She knew the pain of carving someone out of her heart. Her father’s death was still too raw.
Celeste clenched his lordship’s arm for the scary crossing onto the ship. Once there, a crew member escorted her to the cabin, along with the stout, wide-eyed lady Aster had sent as a chaperone. Lord Erran stayed on deck to discuss the wonders of steamship travel with his friends. Out of the cold damp, with a brazier to warm their feet, it was almost comfortable, despite the bobbing of the water beneath them. Trying to pretend she was in a drawing room, Celeste settled in with her sewing. Mrs. Lorna nervously took out her knitting.
She didn’t know where they had taken her trunk, but one of the crew thoughtfully carried in their food basket. Cook knew how to prepare food for long journeys.
Gentleman that he was, Lord Erran stepped in to ask after their comfort before they sailed.
“There is not much light, but we are warm, and the bench cushion is comfortable,” Celeste replied. “Do you know how long we will be at sea?”
“If the weather holds, we’ll make excellent time, and should make port by nightfall. If we catch the tide, we may even sail into Newcastle, where we can hire a post chaise. But this is not a season for predictable weather, so I can make no promises.”
His voice was all that was polite, but Celeste heard his underlying concern. She wished she didn’t. Her memories of the storm that had killed her father were painful. She merely nodded acknowledgment without expressing her fear.
“We have plenty of food and lemonade, whenever you need it,” she said serenely.
His eyes narrowed, as if he heard the terror she was holding in check. It was bad enough that she couldn’t charm him. It was worse if he could actually hear what she tried to hide. Tensely, she forced a smile, letting him believe what he must.
“Thank you. I wish to observe the engine room, but I will join you for luncheon, if you do not mind.” He bowed out, leaving them to the cozy cabin.
“He is most particular about our comfort,” Mrs. Lorna said in satisfaction. “I am sure all will be well.”
That certainty lasted only until the ship sailed from the Thames into the North Sea. At that juncture, Celeste realized the difference between a large ocean-going vessel and a small river-sized one. They felt every surge of the waves, every blast of the wind tilting the small craft about. The roar of the boiler and churn of the paddle seemed to strain as they chugged northward.
Mrs. Lorna groaned, looked decidedly greenish, and set aside her knitting.
At least Celeste had experience with seasickness. She urged her companion to sip ginger root tea with a little honey and when that did not help, took a bucket from the wall. The lavatory facilities were limited to a closet and not what one could want when ill. She wiped Mrs. Lorna’s forehead as she lost her breakfast, and resigned herself to treating her for the rest of the journey.
The waves and wind worsened by mid-day. Lord Erran clung to his hat as he blew into the cabin, leaning against the door to close it. Taking one look at the prostrate woman on the bench, he grabbed the foul bucket and struggled outside again.
“We’re hoping it’s only a brief squall,” he said when he returned. “We’re still making good time.”
Until we crash on rocks, Celeste thought. Or a wave tosses us over. Or the wind blows us to France or whatever is across this ocean.
“Would you like a sandwich?” was all she said. Perhaps all that was required for a stiff backbone was the façade of civilization.
“I will not apologize for the conditions,” he said stiffly. “I begged you not to come. The ship is experimental.”
Celeste glanced down at the woman on the bench, but Mrs. Lorna seemed to have fallen asleep. She met Lord Erran’s gaze. “Do you read minds or are you simply assuming that I’m complaining?”
He looked uncomfortable. Rather than answer, he poked through the basket and found a sandwich wrapped in brown paper. He took one of the small lemonade containers and sipped from it, and handed her another.
“You . . . convey what you’re feeling when you speak,” he said, apparently thinking it through as he spoke. “You have this marvelous voice, one that could soothe babes to sleep or melt a man into a puddle of wax. I’d love to hear you sing. But underneath . . . you are raw emotion. If you sang an unhappy song, I might fling myself into the sea.”
