by Diane Noble
The bunk in one corner looked too narrow and short. It was flanked on either side by a small hammock barely fourteen inches wide. The twins spotted the hammocks at the same time, raced across the room and dove into them, squealing and whooping. They soon found they worked well as swings, devising a means to twist each other inside and then let go as the twin within giggled hysterically, then stumbled across the floor as if in her cups.
The only bright spot in the room was a small table and three chairs underneath the hatchlike ventilation window.
The trunks had been delivered and were piled one on top of the other in the center of the small room, and she had no means of opening them without help. The ship began to move out of the harbor, and even the slightest swell gave her stomach a feeling of disquiet. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over a small stand that held a basin and pitcher of water. Her hair seemed to have exploded into a thicket of frizz from the sea air, her complexion had taken on the hue of dying forest moss, and her head ached with worry over her grandfather.
Someone knocked at the door, and she attempted to shush the children as she hurried across the room.
The children didn’t shush, and when she pulled open the door, she stepped back in surprise. There, standing in the dark hallway, seemed to be the answer to her prayers—before she’d uttered a single word heavenward, or even thought to ask.
The woman attempted a curtsy but had a difficult time of it. She wore an ankle-length, long-sleeved gray dress that was covered from bosom to hem with a crisp white no-nonsense apron, high waisted, that seemed to accommodate the quite large stomach Mary Rose noticed as the woman straightened. Mary Rose smiled into her eyes. It seemed her new lady’s maid was with child, and quite close to delivery, though she was no expert in such matters.
Her dark hair was pulled back into what seemed to be a loose plait, and in her hands were two items: a children’s book of verse and a small corked pot. “My name is Bronwyn Carey, m’lady, and I’ve come to serve you and your children. But Brother Brigham said you wanted to look me over first, see if I’m suitable.” Her cheeks colored as she spoke, and Mary Rose was sorry she’d spoken so obstinately to Brigham.
She smiled at Bronwyn. “I can’t deny that I said such a thing, but it was because I didn’t want Brigham telling me what to do.”
“I would’ve done the same, m’lady.”
“I’m glad you’re here. My only concern is about your condition.” She glanced at Bronwyn’s stomach and then back to her face. “’Tis a delicate subject, but Brigham should have given me a hint. You shouldn’t be waiting on me or anyone else.”
“Me?” Her laughter seemed to float up from her throat. “I’m from hardy Welsh stock.” Then she sobered. “Besides, Griffin and I needed to earn our way to America. Brother Brigham gave us this opportunity and we decided it was truly from God. If we hadn’t come by clipper, we would have been relegated to steerage on the immigrant packet ship that left last month. Griffin wouldn’t allow it, with me in such a condition.” She laced her fingers together and rested her hands atop her stomach near her heart, then added, “I didn’t want my wee babe to come into this lovely world in a not-so-lovely place. ’Tis a good thing actually that aboard this clipper there is no steerage. I would hate to think of the luxury of my quarters up here, while our brothers and sisters suffer in the stench below.”
A mantle of shame settled over Mary Rose. It was such an unusual emotion that at first she didn’t know what to make of it. Minutes earlier, she’d complained to herself about her small cabin, and now she wondered at her selfishness when, likely, Griffin and Bronwyn shared quarters half the size of hers, or smaller.
The twins had fallen quiet the moment the woman entered and now came toward Mary Rose and their guest, looking up into her face.
“Hello, little lambs,” Bronwyn said and squatted down to their level. “I’ve been hearing a lot about two very pretty loves aboard this ship today.”
Their eyes widened. “You have?” Pearl breathed.
“I didn’t think anybody knew uth,” Ruby said with just as much awe.
“I noticed you right off, I did,” Bronwyn said. “I saw you, lamb, trying to drive that willful team of horses.” She was looking at Pearl. “That must have been an exciting ride.”
“I thought everybody would be mad at me once I jumped down. But even Brother Brigham patted me on the head.”
