Alexander is leaving.
Nothing I can do to stop it. Indeed, I ought to wish him Godspeed. This is the very thing we set out to accomplish. But I don’t. I set the writing instruments in order, make sure the map sits squarely on the table, and place a loose tacking pin in the box. I take a long sad look at Alexander’s broad back and his golden hair as he walks away.
Lord Wyatt clasps Alexander’s arm, stopping him, and frowns. “Hold on, Sinclair. You’ll want a change of clothes. Those new togs are bound to get ruined taking apart the boiler.”
Five
A SHIP IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING
I am not given to foolish sentimentality. I turn away not wanting to watch him leave the workroom, meaning to attend to another matter of business. Except, the specter of his shadow drifting across the wall stops me. Instead of the Mary Isabella, it feels as if my heart is coming apart.
Which is complete and utter foolishness.
Folly.
Sentimental nonsense.
“Never mind him.” My lips move but no sound comes out. I take a deep breath and tell myself to get on with the plan.
Tess and Miss Stranje lag behind to assist Lord Ravencross back to his room. However, there is another crucial element to this scheme. I hesitate to burden Tess with this particular task, but it is vital. I tag her arm. “There’s one more thing.”
“There always is.” Tess leans in and I quickly and quietly explain another piece of the puzzle. She nods, agreeing, and they head out the door.
Miss Stranje calls to me over her shoulder. “Get some sleep, Lady Jane. We can handle everything else. You look done in.”
Done in? I frown at the empty room. Me? I’m not done in.
I’m as fit and able as anyone else. Mr. Sinclair needs every available pair of hands to take the Mary Isabella apart. It is my right to be there. After all, I helped draw up the plans for his ruddy steamship. They shall not leave me out.
I turn the wick knob, dousing the last lamp, and darkness swallows me up. I fully intend to follow them, but this time before venturing out into the night, I intend to be properly prepared. I tiptoe quietly up the stairs and fetch proper walking boots and a pelisse to keep off the chill.
Getting down the cliffs proves a tad more treacherous than I’d expected. It does seem like I am not as sure-footed as normal. Unwilling to admit Miss Stranje may be right, I blame it on the blackness of the night.
Once I reach the beach I slog through the damp sand behind the rocky shore, wending my way toward the cove. I am nearly upon them before I see that they have limited themselves to one small lantern. Wise of them. Otherwise, Daneska’s thieving henchmen might spot them working. MacDougal and two farm lads have come to help carry parts up the cliff. They all work in a wordless flurry. It reminds me of chickens pecking at a small pile of grain. I stand off to the side watching until Georgie hands me two connecting rods to lug up the bluffs.
I take a deep breath and sally forth on my assignment. Halfway up the steep path I attempt to bolster myself by muttering stern lectures to myself. “You can do this, Lady Jane. Only see how Tess bounds up this narrow trail ahead, follow her lead.” But Tess quickly outpaces me and disappears into the inky night.
Now, except for the heaviness of my breathing, I plod uphill in silence. The tide is coming in, slapping against the shore, lacing the air with a fine misty spray. I slip on a wet patch and catch myself by clinging to a tuft of grass with one hand while hanging on to the rods with the other. It is a near thing. All too easily I imagine myself dashed to bits on the rocks below. “Do not look down,” I warn myself sternly, and keep climbing until I reach the top.
Level ground is a mercy, but my task is not yet over. Sera passes me on her way back down, greets me with an encouraging smile, and points out the path I should follow. Just as I begin regretting the very long way it is to Lord Ravencross’s barn, a young militiaman greets me. He’s there to relieve me of my load and carry it the rest of the way.
MacDougal has set up a brigade. How very foresighted of him. Grateful, I hand the connecting rods to the soldier, and head back down the steep path to the beach. I stand aside when I cross paths with Captain Grey, who has Mr. Sinclair’s boiler in his arms.