Celeste stared. He did not seem pleased to disclose this, so it was not flattery. “No one has ever told me that my voice made them suicidal,” she replied, striving to understand.
“I don’t think anyone else hears what I hear,” he admitted. “And the converse is that when you are happy, it makes me unreasonably pleased. But I think others hear only what you want them to hear, which is dangerous.”
“If I want people to hear my unhappiness, I have only to voice it?” she asked in doubt. “I have only ever tried to wheedle them into doing what I want.”
The ship lurched, and he steadied himself on an overhead beam. “Your family hasn’t noticed this? You never experimented to see what else you could do?”
“I’m rather amazed that you know what I do and admit it,” she said, somewhat testily. “No, my family never noticed. Jamar and Nana seem to know and mostly ignore me. I don’t believe I’ve ever upset them as you say I can.”
“It’s good to know that not everyone is affected.” He bit into his sandwich as he pondered the preposterous. “It’s possible that once people are attuned to you and recognize what you’re doing, it’s easier to block out the charm.”
She frowned and thought about that. “Are you saying our gifts are different, that you must bellow authoritatively to make people do what you wish? I can hear when you really want to shout, and I admire your restraint.” Celeste opened a sandwich and nibbled at the cucumber filling.
“I only discovered my oddity this past year, with my first courtroom case.” He paced the tilting floor. “I terrified a judge into not only returning my client’s home, but into demanding that his landlord pay him damages. I was furious that a scurrilous landlord would evict a poor man with three small children. I fear I was outrageously bombastic in his defense, and it was most certainly not my knowledge of the law that brought the entire courtroom to their feet, shouting, ready to stone the landlord—and the judge, if he did not side with me. It was an ugly scene that could easily have evolved into riot. I wasn’t certain if we’d escape with our skin intact.”
“I would like to do that,” she said fiercely. “I would sue Lansdowne and bring the rafters down about his ears.”
His smile was almost fond and caused an irrational flutter beneath her breastbone.
“I don’t think it works that way. I think you would bring them to tears with your plight and even the earl would beg to shower you in gold, or whatever you asked. Yours is a rather more gentle persuasion that my riot-inducing ability. And I feel like the veriest sapskull even saying this.” He poked around in the basket and produced an apple.
“There have been great orators over the centuries,” she said, unconcerned. “It is not real magic. If I had real magic, I’d bring back my father and slay Lansdowne. I don’t know why your speaking ability bothers you.”
“Oration and what we do are two different things,” he asserted. “It is possible that what we do is related to Mesmerism, but I would have to study a science that seems little more than Aster’s foolish astrology to find out. Besides, I want to win cases honestly, on their merits, not with an unfair advantage based on emotion or voodoo that is neither just nor logical.”
“Politicians win elections by saying things people want to hear,” she argued. “There’s not a great deal of difference as far as I can see. You believe in your case. Your opponent believes in theirs. Only the future will tell who is right. It would be terrifying if you could stop the wind, but you’re only doing what generals have done over the ages—asserting your authority. Generals are not always right.”
He didn’t look convinced. It was sad that he was the o
ne person she could not persuade, and rather terrifying that he could hear how she felt as she argued.
The floor tilted ominously, and bucket and basket slid toward the door.
“Would you rather I stay here through this storm, or should I leave?” he asked, glancing at the stormy clouds through the porthole.
That was a terrible question to ask when he could tell if she lied.
Eighteen
By evening, it became obvious that the ship would not make the mouth of the Tyne at a reasonable hour. Erran gathered up hammocks from below and carried them to the cabin, where Miss Rochester sat on a smaller bench and sewed by the light of an oil sconce. Her useless companion still lay groaning on the larger seat.
Erran seriously regretted letting the lady talk him into this. No matter how much he wanted to succeed at the task of removing the Rochesters to their own home, he knew better than to travel with a woman, and still, he’d let her overcome his common sense with female illogic. At the moment, he was just relieved that he wasn’t being battered by bitter complaints. Yet. As the ship pitched and night fell, he braced himself for a tirade.
