Rags to Romance

by Killarney Sheffield

  Lady Swanson shifted in her chair. “Sit up straight, Finny.”

  With a roll of her eyes Finny sat as she had been taught, back straight and feet firmly together on the floor. “I ain’t even got a way t’talk t’im.”

  “Do not, not ain’t.” Lady Swanson corrected. “There are ways to communicate while men are abroad, you know.”

  Finny brightened. “Aye? How?”

  “You could correspond with him.”

  “Huh?”

  With a delicate groan Lady Swanson crossed to the desk and procured a quill, ink pot and paper. “Write to him.”

  “Can’t write.” Finny chewed the nail on her index finger. When Lady Swanson favored her with a sharp glance she dropped her hand to her lap and hid the gnawed-on digit in the folds of her skirt.

  “I suppose it is just another thing we shall have to teach you, Finny. For now I can pen anything you would like to say.”

  “All right.” Finny leaned forward and thought long and hard about what she wanted to say to the man who rescued her from squalor and then promptly abandoned her in the care of his sister. Nothing came to mind. “Don’t know what t’say.”

  Lady Swanson took a seat behind the desk. “How about starting with asking after his health?”

  Finny bit her lip. “Lord … no, husband … no … argh! I don’t know what t’call ’im.”

  “How about we start as if you are meeting for the first time?”

  “Like, I’m Finny, pleased t’meet ya?”

  A smile quirked the corner of Lady Swanson’s lips. “How about, ‘Dear Lord Dowell, I hope this letter finds you well and having luck on your journey’?”

  “That sounds nice.” Finny grinned. “I’ll tells ye what I wanna say and ye write it nice and fancy soundin’ like that, okay?”

  “Deal,” Lady Swanson agreed, “but only until you can write well enough to do so yourself.”

  Finny nodded and began to dictate what she wanted to say. “Lord Dowell. I hope you is doing good finding treasure like Lady Swanson says. Thanks fer savin’ and marryin’ me. I’m tryin’ to learn to be a good and fancy wife fer you and it’s hard, but I’m gonna do it, you’ll see. I got me some new dresses and they’re real purdy. Lady Swanson says you’ll be bringing back some real nice cloth so I can get some even nicer ones made. I’m even learnin’ t’dance and paint, though I already knew the paintin’ stuff, just never had much fer purdy colors t’use. Your stepma doesn’t like me much so I stay away from ’er as much as I kin. That’s hard when we live in the same house, but Lady Swanson has been real nice t’me. I don’t gots nothin’ else t’say now. Love Finny.”

  Lady Swanson wrote for a moment after Finny stopped talking and then looked up with a smile. “All right, here is what I wrote for you.”

  April, 29th, 1858.

  ‘Dear Lord Dowell;

  I trust this letter finds you well. Your sister informs me that you are sailing the seas in search of riches and adventure. I wish you the utmost luck and a safe journey. I have been spending many hours with your stepmother and sister to pass the time until you return home and look forward to the pleasure of your company. Until then I shall entertain myself with my painting and dancing practice.

  Until we meet again,

  Yours ever so humbly,

  Josephine May Donelly’

  Finny grinned. “That’s jus’ perfect. You sure got a way with words, Lady Swanson.”

  “I am glad you liked it, Finny. Now put your signature on it and I will seal and send it with a footman right away to the docks. It is bound to find its way to my brother’s ship eventually.”

  “What’s a sig’ture?”

  Lady Swanson cracked the barest of smiles. “Like this.” Taking another piece of paper, she wrote something and passed it to Finny.

  “What’s that?”

  “That is your name, Finny. Here, trace over it a few times with the quill and then copy it onto the letter.”

  Finny clamped her tongue between the corner of her lips and with painstaking care traced the quill over and over the fancy lettering until she was confident hers would look almost as nice. With a touch of pride she signed her full name to the letter for the first time, Josephine May Donelly. “There, it’s fancy now.”

