Marrying Christopher (A Hearthfire Romance Book 3)

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “Do not let Mr. Tenney overhear that you’ve nightmares about women’s ball gowns, or he will think you even more peculiar,” Marsali advised.

  “I’m not particularly concerned with what he thinks of me,” Mr. Thatcher said. “When I bid farewell to my sisters in Yorkshire, I made up my mind; from that moment on, I would only undertake to do something if I wanted to do it. Too much of my life to that point had been spent in doing the opposite.” He grimaced as if recalling unfortunate times. “This morning I wished to assist you; what others may think of my choices does not concern me.”

  What of me? Marsali wondered. Does he care what I think of him? I am thinking too much of him. “It was very kind of you,” Marsali said in a voice that sounded strangely choked to her own ears.

  Whatever Mr. Tenney and the other crew members might think of Mr. Thatcher, there was no doubt in her mind he was manly in every sense of the word. And a gentleman as well.

  Wearing his freshly laundered shirt, Christopher strolled the length of the deck as he considered what options he had available for courting Miss Abbott. Yesterday afternoon’s discovery— finding her busy with the wash— had been most fortuitous, though not at all how he would have thought to begin a courtship. But it had worked, or at least he believed it had. He’d helped her with an unpleasant chore and found it to be almost enjoyable. Having his arms around Miss Abbott as they stood at the washtub had certainly affected him, and by the blush that crept up her cheeks, he guessed she’d been affected by their nearness as well.

  Not to mention that he’d impressed her with the skill he was least fond of. But one must use the resources given him.

  He and Grace and Helen had become expert at that very thing over the years, and he laughed that he was counting on those skills to serve him well now.

  But what to do next? He could not take Miss Abbott on a drive. They had already read and discussed several of the books available to them on the ship. He could not even join her for stargazing again, as that pompous Mr. Luke had taken to accompanying her each night. On three different occasions Christopher had gone up on deck at night only to find Mr. Luke already monopolizing Miss Abbott’s attention.

  No more, Christopher vowed. Not tonight or any other night. He would speak to the captain about finding other occupations for the first officer’s time. Mr. Luke, who had scarcely offered more than a penny for Miss Abbott’s protection, did not deserve to be on the same ship with her, let alone to spend pleasant evenings in her company.

  The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and Christopher lifted his gaze skyward, noting that the ocean was not as calm today. As they neared America’s shores, the sea was apt to become more turbulent, Captain Cosgrove had said. He’d also mentioned that hurricanes were not uncommon this time of year and had put them all on alert that the pleasant days of their voyage might well be behind them.

  Nearly all the days of this voyage— pleasant or otherwise— are behind us. With their increased speed, Captain Gower was estimating they would arrive in New York this Friday, a mere twenty-two days after their departure. Which left Christopher with only three days in which to both woo Miss Abbott and win her over to the idea of marriage.

  Three days, and I haven’t a clue what to do next. He was discovering that arranging for his sisters’ happiness had been far easier than orchestrating his own. If only he had more time.

  The sun reappeared, and Christopher searched the sky, hoping to see more clouds or a storm that might bring a strong headwind to slow the ship.

  However, it was not clouds that caught his attention but a faded piece of ribbon fluttering in and out of sight above him. Stepping closer, Christopher saw that it was attached to something inside one of the lifeboats hoisted above the deck.

  Could it be? The ribbon fluttered out of sight once more, then back into his line of vision, and this time Christopher felt almost certain it was the same ribbon he’d seen tied in Miss Abbott’s hair at breakfast. He’d noted the faded color then and wished he might purchase a new one for her— and promised himself that someday soon he would.

  But for that ribbon to be inside the lifeboat now would mean… Miss Abbott is inside that boat. And to get up there she would have had to climb… those crates, a barrel… that edge of the rigging.

