The Betrothed (Cutter's Creek Book 7)

by Vivi Holt

  She whimpered into the fabric. She wished Mary had come with her. This was going to be more difficult than she’d realized, and she hadn’t even made it through an entire day yet. Why had she run away? There was no way she could make it on her own. She couldn’t even dress herself.

  She fell back on the bed, her face still covered in the blue damask gown, her hands straight over her head and groaned. She missed home already, and she’d only been gone a few days. What had happened to her big plans for a grand adventure?

  With another sigh, she rolled onto her stomach and pushed back up onto her feet. She shuffled and wriggled until the gown was in place, and then ran her hands over the skirts to straighten it.

  She glimpsed her reflection in the small looking glass on the dressing table. Her hair was disheveled, and she dabbed at it with her fingers. She hadn’t fixed it since she left home, and it looked dirty and unkempt. She sat on the small stool in front of the dressing table, and opened the drawer. She’d unpacked her things earlier, when she’d first arrived in the berth. She searched around until she found a can of powder and her hair brush. Placing each item on the dressing table, she took down her hair and brushed out the knots. Then, she added powder, brushing it through with long strokes. Finally, she pinned several long strands of hair back onto her head, and formed the rest into a bun behind her head.

  She pulled the bag of jewelry given her by Mary from her trunk, and spilled its contents out onto the dressing table. She hadn’t even looked at the contents before now, and she wanted to take stock of what she had.

  One piece in particular caught her attention immediately. It was a drop-pendant emerald, surrounded by a band of small diamonds, on a long, gold chain. It was the necklace her mother had given her on the night of her engagement. She picked it up and held it to her cheek, remembering the way it shone on Mother’s neck, and how proud Mother was when she wore it. She was supposed to wear it on her wedding day, when she married the Duke, the way Mother had done at her wedding to Father.

  Her fingers trembled as she held it. Mother would be sad to have lost it — she no doubt thought it had been stolen. If she’d known it was one of the pieces Mary had given her, she’d have taken it upstairs to Mother’s jewelry box, to lock it away. She didn’t want to cause her mother any pain. She opened the clasp, and fixed the necklace around her neck, pushing it down between her breasts to hide it beneath the high neckline of her gown. Since she was traveling as a teacher on board the steamship, she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by openly wearing such an expensive piece of jewelry. Miss Eloise Smythe, her name for the journey across the Atlantic, would never be able to afford such an item. She patted it, as it lay hidden beneath the fabric, and smiled. At least she would have something of Mother to carry with her on the journey.

  At last, content with the results of her labors, she pinched her cheeks, stood to her feet, and hurried from the room with a smile on her face. She’d managed to dress herself, and she even looked quite presentable. Perhaps she would make it in the New World, after all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Harry threw up into the bucket for the third time that day and leaned back against the rail of his bunk bed. He groaned and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Seasickness had plagued him ever since they’d left the bay at Birkenhead and he’d barely been able to leave his quarters all week. He struggled to his feet and slumped onto the thin mat that served as his mattress.

  “Ye survivin’ there?” asked Ben McIntosh. Ben slept in the bunk above Harry, and the young Scotsman had been looking out for Harry ever since they set sail. He walked over and handed Harry a tin cup. Water sloshed over the side of the cup and onto the mat beside Harry as he sat up to drink it with relief. “Yer sister brought it for ye. She says to tell ye she’ll be by shortly with some lunch – not that it’ll stay down for long.” He chuckled and climbed up to his bunk to lay with his hands behind his head and his legs stretched out. He was a tall man and his feet hung over the end of the bed.

  “Thanks,” said Harry, lying back down again. “Augh … how long is this blasted trip going to last, for Heaven’s sake?”

  “Buck up – it’s only a few more days, old mate. I’m sure ye can manage that without dying on me.”

