“Don’t say that, Honoria. The weather will improve and so will you. You have to try to eat something. Toast and tea will help. I just wish there was something I could do to make you feel better.” As she said them, Chelsea realized she meant the words. How terrible for Honoria that she had no one but herself.
“You’ve bathed me, combed my hair, emptied my pails, changed my bedding, and given me the medicine. I couldn’t ask or expect more from you. I don’t think a sister could have done more.”
Tears gathered in Chelsea’s eyes. “Honoria, you’re making me feel so guilty.”
“I think we both feel guilty. That’s what I want to talk to you about. We’ve established that I’m going to die. Don’t shake your head, Chelsea, it’s a fact. I went to the doctor before I left. He said I would never set foot off this ship if I was foolish enough to go against his advice. We have to think about you now and my last days. I’m being generous and selfish at the same time. If you take care of me, see that I’m dressed properly for burial, whatever I have is yours and that includes my identity. You can even have Harlow Kane. Think about that, Chelsea.”
She was thinking about it, fast and furiously. It was a possible answer to her future. After all, wasn’t she an actress? She could pull it off. But if she did what Honoria suggested, where was her “fresh start”? It wasn’t that she’d suddenly developed an honest streak. There could be so many problems. She looked up to find Honoria staring at her, waiting for her to say something. “It’s a grand thing you want to do for me, especially after the way I duped you,” she said, surprising even herself as the words tumbled out. “As you said, we’re even, with you signing me on as your servant and all. You don’t have to be so generous. I’ll take care of you just as I have been doing. What kind of person would I be if I refused to help out with you being so sick? I might be a thief,” Chelsea said virtuously, “but I’m not callous.”
Honoria felt as though her life were draining from her. Here she was, being forgiving and trying to do something nice for Chelsea, and she didn’t want to accept. It was important to Honoria that Chelsea agree. Someone had to carry on. “The clothes, my diamond earrings, the money I have left, they’ll all be yours, Chelsea. Think about it. What if that scoundrel uncle of yours takes it into his head to go to Australia for a “fresh start” just like you? What will happen to you then? I’m giving you a chance for a new life.”
“Honoria, you don’t have to do this. I said I’ll take care of you. I owe you that much for what I’ve done. You’re getting upset, and I can see you’re feverish. Let me give a cool cloth for your head.”
“Not until you agree. Everything, Chelsea, everything will be yours. It’s what I want.”
“Why? Why would you want to give me all your things and your most precious possession, your good name?”
“I gave my word that I would marry Harlow Kane. If he finds out now that I duped him the way you duped me, what will he think? I know that’s not really important, but word will get back to Jason and Barbara, and they’ll die laughing at what a fool I was. They don’t even know I’m sick. Jason will feel like a fool. He’ll never go to Australia, and Mr. Kane won’t communicate. I’m sure of it. You’d be safe, Chelsea. As Mrs. Kane you can do as you please. It’s important to me. Call it granting a dying woman’s last wish. Why is it so impossible for you to accept what I’m offering?”
“I don’t know. You don’t have to do this. I will take care of you. But if it will make you happy, I’ll agree to everything you want.” For now, Chelsea added to herself. Later, she would decide what to do. Honoria was the important thing right now. If agreeing to what she wanted made her feel better, so be it.
Honoria nodded weakly. “It’s settled, then. Get pen and paper and write what I tell you. This way no one can ever accuse you of doing away with me and stealing my good name. Quickly, Chelsea, before I nod off again.”
Chelsea’s heart hammered as she sat, pen in hand, scribbling furiously. She had to prop Honoria up while she signed her name in delicate little letters.
It was done. Chelsea didn’t know if she should laugh or cry. She sat for a long time holding Honoria’s hand, listening to her uneven breathing. Although she tried to think about the woman’s generosity, all she could think about was Quaid Tanner. If he asked her to marry him, she wouldn’t have to make use of Honoria’s generosity.
A long time later, Chelsea got up and rubbed the back of her neck. She felt terrible, as if she’d been through a bout with Cosmo. Her eyes were drawn to the beautiful dresses hanging in the cabin. They were hers now. So were the diamond earrings. Everything in the cabin was hers, even Honoria’s soul … for the moment
She cried. For Honoria.