  “Well done. Although now that I think about it I should have had you sign as Lady Josephine Dowell since you are married to my brother, next time, I suppose. Now, how about we write a letter each month he is away?” Lady Swanson took the paper blew on it and then sealed it with a blob of wax.

  “He’s gonna be away that long?” Finny’s eyes widened.

  “The Orient is a long way away. He should return in eleven or twelve months. Until then we have much work to do.” Lady Swanson summoned the footman and advised him to deliver the letter to the first orient bound vessel at the docks. When the servant was on his way she smiled. “Well, shall we return to your lessons?”

  With renewed determination to please her husband, Finny stood and followed her mentor from the room.

  * * *

  June, 29th, 1858

  Devon popped the wax seal on the wrinkled envelope with his butter knife. A letter from his sister no doubt by the looks of the seal. Since she knew all the ports he’d be stopping in to pick up trade goods and supplies he shouldn’t be surprised and he could expect more, knowing her. He slipped the folded piece of paper free and held it out to the lantern glowing on the desk, careful to keep his roll against an unexpected current. After reading the first line he frowned and scanned the letter down to the signature at the bottom. Lady Josephine May Donelly.

  Just who was this Josephine? Pursing his lips he tried to place her, but failed. Was she one of the endless debutantes always vying for his attention at the many balls his mother insisted he attend? Most likely some lovely young swain who attached herself to his sister to gain his notice he decided.

  Crumpling the paper he tossed it into the brazier, glowing with coals for the night. When he failed to write her back she would find fresh meat to pursue. He considered sending a letter to Kat asking her to gently dissuade his secret admirer, but decided against it. His sister could be very persistent herself and he really had no wish to be the victim of her barbed tongue on the subject of his misplaced nuptials. No doubt she had a strong opinion about his rash decision to marry Finny and dump the coarse girl on his stepmother in retaliation for her meddling in his affairs. A year would be soon enough to deal with both his sister and stepmother’s indignation. Perhaps a year would cool their ire at least a little.

  “My lord?”

  Devon looked up. “Yes, Captain?”

  “There’s a ship trailing us off the port bow.”

  “Is it another merchant ship?”

  The captain shook his head. “I think not, my lord. The first mate in the crow’s nest says she isn’t flying any visible colors.”

  “Hum … well, keep an eye on her then for now. Time will tell whether she’s friend or foe.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  When the captain retreated back above deck Devon crossed to the porthole and raised the spy glass to his eye. Sure enough a tiny ship came into view. From there it was difficult to tell for sure but it did indeed appear there were no colors or identifying flags flying above the main mast. He placed the spyglass to the desk and returned to the map spread there. They were too close to land yet for it to be pirates he was sure, but it paid never to be too careful. Many people knew his ship by sight. He had it built specifically for his use and it was like no other sailing the seas. It was common knowledge there would be many commodities aboard to trade and riches brought back from exotic places. It wouldn’t be the first time he was ambushed at sea, nor the last.

  Excitement rushed through his veins at the idea of danger. This is what he lived for. The adrenalin rush of out running a pirate vessel and the heady excitement of winning a battle was the ultimate life. The life he was meant to live, not the boring drudgery of flitting to party after party a
nd the tedious dinners of London. No one could fault him, could they? After all, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, as the saying went.

  Lifting his glass in fond salute to the portrait of his dead father hung on the far wall, he downed the brandy in it and then smiled. “Here’s to the sea, father. May your journey be as exciting in heaven as it was on earth.”

  He set the glass down and returned to mapping out the route to the orient. Lisbon would be the next port where they would take on supplies, unload items to be traded with Iberia and then they would sail on to Cape Town in Africa. From there they would hug the coastline through the Indian Ocean to Madagascar, cut across to the tip of India, and finally navigate the multitude of islands until they reached China. In addition to trade items Devon looked forward to acquiring all kinds of curious and furnishings to make Candlewick the stuff of legends.

