He waited on the top step, then turned and shook hands with Nicholas, then Samuel, as they arrived. Grace and Helen stood beside them, hugging each other and crying.
“I cannot thank either of you enough,” Christopher said to his brothers-in-law, his throat swelling once more as he fought the tide of his own emotions. “I could not have chosen better men for my sisters.”
“I thought you did choose us,” Samuel drawled with a half smile.
Christopher clasped his arm. “Too right. So I did.” He grinned and sent Samuel a silent thanks for his attempt at lightheartedness.
“Take care,” Nicholas said. “And be sure to write often, or Grace shall insist upon being shipped off after you to monitor your welfare.”
“Oh no,” Christopher said with mock seriousness. “She is your responsibility now. Do not dare let her anywhere near a dock or a ship.”
“I do not intend to.” Nicholas nodded once more, then stepped backward, retreating over the threshold and into the foyer, along with Samuel, so that Christopher might say his farewells to Grace and Helen in private.
He wasn’t certain whether or not he felt grateful for this courtesy. His sisters would need their husbands to comfort them, and he needed to keep his own emotions in check— a feat made more difficult without the worry of acting a ninny in front of the other men.
“You had best write often and tell us of your adventures.” Grace clasped his right hand tightly in her own as Helen claimed his left.
Christopher glanced over his shoulder at Harrison, their driver, who stood beside the Sutherland landau. Harrison merely shrugged, as if to say, Good luck getting them to let you go now.
Instead of fighting his sisters’ grasps, Christopher stepped nearer so that the three stood closely. “It is you who must take care, Grace. And you must be sure to write as soon as you are safely delivered of your child.”
Her eyes widened. “How did you know? We have not spoken of it in front of you. I did not wish to worry you or cause you to delay your trip.”
At her words, Christopher knew his sisters would let him go, but he also knew they believed his journey was merely a lark, a young man’s adventure, from which he would soon return. They could not have been more wrong. He intended to settle in America and make a life for himself there.
“It was impossible not to notice your condition,” Christopher said, earning a scowl from Grace as she glanced down and pressed a hand to her still-flat stomach.
“You don’t appear different,” he clarified. “But for the past month Nicholas has been treating you like a fragile china doll. He does not even allow you to walk up the stairs by yourself. What else was I to think?”
“I see.” Grace pursed her lips, but Christopher knew she was pleased with his assessment of her husband’s attentiveness.
“And you, Helen—” Christopher turned his gaze upon his younger sister, who thankfully had stopped her sniffling during his exchange with Grace. “I hope you feel better soon. I’ve not any experience with women who are increasing, but Samuel tells me the illness usually passes after a month or two.”
Helen and Grace gasped at the same time.
“When were you going to tell me?” Grace demanded.
“I only just realized myself this week.” Helen’s eyes narrowed at Christopher. “Samuel told you?”
Christopher chuckled. “Do not scold him for confirming what I had already guessed. The sounds from your chamber each morning and your lack of appetite at breakfast made your condition rather obvious.”
“Oh, dear.” Helen blushed prettily as her hand flew to her cheek. Christopher squeezed her other hand gently.
“You will need to take extra care of your husband during this time as well.”
“I know.” A fresh set of tears escaped Helen’s eyes. “He is so frightened of losing me.”
As well he should be. Christopher attempted to push aside the fear he felt for each of his sisters. When he’d realized Grace was expecting, he had considered delaying his departure until she was safely delivered and he had met his niece or nephew. But the weather would be poor that time of year, and he would likely have had to wait a few months more. And it would only be harder to leave. His sisters had their lives, and it was time to go in search of his.
“And how do you feel about a child of your own?” Christopher asked Helen gently, hoping to coax her from her sorrow.
“Beth is like my own,” she said. “But, oh, I am ever so happy.” She smiled through her tears. “A child, Christopher— I shall soon have a child!”