Upon returning to the cove, I stand awaiting the next bit of the prototype to be ferried to the barn. Alexander stops work and peers at me. “You are near dead on your feet, Lady Jane. Take yourself off to bed. It won’t do to have you collapsing in a heap.” His voice echoes weirdly in the cove, and just when I think he is expressing genuine concern, he goes and spoils it all. “We’ve too much to do to be carrying you up the hill, as well.”
“That is no hill,” I argue.
“Exactly,” he mutters.
“He’s right, Jane.” Of course, Georgie would say that, she always agrees with him. “You’ve been up all night. The boiler and the steam cylinder are apart now. All that’s left is the paddle wheel, the decking, and the pontoons.”
“I thought I might sit here and unlash the decking.”
Alexander grumbles about my being stubborn, but I refuse to give him any heed. It’s easy enough to help dismantle the decking. With so many of us working, the ship comes apart much faster than I’d calculated. The paddle wheel collapses into a stack of lumber, two wheels, and a rod. Suddenly the Mary Isabella is no longer a ship. She has decomposed into the sum of her parts, and I find I’m feeling much the same.
When the last plank of the decking is loosened, I settle against a nearby rock and slide down until I am sitting, rather unladylike, on a pile of stones. I ease back and watch him work, noting the way he moves in the dark, so sure and confident.
He truly is brilliant.
It pleases me that he is once again wearing his shabby old clothes. I remember being so appalled at his attire when he first arrived at Stranje House. Funny how quickly his comfortable ways grew on me. The moon comes out and through the thin cloth of his worn cambric shirt I note the muscles flex in his shoulder. His curls catch rare bits of lamplight and glint like buttery silk ribbons. They flop in his eyes and he brushes them back without a thought for the dirt or moisture on his hands. If he were mine, I would relish washing those golden locks until they gleamed.
But he isn’t mine, and he never will be.
I’m absurdly tired or I would never have indulged in these reckless thoughts about a foreigner who has no place in my life. I turn away and listen to the lap of the waves as the sea rushes in and flows out again. Miss Stranje and Sera are each carrying up Cook’s pickling barrels, our makeshift life preservers, the very ones that helped save Lord Ravencross and Tess from drowning a few days ago. Maya carries the coal scuttle and shovel. Georgie holds the lantern, lighting the way for Captain Grey and Lord Wyatt as they hoist the last pontoon on their shoulders and head up the cliff.
Alexander stands on the shore watching them wind up the bluffs. “That’s it then.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” I throw a stone out into the sea and it sails into the dark. Waves roll in and splash against the rocks. The stone is lost to me. I’ll never hear it plunk into the water. “Give my regards to your uncle, when you see him. Robert Fulton is a man ahead of his time.”
“As opposed to his slipshod nephew,” Alexander mumbles and digs the toes of his already grimy shoe into the sand. “I shall tell him,” he says aloud and with more conviction than he ought, for we both know he won’t. Why would he tell his beloved uncle about the annoying English girl who was so outspoken and obnoxious?
Captain Grey signals to us from the cliffs, avoiding calling aloud so as not to alert potential thieves.
“Come along then.” Mr. Sinclair offers me a hand up. He doesn’t let go even though I am standing next to him, but in the dim light of the waxing moon I see his lips slant into that wicked sly smirk of his. “Admit it, Lady Jane. You’ll miss me.”
“I will.” I sniff and pull my fingers out of his grasp. “As much as a toothache.”
“Exactly.” He hi
kes up the shoreline behind the rocks, avoiding the worst of the rising tide. “Who will you practice your insults on? You’ll be hard-pressed to find anyone as tolerant and charming as I am.”
I will miss sparring with him, but I mustn’t let him know. “You have a point,” I say airily. “I suppose I will simply have to sling insults at Harold, the mannequin in our ballroom.”
“Ballroom. Ha! You mean your training room, and Harold must be that poor fellow stuffed with cotton wadding. The one you kick, punch, and stab with knives.”
“We dance with him on occasion. He’s quite tolerant of abuse and can be nearly as charming as you.”
“Touché. See there. You are in fine form, ready to slay any gentleman who comes within a mile of you. You ought to thank me for allowing you to sharpen your sword on me.”