  Chapter Six

  When the butler entered the sitting room Finny looked up from her painstaking attempt at monogramming a scrap of silk. It was supposed to be a new handkerchief for her husband upon his return and she grimaced at it. Will I ever get this? In disgust she directed her attention to the pile of letters and cards stacked in neat order upon his silver tray. “Did anythin’ arrive fer me?”

  “I have no idea, miss, I mean, my lady.”

  She scowled at him as he set the tray beside Adele’s favorite spot by the fire and left the room. Surely her first, second and third letters had been delivered already. Why didn’t the earl write her back? Was he angry at her? Did he regret marrying her? Did something terrible happen to him? Panic surfaced and made her drop the needlework and clutch her tightening chest.

  Adele entered the room, frowning when she spied Finny there and then crossed to her seat. Pretending she didn’t notice Finny she picked up the tray and sorted through the pile.

  Finny waited a few moments and then screwed up her courage to ask what she desperately wanted to know, just to be sure the butler hadn’t made a mistake. “Is there anythin’ fer me? A letter maybe?”

  With a look that could scorch butter Adele set the tray back down. “No, there is nothing for you. Are you waiting for something?”

  “I—well, I wrote t’me husband, an’, well ’e hasn’t writ me back yet.” Finny fumbled with the needle work to avoid Adele’s stare.

  “You wrote to my stepson?” A delicate snort escaped the dowager duchess. “I had no idea you could write.”

  Ignoring the belittling tone of Adele’s voice Finny jabbed the needle into the thin fabric and unwittingly jabbed her finger. “Ow.” After sticking the digit in her mouth and sucking on it for a moment to soothe it she wiped it on her dress skirt. “Aye, I did, well, Lady Swanson wrote for me, but I did the talkin’.”

  “I see. Whatever for?”

  Finny peeked at the dowager from the corner of her eye. “Lady Swanson says I should write ’im, ye know so’s to get t’know ’im and show ’im I can be a good wife. But, he hasn’t writ back. D’ye think somethin’ bad happened to him?” She held her breath, waiting to hear her knight in shining armor had been lost at sea. It would be just her luck something like that would happen. Stuff like that happened all the time to people like her….

  “I doubt anything unfortunate has happened.” The dowager shifted in her seat, plucked an envelope off the top of the pile and broke the seal. “I imagine he has had time enough to think of what he has done and regrets his rash decision to marry you.”

  Though she wanted to dispute the dowager’s words, Finny couldn’t. The ring of truth in the statement cut Finny’s heart like a knife. The breath she had been holding whooshed from her chest leaving her dejected and deflated. “Oh. Well, maybe there’ll be one t’morrow.”

  Lady Swanson breezed into the room looking as impeccably groomed and attired as always. “Good afternoon, Adele, Finny, what a lovely day it is outside.”

  “Is it?” Adele snipped, “I hardly noticed.”

  “Yes, it is. I thought Finny and I could have tea in the garden during our lesson today. Would you care to join us, Adele?”

  The dowager countess snorted. “Most assuredly not. Why I’ve better things to do than be seen socializing with a dowdy little thing like Finny.”

  “Now see here, you, you ol’ badger-faced crone,” Finny protested. “I’ve been learn’ my lessons good and I’m gonna make his lordship proud of me when ’e gets home, you see that I don’t.”

  With a gasp the dowager stared her down. “Of all the nerve!”

  “Now Finny,” Lady Swanson hurried to interrupt. “That was very rude to call Adele such names and it wasn’t very ladylike.”

  Finny scowled down at the floor. “Well, she deserved it.”

  “Even so, Finny, you must not let what people say make you angry, and you must never resort to name calling,” Lady Swanson admonished. “Now, please apologize to Adele.”

  With a glance at Lady Swanson’s expectant expression Finny took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I called you an ol’ badger-faced crone.” To Lady Swanson she mumbled. “She started it.”

  The corner of Lady Swanson’s lip twitched and her eyes twinkled in a way that reminded Finny of the earl. “Adele, you did hurt Finny’s feelings. She is trying very hard to become a lady and I think she is doing exceptionally well. Can you not find it in your heart to be kinder to her?”

