The Celtic Key

by Barbara Best

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Can you slide it under the door?” Sophie asks sweetly. The boy has a Southern accent that makes her think of Georgia. She wonders where he is from.

  A slip of paper is immediately pushed inside their cabin and Sophie scoops it up.

  “Would you have me deliver an answer, Widow Downing? I am willing to wait,” the boy speaks through the door.

  “Yes, yes. Please wait.” On tiptoe, Colette peers with interest around Sophie’s shoulder. The backhanded script, leaning hard one way, is easy to recognize. They both know who it came from.

  “An invitation to morning prayers. Why didn’t he just ask us over tea yesterday instead of making it public?” Sophie groans, aware Cambrio has made it harder to say no. The open note would be tempting for anyone to read.

  “I can’t go,” Sophie whispers stubbornly, careful not to be overheard.

  “But it is not a bad idea. We usually feel a little better most mornings. It will help us keep our minds off our miseries, no?” Colette whispers too and glances at the door. She quickly slips her dress over her head and works the hook and eye closure in front at record speed.

  “I did not sleep well last night, you know that. My head is absolutely splitting,” Sophie exaggerates, running her hand along her forehead. “You go for us.”

  At Colette’s look of uncertainty, Sophie insists, “No, really, I’m serious. I’ll be right here in my bed. You look like you’re dying to get out of here and I can’t blame you.”

  “Very well, then.” Colette’s brows draw close to the bridge of her nose. “Are you sure?”

  When Sophie nods, Colette cracks the door. “Danny, please tell Father Cambrio that Widow Downing has urged me to attend, but she regrets she is not well this morning. She will be resting and sends her sincere apologies.”

  When Danny is off in a trot to personally deliver their RSVP, Sophie checks the time, “You had better hurry.”

  “But madame, you have not eaten.”

  “You fuss over me too much. I’m not even hungry right now. What I would really like is a tall mocha latte, but we both know that’s not happening,” Sophie chuckles. “Let’s do brunch when you get back. It’s only an hour. Surely the galley will have something left over. For the time being, I’m all about getting sleep. I’m totally exhausted.”

  When Sophie is certain Colette has made her way to prayer meeting and the passageway is clear, she covers the distance to Father Cambrio’s cabin in quick time. She slips inside, closing the door behind her. Holding her breath for a second and feeling mildly queasy from exertion, she tries to get her bearings.

  Like their cabin, a kerosene lamp is burning.

  “That was easy,” she pants, pressing her fingers against her chest. Because of Father’s open-door policy and trust in God and his fellow man, his cabin is always left unlocked.

  Sophie tingles with anticipation as her eyes dart around. She is not sure where to begin and starts by turning the wick for more light. First, she checks the most obvious. She goes through the scuffed-up trunk at the foot of the bed. Her hands are trembling in her rush. She is not even sure what she is looking for. Finding nothing unusual, she crosses to a cabinet and searches each drawer. In the bottom drawer is a wooden box. When she opens it, she instantly recognizes the musky, herbal aroma.

  “Our tea,” Sophie forms the words without sound. Cambrio prefers to make his own. She carefully explores an odd variety of compact containers to include a small amber-glass bottle with a cork stopper marked Tansy. Beside a tin of imported sugar, a pouch of tea leaves and a set of tea strainers, she finds small paper packages labeled Pennyroyal and Rue.

  Squatted down, Sophie twists to her knees to get a better look. Yanking her dress out of the way and tucking her hair behind her ears, she lifts the flap of one of the containers. It has a dried and finely crushed brownish-green ingredient. Taking an exploratory sniff, she abruptly cups her nose with her fingers to keep from sneezing. The scent is familiar, although more concentrated. Under four neatly folded napkins with the monogram JMC, there is a matching bottle of tansy that has rolled into one corner of the box.

  Rubbing at the persistent tickle in her nose, the raised follicles on Sophie’s arms cause a disagreeable shiver. Commotion just outside the cabin breaks the quiet and she freezes in place.

  Fortunately, the threat is temporary. She listens intently as the noise recedes to a muffled chatter, further down. Putting everything back in its exact place, on impulse Sophie grabs up the glass bottle obscured from sight.

