Feeling useless, Simone sat and fingered the seersucker. The seconds ticked by until she could no longer delay.
“Mrs Featherstone?” She hated how her voice squeaked.
“Yes?” The other woman didn’t lift her head.
“I, ah, I don’t know how ta sew.”
“What did you say?” The needle stopped mid-air; the captain’s wife did not lift her head.
“I don’t know how.”
Mrs Featherstone raised her gaze, her face a picture of disbelief.
Simone smiled weakly. Oy, she hated to disappoint the captain’s wife, she were a nice lady.
“You’re not long married to Lord Wellington, are you,” she said icily. Her mouth compressed and she tilted her head to look Simone full in the eyes.
Simone bit her lip and shook her head.
“And you did not borrow my dress because you lost your luggage, did you?”
Again, Simone shook her head.
Mrs Featherstone pursed her lips; her eyes narrowed. Disbelief was giving way to anger, for her cheeks had gone apple red. “I find you a rather unorthodox choice for Lord Wellington as you’re clearly not of his station. However, it is none of my concern. You are both paying passengers and it’s not my place to question the captain. Or, for that matter, to question your lord about you. He has presented you as his wife and therefore I must assume you are.”
“I, ah, could learn ta sew,” Simone stammered, trying to steer the conversation away from her supposed marriage in a futile attempt to quiet her own discomfort. “Really, I could. I want to. I really want to.”
She didn’t wish to provoke the woman. As the captain’s wife, perhaps she had the power to throw Simone in the brig. Which was the last place Simone wanted to be. She shivered.
“But.” Mrs Featherstone held up a finger. “I don’t like being lied to.” Her voice was reproving; her face stern.
“I am sorry. Really, I am….” Simone’s voice trailed away. Miserable, she lowered her gaze. It caught on the lovely slippers. She reached over and pushed them across the table.
The other woman pushed them back. “Keep them. They’re of no use to me.”
Startled, Simone looked up.
The red on the woman’s cheeks began to fade; her expression settled back in its customary pleasant lines. “You must promise me that you shall not lie to me any further.”
Chastened, Simone bowed her head. “I promise,” she mumbled. Oy, how long had they been at sea? Three days? Within a matter of minutes in Mrs Featherstone’s company, Simone had been found out. She had met none of the others on board yet and already her position as Lady Wellington was suspect.
“Our passengers are usually men.” Mrs Featherstone’s voice was brisk. “I’m thankful for your company. So yes, I shall teach you.”
Simone jerked her head up. The woman, despite her doubts over Simone’s background, had made a charitable offer. Gratitude flowed through her at the woman’s kindliness and she resolved not to disappoint her. “Ye think I can learn?” She looked down at her hands, the knuckles scraped and nails broken. They looked like workman’s hands, not meant at all for womanly arts.
“Without a doubt.” Mrs Featherstone’s voice was firm. “Idle hands beget the devil’s work. Depending on the winds, we have another five or six weeks at sea. I warn you, I am going to be a stern taskmaster.” She waggled a finger at Simone. “I expect nothing less than your full attention.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Simone mumbled, still doubtful over the whole idea. However, she didn’t want to fail the kindly woman sitting across from her.
With a sigh, she picked up a needle.
Oy, she wanted to please Mrs Featherstone but sewing didn’t seem nearly as important as figuring out how to portray a convincing Lady Wellington or how to repay Temple.
* * *
Lesson finished, Simone made her way above deck and spied Temple near the bow. With his dark hair blowing in the wind, he looked like a pirate, or at least what she imagined a pirate would look like. Even his expression was pirate-like, dark and brooding, and his fists still clenched the rail. She wondered about his thoughts. They must be troubling to him, for his fingers were taut, whitened against the wood.
Matching her gait to the movement of the ship, she started toward him. He glanced over and his face cleared at seeing her.
She tucked her new slippers under one arm and leaned on the railing beside him. “Ain’t ye sick anymore?”