  “Humph.” The dowager snatched up the morning paper and disappeared behind it without comment.

  Lady Swanson sighed. “Come along, Finny, we shall spend the afternoon outside where it is warmer.” After directing a pointed look at the paper wall shielding the dowager she marched out of the parlor.

  Finny smirked and then walked as regally as she could from the room. Once she reached the foyer she dropped all pretenses and ran up the stairs to get her shawl and Bettie.

  The gardens were like nothing she had ever seen before. Bright red, pink, yellow and white flowers bloomed in moist brown patches of earth between the cobblestone paths. To Finny it was as if someone planted a little patch of paradise in the middle of the city. Lady Swanson waved from a table and chairs set up by a small fountain shaped like a baby cuddled in its mother’s arms. Finny hurried over and set Bettie’s cage beside a shady bush next to the empty chair.

  “Can I come out here sometimes?”

  “Of course you may, Finny, this is your home now. You may go anywhere you please in the house or on the grounds.”

  Finny smiled and sat down. “I ain’t never been in a garden before, unless ye count the time I chased Walter Kinney through Mrs. Snipes’ potato patch. Boy, was she mad.”

  Lady Swanson cracked a smile and poured two cups of tea, sweetening them both with a spoonful of honey. “I thought we could work on your diction today.”

  “My wot?” Finny frowned over the rim of the cup she picked up with both hands.

  “Your word pronunciation, dear.” She took a sip of her tea and then set the delicate cup back on the saucer. “How you speak, Finny.”

  “Wot’s wrong with how I talk?”

  “You can dress fashionably and have the best manners, but your coarse speech will betray your upbringing. You must learn to speak clearly and correctly.”

  Rolling her eyes Finny surrendered. “Fine, teach me.”

  “All right, try this: she sells tea from France that is very rich and flavorful.”

  Puzzled Finny frowned. “Who does?”

  Lady Swanson giggled. “I have no idea.”

  “Oh, am I supposed t’know ’er?”

  “No, no, Finny, you are supposed to repeat the sentence slowly as I have said it.”

  “Oh.” Finny took a deep breath. “She sells tea fer France tha’ is ver’ rich an’ fla-vor-ful.”

  “Try it again, dear, and this time let the r’s roll off your tongue and do not forget the endings of your words.”

  Squaring her shoulder’s Finny tried again, getting it almost perfect the second time. She couldn’t help a cocky grin. “Hey, I sound like you now.
”

  “Yes, that was much better. Shall we try some more sentences?”

  Finny grinned even wider. “Why, yes we shall, m’ dear.”

  Struggling to control her laughter Lady Swanson carried on with the lesson.

  An hour later Finny slouched back in her chair and sighed. “My cheeks hurt.”

  “I suppose that is enough for today then, Finny. You have done very well. I would wager in a few months’ time no one would ever know you were not born a lady.”

  “Do ye—do you—really think so?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  Finny smiled. “My husband is gonna be so proud of me.”

  “I am sure he will, Finny, but you should be even prouder of yourself for trying so hard and doing so well at bettering yourself.”

  She pondered her friend’s meaning. “I’m a better person now, ain’t … I mean … I am now, right? I didn’t know you were a bad person if you spoke bad.”

  “Oh, Finny, I did not mean it that way. Coarse speech does not make you a lesser person, it just makes you different. What I meant was you are bettering yourself by learning to read and write.”

  “Oh.” Finny mulled the idea over in her head. Being able to read and write was definitely a desirable thing, and something few people she knew could do. The fact that it made her better than the other people from Whitechapel was both elating and disturbing. Did the circumstances of one’s birth really make them better than another? Perhaps it did. Did this mean that all nobility were better people? She thought of the dowager. Better maybe, but not necessarily nicer.

  Chapter Seven

  Aug, 7th, 1858. The Port of Good Hope, Cape Town, South Africa

  Devon supervised the last crate being loaded. Once the men had it secured in the hold the hatches were latched. “That is the last of it, Captain, we should be ready to pull anchor at first tide.”