  “You’re coming with me,” she says, hoping it won’t be missed anytime soon. Satisfied everything is as it was, she carefully slips out of Father Cambrio’s cabin.

  Pausing to evaluate the source of noise coming from down the hall, she is sure her return trip is obstructed. If her poor heart is not racing enough, Sophie’s feverish anxiety increases. She is not familiar with the ship’s many passageways, nor is she ready to explain why she is roaming the halls when she should be quite incapacitated in her cabin. Forced to make a decision, whether it is right or wrong, she scuttles in the opposite direction from where she came. She knows she is headed to the far stern of the ship and this is confirmed when she reaches a dead end.

  Looking back over her shoulder, Sophie explores a raised hatch door in the floor. It is her only option. A ladder leads to the deck below. A dim, flickering glow will by no means light her way.

  “Well?” Sophie scoops up her skirt and wraps it over one arm. She is glad she did not wear her hoop. With a shaky breath, she descends into the darkness, feeling her way one foot at a time. The ladder creeks with her weight.

  Without warning, the ship pitches and she almost loses her grip. Her feet slide sideways. Gasping in horror, she hooks her arm and clasps her mouth with her free hand to keep from crying out. The stolen evidence from Cambrio’s box instantly slips from her fingers. It hits with a soft plink, bouncing off a pile of coiled lines at the bottom.

  Sophie scrambles down three more rungs just in time to see the tiny shape of her glass bottle roll into a black crevice. She bends in frustration and props her hands on her knees, breathing heavily.

  “Bloody hell,” she hisses. Mice rustle and squeak in protest at the object that has invaded their space. Sophie cannot bring herself to feel around in the darkness for it. In the corner, next to the shadowy shapes of barrels and crates, she hears the soft mew of kittens. “You aren’t doing a very good job of mouse control,” she scolds.

  “Why, if it is not our good Widow Downing. What a delightful surprise,” the declaration that drifts through the dim haze is masculine and friendly.

  Sophie whirls round, almost tripping.

  “Who’s there?” she sputters.

  “Careful. My apologies, sister. I did not mean to startle you. It is I, Reverend Post.” The reverend raises his candle near his face to confirm his identity. “We met while boarding, however brief.”

  “Just my bloody luck!” Sophie’s exasperation is complete. She throws her fists on her hips and wobbles sideways as the ship tilts again.

  Reverend Clayton Post’s hearty guffaw rises from the murkiness. The corners of his mouth, which curve upward in a natural display of lightheartedness, broaden into a cordial smile. His clean-shaven face, blue eyes and even features promote sincerity and a charitable heart to everyone he meets. Those who know him wonder at his eternal optimism and contribute it to his faith. The son of a master bricklayer, Clayton’s father died when he was a boy. He quit school and took on the responsibility of helping his mother raise his four younger brothers and baby sister.

  At the moment, the reverend’s eyes glimmer with equal portions of tolerance and moderate amusement. Having discretely studied the elusive Widow Downing for as long as common decency allowed, he is curious why she would be prowling about in such a remote part of the ship. Although his interest is piqued, he has a habit of waiting for answers.

  The sound of his laughter lingers in the ti
ght atmosphere and sends a pleasant quiver through Sophie. Her buzzing nerves, however, smother it like a wet blanket.

  “Shouldn’t you be out preaching somewhere?” she squints her eyes. “This is a weird place to hang out.”

  “It is rather an odd choice, Widow Downing, I’ll give you that. But all the same, here we are,” Clayton chuckles.

  “Don’t call me that,” Sophie frowns. “Widow. I absolutely hate it.” She drifts sideways and the reverend takes a step as if to help, or perhaps keep his own balance.

  “Well, you are Sophie Downing. And I don’t mean to be unkind, but you are widowed, are you not?” Clayton muses logically with not a bit of malice in his tone.

  “I suppose,” Sophie finishes, surprised he knows her full name. “I am afraid I have lost my way,” she shrugs, feeling a need to explain. For some reason, she doesn’t want to lie. The man seems genuine and nothing like the tight-lipped, thorn in the flesh Father Cambrio described at tea. Why Cambrio would have such contempt for the reverend, she does not know.

