Capture The Wind (3 page)

Atlantic Ocean, 1802

“Don’t be a goose, Emily. Whyever would pirates attack our ship?”

Angela Lindell gazed at her maid with fond amusement. Dear Emily, so addicted to fantasy instead of fact, even when it terrified her. It was one of her most endearing—and irritating—qualities, and Angela was frequently moved to tell her so.

Emily Carmichael glanced over her shoulder at the gray waves surrounding their ship, then shuddered nervously. She turned back to her mistress. “Oh, Miss Angela, it’s said that pirates attack ships in these waters with no rational thought at all. Why, only last month, that horrible Captain Saber took three ships from these very same waters. Killed the crew, stole the goods, and”—her voice lowered dramatically—“and ravished the women.”

“Did he. How energetic this Captain Saber must be.” Angela curled her gloved hands over the side rail and leaned into the wind until it tugged her hair loose from beneath her hat. She caught at the pale strands whipping against her cheeks and murmured, “If I were to believe all the tales I hear about him from you and the
London Times,
the man is a veritable genius at being in two places at once.” Tucking her hair back under the bands of her hat, she turned to smile at Emily when she made her expected protest.

“Emily, dear, you’ve been with me since I was twelve. I have considered you my boon companion for these past dozen years. I must confess, however, that I have noticed your tendency to ignore the disparate facts surrounding any romantic myth you stumble upon. While most of the time I find it quite entertaining, I admit that I am not very much entertained now. I am set on my course, and the
Scrutiny
has sailed, so you may stop trying to dissuade me.”

Emily gave a half-sob and pressed her clenched hand to her mouth. Her brown eyes were wide and moist.

Angela sighed. “Are you going to be ill again?” she asked, but Emily shook her head.

Shiny brown curls whipped over Emily’s pale cheeks. She mumbled through her lace handkerchief and fingers, “Whatever will your parents say when they discover that you and I are gone?”

“I’m well past the age for them to dictate my actions,” Angela said after a moment’s pause. “I realize they love me and want what’s best for me, but we cannot seem to agree on just what that is.” She managed a small smile of reassurance. “Once Papa resigns himself to my determination to wed Philippe and
not
that wretched Baron Von Gooseliver—”

“Gosden-Lear,” Emily corrected faintly.

“I find Gooseliver more appropriate. At any rate, once Papa and Mama have become resigned to the realization that I will wed Philippe, they will come ’round. They always do.”

“I think,” Emily said in the same faint voice, “that you may have underestimated Mr. Lindell’s determination to marry you into an excellent family. He seemed quite set on it, Miss Angela.”

Angela tried to hide her impatience. “Papa has it in his head that Philippe’s royal lineage is not enough to make a good marriage. Normally, I would agree. But Papa took an immediate dislike to Philippe, and never gave him a proper chance to prove himself. It was all over a ridiculous misunderstanding, and quite frustrating. If
I
deem Philippe a suitable husband, I do not see why my family will not trust my judgment. It’s not as if I’m a chit barely out of the schoolroom, you know.”

Emily looked down at her clenched hands. “But you hardly know him, except for his letters.”

“Nonsense.” Angela stifled a twinge of irritation. “One can truly come to know a man by his correspondence, and though Philippe and I may have been separated by miles, we are very close in a spiritual sense. He has written me almost daily for the past eight years, and I have come to know his soul.”

Emily did not look up, her voice a low murmur. “Do you not think, Miss Angela, that Mr. Lindell may have a point when he said that Philippe du Plessis cannot support you properly?”

“I think it frivolous of Papa to decide that Philippe only cares for his money and my dowry. Though it is true that the du Plessis family was devastated by the ghastly revolution in Paris, and most of them foully murdered by the rabble, that does not mean that Philippe is bound to me only by necessity. We corresponded, remember, even before those terrible times.”

Angela jerked irritably at her gloves, dislodging a tiny pearl button from one cuff. It pinged against the wooden deck and rolled through a scupper and into the sea below.

Emily bit her lower lip. “Yes, I remember your corresponding then. But you’ve seen him so rarely, Miss Angela, that perhaps you don’t know him as well as you should.”

“Nonsense. You haven’t read his letters. The written sentiments of the heart can be more revealing than physical closeness. Papa is being unnecessarily suspicious. Though I do understand his concern, I do not share it. He seems more worried about his plump pockets than my feelings.”

“Oh, that cannot be true,” Emily protested. “Mr. Lindell sets great store by your slightest wish, Miss Angela.”

“But not as much store as he sets by his senior partnership in City Bank, or his stock holdings in Sheridan Shipping, or all those sugar fields in the Caribbean, and tobacco plantations in the Americas—”

Angela halted abruptly. Emily’s soft brown eyes had lowered, and her teeth dug into her bottom lip to still its quivering. Her voice was shaky when she said, “I do not think that I shall care very much for this place called Louisiana, Miss Angela. It is said to be filled with hostile savages, and lizards large enough to devour entire villages.”

“More information from the
Times,
Emily?” Angela felt a surge of guilt at her maid’s dismay and put a comforting hand upon the girl’s shoulder. “I shan’t allow anything bad to happen to you. Haven’t I always been able to see us safe?”

“This is quite different than stealing away from Miss Hartsell’s Academy and making a day in Hyde Park, Miss Angela.” Emily drew in a deep breath. “Louisiana is far away from London, and far from Mr. Lindell’s protection.”