He laughed. “Well, let us hope that’s what it is.” At this Helen released him, wrenching her hand from his in mock anger, then flung herself into his arms and sobbed upon his shoulder. Grace followed suit, and the lapels of Christopher’s coat were soon wet with their tears.
Just as he began to feel desperate, Nicholas and Samuel reappeared in the doorway. They came up behind their wives and gently pulled them away, Samuel turning Helen into his embrace, and Nicholas kissing Grace’s forehead, then wrapping his arm about her.
“Go,” Nicholas said, waving Christopher toward the carriage, “while you still can. I’m not certain how long we shall be able to hold them off.”
This elicited a teary laugh from Grace, and with a last, fond gaze at his sisters, Christopher turned away and hurried into the carriage.
“Wait! You cannot leave without a bit of sustenance for your journey.” Their longtime servant, Miranda, ran down the front steps carrying a large basket in her hands. She handed it to Harrison, who, Christopher noticed, took entirely longer than necessary in removing his hand from Miranda’s as he relieved her of the basket. He passed it into the carriage, and Christopher made an exaggerated show of hefting it to the seat.
“What have you got in there— rocks?”
“No— not that you don’t deserve them, leaving your sisters as you are.” Miranda placed her hands at her hips and bestowed her sternest look upon him, causing Christopher to smile. He leaned forward out of the carriage and placed a quick kiss on her cheek. “I will miss you as well, Miranda. You had best take good care of her, Harrison.”
“I intend to,” he said, sending a coy look in Miranda’s direction.
Harrison closed the carriage door, and a moment later they were off. Christopher turned his face to the window and waved, watching as long as he could, until the carriage turned from the drive onto the road and his family disappeared from sight.
Whatever am I doing? How can I possibly leave them? Alone with his thoughts, the severity of his decision crashed down upon him, its weight suffocating. When— if ever— shall I see Grace and Helen again? Yet, still, he felt he must go. England did not hold his future.
America— independent, as he longed to be— did.
Manchester, England, September 3, 1828
“Miss Abbott! Miss Abbott, wait!”
The door had only just closed when the summons pulled Marsali from the longed-for solitude within the coach. What now? She leaned her head back against the seat, partly from exasperation, partly from exhaustion. Her aunt and uncle had scarce given her time to pack yesterday— not that she had much to pack— and had awoken her well before dawn so she might complete the morning work before she left.
“Miss Abbott!”
Marsali drew the curtain back from the window and peered out to see one of her aunt’s maids waving an envelope as she ran toward the coach.
The steps had not yet been put up; neither had the coachman ascended his perch, and to Marsali’s dismay, he opened the door, allowing the servant girl to enter the carriage. This she did, thrusting the letter at Marsali.
“Post just came, and this for you. From America.”
“Thank you.” Marsali accepted the letter warily, worried that it was some trick of her aunt’s to detain her further. But a quick look at the postmarks confirmed the letter was indeed from America and had been sent some three months earlier. “From my sister.” Marsali smiled. “Sh
e promised to write and tell me what I must expect upon my arrival.”
“Might you want to open it now— just in case it’s something else. Bad news, perhaps?” the maid suggested.
Marsali’s eyes narrowed, and though she very much wanted to open the envelope, she made a show of tucking it into her reticule instead. “What it says is of no consequence. Even if ill has befallen my sister”— her stomach clenched at the possibility— “I should assume my journey anyway. There is nothing here in England for me. You may tell my aunt I said that.” She sat up tall in her seat.
The maid bobbed her head obediently, but not before Marsali glimpsed the empathy in her eyes.
Likely she wishes she was leaving too. Save for a paltry wage, the servants were treated no better than she, the niece thrust upon her aunt and uncle four years earlier. Well, they’d made good use of her, hadn’t they?
“Good luck to you, then, miss.” The maid backed out of the coach.