  Reverend Post lifts his candle high, moving even closer.

  “May I assist you, madam?” Clayton says.

  “Thanks.” With the reverend’s help, Sophie tiptoes over a cluster of ship parts. She quickly releases his hand and looks around, her eyes having adjusted to the light a single candle puts off. “Really, what are you doing down here all by yourself? This is one damp, gloomy hole. It smells like wet mop and raw sewage.”

  “It does,” Clayton nods. “But as you can see, it is less traveled. The perfect place for humble reflection and quiet meditation. Besides, I am not alone,” his eyes dart to an occasional meow. “Uh, did you lose something?”

  “Sort of. It rolled into a crack over there,” Sophie points. “But it’s nothing.”

  “I see. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Forget it. It’s as good as gone. I didn’t need it anyway,” Sophie pauses. “I need to get back.”

  “Indeed,” Clayton considers. “I would be honored to accompany you to your cabin. That is where you are headed, is it not?” Studying the tall woman, he wonders why her hair hangs loose on her shoulders and her skirt is dragging the floor.

  By the time Sophie is efficiently delivered to her cabin door, she has expressed her appreciation more than once and even promised to attend one of the reverend’s services when she feels better. During their strange encounter, she decides Reverend Post is not the type to gossip or evoke catty behavior. Her crazy escapade on the ship is safe in his hands.

  Relieved to be in the comfort of her and Colette’s cabin again, Sophie quickly removes her shoes, strips down to her underpinnings and crawls into bed. She will skip tea today and keep to her room.

  As soon as Colette returns, she will send a note to Captain Varney asking for books. It is a wild idea, but perhaps he has some material on herbs in his collection. She would like to ask Colette for help, since two heads are better than one, but for now Sophie thinks it best to keep her little excursion to herself.

  Chapter 35

  PROPER SOCIAL DECORUM

  It is as if Neptune of mythical days swept his mighty trident. The angry ocean is soothed to a gentle, swelling roll and the biting wind with all its ferocity has withered and died.

  Past the noon hour, Father Cambrio stops by Sophie and Colette’s cabin to personally check on Sophie’s condition. He regrets she did not attend morning prayers. Now both his dear ladies have missed noon tea, something he has grown terribly fond of. With controlled severity, he assumes they will not miss another.

  Sophie remains seated in their only chair with her hands folded in her lap. Currently, she is more annoyed by the fact Father Cambrio is standing over her than his droning lecture on proper social decorum.

  “A ship’s community at sea is close-knit. The people we meet now may be helpful to us later. Social isolation is unacceptable,” Cambrio warns. His posture is typically rigid and his facial expressions infuriatingly patronizing. He holds his hat in his hand. His towering figure, clothed in straitlaced righteousness and piety, stands just inside their cabin door.

  As Cambrio rambles on, Sophie watches the man rock back and forth with the movement of the ship. He is coming dangerously close to a low beam. Naughtily, she hopes he will smack his head on it.

  “You care too much about what people think,” Sophie says, when Cambrio takes a breath. Her thoughts go to Captain Varney’s books that arrived at their cabin a few minutes before Cambrio knocked on their door. She hid them temporarily under her mattress to keep their visitor from prying into her business. She is particularly interested in a 17th Century Cookbook that might have a section on common herbs and extractions.

  “Widow Downing? Are you listening?”

  “Yes,” Sophie accidentally bites the inside of her mouth and rubs her cheek.

  “What did I just say?” Cambrio inquires, angling his eyebrows.

  “I am not answering that,” Sophie fumes.

  “I was about to say, surely you know something of Victorian times and its idiosyncrasies. You draw attention to yourself by not blending with the other passengers.” Cambrio shoots Colette an accusing glare, thinking the woman is perfectly aware of Sophie’s little scheme to avoid him.

  Colette is sitting on the edge of Sophie’s berth stabbing the daylights out of her sewing with her needle. She is upset by the undercurrent of hostility in the exchange. Sophie wanted her to attend noon tea, but she wouldn’t leave a second time without her friend. Colette is sure Cambrio will administer a scathing reprimand next time they are alone. He will hold her responsible.