Honoria slept fitfully for the next few hours. From time to time she cried out. A short while later she rallied, her eyes bright and sparkling. She stared at Chelsea for a few moments, and her voice was strong when she spoke. “You’ve been so good to me, taking care of me the way you have. I want to thank you before it’s too late.”
“Don’t talk like that. We’re waiting for Mrs. Crain and the captain. I know he’ll put into port as soon as possible once he sees you.”
A look of consternation crossed Honoria’s plain, narrow face. “I don’t want anyone to see me this way,” she wailed. “Please, Chelsea, don’t let anyone come in here.”
“Hush, hush, it’s for your own good, I promise. You can’t stand any more of this journey, and you must go ashore. We’re sailing the French coast now; it shouldn’t be long. Lisbon is still days away, and I don’t want to see you suffer any longer than you must.”
“France? I don’t know anyone in France,” Honoria gasped fearfully. “Where will I go? What will I do?”
Chelsea bit her lip. Honoria had echoed her thoughts exactly. It was a question she’d been pondering since returning to the cabin.
“You won’t be alone. I intend to stay with you.” Even as she said the words and made the promise, her heart sank. Good-bye, Australia; good-bye, new beginning. Good-bye, Quaid Tanner.
“I can’t let you do that for me.” Honoria turned her face to the wall, but not before Chelsea saw the grateful tears.
“I can and I will. I promise. But first we’ve got to get off this ship!”
“It will be such a relief to leave this cabin,” Honoria confessed. “I can see the sun is shining. Chelsea, I want to feel the sun on my face.”
Chelsea thought of the confining atmosphere of the small cabin and agreed. It was so little to ask, and perhaps the fresh air would work a miracle. “Would you like to go up on deck?”
“Oh, Chelsea, do you think I could? A breath of fresh air, sunshine.”
“Here, let me prop you up so I can brush your hair. I have a clean nightdress all laid out for you, and you can cover up with your cape. Careful now, let me do everything; don’t exert yourself.”
By the time Chelsea had tended to Honoria, even that small effort had left her exhausted and she was falling asleep again. Alarmed, Chelsea picked up the tiny gold watch on the bedstand and counted the hours since the last dose of laudanum. Nearly six hours. Surely Honoria wasn’t still under its effects.
Now more frightened than concerned, she rushed from the cabin and banged on Quaid’s door, praying he’d be there. The door swung open abruptly, and she nearly toppled into his arms.
“Madam, I didn’t know I was in such demand,” he said lightly, grinning.
“If there was time, I’d slap you for that,” Chelsea flared. “I need you to do something for me. It’s Honoria; she wants to be taken up on deck for some air. Please, Quaid. It seems very important to her. Will you carry her?”
Quaid’s brows lifted. Chelsea’s alarm was genuine, and she didn’t seem to care that once Honoria was on deck her own little charade would undoubtedly be revealed. Count on Mrs. Crain to extract information, even from the dying. “Of course, I’ll do it,” he said, his tone serious, “but do you think it wise if she’s so ill?”
“It’s what she wants. Please come, you be the judge.”
Stepping across the narrow companionway into Chelsea’s cabin, Quaid was immediately taken aback by the pathetic creature in the bed. Only the day before yesterday he’d peeked in and seen Chelsea sitting beside Honoria, tending patiently to her. Was it possible for someone’s condition to deteriorate so rapidly? At the time he’d been more interested in Chelsea, whose compassion and sensitivity had greatly impressed him.
Against the rough white bed linens and dark teak walls of the cabin’s interior bulkheads, Honoria was even paler. Huge, dark smudges circled her eyes, and her lips were tinged a curious blue. Chelsea moved to his side, touching Honoria gently on the hand. “This is Mr. Quaid Tanner, Honoria. He’s come to carry you above. Do you still want to go on deck?”
Grateful eyes peered up at Quaid, humbling him. “I’ll be very careful,” he said softly, assuring her. “You’ll be light as a feather in my arms, and I believe the sun is shining today just for you.”