  With a quick glance around him to see if the captain or any senior crew members were about or watching him, Christopher stepped up onto a crate and peered over the edge of the boat, where a glimpse confirmed his theory. Miss Abbott lay on her back, a partially eaten apple in one hand, a book in the other held open before her and covering her face from his view. Her ankles were crossed and peeking from beneath the hem of her skirt, which was spread over the floor of the boat. She’d removed her shoes, and her hair appeared to have escaped its bun. Wisps of brown, along with the ribbon, lifted and fell in the breeze.

  She had not noticed him yet, and Christopher ducked out of sight before she could. He climbed down, stepping quietly onto the deck below.

  Smiling, he moved away lest anyone see him lingering in this spot and discover Miss Abbott’s hiding place. He was certain that was what it was— a refuge where she might find a few moments’ peace from Lady Cosgrove’s demands and Miss Cosgrove’s chatter.

  Captain Gower had pegged Miss Abbott as resourceful and independent. Christopher found her solution more than that. He thought it ingenious and plucky— especially given the captain’s edict about not climbing— and wished he had thought of it himself. Not only was Miss Abbott clever, but she wasn’t afraid of taking chances. A very good quality, Christopher supposed, given that a marriage between them would involve a considerable amount of risk on several fronts.

  He was willing to take those. But he did not know at all when or if Miss Abbott would be in agreement.

  If only I might convince her to give me a chance.

  It was Marsali’s good fortune that Mr. Luke was on duty during the dinner hour. He had been strangely absent this evening, for which she felt grateful. With Lydia returned to the table for the first time since her illness, there was no lull in the conversation, though neither could a person get a word in edgewise, preventing Marsali from engaging in conversation with Mr. Thatcher— the very thing she had looked forward to this evening.

  He had been so generous yesterday, helping her with laundry, of all things. She could only hope that whatever rift had occurred between them, that had kept him both silent and away, had been mended and that he would be her friend once more. But it was difficult to tell when neither was able to speak even a word with Lydia’s constant stream of chatter.

  She has two weeks of lost conversations to make up for, Marsali told herself as she listened good-naturedly while she ate.

  “Mother bought the tonic from that horrid man with the red hair— no offense to you, Mr. Jones.” Lydia paused long enough to send an apologetic glance his way.

  “None taken.” Mr. Jones, looking increasingly uncomfortable, consulted his watch for perhaps the tenth time in the past half hour.

  Counting the minutes until he can return to his engine room? Normally Marsali felt sorry for his apparent anxiety and the need for him to be below deck so often. But just now she could not entirely blame him for wanting to leave. Even the stifling heat of the engine room might be preferable to another hour of this same story. Lydia was already telling them— for the third time— every detail she could recall about the night her mother had purchased the tonic from the man at the wharf.

  “And to think he told us that you had authorized such a sale.” Lydia cast a doleful look toward the captain. “And do you know how much that cost? It took the very last of our money, plus one of Mother’s—”

  “That’s enough, Lydia,” Lady Cosgrove cut in sharply. “There is nothing to be done about it now, and we needn’t continue recounting our folly to the captain.”

  Lydia appeared to wither in her chair. “Yes, Mother.” She slouched lower, looking— for the first time all night— quite as ill as she had been.
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  “What have you been reading lately, Miss Abbott?” Mr. Thatcher asked, both changing the topic and kindly drawing everyone’s attention from Lydia. “I believe we are each nearing the end of the captain’s library.”

  “She has been reciting poetry to me,” Lydia said, answering before Marsali could. “I adore listening to her. Today she recited some of Mr. Burns’s poems with a perfect Scottish accent.”

  “As my grandmother used to recite them to me,” Marsali said. She cherished her memories of her grandmother nearly as much as she cherished those of her father.

  Lady Cosgrove made a tsking noise in the back of her throat and shook her head as if Marsali had just announced she had been reading the most scandalous gothic romance novel.

  “I should like to hear Mr. Burns’s poems myself sometime,” Mr. Thatcher said, causing Marsali’s heart to give a joyful leap, for which she swiftly and silently scolded herself.

