by Gina Conkle
Had The Fiona left?
Then, the carriage lurched to a halt. Voices yelled outside. She pressed her hand on the carriage window.
Why weren’t they moving?
She cracked open the door. A sleepy-eyed footman poked his head inside the carriage.
“There’s an overturned dray, my lady.”
Lydia looked past the footman, half out of the carriage. Barrels scattered in the road, and two flustered men argued over them.
She smelled briny air. Gulls swooped low onto bits of scraps in the road. People milled about, gawking at the mess despite the early hour. She gripped the carriage door and leaned far. They sat in the middle of St. Catherine’s road. Ahead was Sanford Shipping.
“No, I can’t wait.” She sprang from the carriage with agile feet and picked her skirts up to knee level. Lydia broke into a full run with the green and black Sanford Shipping sign her target.
She had to find him. Find Edward.
Behind her, one of the livery men called out, “My lady, wait. You can’t go there alone.”
She sped past a crossing carter, almost upending him and his goods. The man swore vilely at her back. Her stocking feet beat the ground. Lydia threaded through half-drunk men emerging from a tavern. Air, cool and damp, swished her calves, so rucked up were her skirts. The ground squished under her feet.
Her side knitted with a horrid pinch. But she kept going. A trio of schooners listed in the quiet water. On the dockside, men hoisting heavy sacks stopped to watch her. Lydia’s lungs burst, but she kept her eyes on the green and black. A clerk stood at the base of Sanford Shipping’s warped wood stairs, writing notes on a tally sheet. She slammed into a barrel when she tried to stop short.
Lydia grabbed the barrel with both hands for support. “The Fiona? Where is it?” She panted, her body rocking from the extended sprint. “Lord Greenwich, I must speak to Lord Greenwich.”
The clerk pushed his spectacles higher up his nose and pointed at a mast far out on the Thames. “There be The Fiona, ma’am—”
“No,” she cried, turning to see where he was pointing. She clutched her roiling midsection.
“Left just under an hour ago…”
All of her went numb. Hot tears spilled from her eyes. Lydia walked across the narrow street, the stink of fish offal everywhere. She stood on the planked walk, staring at the ship floating down the Thames. Hope ebbed from her, leaving with that vessel.
A pair of frizzy-haired harbor doxies sidestepped her, whispering behind their grimy, fingerless gloves. Sobs gushed freely from Lydia. Her body doubled over from the ache pummeling her.
“I’m such a fool.”
“Female histrionics. I never understood the need for all that drama and blather,” an amused male voice said behind her.
She spun around.
“Edward?” He was a watery blur. She swiped her eyes with the heels of her hand, and another gulping wail shook her body.
There he stood, blond-brown queue a mess, the same scuffed boots he wore in his greenhouse every day, and his black tricorn hat pulled low.
“I myself make it a rule to avoid such women.” His lips twitched, then broke into a broad smile. “But with you, I could make an exception.”
“You’re not on the ship.”
“Very astute observation, Lady Greenwich.”
He closed the distance between them, and she launched herself into his arms. The buttons of his greatcoat smashed her chest. One hand brushed the hair from her face, caressing her jaw. His thumb stroked her cheek, wiping away rivulets of tears, but she couldn’t stop the flow. She held him since the world melted into watery shapes again.
“You’re a mess,” he said softly, keeping up his gentle ministrations.
Lydia gulped. “I thought you’d left me…that I wouldn’t see you again for years…if ever.” Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I couldn’t bear the thought.”
“You’re not getting rid of me so easily.”
She dropped her head to his chest and listened to Edward’s steady beating heart. The assurance that he was real, that this was Edward standing with his arms around her, calmed her. Lydia loathed to separate even an inch from him, but she tilted her head back and touched his face, loving the smooth and scarred flesh with her fingers.
“What happened?”
“I came to bid one Dr. Ian Finley farewell and give him a parting gift—my jump rope.” He grinned. “My colleague from Scotland. I asked him to go in my place.” He took a deep breath. “It would seem I’ve become one of those men who changes his mind for a woman after all.”
Her eyes flickered back and forth intensely over his face. He looked thinner. Why hadn’t she seen that last night?
“This isn’t some kind of joke? You aren’t leaving on another ship, are you? If you are, I’m going with you.” She said it boldly, her whole body leaning into him, her hands gripping his wool coat. “Do you hear me? I won’t keep you from what you love so much. I’ll, I’ll just go with you.”
“I don’t have another expedition in mind. This one took plenty of gold to finance, as it is.” He looked softly at her and kissed her full on the mouth, lingering for a moment. Edward pulled away, keeping his arms around her. “But I thank you for the offer. Some captains, however, have strict policies about no women on their ships.”
“Can’t you find one and persuade him with your gold?” She leaned archly into his chest. “Or persuade a captain with your arrogance?”
“Wench.” He smirked.
They stared at each other, drinking in the visual promise of each other. A trio of seagulls squawked over a morsel on the ground, and Lydia pulled away, needing a fraction of air between them to think straight. Edward offered his sleeve for tear drying. She dabbed the scratchy wool to her cheeks. Lydia tasted the salt of her own tears, felt the marks of them drying in slender streaks across her face. Every inch of her felt taxed.
“Edward, why didn’t you go?”