  “Don’t look at Colette. She has nothing to do with this,” Sophie huffs, her stare falling on Cambrio again. She is not sure how much longer she can stomach the man’s overblown ego without losing it.

  Until now, Sophie has not had the strength to ask questions, going along in a queasy funk. Now that she is feeling better, she would like to know the man’s plans after getting them to the states. She wonders if Father Cambrio has any intention of telling them anything.

  “You know we’ve been sick,” Sophie reminds.

  “Even so,” Cambrio pauses for a moment. Folding his arms, he puts a knuckle to his lips in contemplation.

  “Perhaps we need a change of scenery,” he says, softening a little. “The fresh air might do us both good. What do you think? Will you join me for a stroll on deck, Widow Downing? I assure you it is one of the more pleasant occupations on board. Everyone will be glad to see you out and about.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” Sophie rolls her eyes. Actually, she would like to say sorry she is busy, but wisdom rules in this case. “Well, maybe later today if I’m still feeling okay.”

  Cambrio’s mordant disposition is no different than usual. There are no indicators of suspicion that she can perceive. Evidently, he has not noticed a missing bottle in his box of necessities or discovered someone has raided his cabin and rummaged through his things.

  Father Cambrio did not ask Colette to join them. Sophie glances at her friend. When she returned from morning prayers and they had kept down their light brunch, Colette announced the worst of their seasickness is over and others are better too. She noticed new faces at Father’s service.

  After an early supper in the solitude of their cabin, Sophie does her best to make herself presentable for a stroll with Father Cambrio. Colette arranged to have a wooden barrel that looks like an oversize planter brought in. The overall sensation of being thoroughly doused in frigid seawater, running over her shoulders and down her back, refreshed her.

  Dry and feeling vaguely sticky, Sophie studies her face in the mirror.

  “I look awful. I have bags under my eyes.” She is pale and her face looks thinner. “My blonde hair. It is two shades darker.”

  “Oh, but look how easy it is to fix, madame.”

  Sophie winces when Colette runs the horsehair brush along one side of her head. Her hair is greasy, but she has learned this helps when twisting it back into a
style that is suitable for the period.

  “I still smell.” Sophie puts her nose to the crease of her arm to sniff. “If it’s not me, it’s my clothes.”

  “Ah! But no one will notice. We are all in the same boat, oui?”

  “Bloody ha-ha,” Sophie sticks her tongue out and runs her hand down her stomach, a new habit. “My corset will need to be let out. He’s growing,” she smiles at the thought.

  “You’ll need your shawl.”

  “And my patience,” Sophie sighs, promising herself to be amiable and enjoy her first time out on deck. “I imagine Father will want to inquire about my spiritual wellness, as well.”

  “His heart is in the right place.”

  “Sure it is.” Sophie checks her small lady’s pocket watch with a decorative fob that she purchased in Liverpool. “Time moves so slowly.”

  “I will wait with you.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” At Colette’s down-turned mouth, Sophie adds, “I was just thinking, why wait around? Surely there is something you want to do, now that the Nannie Dee is not giving us the ride of our lives.” Colette had mentioned a lady’s maid she befriended. “How about your new friend?”

  “Well, that would be nice.”

  “Please, Colette, I’m quite capable of taking care of myself. Besides, I have the Captain’s books to keep me entertained until it’s time. Now, go on. Enjoy your evening.”

  Chapter 36

  HER MOURNING BLACK

  Wearing a bonnet, cotton gloves and wrapped in a dark gray shawl, Sophie sets out for Father Cambrio’s cabin. She simply won’t wait a minute longer for him to come to her. According to Colette, being out alone at this hour is not a good idea. The men on board are as high as a kite and prone to lewd behavior. Grabbing the largest needle from her friend’s collection, Sophie affixes it neatly to the narrow belt at the waist of her dress and jeers, “Let ’em try.”

  Sophie’s mood is as stormy as their days have been at sea. The meter on her temper had switched from relatively cool to red-hot after reading a particular chapter in one of Captain Varney’s books.