The door closed once more, and Marsali willed the driver to hurry aboard and be off before her aunt could think of anything else to delay her. She glanced at a corner of the envelope peeking out from her reticule. Post just arrived— doubtful. It was far more likely that her aunt had already had the letter in her possession for weeks— if not longer. Little wonder she did not open it herself, Marsali thought, half suspecting that her aunt actually had opened the letter and read its contents before resealing it. Once more, a feeling of unease stirred within her. What if it really is bad news?
It took a great deal of effort to dismiss the thought and to leave the letter untouched. It was likely just some ploy of her aunt’s, hoping that no news, or bad news, from Charlotte might dissuade Marsali from following through with her plans.
No chance of that. The vehicle lurched forward suddenly, throwing Marsali’s head against the seat. She did not push aside the curtain to see if anyone stood at a window watching her leave. She did not wish for one last glimpse of the street or house. She was leaving Manchester and all of England behind forever. And she couldn’t have been happier.
Closing her eyes and doing her best to dismiss any worry over her sister, she promised herself that she would wait until she was aboard the ship and they were underway before she opened her letter. For now the wheels rolling along the cobbled streets and the swaying carriage soothed her. I am on my way. With each passing minute, Charlotte is closer.
Near the noon hour, the coach stopped at an inn near Warrington. Three other passengers had joined them along the way, and Marsali waited until each had departed the carriage before she stood and shuffled stiffly toward the door. Squinting against the sun, she accepted the coachman’s outstretched hand and stepped outside into the midday brightness. The difference in the air hit her at once, and she inhaled deeply, smelling the moist, salty air of the ocean. They weren’t that far now. A few more hours and she would be aboard the ship.
A smiled curved her lips as she followed the others toward the Elm Tree Inn, an ivy-covered building that boasted two large windows up front. She had slept much of the morning away but now felt rejuvenated and looked enthusiastically forward to new experiences and a life free— for a few weeks, at least— from the burden of constant labor.
Just outside the inn door Marsali paused, wondering if there would be anything on the menu she might purchase with the little money she had left. Deciding she might at least be able to afford a cup of tea, she tentatively entered the pub, allowing one of the gentlemen who had shared her coach to hold the door for her. A woman traveling alone could not be too cautious and had reason to be wary. Her aunt and uncle might have easily offered her the use of their coach and servants to accompany her, but then, that would have been a kindness— a word unknown in their vocabulary or lifestyle.
Inside, the light shone nearly as brightly as it had outside, streaming as it was through the two southern-facing windows. Seating herself near one of these, at a tiny table with only one chair, Marsali felt a little more of the tension leave her.
I am away from them. I am this much closer to America— and Charlotte. To a new home.
Christopher emerged from the hackney, paid the driver, then waited as his trunk was unloaded from the back. After two consecutive days of traveling, it felt good to be standing on solid ground, though that feeling wasn’t to last long. But acquiring sea legs had to be easier than sitting cramped inside a coach for hours on end.
He took in the scene about him at the Liverpool docks, lively with midmorning activity, men loading and unloading cargo, ships leaving anchor, and a friendly bustle of commerce all about. The brick buildings lining the waterfront advertised all manner of merchant ships and services, from coopers to sailmakers. Men— many of them with the hardened look of sailors— loitered about, likely looking for work. Christopher eagerly scanned the names on the weathered shop signs, hoping to see one proclaiming “Thomas and Gower, Steamship Service,” but there was no such sign.
Not yet, anyway. But in years to come— maybe even next year— there will be. He was excited at the prospect of steam travel and especially being able to make the trans-Atlantic journey in nearly half the time it took the standard sailing vessels.
A long line of people snaked along the boardwalk and up the gangway of the large sailing ship to his left. Babes in arms cried, and tiny children clung to their parents’ legs or peered warily from between them. A group of young boys skipped about in some sort of game. The older youth and gentlemen near his own age wore expressions of cautious optimism, while the older adults stood tiredly, many looking defeated already.