“Even if we can sail upriver and reach port tonight, it will be too late to disembark and find an inn,” he explained as he hooked up the hammocks. “We will have to sleep on board.”
The storm had mostly passed, but the sea was rough. Miss Rochester cast her moaning companion a look of concern. “I don’t suppose there are blankets or pillows to make Mrs. Lorna more comfortable?”
“I’ll find blankets. Is there anything in your trunks that might be rolled into a pillow?”
She wrinkled her patrician nose. “My petticoats will have to do. I’ve more linen in my sewing basket. I can wrap them in that.”
Expecting the usual female complaints, Erran was surprised by her calm resilience, but he refused to give her the pleasure of knowing it. He nodded curtly. “I’ll leave you to prepare for bed. I trust our crew, but once we’re up the river in Newport, the ship will be accessible to thieves. I cannot in all conscience leave you alone. If Mrs. Lorna sleeps on the bench, I’ll take this other hammock.”
He watched in satisfaction as her eyes widened in alarm, but still, she said nothing. He’d really wanted her to speak so he could judge whether she hated the idea or not. But she was perceptive and had learned to stay silent to give him no hint.
After he’d correctly judged her relief beneath her earlier cold declaration that he could leave or stay, she was rightly wary of speaking.
She wanted him near her. To his disgust, Erran was learning how a beautiful woman could inflate his pride. Previously, his only relationships with women had been of the mutually satisfactory physical kind. He’d never tried to please one.
He wanted to please Miss Rochester.
The companion did not do no more than moan while they made arrangements. By the time Erran returned with blankets, Miss Rochester had turned off the lamp so he could not admire the full effect of her slender form without billowing skirts. But he was painfully aware of her as they arranged the hammocks and blankets in such close proximity.
Their chaperone was almost completely useless.
Acting on his urges was a sure way to fall into the parson’s mousetrap. Unlike most of his infamous family, he did not intend to support a raft of bastards.
“We will be in Newport by morning?” she whispered as they settled into their respective canvases.
“If the tide is right, we’ll be there before midnight. In the morning, I will find transportation north. Lady Aster has given me a list of inns where we might stop for the last few days of our journey. You should sleep better tomorrow night.”
“I have not slept well since we left Jamaica,” she said sadly. “I will be content to sleep at all.”
Erran had no reason to feel guilt at her admission, but he winced at her honesty.
***
Two men had to haul Mrs. Lorna into the dinghy the next morning.
“I don’t think she is well enough to travel further,” Celeste murmured in dismay as they climbed up the embankment from the river, with Mrs. Lorna still clinging to one of the crew.
She had passed a restless night with Lord Erran only a few feet away. He didn’t snore, but she had been painfully aware of his masculine proximity. He had been the perfect gentleman, though. She had almost been disappointed.
“We’ll find an inn to break our fast and discuss what to do next,” Lord Erran said grimly, casting about for transportation.
They pried the older woman, moaning, into a battered open carriage. The crew tied on their trunks, and Lord Erran rode with the driver as they traversed pitted roads to the inn that had been recommended. Celeste held up Mrs. Lorna’s head and patted her hands and watched their surroundings with interest.
The Jamaica she knew was sprawling green and fields of sugar cane. It had no manufactories, no coal heaps, no burgeoning industry of the likes she saw around her. Coal dust and neglect had left much of the town dilapidated and filthy, but the streets bustled with activity.
This was the world to which Lord Erran aspired with his mechanical friends?
He had never said as much, but she had heard his fascination when he spoke of the sewing mechanism and talked with his friends about the amazing steam engine that had allowed them to travel so swiftly. She liked the notion that the fastidious gentleman didn’t mind getting his hands dirty when he was playing with machines. It was an interesting dichotomy of intellect and manual skill—pursuits only a young, unattached man might follow.