“And you, love”—she drew Ruby in closer, wrapping her arm around the little girl’s waist—“you climbed right up atop the trunks and protected your family’s belongings while everything else was going on. Pretty brave actions by you both, I would say.”
The twins were quieter than they’d ever been since their arrival at the manor. “I brought a book to read to you. Would you like that?”
They nodded in unison.
“Then I promise, that’s the first thing we’ll do—right after you take your naps.”
Ruby started to protest, but with a smile still curving her lips, Bronwyn held her index finger to her lips. “I want you to make believe you’re tiny little mice and tiptoe as quietly as you can to your hammocks. There will be no swinging and no talking or giggling. Understood?”
The little ruffians nodded in agreement and tiptoed across the room to their hammocks. Mary Rose was astonished. Bronwyn Carey had been in their quarters for less than five minutes and the children were completely under her control.
Bronwyn struggled to stand, and when Mary Rose realized she couldn’t on her own, she extended her hand to help.
She laughed lightly and straightened her apron over her stomach. “I’m in my eighth month, and hoping to make it at least to Boston before our wee one’s arrival.”
Mary Rose was still calculating days at sea and over land, wondering what it must be like not to know when or where your child would be born, when Bronwyn interrupted her thoughts. “We must see to cots for the twins. Hammocks are for crew members, not children. I will speak to Brother Brigham about getting them better sleeping accommodations immediately.” She walked toward Mary Rose’s bed. “And this? Is it suitable for you?”
Mary Rose started to complain about its size, but thought better of it and clamped her mouth shut. Bronwyn, playing Pied Piper without even realizing it, seemed to have cast a spell on them all.
“’Tis suitable indeed,” Mary Rose said and then, with closer scrutiny, noted the dark circles under the woman’s eyes. “Will you sit with me?” She gestured to the small table beneath the hatch.
“It wouldn’t be fitting, m’lady.” Mary Rose felt a twinge of disappointment at the reminder of the class difference between them. Soon they would all be equals, at least that’s what the missionaries preached, but she wondered how many of the immigrants, from all walks of life, would ever get beyond who they once were, the positions they once held, especially those born into titled families. Was friendship even possible?
“You brought a jar of ointment, which I’m assuming is from Brigham,” she said. “Wouldn’t it be better to sit while you cleanse my hands and treat them?”
“Yes, m’lady, ’tis true.” Bronwyn’s quick smile said she understood Mary Rose’s sweet deviousness. She reached into her pocket and drew out the small corked pot, set it on the table, then retrieved the pitcher of water and basin from the stand beneath the mirror. With a clean cloth draped over her forearm, she returned to the table. Even in her condition, she moved with grace and kept her shoulders erect. Though she wore servant’s clothing, she carried herself with confidence and even pride.
She sat down across from Mary Rose. They were in better light now because of the bar of sunshine streaming through the hatch; and as Bronwyn inspected the cuts, Mary Rose studied the young woman’s face. Her bone structure could have been carved by a sculptor, it was so perfect—the delicate line of her jaw, the high cheekbones, and a smooth forehead emphasized full lips and animated eyes so blue they appeared almost violet. But it was Bronwyn’s glorious mantle of dark hai
r plaited and tied with a ribbon that made Mary Rose envious: Not a single unruly curl bounced on the young woman’s head. From what Mary Rose had observed in their short time together, it also seemed that Bronwyn was charmingly unconscious of her stunning beauty.
“I think it best to rinse your hands thoroughly before we open the ointment pot.” A tiny smile played at one corner of Bronwyn’s mouth. “In truth, I think it best to wait until the very last minute to open the ointment pot at all.”
“’Tis the beaver oil, isn’t it?” Mary Rose said. “You have opened it, then?”
“I didn’t have to. Brother Brigham prepared this for you by taking it from a larger container. I could smell it from the hallway even before he opened his door.” The crinkle at the edges of her eyes told Mary Rose she was fighting the urge to laugh.
“That bad?”
“And then some, m’lady.”
“I’ve had a weak stomach since we set sail.”
Bronwyn poured water over Mary Rose’s hands and then patted them dry. “Terrible as it is, Brother Brigham made me promise, m’lady. He held my hand to the Book of Mormon.”