“True. But I’m quite capable in my own right.” Angela gave her a last pat, then turned back to the rail to stare over the choppy waves that seemed to stretch forever. It was nearing dusk. England’s shores had long since faded from the horizon, and she felt a swell of anticipation that bordered on excitement. A new world, a new life—and her beloved Philippe. What would he say when she arrived, and he realized what she had braved to join him? He would be overwhelmed, she was certain. This was, indeed, a drastic step for her to take, but it would be worth it when she saw his relief and joy.

She had several moments of pleasant reverie before Emily’s distress once more penetrated her dreamy haze. She sighed at the girl’s inability to envision their promising future and turned back to her.

“Emily, even Papa has always said that I am very resourceful. I beg of you not to distress yourself so. I have already written Philippe of our imminent arrival, so he will be expecting us. Once I am with him, Papa will be forced to recognize my determination and he will concede.”

When Emily still did not seem convinced, Angela shook her head. “At any rate, once Philippe and I are wed, you can return to London if you’re so very unhappy.”

“Are you certain your Philippe is in Louisiana?”

“Quite certain.” Angela’s hand dropped to the reticule dangling from her arm. She could feel the folded sheaf of paper in the small velvet bag that held her last communication from him. “He went to relatives in New Orleans after Papa’s abrupt dismissal of his suit. He was quite upset, you know.”

“I daresay,” Emily muttered.

Angela frowned. “You never have cared for him.”

Emily shook her head. “No, Miss Angela. I cannot say I have. But then, I do not care very much for foreigners.”

“That’s what comes of being born and bred in Yorkshire, I suspect. You should broaden your horizons.”

“Louisiana is broader than I should ever have wished to expand them,” Emily said so wistfully that Angela felt another sharp twinge of guilt.

“Oh, do not look so glum, Emily. All will be well. Let us not dwell on things too much.” She paused, then said, “I have honeyed dates below in my trunk, if you like. I know they are your favorite. Shall I fetch them?”

Even the promise of honeyed dates did not brighten Emily’s round face, though she finally nodded when Angela said she was going below to fetch the tin. “As you will, Miss Angela. Though it won’t help very much.”

Along with the guilt came a surge of exasperation. Angela dutifully tamped it down as she turned away from the rail and made her way to the hatch leading below the main deck. Emily had become more a friend than a servant over the years, but there were times when her timidity was a great trial. If there had been a way for Angela to travel without her, she would have done so, but she dared not flout convention any more than she was already doing. Besides, it would not be long before they were all back in London.

Of course, Angela mused as she felt her way along the narrow, musty passageway toward their cabin, she had never dared so much before. And there was the nagging worry in the back of her mind that despite her assurances, Emily’s fears might somehow prove true. However, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and she was convinced she was doing the right thing.

A thrust of pain at the memory of Philippe’s stalwart expression when Papa had ordered him from their home in Mayfair made her flinch. Poor Philippe. He had looked so despairing and heartsick at the betrayal. None of her protests had swayed her father, who stood firm in his belief that Philippe du Plessis would never be his son-in-law.

Why was she the only one who could see behind Philippe’s circumstances to the gentle, kind man he really was? She’d always considered her father more astute in his judgments. That he refused to reconsider his rash conclusion was painful.

After the scene in their parlor, Papa had arbitrarily announced his acceptance of Baron Von Gosden-Lear’s proposal of marriage for her; it had fused her burgeoning desire to flout convention, and she had immediately declared her intention to wed Philippe without parental consent. It had, of course, been a disaster.

Papa had bellowed and blustered, and Mama had wept and implored Angela not to even suggest such a thing. The dreadful interview had ended with Angela’s retreat to her room and nothing being settled. It had occurred to her as she lay sleepless in her bed, that her marriage to Philippe would be a very simple matter once it was a
fait accompli.
Papa would be forced to acknowledge Philippe as her husband, and Baron Gooseliver could slink off to propose marriage to some other young lady. She was made of sterner stuff than to meekly submit to something as important as marriage.

Angela pushed open the door to the tiny cabin she shared with Emily and lurched inside. Peeling off her gloves, she tried to keep her balance. The constant roll and pitch of the
Scrutiny
made her stumble about most clumsily. Really, you’d think that a shipping line as well known as Sheridan would offer better accommodations, though the purser at the main office had assured her that this was one of the best compartments available on a ship that did not normally carry passengers. Tucked into a corner of the ’tween-deck quarters occupied by the crew, the cabin had very little space, but did afford some privacy.

Angela eyed the narrow bunks with distaste and bent to fumble at the catch of her trunk. It had been stashed in a small space between bunk and wall; a tiny cupboard that held a washbowl and chamber pot was just above it. She tugged at the trunk, and succeeded in pulling it out enough to open the lid.

A sudden lurch of the ship slammed the lid shut, and she narrowly escaped having her fingers smashed. Without warning, the door to the cupboard slung open, and the washbowl and chamber pot tumbled out to roll across the dipping floor with a metallic clatter.

Mumbling to herself about the bleak comforts of a ship, Angela finally had them caught and stowed away again before she returned to her trunk. It took her a minute to find the tin of honeyed dates that she’d included at the last moment. A jumble of hastily packed clothes contended with gilt-framed miniatures of her family, hairbrushes, bottles of scent, and an assortment of odds and ends that seemed faintly ridiculous in retrospect. She smiled when she saw the porcelain music box she’d brought. Lifting it from the trunk, she turned the key to wind it. Light, tinkling tones were almost drowned out by the creaking and groaning of the ship, and she put the box to her ear and closed her eyes. Papa had given it to her for her tenth birthday. Scenes on the porcelain cover depicted unicorns and a maiden with long blond hair. Papa had said that he’d thought of her at once when he’d seen it, and had bought it for his own fair-haired maiden to enjoy.