Echoes of that conversation with his grandfather— a conversation that had brought Christopher to his knees in a realization of regret for his desire to be free of responsibility, and gratitude for his sisters and even the hardships they had endured— filtered through Christopher’s mind now. I have Grace and Helen to thank for my happiness, for much that I know, for what I value.
And what he valued most was his relationship with his sisters. And my freedom. He wanted to value his name but could not yet. To this point in his life it had largely shamed him. It was what had most motivated him to travel to America, to start anew.
“You have begun well, then. For when I think of the name Thatcher, forevermore it will bring to mind a kind, generous man.” Miss Abbott had said that to him nearly the first day of their voyage. It had meant something; it still did. And she does too.
And there it was, the admission he’d fought so hard against. If he was being honest, he did care for her. A great deal. Enough that marrying her held a definite appeal. Enough that his concern for her outweighed the plans he had made for himself. Those, he realized, could be changed. They could be postponed or altered. His affection for Miss Abbott could not— not without the potential cost of harm to her. A risk he was not willing to take.
“I’ll do it. I will marry her.” He spoke the words quietly but with conviction. The panic he’d felt moments earlier was gone, and in its place a resolute calm took hold of his mind and settled in his heart. He’d never gone wrong watching out for his sisters. He would not be wrong in doing this. Instead, a great many things could be very right about it. A brief image flashed in his mind, of Miss Abbott at his side, her arm linked easily through his and her head tilted upward as she bestowed one of her charming smiles upon him.
He recalled the night he had carried her to her bed. How right it felt to hold her, and how I wished to never let her go. If he married her, he wouldn’t have to let her go. The happy thought drifted down, covering his melancholy with enough light that he felt suddenly encouraged. Enthusiastic, even, about this new possibility.
“There’s a good lad,” Captain Gower said, as if Christopher was a little boy who had just fetched his paper or slippers. While Christopher had been lost in thought, the captain had located his pipe, lit it, and stood puffing away, sending ringlets of smoke into the air. “Now all you’ve got to do is persuade Miss Abbott that this is the right course. Though I doubt she’ll be as easy to convince as you were.”
Christopher’s mouth twisted in a wry grin at the captain’s audacity. “Now you remind me that I’m a bad catch?”
“Not at all, but I believe Miss Abbott will not be in favor of a marriage of convenience— even if it is for her safety. Have you not heard her tell of her family? Her sister married for love, her parents did the same, as did her grandparents. It’s in the girl’s blood to expect romance. You’ve got your work cut out for you, and with very few days remaining until we reach New York. Have you any experience courting?”
“Personally, no.” A burst of laughter escaped his mouth, followed quickly by another. If my sisters could see me now. They would be laughing harder than he was. And he could not seem to stop.
“I beg your pardon?” The captain’s brow furrowed with worry. “What is amusing about this? You haven’t even begun an official courtship yet, so you cannot claim to have lost your mind already. That comes much later— after you are married.” A devilish grin curved his mouth.
“I assure you I am still in possession of my senses.” Most of them, anyway. Christopher wiped at the corners of his eyes and pressed his lips together in an attempt to hold in his laughter. But he could not cease grinning as he thought of Grace and Helen and their reaction when they received a letter telling them of his marriage. “I have no personal experience with courting, but I have had ample opportunities to both arrange and witness it for and from others. I promise you, Captain, I am up to the challenge.”
Marsali wrinkled her nose in dismay as she looked at the enormous pile of Lydia’s laundry. She’d avoided the task as long as possible, using the excuse that Lydia was still too sick for her to spend an entire afternoon away from her. And when that was no longer true— with Lady Cosgrove out of bed and able to watch over her daughter— Marsali had reluctantly bundled the garments in the bedding also needing to be washed, then hauled the lot up to the deck. Delaying the dreaded chore even longer, she’d decided to wash her own few articles of clothing first and had just finished hanging them out to dry on the clothesline Mr. Tenney had kindly strung up for her on deck, outside the kitchen.
Perhaps my duties below stairs were not so bad after all, she mused as she picked up the first of Lydia’s nightgowns. Pinching the fabric between her finger and thumb and holding it as far away from her as possible, she carried it to the washtub, then dropped the gown in the water, where it merely floated on the surface. Marsali frowned as she watched the garment, willing it to submerse of its own accord. When after a long minute it became apparent the nightgown would do no such thing, Marsali used both hands and quickly plunged the fabric beneath the surface with a heavy sigh and great reluctance. Then, using only her thumb and finger once more, she picked up a section of the gown and lay it across the washboard. She retrieved the lye soap from the deck and bent over the tub to begin the scrubbing.
“You’ve not much experience laundering clothes, have you?” Mr. Thatcher leaned casually against the frame of the open kitchen door, his arms folded and a rather smug look upon his face.
“More so than you,” Marsali snapped, her mood soured by his untimely arrival, surrounded as she was by the pile of foul-smelling bedsheets and clothing. She had wished for his company for days but did not wish for him to see her now— at her worst. She felt entirely unappreciated this afternoon— friendless and tired and overworked, when really, it was not her duty to do any of this work at all. It had not helped matters that, as Lady Cosgrove’s health had improved, so had her demands— including her insistence that Marsali wash of all Lydia’s dirty clothing.