“A little.” His mouth made a rueful moue. “But I had a nap and the ship’s surgeon has assured me I shall live. His recommendation is for fresh air of which,” he swept his arm about, “there is plenty.”
“I been thinking,” she began, hesitant to broach the subject. She was grateful to him for bringing her along and didn’t know how to say it, or show it. “About how I could repay ye.”
He cocked his head. “Yes?”
“I could teach ye a thing or two.”
“Now what, precisely, do you think you can teach me,” he teased. “How to sew?”
“Oh no.” She shook her head. “I don’t like sewing. It’s tedious and makes me eyes ache.” It seemed pointless to tell him this morning had been her first attempt at it. “No. A few tricks favoured by pickpockets. So ye know what to look for.”
“I think not.” Patently disinterested, he looked away, out over the water.
“I see.” She rubbed her chin. Oy, what else could she offer, she had nothing of value. Nay, that wasn’t quite true—she knew the location of his mysterious package. Which didn’t do her any good at this precise moment. “I know.” She brightened. “Perhaps I could entertain ye. We could play cards. Or dice.”
“Cards or dice?” Astonishment coloured his voice.
“Aye. Or don’t women play that in your world?” It was the first reference she had made to the social chasm between them. He appeared not to notice and for that she was grateful. She felt awkward enough as is so close to him, sharing his cabin.
“I shall think on it. In the meantime,” he slanted a glance at her, “why don’t you tell me where you came from? What of your parents?”
“Mrs Dougherty is the only parent I ever knew.”
“Who is Mrs Dougherty?”
“Someone who took me in.” She pointed her finger then changed the subject. “Look, there’s a sail on the horizon.” Temple didn’t need to know about the workhouse on Bishopsgate Street. She shivered as a sudden cloud veiled the sun.
“You’ve a chill, get your shawl.”
There he went again, being all solicitous with her. It made her feel special. She straightened her shoulders and pushed back from the rail.
“Before you go, why don’t you put those on?” He pointed to the kid leather slippers tucked beneath her arm.
Her head jerked around. Was he teasing her again? But no, his face was solemn. “Is it proper?”
“Is what proper?”
“To take me boots off in front of ye.”
“It’s not really, but….” He leaned toward her. Her heart lurched and began to beat a wild cadence; her breath froze in her throat. So close she could see the golden flecks in his eyes. So close she could smell the man scent of him—spicy and smoky and something else. With an effort, she forced herself to pay attention to his next words. He wasn’t for the likes of her and she would do well to remember that.
“I shan’t tell,” he whispered.
She shrank back. Seemingly unaware of his effect on her, he grabbed the slippers, brushing his elbow against her breast as he did so. Lightning heat burned her skin beneath the fabric of her dress; her face heated.
Mercifully, he stepped back but not before placing the slippers at her feet. Her heart resumed its normal rhythm and she drew in a large, shaky breath. She pulled off first one boot, then the other before glancing at him. He watched her, intent, predator-like.
In an instant, Temple grabbed the boots and pitched them overboard.
“Oy,” she squealed. “Th
em were my only pair.” She dashed to the railing in time to catch the sad sight of her boots disappearing into the green murk. She rounded on him, arms akimbo and forehead wrinkled. “Why did ye do that?”
“They’re disgusting and they stink.” He nudged the slippers with his toe. “Now put these on. Don’t worry, I shan’t say a word about the hole in your stocking.”
A crimson-faced Simone followed his orders.
“Much better,” he remarked casually.
Yes, thought Temple, the sight of two trim ankles below the too short dress was infinitely more pleasing. He let his gaze linger on them before raising it to look her square in the face.
“Have ye looked yer fill?” Her icy voice matched her cool manner and she glared at him.
He couldn’t help it—his laughter burst forth.
“Forgive me,” he managed to choke out, tears streaming down his cheeks. He whipped the handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face before bursting forth again in gales of laughter.