  Don’t be a ninny. But it was impossible not to feel happy at the hint that he wished to spend more time with her.

  “Have you perhaps had some time alone in which to read?” Mr. Thatcher asked.

  She puzzled over his emphasis of the word alone, though she had stolen a few minutes to herself. And it had been heavenly. “Just today I finished The Last of the Mohicans.”

  “And did you find the story uplifting?” Mr. Thatcher’s brows rose, and his eyes shifted upward.

  Lydia giggled. “Oh, you can’t have read Mr. Cooper’s book or you would not have asked such a silly question. It is a most tragic story.”

  Marsali had the feeling that Mr. Thatcher still would have asked and that they were no longer discussing the book.

  “But I have read it,” he said. “Last year— in my quest to learn everything possible about America.”

  “Do not let fiction be your guide,” Captain Gower cautioned.

  “It is not at all an uplifting story,” Lydia continued. “Poor Cora is killed, after all.”

  “I see your point,” Mr. Thatcher said. “Though for some reason I believed the book might make Miss Abbott feel as if she had… attained new heights.”

  He knows. At once she understood the direction of his hints. He knows I was up in that boat. Marsali narrowed her eyes at him, and he answered her with a roguish grin.

  Insufferable man. But it was with some difficulty that she held back her own smile.

  “Are there not times, Miss Abbott, when we find literature boosts us aloft in this world?” He reclined in his chair, and his grin turned lazy, as if he had all the time in the world to watch her squirm.

  And she was beginning to. Did Mr. Thatcher wish her to be in trouble? Usually she did not mind his teasing, but if the captain discovered what she had been up to— quite literally— he might well be upset with her.

  With the toe of her slipper, she nudged Mr. Thatcher’s shin beneath the table and sent him a silent plea to cease speaking of her respite above the deck.

  He winked at her as he had yesterday when they were washing Lydia’s gowns. What is he about? Marsali dared not look at him again but took a few seconds to compose herself as she cut a piece of her meat. Perhaps he was still upset with her and had only pretended kindness yesterday and was now intending revenge. But Mr. Thatcher did not seem the type, and he had helped her, staying with her and assisting until every last article of clothing had been washed and hung out to dry.

  Maybe she was simply reading more into his words. My own guilt is sabotaging me. Yet she had not felt guilty about her slight break of the rules until now. At the time, whatever action was required to escape Mr. Luke’s company had seemed more than justified.

  And she had taken great care when climbing into that boat, both with her steps and to make certain she was not seen. She’d waited several minutes— until the time the crew had changed shifts and no one was near to observe her.

  Unless Mr. Thatcher was spying on me.

  While Marsali had been thinking, Lydia had been retelling the story of The Last of the Mohicans to Mr. Jones and her mother, the only two at the table who had not read the novel. “It is good you have not read it, Mother,” Lydia exclaimed at the end of her long summary. The horrors those two women endured would give you nightmares. You would never have agreed to sail to America.”

  “I shall have nightmares now, thanks to you.” Lady Cosgrove looked longingly at her glass as if wishing that something other than water would appear in it. “And I did not exactly agree to come to America. It was the only option left open to us.”

  “A difficult position to be in,” Captain Gower said sympathetically.

  “Tell us, Miss Abbott, what were your thoughts while reading the novel?” Mr. Thatcher persisted. “Did it almost seem as if the story took you from the ship to another place… high above the ground?”

  You go too far. He was attempting to get her into trouble with the captain. She could see no other reason for Mr. Thatcher’s continued line of questioning and his not-so-subtle hints.

  “I was quite caught up in the story,” Marsali admitted. “As with any good novel one enjoys, I did feel transported to another time and place.” So there, she finished silently.

  From the corner of her eye Marsali glanced at Captain Gower and found, to her concern, that he appeared to be paying close attention to this exchange. Lydia, on the other hand, was openly pouting, nonplussed, no doubt, about the sudden turn in the conversation.