“What will Mr. Vancer think should Lydia arrive looking like a wilted flower? It is bad enough she is so pale and fragile. We must have her looking her best if he is to accept her as his bride. You wouldn’t wish it otherwise, would you?” Lady Cosgrove had asked with that falsely innocent air of hers.
She had known, no doubt, that Marsali would not disagree, fond as she was of Lydia. She wanted her friend to have as easy a time as possible adjusting to her new life, and if clean gowns helped, then Marsali would see to it she had them.
She wished she might fix the problem with Mr. Thatcher as easily, but she still didn’t know what she had done to upset him, to cause him to withdraw. And she felt cross with herself for even noting his absence these past days and caring about it. About him.
“If only Lydia wore more sensible dresses instead of these,” Marsali grumbled, inclining her head toward the towering pile of petticoats and frills. “Even this sleeping gown is not made from practical fabric. However, I daresay I know more about washing it than you.”
She cringed inwardly, hating her harsh tone. It wasn’t in her nature, yet her feelings this afternoon were raw and fragile. She had missed his friendship and felt ridiculously hurt by his neglect. And being put out with him will certainly encourage his attentions again. She sighed at herself and tried to appear more approachable.
“You are saying you can do wash better than me?” Mr. Thatcher’s brows rose, and his mouth twisted in a look of challenge. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” He pushed off the doorframe and strode toward her, rolling up his sleeves as he came.
Feeling something between disbelief and anticipation, Marsali watched him approach. “In your other, pre-avoiding-being-a-gentleman life, you were a laundry boy? Is there even such a thing? I’ve never heard of a man washing clothes.”
He held out his hand, and she gladly surrendered the soap.
“A bar like this is especially hard on your skin,” he said. “It’s better i
f you grate it and boil it with your water— better for the clothing as well. But, since you’ve already begun…” He moved aside the portion of the gown she had been preparing to wash, then ran the soap over the washboard, covering it thoroughly. Only then did he spread a section of the gown flat across it. His hands moved up and down over the fabric. “You have to use a certain technique when washing a garment such as this. A plain shirt, such as mine, can be rubbed back and forth over the board, but a delicate fabric may snag or tear if you do that, so your hands must move over the fabric instead.”
Marsali was speechless. She was sorry for having been peevish, and she was impressed, and humbled, to see him doing woman’s work, and doing it well. Every five strokes he turned the gown so that the next section lay on the board. His movements were quick, efficient— and practiced. “So you were a wash boy?”
He grinned as he looked up at her. “My sister Grace supported us by taking in laundry, mostly for women who wore ridiculous dresses like these. By the time I was six I was helping her. And may I say, Miss Abbott, that I vastly prefer your more sensible, simpler gowns for many reasons.” He winked, or at least Marsali thought he did.
“Thank you— I think.” Feeling suddenly uncomfortable and worried that she was blushing, Marsali glanced at her feet. “I am sorry for my rude words and wrong assumptions.”
“No harm done,” Mr. Thatcher said in his usual, easy way. “It appears you are not the only one surprised by my abilities.”
Marsali followed his gaze and saw Mr. Tenney and two of his assistants standing in the kitchen doorway, clearly gawking at the scene before them.
“I’ve seen it all now,” one exclaimed, shaking his head. “A man washing a woman’s petticoats.”
Mr. Thatcher had finished with the gown, placed it in the tub of rinse water, and started on one of Lydia’s underskirts.
“It’s no different than you peeling a potato for a woman’s supper,” he said loudly, though his tone was light, giving Marsali the impression that the teasing didn’t bother him.
“’Course it is,” Mr. Tenney said, appearing downright insulted, a scowl upon his face. “A potato isn’t a lady’s possession, it’s simply a potato, and cooking on board a ship is a man’s job. Laundry— especially a woman’s— is in no way, no how, a task for a man.”
“Maybe not,” Mr. Thatcher said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, “but we shall see whose company Miss Abbott prefers near the end of this voyage— yours, in your month-old shirts, or mine, smelling and looking fresh and clean.”
“No washing for me.” Mr. Tenney waved a hand in the air, apparently dismissing the notion that clean clothes mattered, then retreated into his kitchen.
Feeling guilty that Mr. Thatcher was doing all the work, Marsali returned to the tubs and began the far less distasteful task of rinsing and wringing out the clean garments. As she carried the gown over to the line, she caught sight of five other crew members, Mr. Murphy included, all watching and pointing at Mr. Thatcher with keen interest.
This will never do. She might not wish to do this task, but Marsali found she wished Mr. Thatcher to be ridiculed even less.
She returned to the tubs and searched the deck for the soap, intending to take it from him, only to see that he had placed it on the top ledge of the board.
No wonder he asked if I’d had much experience. I didn’t even know where to put the soap. Her former tasks— the emptying of chamber pots and fireplace ashes— had not required much skill at all. “Thank you for showing me how to properly wash clothes.”
“Anytime.” He continued scrubbing.
“I can do it now,” Marsali said, uncomfortably aware of the growing crowd.
