of the penguins she’d witnessed earlier with Joseph. But now that the port city was alive with people coming and going from the several ships in the harbor, the proud little creatures were nowhere to be seen.