  Internally Marsali prepared for the next onslaught of battle, her mind searching for possible retorts to anything else Mr. Thatcher might imply or hints he might drop that she had gone where she was not supposed to.

  He is only jealous that I thought of it first. But if Captain Gower discovered what she had done, he might decide to have her chaperoned during the day as well. To this point the captain had been quite liberal in allowing the passengers to move about as they pleased. Surely Mr. Thatcher realized that such freedom— or hers, at least— would be in jeopardy if he tattled on her.

  Their eyes met over the rim of his glass as he spoke again. “I am glad to know the story elevated you to a place you had not previously imagined.”

  She was imagining herself punching him, yet having difficulty holding back laughter, as that would surely give her away. But, oh, she could tell he thought himself clever.

  And full of mischief tonight.

  “All good literature is uplifting in one regard or another,” Marsali said as she raised her chin and met his gaze head-on. “We see the beastly behavior of characters and learn that we must hold ourselves to a higher standard. Or we read of a story where much happiness is found, and it gives us hope that our own may yet come to pass, in spite of those who would stand in our way of finding it.” Do not ruin this one thing for me. Allow me a few pleasures in the time I have left. And join me in them, if you will. There was plenty of room in the boat for Mr. Thatcher to read as well, should he wish to escape Miss Cosgrove’s attention, which, now that she was up and about again, would likely be directed at him.

  “Well said,” Captain Gower raised his glass to Marsali.

  “Agreed.” Mr. Thatcher inclined his head toward her in a gesture of surrender. “To Miss Abbott, her love of literature, and her ingenuity in finding clever solutions to her problems.”

  “What solutions? What problems?” Lydia glanced back and forth across the table from one to another. “What are we speaking of?”

  “An important and somewhat private matter,” Captain Gower said, surprising Marsali. “Miss Abbott, Mr. Thatcher, I would like to see both of you in my quarters in one hour.” He exchanged a pointed look with Mr. Thatcher, making Marsali feel slightly ill. The captain already knows I was in that boat.

  She felt the sting of Mr. Thatcher’s betrayal and cast her eyes down at her plate, lest he notice her hurt.

  Which is entirely absurd. She had been in trouble before and would no doubt be in it again at Mr. Thomas’s. And surely the captain would do little more than reprimand her and have her activitie
s more closely watched. It was the thought that Mr. Thatcher was responsible for putting her in this tight spot that wounded her. She would never have done the same to him.

  But then she cared for him— far more than she should have— and it was at once apparent that his feelings for her were not the same.

  Precisely one hour later, Marsali knocked upon the captain’s door. It opened at once, and Captain Gower beckoned her inside. Marsali stepped into his cabin, her worry momentarily forgotten as she took in the vast array of unusual objects on the tables lining the walls. She had not been sure what a captain’s quarters would look like, but she had definitely not expected this.

  The crammed tabletops explained why he always ate with the passengers and never in his private quarters. There was nowhere in here to eat, no surface over which to spread a map or even write a letter.

  “Are these all your inventions?” Curiosity momentarily overtook her concerns as she moved closer to the nearest table and bent over to peer at a glass globe resting in a wooden stand. A wire was coiled around a metal piece at the bottom of the globe, and a second wire, connected to another contraption, lay beside it.

  “Not mine alone,” Captain Gower said. “I have collected many of these. Often they were projects well begun but, for one reason or another, could go no further. I find it interesting to study them and to learn from their potential. Occasionally, I am able to improve upon them.” He picked up the second wire and touched it to the one coiled around the globe. It sizzled, and Marsali jumped back.

  “Not to worry,” Captain Gower assured her. A second later the glass globe flared, then lit as a wick inside a lantern would.

  She clapped her hands. “How marvelous. But there is no flame or fire?”

  Captain Gower shook his head. “Not in the sense you are thinking of. It is a quantity of electricity.” He pulled the wires apart, and the light died.