She would remind herself of that every time Lord Erran looked at her as if she might actually hold his interest. He no doubt thought of her as a puzzle to be solved and certainly not in a way that might suggest permanence. She needed a real home and security. She would more likely find that in Jamaica than with lordly English gentlemen.
Once settled at the inn in a comfortable parlor with tea and coffee and a large breakfast, Mrs. Lorna showed signs of recovery. She asked to be excused to repair herself, leaving Celeste alone with Lord Erran—not an auspicious sign that her companion had all her faculties about her.
“I hate to mention this,” Celeste said as she studied the situation. “But I fear we have somehow convinced Mrs. Lorna that we . . . are above the usual propriety?”
Pacing the small parlor while sipping his coffee, Lord Erran scowled. “She’s just not well.”
“I will not cast aspersions on Lady Aster’s trained employees. A proper companion would insist that I go with her so we could help repair each other. She has left me here as if I am of no moment. My choice is to believe she thinks I’m not a lady or to believe she thinks I am above reproach. I have chosen to believe the latter.” Celeste buttered her toast and ate hungrily, undisturbed that he did not understand what she was telling him. He didn’t want to believe in his gift, so he wouldn’t acknowledge hers.
“She is not well and I cannot see how we can go on,” he insisted. “I don’t want to leave you here alone for the week or more it might take me to journey to Wystan and search the library. But I cannot punish that poor woman by rocking her about in a post chaise over rutted roads.”
Celeste considered her options as she ate. She was fairly certain she would not reach the same conclusions as Lord Erran. Unfortunately, he was not susceptible to her counter suggestions. She would have to work around him.
The merit of clearing her name, establishing the date of her father’s marriage, and possibly finding information about where he may have stored copies of his will far exceeded that of propriety, in her opinion.
Rather than argue, she waited for Mrs. Lorna’s return. Lord Erran finally took a seat and emptied his plate. She could feel his tension as much as her own. He knew what they had to do. He simply would not admit it, stubborn man.
Even after a night in a hammock, he managed to look unrumpled and elegant. Yes, his linen was a little worse for wear, but his tailored coat would not dare possess a wrinkle, it clung so lovingly
to his broad chest and slim hips. And he’d already had someone wipe the mud from his boots. On a practical level, he’d donned mud brown for his traveling attire instead of the white and gray he often wore at home. Only his gold vest revealed his dandyish side.
She was starting to understand that Lord Erran presented the casual elegance of wealth to influence the company his brother’s business needed. He no doubt needed that image in court as well. On his own—he would have fixed things by grubbing in oily machines.
Mrs. Lorna hurried in, using a damp handkerchief to wipe her brow, pushing at her spectacles, and trying to tuck straying gray curls back under her cap. “I am so sorry. I usually do not do so poorly. I fear I have been a terrible burden on you.”
“Dear Mrs. Lorna,” Celeste said in her most charming voice. She patted the chair beside her. “You will make yourself ill by fussing so. We have decided that it would be best if you stay here with your feet up, and a maid to look after you until you are well enough to travel again. You deserve every consideration after that horrible steamship.”
Lord Erran sent her a sharp look, apparently hearing her persuasion. Celeste ignored him to fuss over the older lady.
“That is very kind, I’m sure,” the lady said with some bewilderment, settling into her chair. “I do not wish to be a burden in any way.”
Since she was saying exactly what the woman wished to hear, Celeste was confident her charm would sway her. “And you are not a burden! I’m sure dear Lady Aster will approve, if you do not mind staying at an inn. I would not ask you to stay somewhere that you’re not comfortable.” The beauty of her charm, Celeste knew, was that she meant every word.
“I have an aging aunt,” Mrs. Lorna said with eagerness. “She lives close by. Perhaps I could stay with her and be useful.”
“That is perfect!” Celeste cried. “We’ll arrange for you to see her, then. Perhaps when it is time to take the return journey, you will be feeling hale and hearty, and we’ll make a party of it.” She turned a smile to his disgruntled lordship. “You will not need to hire a horse, just the post chaise, correct?”
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