“I am having supper at the captain’s table tomorrow night. A few doses of this and I’ll smell like the dank animals caught by trappers themselves.”
Bronwyn smiled and a small laugh escaped her lips. “Let’s just have a quick whiff up close and see exactly how bad it is.” She popped open the cap, made a face, and quickly recapped the pot. “Oh, indeed, m’lady, ’tis worse than I recalled.”
Mary Rose held her stomach, feeling green. “Worse than skunk spray.” And across the table, Bronwyn, whose complexion now reflected Mary Rose’s own nausea, held her nose.
“Worse than skunk spray mixed with rotten eggs.”
They looked at each other and giggled.
“Worse than a barnyard full of cattle with noisy dyspepsia,” Mary Rose said.
Bronwyn bent double with laughter, at least as close as she could get to double. She waved her hand in front of her nose. “Whatever was Brother Brigham thinking? He should have sent smelling salts with the potion.” She gently patted Mary Rose’s hand. “I noticed your honey potion on the stand. I’ll be quite astonished if it doesn’t work just as well.”
She had just finished swabbing the cuts on Mary Rose’s palm when, from across the room, a sleepy little voice said, “Lady, why are you laughing? I never heard you laugh before.”
“Liar, liar, panth on fire,” another sleepy voice said. “Lady laughth all the time. I heard her.”
“My little lambs are awake,” Bronwyn said, effortlessly slipping into her role as their nanny. “And maybe now is as good a time as any to tell you why ’tis not a good and kind practice to call anyone a harmful name.” Her voice was soft and loving as she spoke to the girls.
Pearl gave Bronwyn a wide-eyed stare. “Is ‘liar’ a harmful name?”
“’Tis indeed. The idea of such name-calling is taken from a poem written by a man named William Blake.”
“Wath he a bad man?” Ruby’s stare was equally wide.
“No. But the poem is not one that genteel young women should put in their minds.” She walked across the room and helped each of the girls down from her hammock. “Little lamb,” she said to Ruby, holding her close, “your mind is like a magic trunk full of treasures. You want to put only the finest and best and noblest thoughts into it.”
“Liar, liar, panth on fire ithn’t noble?”
“Not at all.”
She reached for Pearl, gathering her in. “But I didn’t say the bad words,” Pearl said, rolling her eyes heavenward with an angelic look.
“And I am proud of you that you didn’t,” Bronwyn said as Pearl shot Ruby a look of chin-jutting superiority. “But ’tis not a good thing either to put puffed-up pride in your treasure chest.”
The child’s countenance fell and her chin trembled. “Can it ever get out again?”
“Of course, little love,” Bronwyn said. “When you do something good, when you behave well, count it a blessing from God himself, not something you did because you’re better than your sister or your brother. Soon you’ll find that puffed-up pride will simply fly out of your treasure chest on its own.” She placed a hand on the bodice of Pearl’s frilly but soiled pinafore. “And that’s where your treasure chest resides. Right in the middle of your heart.”
She stood and led the children toward the door. “Now, my lambs,” she said as they walked, “my guess is that before we read, you might need to go—”
“To the nethethary,” Ruby shouted. “And then I want you to read Thimple Thimon met a pieman.”
Bronwyn dropped her voice to a whisper. The children quieted immediately, trying to hear her. “When we return, we’ll change from frilly frocks into playclothes.”
“But we don’t have any playclothes,” Pearl whispered.
“Lady liketh uth drethed up,” Ruby added.
Bronwyn winked at Mary Rose as if they were conspiring together to keep the children occupied and quiet. Then she said to the twins, “There are times for dress-up and times for play. And if you can keep your voices sweet and low as we walk down the hallway, I’ll show you your new playclothes. I made them for you, little ones, as soon as I heard about you.”
“You heard about us before you got on the boat?” Pearl breathed. “Truly?”
“Truly.” Bronwyn pulled the door closed behind her.