  Harry nodded and curled onto his side with his hands tucked together beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. A few more days and they’d be in New York. He wondered how it would be. One thing was certain: it wouldn’t be like anything he’d ever known before. In all his life, he’d barely left Greyburn and the Lakes District. He hadn’t even been to London. A city like New York, from everything he’d heard of it, would be a strange place indeed for someone who’d grown up in the quiet of the Cambria countryside.

  The Queenship was a screw-propelled steamship, one of the first to be built with an iron hull. That, along with its compound engine, meant the steamer could traverse the Atlantic in only ten days. Harry marveled every time he thought about the amazing age he lived in, when a fellow could travel between continents aboard a ship propelled by steam in less than two weeks. He shook his head, thankful the trip wouldn’t take any longer – he didn’t know how much more of this nausea he could take. Everything he ate ended up in a slop bucket beside his bed.

  The state of the quarters he was sleeping in didn’t help any – so many men corralled together into a narrow berth in the deepest depths of the ship’s hull. Every pitch, wave or bob sent anyone who happened to be standing at the time sprawling, and Harry’s stomach into an upheaval. None of the men seemed to have any inclination to bathe for the length of the journey, and the stench of soiled clothing, lavatory, sick buckets and body odor did nothing to alleviate Harry’s discomfort. He looked forward to the fresh air and solid ground of New York City.

  He wondered how Charlotte was coping with the trip. She’d purchased a first-class ticket and so was housed in an entirely different part of the ship from he and Camilla. He’d asked Camilla whether she’d seen her, but she said she’d only glimpsed her once when she was taking a turn around the deck. Charlotte had walked onto the first-class balcony to stare out over the rolling ocean and Camilla had seen her and waved, though Charlotte hadn’t responded. That was three days ago.

  When he thought of Charlotte, his mind always returned to her soft, red lips and his memories of her, disheveled and rosy-cheeked, the day she almost ran over him in the village. He smiled now, remembering the look on her face when he’d yelled at her. She’d asked if he knew who she was, her chin held high and a gleam in her blue eyes. Well, he knew her now, though he wasn’t sure he was glad of it.

  He had a nagging feeling that nipped daily at the fringe of his consciousness: somehow Charlotte would be the cause of more trouble than was good for him. He groaned and leaned over the side of the bed to reach for the bucket once again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Charlotte pulled the sides of her hair into loops and pinned them against her head. Her blonde hair was thick and wavy, but she’d always lamented that it wasn’t nearly as shining or sleek as the dark brunette of her mother’s tresses.

  She had taken after her father in looks, but she wasn’t entirely sure where her personality came from. Her parents always seemed so conservative – never wanting to step out of line, always worried about what society might think of them, invariably following the course of destiny set in stone by the long line of lords and ladies who’d called Beaufort Manor home before them.

  She paused, staring at her reflection in the mirror fixed to the top of the dressing table in her cabin. What would Mother and Father be doing now? What must they be thinking? When she’d left England, the newspapers had pronounced her a missing person – did they really believe she’d been kidnapped?

  She rubbed a hand across her forehead. She knew what she must do. Opening the dresser drawer, she pulled out a piece of stationery with the ship’s insignia on top and fumbled around for a quill. An inkwell sat in a corner of the drawer and she pulled it out too. The cabin, thou
gh spacious and luxurious compared to the third-class accommodations, was still small enough to warrant dual purposes for items of furniture, so the dresser doubled as a desk. She dipped the nib into the inkpot and sat still, her pen hovering over the blank sheet of paper as she gathered her thoughts.

  Dearest Mother and Father,

  It is with a heavy heart that I write to tell you I have not been kidnapped. I am supremely sorry that you had to experience the pain of believing that I’d been taken in some criminal affair and I hope you will be happy to discover that it isn’t true.

  I ran away. Away from my engagement to the Duke, but not from you.

  I know that you will be furious with me, but what’s done is done. I am, as I write this, on board the SS Queenship, bound for America. I will land in New York in three days, and beyond that I’m unsure of what my future may hold.