“It ain’t funny,” she sputtered. “Stop it.”
“Aye, you’re right, it isn’t funny. They were your boots and I had no right to give them the heave ho. Once we arrive in Montreal, I’ll replace them. But the look on your face as I tossed them was priceless.”
“I’m tired,” she said suddenly, obviously stung by his laughter. “I’m going to the cabin.”
“Very well. I’ve a mind to stay on deck.” He could tell by her relieved expression she had been worried he would accompany her.
She turned to go then turned back. “Mrs Featherstone invited us to join the captain’s table for supper.”
Her face still bore traces of red. She looked vibrant and alive and it gave him the strangest sensation of wanting to cosset her. How ironic, for he knew she didn’t see herself as needing cosseting.
She waited for his answer so he quelled his unruly thoughts. “Then we shall have to go.”
“Really? I were hoping ye’d say no. What with the captain being angry with me and all.”
“You cannot evade him altogether. Besides, it wouldn’t do to turn down his wife’s invitation,” he said, ignoring the clanging cacophony of warning bells in his mind.
Chapter Five
Three hours later, before the first course even appeared, Temple regretted accepting the invitation.
The evening had started innocuously enough.
He and Simone entered the empty dining room to find the table set with a white damask tablecloth, gold rimmed porcelain, fine glassware, heavy silver and even place cards. Several heavy silver dishes, a cut crystal decanter of red wine and a woven basket of oranges graced the sideboard.
“You sit here. I’m across from you.” He pointed to her chair.
He strolled around the table to read the rest of the place cards while she sidled past the side board to her chair. From the corner of his eye, he noticed she snatched an orange and stuffed it into her pocket, looking at him all the while with a wary expression. He pretended not to notice; she was, after all, a paying passenger and perfectly entitled to an orange if she so wished.
They sat down and Simone immediately picked up her card. “This says my name?” At his nod, she tucked the card into her sleeve.
Not surprising, she didn’t know how to read. How, then, would she comport herself at dinner if a simple place card held fascination for her?
Foreboding tickled Temple’s spine.
However, she sat with hands demurely folded in her lap, a hesitant smile on her lips. It was a promising sign and he turned his attention to the other passengers as they trickled in.
As a cargo ship, not a passenger ship, their dinner companions were small in number and consisted of the first mate, Allan McCabe, the ship’s surgeon, Dr Nicholas Taylor, and Gordon Dixon, a clerk bound for Montreal. Last to arrive were Mrs Featherstone, who smiled at Simone, and the captain. He gave Simone a fierce look then made a point of ignoring her, stomping to his seat at the head of the table.
No sooner had the introductions been completed than Simone proceeded to inspect the cutlery before declaring “This be fine silver.”
She picked up the dinner plate and turned it over, running her finger along the gold trimmed edge before replacing it. The crystal glasses were inspected with the same thoroughness. These she flicked with her finger until they produced a fine ring. “Nice,” she declared.
Foreboding again tickled Temple’s spine. He wanted to enjoy his first real meal at sea in peace but this could be an awkward situation if he didn’t handle it properly. He would have to count on her quick wits.
He made an extravagant show of unfolding his napkin and placing it on his lap; she followed suit. At least she had noticed.
“Are we having them?” Simone pointed toward the basket of oranges.
Bloody hell, what was her fascination with the fruit? He opened his mouth to answer but the captain’s wife forestalled him.
“No.” Mrs Featherstone shook her head. “Perhaps later. Why do you ask?”
“They’re me favourite,” she replied enthusiastically. “I don’t know why, I’ve just always liked them.” Her voice trailed away when she noticed Dr Taylor looking at her.
“Good choice,” Dr Taylor said. “We have a barrel of oranges on board. They’re good for the scurvy.”
“Scurvy?” Simone’s brow wrinkled.