Mary Rose wouldn’t have believed the change in the girls if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes. Their soft voices trailed off down the hallway, and Mary Rose stared at the closed door. She didn’t know whether to be thankful or envious.
It took her less than a heartbeat to choose the former. How could anyone not be completely charmed by Bronwyn Carey, whether Pearl, Ruby, or herself? She smiled thinking of their laughter together. She’d never had a friend; and just now, the thought swept through her heart: If she ever did find a friend, a soul mate, to laugh and share secrets with, Bronwyn Carey would be just the kind of friend she would want.
FOUR
Darkness had fallen when Gabe knocked on the door of the captain’s quarters. The captain, sitting at his writing table with the logbook open, laid down his pen, closed the inkwell, and stood to greet Gabe. The two men shook hands, then Hosea gestured to a chair on the opposite side of the desk and Gabe sat down.
The captain, a muscular man with graying brown hair, looked every bit the master of the Sea Hawk.
Hosea leaned back, his hands behind his head. “I watched you climb the mast to retrieve the boy. Quite a feat. He looked determined to dangle a hundred and fifty feet in the air no matter what you did or said.” He chuckled. “I had a talk with him earlier. He promised to behave himself the remainder of the trip.”
“Or…?” Gabe grinned.
“Or I’d send him up there to stay.”
“Did he turn pale at the thought?”
“Strangely, he didn’t.”
Gabe chuckled. “Sir, the boy races full speed ahead no matter what the consequences. And I’ve only been observing him since this morning. I’ve never seen such energy or fearlessness in a boy his age.”
They were close enough friends for Gabe to drop the “sir” when speaking in private, but he felt Hosea deserved the honor, despite his protests.
Hosea’s eyebrow shot up. “And how many children his age—or any age, for that matter—have you been around?” He grinned, showing the uneven space between his upper and lower teeth where they clamped against his pipe. “I daresay, most seven-year-old boys have the same inclination toward mischief.” He reached into a side drawer for his pipe and tobacco pouch.
Gabe laughed again, and then seeing a shadow briefly cross the captain’s face, he remembered how desperately he and his wife wanted children.
The captain tamped the tobacco and passed the match over the charred surface, puffing softly. From Gabe’s observation through the years, the ritual of attaining the perfect light seemed more important to
Hosea than actually smoking the pipe.
When he’d finished, he sat back in his chair, partially covered the bowl with his thumb, and drew in a couple of deep puffs. He nodded in satisfaction.
“Mr. Thorpe is at the helm,” he said. “Good night for him to take it. What are your preliminaries?”
“Eighteen knots, sir.”
Hosea smiled. “Good. Very good. Any chance we’ll make it to twenty?”
“That will be pushing it, but with favorable winds, we just might make it to nineteen.”
The captain made a notation in the logbook. Then he turned up the lamp on his desk, checked the brass chronometer, and made another. Gabe gave him the details about the last sighting of land and the position of the sun as it set. “I’ll report to you again after I take new calculations with the sextant tonight.”
Hosea grinned and drew on his pipe. “I’ll go with you. Can’t let you take over my job completely,” he said. “We’ll hope for a cloudless night.”
It was indeed the master commander’s duty to see to all calculations, from the last point of visible land until they reached their destination, keeping the details of each reckoning in his logbook.
Gabe’s being on board as observer and calculator for the speed record was new to them both. He grinned at his longtime friend. “I’ll try to keep out of your way, sir.”
Hosea leaned back and chuckled. “You recommended me as commander of the Sea Hawk. That gives you rights others might not have.”
“It didn’t take much to convince Cunard, sir. Your reputation preceded you.”
At the far end of the captain’s quarters, through an open doorway that led to the captain’s dining room, Gabe caught glimpses of Mr. Quigley, the ship’s steward, preparing the table for supper, and heard clinks of china and glass as places were set.
“You’re expected to join me for supper,” Hosea said. “I arranged it with Mr. Quigley.” He put down his pipe and stood. “Shall we go in?”
“Is anyone else joining us?” He knew it was the custom to invite dignitaries on the first night at sea.