  I couldn’t go through with the wedding. I didn’t love the Duke and I can’t abide the idea of marrying anyone for a purpose other than love. I would never have left but for the wedding – I love you both dearly and was very happy living at the manor with you. However, you made it clear to me that you expected me to marry and leave the manor, and so I believed that even if I was to disrupt my engagement to the Duke, it would not be long before you found me another suitable match. In light of this, I felt my only option was to leave.

  I have always dreamed of adventure, freedom and the right to make my own way in the world. The constraints of our station were never something I’d have been able to escape as long as I stayed in England. So I’ve decided to go to the New World, where I can be myself and forge a path that hasn’t been predestined, but is completely open to possibility and opportunity.

  I would very much appreciate it if you could send me some financial assistance to get me started in my new life. Please send the money to

  Here she left a blank, as she had no idea where she’d be staying once the Queenship docked.

  in New York City under my name.

  I’m filled with sorrow at leaving you. I wish it didn’t have to be this way. Even as my heart races at the thought of freedom, it skips a beat in fear of the unknown. I hope you will understand and in time can come to forgive me.

  I miss you both dearly.

  Your loving daughter,

  Charlotte Beaufort

  She slipped the letter into an envelope, but left it unsealed.

  The sound of the dinner gong rang through the thin cabin walls, and Charlotte stood to her feet and smoothed her skirts. With one last glance at her reflection, she set off toward the dining room. The hallway was narrow, but thankfully they’d entered smoother waters earlier in the day and she was able to walk without holding onto the hand rail.

  She passed a state room closer to the dining room and heard the door click open behind her. “Miss Smythe, good evening.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Bentley. How are you?” She turned to face the gentleman with a nod of her head.

  “I’m well, thank you. I’ve been invited to dine at the captain’s table this evening. I’m rather looking forward to it.” He grinned, and his white teeth shone under a drooping black mustache.

  “I’ll be dining with the captain myself this evening – what a happy coincidence!” Charlotte smiled at the tall, thin man as he offered her his arm. She slipped her hand over his forearm and they proceeded to the dining room together.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to properly introduce myself to you before now, Miss Smythe. Are you traveling to meet your parents in New York?”

  “No, I’m not, Mr. Bentley. My parents are in England.”

  “A friend, perhaps? Or a relative?”

  “No, I’ll not be meeting anyone.” Charlotte’s voice dropped almost to a whisper and she felt tears prick at the back of her eyes.

  “Oh my. You are quite the adventurer then, aren’t you? I do hope you have somewhere to stay when we disembark?” He watched her with keen interest.

  Charlotte felt her cheeks flush with warmth. “Of course, I have my lodgings all arranged.” She wasn’t sure why she lied, but she didn’t feel as though it would be good for anyone to know just how vulnerable she was, traveling across the ocean all alone with no one to meet her at the docks. She’d never felt this susceptible before, since she’d always had her parents and a bevy of servants looking out for her, but now she was entirely on her own. It was exciting and exhilarating, but unnerving at the same time. “And are you meeting someone in New York, sir?”

  “Yes, my wife is there – we have a home outside the city. I travel between England and New York on business several times per year. I must say, I’m looking forward to getting home to her.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  They arrived at the dining room and together made their way to the front where the captain’s table was located. The captain wasn’t yet seated, but several other members of the party were there. Mr. Bentley helped Charlotte to her seat, then sat down across from her.

  Before long they were joined by the captain and enjoyed a meal of sausage, potatoes and corn, along with small hard biscuits slathered in creamy butter. As their meal came to a close, the other end of the dining room filled with the swell of violin and cello music, weaving the notes of a waltz through the night air around them. Charlotte turned to see couples walking over to a small dance floor and waltzing around the square space together.

  “Would you care to dance, Miss Smythe?” Mr. Bentley stood beside her, one hand out, beckoning her to join him.

  “That would be lovely.”