“I faced facts. You’ve seared me, left your mark deeper than any drunken pirate could’ve done.” His gaze lifted to the top of her head and traveled down her face. “This may be the only time you’ll hear me wax maudlin, Lady Greenwich, so listen well. I love you and couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing your impertinent face. I need you needling me to present my papers to the Royal Society, to keep me going out in public…in small doses and”—he stopped to drop a kiss on her forehead and spoke softly in that voice of his that sent shivers down her spine—“I want us to have a family, which is difficult to negotiate if we’re on opposite ends of the earth.”
“Oh, Edward,” she sighed, and moisture threatened to spill from her eyes yet again. “I was supposed to say I love you first.” She buried her nose against his wool-covered chest. “I was such a coward not to say it weeks ago.”
Above her head, his warm lips touched her, kissing her head. “Doesn’t matter.”
Edward took a step back, but kept both hands solidly on her arms. “And I think you may have need of my guiding hand when it comes to your wardrobe, Countess. You’ve not availed yourself to a maid to fix your hair.” His eyebrows shot up when his mocking gaze dropped down to her untrussed bosom, visible from her open cloak. “Shocking. And you’re without a corset. What will London’s Society have to say about this?”
“Your lordship?” A footman beckoned from the street. “We have the carriage here for you and her ladyship.”
“Excellent,” he called over his shoulder.
Edward offered his arm, but noticed her lack of shoes and shook his head. He swept her into his arms. Lydia buried her head against his neck and sighed. He laughed, a low sound reminiscent of the first night they met. Edward said something under his breath.
She could’ve sworn he said hoyden.
Epilogue
That is the true season of love, when we believe that we alone can love,
that no one could ever have loved so before us,
and that no one will
love in the same way after us.
—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
1770
On board The Glory
“Land’s ahead.” Edward tipped his head at the razor-thin brown line.
Lydia visored her hand across her forehead for a better look through the distance. “Yes, I see. Is that Scotland? St. Andrews?”
Beside her, a young boy in leading strings strained against the side of the ship to no avail. Edward picked up his son and settled him at his side. He pointed to the far-away spot and repeated, “Land.”
The glossy-eyed, curly haired boy could only squeal in delight and chew on his hand. Drool covered his scandalously tanned skin for a British heir, but he was the picture of health, with chubby cheeks and a few white spots for teeth in front of his grand smile. Edward kissed the top of the tawny curls.
“He’s going to be England’s next greatest scientific mind.”
“Or artist,” Lydia chimed in beside him.
Edward snorted and raised an eyebrow at that, but wisely chose restraint. “And speaking of art, how go those sketches, Countess?”
She braced both hands on the ship’s rail and leaned into the breeze. “Well, I’m no Maria van Oosterwyck, but I think I captured the essence of the azalea’s stamen.”
Her hair hung free, and the sea air brushed her tresses gently past her shoulders. She closed her eyes and faced the sunshine. At present, the Countess of Greenwich was an unfashionable, though glowing, shade of creamy tan. His heir, Jonathan, clapped his hands in glee at nothing in particular. Edward was blessed with a joyful son—and a wife who understood and respected him to his very core. He grinned at the bountiful blessings right in front of him, and kissed the babe on the cheek. The lad rested his curly head on Edward’s shoulder.
Lydia opened her eyes, pointing at their son, whispering, “He’s half-awake, Edward. You might take him to Nurse so she can watch him for his nap.”
Edward pulled back to see little Jon rouse and fight the invading sleep. He whined and mumbled sleepy childish noises.
Lydia stroked his tousled head, cooing at him. “Oh, love, I think he wants you to tell him a story. Please tell him a story and walk about the deck. Your voice will soothe him.” She winked at Edward. “Not unlike the effect you have on me.”
Lydia slipped her hand over his arm and they began a slow circle around the deck. The woman at his side gave him lots of inspiration.
“Your mother, the Countess of Greenwich, has many talents,” he said, rubbing the youthful halo of curls under his chin. “She’s a very good worm hunter. But she’s known throughout the land as the woman who tamed a horrible beast.”
“Oh, Edward,” Lydia chided him, but her tender laugh erased any starch reprimand.
Wind gusted across the ship, but they were a tight, cozy bundle, the three of them. Lydia moved closer to Edward, and Jonathan burrowed into his warmth. Profound satisfaction poured its rare kind of balm on Edward’s soul right then. He knew exactly the tale to tell.
“Once upon a time, there was a midnight meeting…”
Acknowledgments
My husband Brian said, “It’s your turn.” That kind of support can’t be measured, yet makes all the difference. My agent, Sarah Younger of Nancy Yost Literary, works tirelessly on the behalf of me and the other writers she represents. She’s cheerleader, adviser, and all-around sage. Without her enthusiasm, this would’ve been a half-finished “someday” story on my laptop. To the Sourcebooks team, thank you for looking beyond the first “title-challenged” manuscript. I appreciate your enthusiasm and warm welcome to Sourcebooks.
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About the Author
Growing up, Gina wanted to be an author. Fast-forward past college, into the working world, marriage with two boys, and that’s when she discovered that sleep’s a luxury. With shelves of history books and a fertile imagination, it didn’t take long for her to put the movies playing in her head onto paper. Ever the introvert, she was thrilled to partner with her excellent agent, Sarah E. Younger of NY Literary, because that’s when the fun really began.
When not exploring adventure and romance on the page, she enjoys life in southern California with her husband and two sons.