Honoria smiled weakly, lifting her arms to hug his neck as he lifted her. Chelsea grabbed a blanket from the bed and followed behind as he carried his fragile burden.
Myriad thoughts struck Quaid as he brought Honoria onto the deck, the bright sun falling mercilessly on her face. With a timid action, she turned into the shadow of his neck to shield herself from the intrusive light. He wished he were on Clonmerra walking through his vineyard, or in the pub in London where he’d watched Chelsea lead her lovestruck entourage down the street. He’d even be glad to drink that poor excuse for wine; anything not to have to witness what he felt was the inevitable.
Honoria turned her head once again, this time to look out over the expanse of green sea. Then it was as though Quaid could feel the last breath leave her body; he heard a sigh, and she sank in his arms. He braced his legs for footing against the gentle pitch and roll of the deck, and when he turned to face Chelsea, all that needed to be said was there in his eyes. The white linen handkerchief in Chelsea’s hands had been knotted and unknotted into a limp string. Her head dropped, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Her prayer was a silent one.
“I’ll take her back to the cabin,” Quaid told her, not attempting to keep emotion from his voice. He had never known this woman, yet he mourned her.
“No! No, don’t! She wanted to be up here, in the sunshine!”
Chelsea’s cry brought the attention of several other passengers who were strolling the deck of the Southern Cross.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Tanner?” The purser approached, but when he saw Honoria lying limp in Quaid’s embrace there was no need for explanations. “Please, sir, take her below; we’ve the other passengers to consider.”
Chelsea’s eyes flew to Quaid. “No. Not yet,” he replied. “She wanted to feel the sun and catch the breeze.” Although it was spoken quietly, something in his tone forbade contradiction; the purser stepped aside. Quaid’s reward was seeing the gratitude in Chelsea’s eyes.
Later that afternoon Honoria Harris was given to the sea. The ceremony was mercifully brief, and no one shed a tear for this unknown woman except Chelsea. Mrs. Crain had come into the cabin and prepared the body for burial, and exhibiting her innate aptitude for organization had even suggested which prayer the captain should read from the ship’s Bible.
“And now we lay this good woman to rest, O Lord! Take her into your everlasting fold and keep her,” Captain Winfield intoned. The sailors tilted the board, and as Honoria’s shrouded body fell beneath the greedy waves, Chelsea heard the captain say, “Receive your child, Chelsea Myles, O Lord, and deliver her to heaven.”
Chelsea nearly choked, and she felt physically ill. Dear God, now she’d never set the record straight! Honoria was being buried under the wrong name! Her name! It was as though she were witnessing her own funeral. She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came out; she was mesmerized by the sight of the shroud falling over the deck into the sea.
Quaid, who was standing beside her, nudged her elbow. “Leave it be,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing to be done for it now.”
Chelsea’s brain spun wildly. It was done, then. It would be entered in the captain’s log that Chelsea Myles, maidservant, had died at sea. But that was her name! Everyone knew that was her name! No, that was wrong; to everyone aboard ship she was Mrs. Harris, Mrs. Honoria Harris. Only Quaid called her Chelsea.
As soon as the brief ceremony had been completed, Mrs. Porter Crain barreled over to Chelsea and Quaid. “There’s been a mistake, a terrible mistake!” she jabbered. “Am I or am I not correct in thinking that poor woman was buried under the wrong name?”
The deck seemed to heave, and Chelsea’s knees began to buckle beneath her. This wasn’t the way she wanted the truth to come out, not here in front of all these people. She’d wanted to speak to the captain and purser privately first; this was all going to be too humiliating.
Quaid’s hand reached out and grasped Chelsea’s arm. He could feel her tremble beneath his touch. “Whatever do you mean, Mrs. Crain?” he asked, disarming the woman with an admiring glance.
“Didn’t you hear what the captain said? Chelsea Myles. Chelsea! Isn’t that your own name, dear?”