“I am certain you can, but why hurt your hands? You rinse the gowns and hang them out, and I’ll finish the washing.”
It was a tempting offer, but she couldn’t allow it. “That’s very kind,
but—”
“If you’re worried about what the crew will think of me, don’t be.” He glanced at her.
“It isn’t that,” Marsali hurried to say, though that was precisely her worry. She viewed Mr. Thatcher as a gentleman, though not one who wore gloves and stood around in elegant sitting rooms smoking cigars. He was more man than that, and an equal at least to the ship’s crew. It seemed important that they not see him as anything less. She scrambled for another excuse as to why he should allow her to finish laundering the clothes.
“In my new position as a lady’s maid, it may be that I am required to care for delicate gowns such as this. I should practice so it will at least appear to my new employer that I am familiar with the task.” From the sideways, skeptical look he gave her, Marsali very much doubted he believed this excuse. Nevertheless, he stepped aside.
“If you insist.”
“I do.” Marsali stepped up to the tub and began running her hands over the fabric as Mr. Thatcher had done. When she felt she’d sufficiently covered the entire piece, she picked it up to move it aside, but it would not move, instead clinging to the board.
“Slip your finger beneath the top like this.” He leaned close, putting his hand in the water again. “Board needs more soap,” he observed after freeing the fabric.
She picked up the lye and rubbed it generously over the board, then placed another section of the dress across it.
“That’s the piece you just washed,” Mr. Thatcher said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Without a word, Marsali pulled it up again— it was easier this time; apparently the amount of soap on the washboard did make a difference— and arranged the section beside it.
“That piece has already been scrubbed as well.” He was suddenly right behind her, leaning close, his arms on either side of her as they reached into the tub. “You don’t have to do it this way, but I always turn the fabric in the direction of the tub of rinse water. I start with the back seam and work my way around. That way I know I’ve done it all.” With deft movements, he adjusted the skirt on the board once more. “Watch my hands, and follow them. How well the garment becomes washed depends upon how you move your fingers.”
He placed his hands on either side of hers and began scrubbing. “Move the fabric so that it goes into the grooves of the board and collects the soap, then back, so the soap doesn’t simply sit there but becomes agitated over the garment and does its work.”
“I didn’t realize there was so much to washing clothes,” Marsali said, feeling a bit overwhelmed, and not from the many instructions he’d given her. I didn’t realize that having a man so close to me would feel so… pleasantly unsettling.
Various members of the crew still milled about the deck, and she knew she ought to scold Mr. Thatcher for standing thus. At the least I should feel embarrassed. A woman in polite society would never stand so close to a man. But she was not in polite society, and she could not bring herself to ask him to move.
“Try this.” Mr. Thatcher placed his hands over hers and moved them over the fabric. “When you know how to use it correctly, the board does much of the work.”
“Mmm.” Marsali didn’t trust herself to say more than that, and she was having great difficulty concentrating on the washing itself, the clothing— much of anything but Mr. Thatcher’s nearness. His face was pressed close to hers, his arms around her, his hands gentle but firm as they moved over hers on the fabric. The combination had aroused some new, unfamiliar sensation— overpowering to the point she felt she might wilt right there on the deck.
When they had danced together that second night— not more than two weeks ago— she had held Mr. Thatcher’s hand, but their mood had been jovial and their movements quick. She had enjoyed the light touch of his hand on hers, the music, and having someone to be merry with. But now, this seemed different. Intimate.
Ridiculous. He is showing me how to wash clothing. Nothing more.
When, after another minute, he released her hands and stepped back, she felt vast relief, yet keen disappointment. Wiping the
back of her wet hand across her brow, Marsali told herself that her weak knees were nothing more than the result of several nights’ lost sleep from staying up with Lydia. But when she turned to look at Mr. Thatcher and caught him stripping off his shirt, her racing heart indicated otherwise.
He wasn’t a man used to idle days spent in clubs or in other such gentlemanly pursuits. His chest and arms were broad and muscled, as if he was used to a life of physical labor. No mere washboard did that, she thought and felt herself blushing again.
A grin appeared on his face as he caught her staring. “Before I joined you outside, I asked Mr. Tenney to heat another pail of water. It should be just about ready. With the amount of clothing to be washed, I knew you’d need fresh water at least a time or two. And since I’m here, I might as well clean my clothes as well.”
“Of course.” Marsali grabbed another petticoat from the stack and tossed it into the tub. She soaped the board, then began scrubbing with fervor. He has sisters, she reminded herself. And they had grown up together in unusual circumstances. No doubt he was used to removing his shirt in front of them. Does that mean he thinks of me as his sister?
“You’ve got the hang of it now,” he said, stepping into her line of view once more.
Marsali bent her head lower, determined to dismiss her errant thoughts and regain control of her senses.
“You’ll find that it isn’t a difficult chore so much as it is tedious,” he continued. “Grace and I would wash gown after gown, for hours and days on end. I think that is perhaps one reason I have been loath to attend balls— the sight of so many dresses is likely to give me nightmares.”
Marrying Christopher (A Hearthfire Romance Book 3) Page 19