“Aye, scurvy. It’s caused by a deficiency of ascorbic acid. Its symptoms are bleeding gums, loose teeth, aching joints and red spots.” Dr Taylor stopped. “Oh, dear, I must sound like a medical encyclopaedia. I just finished my studies last week,” he explained apologetically.
“That sounds like spring sickness.” Her brow smoothed in understanding.
“Spring sickness, scorbutus, scurvy, it’s one and the same.”
“And oranges fixes that?”
“Well, fresh food of any kind is good,” interjected Allan McCabe, the first mate. “It’s just that citrus fruits keep well.”
“I see.” Simone was silent for an instant. “That explains why I never got spring sickness.”
“How so?” Dr Taylor asked.
“I stole me an orange almost every day. From the markets. I went to a different one every day, so I wouldn’t get caught,” she bragged.
Dismay surged through Temple. Didn’t she realize she’d admitted to being a thief? The charade as his wife had hardly begun and already it teetered on the edge of disaster.
“Simone!” He tapped his finger on his mouth to shush her.
“Simone, really!” Mrs Featherstone exclaimed.
Simone looked at Temple. At the sight of his murderous expression, she switched her gaze to the captain’s wife.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” she mumbled. “Sometimes I say things without thinking.” A flush crept through her cheeks.
“Agreed,” Temple growled. “So enough chatter and let us begin our meal.” He couldn’t decide whether his own embarrassment at Simone’s behaviour or embarrassment on her behalf peppered his brow with beads of sweat. He swiped his forehead with his napkin, frantically shaking his head when he noticed Simone about to copy him. Bloody hell, how would they survive this meal without looking like a pair of buffoons? He groaned inwardly and looked at the clock.
She blinked and replaced her napkin on her lap.
Mrs Featherstone served the soup from a chipped tureen, carefully passing out the bowls one by one. Simone immediately grabbed her bowl and slurped its contents.
Temple gave her a ferocious kick under the table.
At another time, the sight of two piercing blue eyes glowering at him over the rim of her bowl might have amused him but not tonight, not now. He rolled his eyes skyward. The evening promised to be interminable. Somehow they must get through it without drawing more attention. No, he corrected himself. Without Simone drawing any more attention.
He shook his head slightly. “Watch me first,” he whispered. “Do as I do.”
She put down her bowl, flashing him
an indignant glance in the process. How else am I supposed to eat soup, she seemed to say.
He picked up his spoon in his right hand; so did she. He dipped it into his bowl and raised it to his lips. She did too although it was plain to see she had overfilled the spoon for a trail of amber broth dripped off of it and onto the table cloth. Not too bad, considering the motion of the ship. He gave her an encouraging smile.
Simone took it as permission to go ahead and finish the bowl for she lowered her eyes and bent her head down closer to the bowl, shuttling the liquid between it and her lips without looking up once.
He contemplated giving her another kick but decided against it, opting instead to eat his own soup while it was still hot. A quick glance around the table confirmed the others were occupied with the tricky liquid as well. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice her struggle with the soup.
Of course, she finished long before he did. Soup dripped from her chin and he paused long enough to pat his napkin to his lips. Her expression brightened with understanding and she did the same.
After that she fidgeted while he finished his soup. She tapped her fork on the edge of her plate before tapping it on her glass.
The conversation died away. Temple swivelled his head to find the doctor, clerk and first mate gaping at Simone with a mixture of surprise and amusement. A sympathetic Mrs Featherstone cast an apprehensive glance at the captain, who regarded Simone with blatant dislike.
Bloody hell, they’d only finished the soup course and already things had become undone. Perhaps an explanation would be in order.
“Lady Wellington comes from rather unusual circumstances,” he began in his most pompous voice.
“What is unusual, Lord Wellington, is that you think you can teach the chit table manners.” Captain Featherstone leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I fear you’re wasting your time.”
Temple’s hackles rose at the captain’s haughty manner. “That sounds like a challenge to me. Perhaps you are up for a wager?”
The Countess' Lucky Charm Page 4