“True. But what of you, my dear friend?” As I make my way up the narrow path, I glance over my shoulder at him, attempting to gauge his response. Except, Alexander remains as inscrutable as ever. “I don’t think there are very many young ladies who will put up with that barbed pitchfork you call a tongue. Not even in the colonies.”
“Oh, but that’s where you are wrong.” He sounds positively cheerful. “There are any number of young ladies lining up to do just that. Hundreds.”
It is still dark and I take a small misstep. His hands are instantly on my waist helping me regain my balance. “Hundreds?” I ask.
“Did I say hundreds? I meant thousands.”
I huff, and it is not because of the steepness of the climb. “You may not wish to admit it, Alexander Sinclair, but you will miss me as well.”
“I’ve given that considerable thought.” He sounds pensive, and for once I think he might not gibe me.
“Considerable thought?” I coax, wondering if that is what had kept him from sleeping earlier.
“Well, perhaps not as much as all that.”
The tide is coming in and a particularly big breaker crashes against the rocks and mists us with salt water. Perhaps it is because I’ve had so little sleep, but I find I am chilled to the bone and shiver. He hands me his coat. “Put this on before you catch pneumonia.”
As we balance on the narrow sliver of a path, he helps me slide my arms into his coat, and flips the collar up to keep my neck warm. I am unnerved when he continues to gaze at me, holding my arm to keep me from falling. Good thing, because standing this close to him makes me feel as if I might melt and flow straight down this ridiculous cliff. The coat is warm and smells of him, of welded copper, of spilled hot chocolate and pencil shavings, of late-night candle wax and the forest we ran through together, of spice cake and clotted cream.
I do so adore spice cake and clotted cream.
As if the scoundrel has read my thoughts, his eyebrows lift. “You truly are a trial, Lady Jane.” He speaks these words the way another man might confess his undying admiration.
“Thank you.” I lower my lashes, afraid that even in the dark he’ll notice the heat rushing into my cheeks.
He sighs heavily. “I suppose you’re aware of the fact that you would try the patience of a saint.” I’ve no idea why that makes me grin, but it does.
“So I’ve been told. Luckily, you are no saint.”
“Well, no, there is that.” Suddenly he frowns and clasps my shoulders. “Who? Who else says you try their patience?” He demands this, as if no one else on earth has the right to say such things to me except for him. As if he will call out the blackguard, not because I don’t deserve the statement, but because I am his, and his alone, to insult.
“Hundreds of men,” I say, impishly. “Thousands.”
I watch him battle a smile. Finally, he is able to twist it into a smirk. “Jane,” he murmurs, correcting himself, shaking his head ever so slightly. “Lady Jane.”
I confess I have never liked my name so well as I do when it falls from his lips.
He’s still holding my arms but he leans closer and his grip lightens. “I’ve a good mind to kiss you just to teach you some proper manners.”
“Oh, no.” I feign alarm. “How shall I ever survive such a harsh lesson?”
He grins mischievously and draws me close. My arms naturally reach up and wind around his shoulders, his lips brush mine, feather soft, a tantalizing promise of more, my heart whirls dizzily, I lean into him, and—
“Jane?” Georgie calls to us in a hushed voice from farther up the path. The sound echoes through the night and crashes against us, blasting the moment apart like cold sea spray. My arms fall away.
Regret washes over his features and he says softly, “I expect it will be me who has difficulty surviving this particular lesson.”
His whispered words tease against my lips, sending my heart winging unsteadily off the bluff. Or plummeting to the rocks below. I’m not sure which, because his words are confusing, no matter how intimately he delivered them.
Georgie calls for us again. “Lady Jane? Mr. Sinclair? Are you there? We’re waiting for you.” Her lantern glints off Alexander’s face as he pulls away from me and straightens.
“On our way,” he says loud enough for Georgie to hear.