  She took his hand and he led her onto the dance floor. His manner was gentle and Charlotte felt immediately at ease with him. He twirled her around and into his arms and pulled her toward him into the standard waltz stance, with his arms raised and his head high. She smiled up at him and he grinned back at her, his mustache twisting upwards. They spun around the floor together, weaving amongst the other couples.

  Her dress floated around her legs. The cream-colored cotton was embellished with a golden filigree thread in the shape of a lily across the bodice and down the length of the skirts. Her shoulders were encased in puffed sleeves, and the porcelain skin of her neck was offset by a simple gold chain that draped over her collar bone.

  She laughed as the next song sent them into an energetic two-step and Mr. Bentley swung her around with wild abandon. The other couples on the dance floor stared at them under lowered brows and whispered together, but she didn’t care. She was having fun and felt for the first time as though she was in control of her own destiny.

  “Shall we get some air?” asked Mr. Bentley as the final song drew to a close.

  Charlotte’s face was flushed and her skin damp. She drew a deep breath. “Yes, let’s.” They left the dining room, as the waiters finished clearing the dirty plates from the tables and the band began to pack their instruments away.

  “What a beautiful night!” Charlotte leaned against the balustrade and gazed out over the ocean below. The ship dipped over a low wave and a thin spray blew out around the bow, shining silver in the moonlight.

  “Isn’t it? There’s something very fine about sailing across the ocean on a magnificent ship such as this one, don’t you think?” He leaned forward beside her, his strong hands clasping the railing in front of him.

  “Mmmm.” She closed her eyes and lifted her face to feel the sea breeze caress her skin and lift strands of hair from her bare neck. Then she felt something else on her neck. A soft hand caressed her there. Her eyes flew open and she jumped, spinning around to face Mr. Bentley. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  Instead of a response she found his mouth against hers, quieting her objections. She pushed him away with closed fists, her eyes wide and full of fury. “Stop it! I demand that you stop it right now. How dare you!” He pushed toward her again, his hands hard on her shoulders, his lips searching for hers. She lifted a hand high and slapped him hard against one cheek.

  He drew back, his face darkenin
g. “You wench! You led me on! You wanted this and now you’re telling me no? I mean, who do you think you are, sashaying around the place in your fine gowns with no chaperone? You’re asking for it!”

  “I’m asking for nothing at all from you, Mr. Bentley, other than that you kindly keep your hands to yourself from now on. Good evening to you, sir.” She spun around and strode back to her cabin, her hands shaking as she opened the door. She locked it carefully behind her, then fell on her bed with a cry.

  Wracked with sobs, her body shook as she laid there, tears wetting her mattress. Had she asked for it, as Mr. Bentley had said? She should never have danced with him or followed him onto the balcony alone. Still, he had no right to do what he’d done. She realized with sudden clarity how vulnerable she had made herself by traveling alone to a foreign country. The realization brought on more tears and she wallowed in self pity and remorse.

  If only her parents were here. If only Mary were here to comfort her and admonish her. She missed Amber and their daily rides together. She missed the manor and the rolling green pastures edged by hedges and dotted with woolly sheep. She missed home. The enormity of what she’d done fell down upon her like a thick, black cloak.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was hunger that drove Charlotte from her cabin the next morning. She stayed abed as long as she could, but by mid-morning she was desperate with hunger and thirst and couldn’t stay locked in her room any longer. She poked her head out the door and glanced both ways down the hall. With no one else in sight, she ventured toward the dining room, a hat pulled low over her forehead, her eyes furtive beneath the small, mesh veil that hung down from its peak over her face, brushing against the tip of her nose.

  She leaned over the deck railing and relished the feel of the morning sun on her face. She glanced around the ship, squinting against the glare as she watched people milling around the deck. A couple played cards on a small table set up outside the dining room. The woman fanned herself with her hand of cards and the man lifted his bowler hat to scratch his bald head.