And their journey has yet to begin. From their thick accents, Christopher guessed they were Irish. From their poorly patched and threadbare clothing to the baskets and bundles in which they had secured their meager belongings, he guessed them to be even poorer than he.
And all heading to America as I am. She does not care that we arrive without wealth. Though he was to be fortunate in his travel, crossing the Atlantic under considerably better conditions than most. Christopher’s gaze slid to the smaller, yet good-sized vessel docked beside the immense sailing ship and felt an almost palpable excitement. History was about to be made. And I am to be a part of it.
The coachman and driver had succeeded in retrieving his luggage. “You sailing on that newfangled ship?” Both men looked toward the vessel attached to the nearest gangplank.
“I am,” Christopher said, proud rather than concerned, as the men seemed to be.
“I hear they’re calling her a steam coffin,” one remarked.
“Steam and the speed that comes with it do not necessarily equate with death,” Christopher said, though he knew much of the public held that view. It was the reason he’d been able to purchase such an affordable passage on the Amanda May, one of the first steamships set to cross the Atlantic and in record-breaking time.
“For your sake, I hope you are right,” the coachman said, his voice so full of doomsday that Christopher had to work to hold in a laugh. The coachman and the driver hefted the trunk between them and, still looking wary, followed Christopher along the dock and to the gangway. For a half second he wondered if they were going to deposit his trunk there and leave him to find someone else to help with it. But after a few surreptitious glances at the ropes securing the Amanda May, they started up the ramp and boarded the ship.
For all the activity bustling on the docks below, the ship’s deck appeared deserted. Christopher nodded to a spot out of the way, and the coachmen put his trunk down and were off, hastily retreating the way they’d come.
Christopher held back the urge to chuckle as they practically ran down to the dock. He didn’t see why the addition of a paddlewheel, steam engine, and smokestack to a sailing ship should cause such a stir. But Captain Gower had done just that with his “newfangled” invention. Christopher could only feel thankful for that and for the advertisement he’d happened upon when he’d been in London last spring.
“Our first passenger.” Christopher turn
ed as Gower himself strode across the deck. Christopher had met him once before, nearly two months ago, when he’d come to the public viewing of the Amanda May. Grey peppered the hair at the captain’s temples, and his skin had the weathered look of a sailor, but his round face appeared jovial, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled.
“Welcome.” Captain Gower stuck out his hand, and Christopher took it, pleased to feel that the captain’s grasp was strong and solid.
“Christopher Thatcher, sir,” he said. “Eager to be off.”
“Not a fugitive, are you?” the captain asked in a tone that didn’t reveal whether or not he was in jest.
“No. But I had to fight my way from my sisters’ grasps, and I’m feeling somewhat relieved to have that behind me.” A fleeting discomfort pulsed through Christopher’s chest as he recalled their tearful farewell. He’d known Helen to cry a lot, but he couldn’t recall Grace having ever shed so many tears. He tried to take comfort in knowing that he’d left both of his sisters in more-than-capable hands.
And with Crayton shipped off to France now… There was no longer anything holding him back from his dreams. From here on out, I make my own way. I am bound by no one and nothing. The choices I make will be my own, not anything I am compelled to.
“Well then, welcome aboard,” the captain said once more. “Marc, our cabin boy, will help you stow your trunk.” As if on cue, a lad of about fourteen appeared on deck, just behind the captain.
“Take any cabin you’d like on the port side— take all of them, if you want,” Captain Gower said, grunting. “You’re the only male passenger we’ve got this voyage. Cowards, these Englishmen are. I’ve no doubt I’ll fill her full on the return trip from America. Little wonder she won her independence fighting against a bunch of pasty Englishmen.” He shook his head. “Three women will be joining us, and we’ve got a fine crew, but you’ll have plenty of time to yourself for the next four weeks.” Pivoting sharply, he strode away in the direction he’d come, as if he’d had all of the talking that he could stomach.
Marrying Christopher Page 2