Still stunned, I stand, unable to move, softened into a useless pudding by the merest touch of his lips to mine. At the same time, his cryptic remark bewilders me. I try to puzzle it out. Does he mean kissing me would’ve been an ordeal? Surely not. He hadn’t come toward my mouth like a man about to suffer pain for the cause. Is it possible he meant our kiss would devastate him more than it did me? Why would he think such a thing? Perhaps it saddens him that this first kiss will also be our last, our only kiss. I shake my head, unable to fathom a sentiment like that coming from him, the glib Mr. Sinclair—I think not. Not him. More than likely, it was another of his meaningless jests.
I am vexed now. Quite vexed.
And to think I almost let him kiss me. Well, if I am to be perfectly honest, I did let him. Heavens above, what was I thinking? Instead of observing the proprieties, I practically threw myself into the rascally American’s arms.
What a fool I am sometimes.
Alexander turns me around, so I am facing the right direction on the path, and with a steadying hand he guides me upward. It is completely unnecessary. I am quite capable of stomping my way to the summit on my own.
At the top, Miss Stranje meets us carrying a satchel with Alexander’s belongings. “Captain Grey will be along shortly to conduct you to the dower house. Lord Wyatt is this very moment scouring the woods to make sure there are no spies watching along the road.” She says this last part pointedly to me.
I shrug out of Mr. Sinclair’s jacket and hand it back to him. “Thank you for the loan of your coat,” I say formally, and extend my hand. I expect, even though I’m not a man, he will give it his vigorous American-style shake. “Good luck to you, Mr. Sinclair. I wish you a pleasant journey.”
The scoundrel breaks from his habit and bows over my hand as if we are in a proper English drawing room. He bows low, taking advantage of the darkness of the hour, and dares to press a kiss on my knuckles. He looks up with the most impudent grin in all of Christendom. “Farewell, Lady Jane, until we meet again.”
I snatch my hand away. “I doubt we ever shall.”
He straightens and manages to appear far more imperious than he ought in those shabby clothes. He stares down at me as if from a great height. “We shall see.”
Captain Grey approaches and stops beside our headmistress. “Get some rest, my dear.” He leans closer to her ear. “We may be in for some rough days ahead.”
She says nothing to that, but looks up at him with her eyes warm and her lips resting in a kinder softer line than she normally wears. I have studied her long enough and well enough to know Captain Grey is the only person who will ever be privy to that side of Miss Emma Stranje. She looks away, uncomfortable with his concern for her. She is, after all, a woman who can look out for herself quite efficiently.
Captain Grey places his hand over hers as it rests on his a
rm and gives it a gentle pat, before turning his attention to Alexander. “We’d best be off. The sun will rise soon.”
He’s right, gray is seeping into the black horizon, and early-morning fog is rising up from the sea. Mr. Sinclair and the captain walk toward the road, while Miss Stranje and Georgie head for Stranje House.
Just before Alexander disappears forever, he glances back and tips the brim of his nonexistent hat, sending me a final salute.
Six
THE PLAY’S THE THING
We shall see.
What a preposterous thing for him to say. We shall see nothing. That is how this works. You’re going away and I’m staying here. There’s an end to it. Finito. That’s what I would say if Mr. Sinclair were still standing here beside me.
Only he isn’t. Alexander Sinclair disappears into the gray mist, and a profound sadness steals around me, rolling in as thick as the fog.
Off in the distance, bobbing like a firefly in the wind, Georgie hurries back carrying her small lantern. “Are you coming, Jane?” She loops her arm around mine and tugs me along. “Miss Stranje wants me to remind you, if this plan of yours is to work, we have to hurry back to the house before Alice wakes up and starts lighting the fires.”
I nod and let her tow me along. I can’t keep from stewing over Mr. Sinclair’s inscrutable comments. “What’s wrong?” Georgie raises the lantern examining my face. “You seem troubled.”
“It’s nothing,” I say and force my heavy feet to take longer strides.
“Ah, I see.” She chuckles softly. “With men, it never is.”
She is acting as if she is the older and wiser of the two of us, when she is younger than me. I nudge her shoulder. “When did you become so all-knowing?”
She keeps pace with me, and responds with far more civility than I deserve. “You’re just not used to being on the receiving end of advice.”
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