Before she could answer, Quaid replied, “Yes, it is, as a matter of fact.” He allowed a frown to crease his brow. “How astute of you, Mrs. Crain.” Then, turning to Chelsea, “Wasn’t your maid’s name Ellie, Mrs. Harris? Eleanor Myles, wasn’t it? There must be a mistake in the passenger list, Mrs. Crain. Would you be so good as to set the matter straight before the captain enters it in his log? I’d like to take Mrs. Harris below; she’s had quite a shock today.”
Mrs. Crain puffed with importance. “Yes, of course I will,” she assured them. Then to Chelsea, “Don’t feel too terrible, my dear. As I told you, there are servants aplenty in New South Wales. Eleanor, you say, Mr. Tanner? My dear, would you like me to write to the poor girl’s family? I’d be more than happy to spare you from that unpleasant chore.”
Chelsea sat on her trundle bed and looked at the bed Honoria had so recently vacated. She’d really only known the woman for little more than a week, and yet she mourned her. Or was it guilt over her little charade that lay so heavily on her heart? She had never meant it to be this way, never. Who would have thought Honoria would die? Mrs. Crain had said it wasn’t only the seasickness, that it must have been her heart. Still, she should have stepped forward and seen to it that Honoria was laid to rest under her own name! But as Quaid had said, what purpose was there to it now? Confused, angry, Chelsea erupted into a flurry of activity. Her own sense of decency had been offended, and she had to admit to herself that rarely had she ever had difficulty with her scruples.
Unable to sit still a moment longer, she stripped the bed of its coarse linens and, wrinkling her nose, dumped them in an untidy heap by the door. She wanted the offending linens out of the cabin entirely; they smelled of sickness and death. She fought with the door to open it and kicked the bed linens out into the companionway.
Heart beating like a drum, she then dragged Honoria’s trunks into the center of the cabin. At first she had every intention of packing each and every article belonging to Honoria and having the lot returned to her sister in England. Then she decided against it. Jason and Barbara Munsey had effectively renounced all claim to and responsibility for Honoria. From what Honoria had said about them, and from what Chelsea herself had seen, they probably considered themselves well rid of their poor relation and would want nothing to remind them of her. Instead, she’d see the trousseau and personal effects were delivered to Honoria’s intended. Let him take care of the matter. Surely Honoria had his letters somewhere; there would be a name and an address.
She began to sort through the wardrobe, laying aside piles of dainty chemises, lavishly ruffled petticoats, and delicately sewn nightdresses Honoria had never worn. What a shame to pack them away and deliver them to a man who would have no use for them, she thought wistfully, looking at the impressive arra
y of gowns, each one rich in silk trimmings and expensively made. How sad her own wardrobe was compared to Honoria’s.
Not liking the turn her thoughts were taking, Chelsea began to fold and place all the articles in Honoria’s trunks. The tiny diamond ear bobs were tucked inside a little velvet pouch and dropped into one of the drawers. That was where she found a packet of letters written in a bold, masculine hand. She put it aside, deciding to read them later in order to locate this Mr. Kane Honoria was to have married. Ribbons, laces, and scents were gathered up from the dresser and placed beside the ear bobs. In another drawer Chelsea found Honoria’s purse, and in it was a fold of bills. Remembering what Honoria had saved by listing Chelsea as her maid, she sat down to count it out and claim her rightful share, replacing the remainder back inside the purse.
Chelsea looked down at the amount in her hand and mentally added it to the remainder of her money. This was ridiculous, she told herself. What use would Mr. Kane or Honoria’s sister have for the money left in the purse? Honoria had told her to take the rest for herself. Quickly, before she could change her mind, Chelsea retrieved the purse and placed it among her own things, a frown still creasing her fair brow. For that matter, what use would a man have for a dead woman’s belongings? What would Mr. Kane do with undergarments and silk hose? They, too, were retrieved from the trunk.
In short order everything Chelsea had meticulously packed was once again strewn across the bed. It would be sinful to let these things go to waste in a dry, stuffy attic somewhere. It was what Honoria wanted, Chelsea reminded herself yet again. It wasn’t as though she were robbing the dead, heaven forbid. It was more that she was granting Honoria’s last wish. And that thought put her mind at ease.
To Taste The Wine Page 13
