Marrying Christopher (19 page)

“Following such torturous treatment,
this
doctor’s orders are for you to get some rest and let Murphy care for Miss Cosgrove.” Mr. Thatcher used his free hand to reach for some strips of cloth. “Between my keeping you up late to look at the stars and then Miss Cosgrove summoning you, you can’t have had more than an hour or two of sleep.”

“But think of poor Mr. Murphy.” Marsali sighed. “I cannot ask him to stay with the ladies a moment longer than necessary. I do not imagine he is particularly enjoying that duty.”

“He might be.” Mr. Thatcher’s mouth quirked. “Who’s to say he’s not using the time to clean out his ears or scrub between his toes? He seemed rather fastidious about his grooming the other night while keeping an eye on you. And didn’t you say he’d been cleaning his teeth during last night’s watch?”

“So he was.” In spite of her weariness, the pain in her hand, and the gravity of the situation, she felt herself returning Mr. Thatcher’s smile. Each time she was with him he had a way of making her feel better, no matter what her difficulty. “But I
should
hurry. Aside from Mr. Murphy and me, there’s no one else
to
tend Lydia and her mother. And Mr. Murphy has other duties. Mr. Tenney has to be in the kitchen— the crew must eat if they are to keep this ship going— and besides, there are no other women. In their present states, Lady Cosgrove and Lydia should not be seen by anyone but me.”

“I doubt very much that it matters— in their present state,” Mr. Thatcher said. “And you’ve forgotten one other person who is and will continue to be able to help— me.”

Their eyes met, and she read the sincerity of his offer.

“I shall help you,” he said. “I’ll watch over them while you rest. Now that we’ve the soiled bedding out of their cabin, and the buckets and chamber pots emptied, it isn’t so bad inside.”

“Lydia shall be thoroughly mortified when she discovers you’ve seen her in such a poor condition.”

“Why should she care?” Mr. Thatcher asked, his brows furrowed.

Marsali found the look endearing. “Because she is enamored of you, that’s why. You cannot say that you haven’t noticed.”

“But I haven’t,” he said. “All her talk is of her fiancé— Mr. Vancer this, Mr. Vancer that. I thought it was meant to keep me in my humble place.”

“And a fine place that is,” Marsali said, smiling at him and half sorrowful as he removed the stinging cloth and ceased touching her. “You are not so high as to be above helping a sick lady and her daughter— or bandaging the cut of a clumsy girl.”

“You’re not clumsy.” He lifted her hand and began wrapping fabric around it. “I daresay there was a good reason you dropped that bottle.”

Marsali cast her eyes down and saw that her free hand still shook slightly.

“Is it prying if I ask about your mother?” Mr. Thatcher asked.

“No more prying than I was when I inquired about your sisters.” But Marsali did not elaborate further. How did one go about explaining something like this— like the loss of her mother and the horrid and mysterious circumstances surrounding her death?

Yet Marsali found she wanted to tell him. She wanted him to understand.

“They said my mother killed herself,” she began. “By taking arsenic.” She looked up at Mr. Thatcher to gauge his reaction.

“But she didn’t.” He held her gaze. “She loved you and would never have done something like that. She would not have left you alone.”

Marsali’s breath caught, and she felt a bit of weight lift from her chest. “Yes.” How could he have known what to say, an admission she had longed to hear for over two years— from anyone? She’d tried explaining that very thing to at least a dozen different people during that time, but none of them had ever listened to or believed her.

And here I have not explained a word of it to Mr. Thatcher, and yet, he knows.
It felt like the sweetest balm on a wound that had festered a long time.

“It wasn’t suicide.” Tears stung her eyes. Marsali told herself it was just because she was tired. She’d been up most of the night, after all. But the truth was, she felt so relieved that someone believed her— finally. She wanted to hug him. Instead, she fought to quell her emotions and tell him the whole of it, a task that seemed suddenly easier.

“After my father died, Mother and I had to go live with his sister, my aunt Ada. She didn’t care for us one bit and made that quite clear at the beginning. We’d only been there a few months when Mother became ill. My aunt said I was too young to look after Mother, and I wasn’t allowed in to see her much. Aunt Ada cared for her, while everyone whispered about what a charitable woman she was and what a burden Mother and I were upon her.

“I was kept away from Mother— until the end, when she was too ill and my aunt declared there was nothing more to be done. Mother’s body had ceased to function properly, and my aunt was too disgusted to be near her.”

“Was she as you discovered Lady Cosgrove to be last night?” Mr. Thatcher asked.

“Just as she was.” Marsali nodded. “The bottle of medicine on Mother’s dresser was empty, so I took it to town, to the apothecary, to see if he might refill it for me, just this once. I hadn’t any money to pay for it, but I was desperate for anything to help Mother. My aunt had been giving her small doses of that medicine for months, and I believed— wrongly— that it was the only thing keeping Mother alive.”

“When, really, it was killing her.” Mr. Thatcher had finished bandaging Marsali’s hand but still held it in his own, his fingers folded over hers in a gesture of comfort.

“Yes.” It was as if she had told him this story already. If only someone else, someone at her aunt’s house or in Manchester, had believed her like this.

“The apothecary took the bottle from me and smelled it, much as I did tonight when I found the one on Lady Cosgrove’s washstand. His face turned ashen, and he leaned over the counter and stared down at me, demanding to know where I’d found the bottle. I told him it was my mother’s medicine, that she’d been taking it for months.

“‘It’s arsenic, you fool girl,’ he said. ‘The only way it will cure her is to take her from this life.’” Marsali closed her eyes, remembering her horror at hearing those words. “He left his shop with me, turned the sign, and closed it, marching me right back to my aunt’s house and Mother— dead.

“Aunt Ada denied ever having given anything to Mother, and in front of the apothecary she accused
me
of poisoning her— my own mother. He believed my aunt, and he wanted to take me away and have me locked up, or worse. But my aunt persuaded him to let me stay on with her. Said she’d see to my punishment most thoroughly.”

“And she did,” Mr. Thatcher finished in a quiet voice.

“Yes.” Marsali took a deep breath, willing away the memories to the farthest recesses of her mind. “What happened after that doesn’t bear talking about. All the hatred and anger I felt— all the abuse I suffered— it’s over now. You are the first person to believe me. No one else ever did, and my aunt and uncle were too well respected in Manchester for me to have hope of any sort of justice. Leaving was the only thing I could do.”

Mr. Thatcher’s free hand rubbed his brow as if it pained him. “And now you are headed to an equally perilous situation.”

“Perhaps
.
”
Mr. Thomas cannot be as bad. He will not be
.
She must keep telling herself this or fall victim to despair. “But you see why I don’t fear Mr. Thomas as much as I might. I have already lived a life in constant danger and survived. I’ve no doubt I can do the same in America.”

“I do not doubt your capabilities either,” Mr. Thatcher said, his voice troubled. “But simply because you are able to endure something does not mean you must.”

Marsali waved her free hand dismissively. “With no other option available to me, I
shall
have to. But please, I do not wish to speak of it anymore. Worrying about Mr. Thomas will only deprive me of these remaining few weeks of freedom, and I should like to enjoy them to the fullest. Their memory will have to last me for quite some time.”

“For years to come,” Mr. Thatcher muttered beneath his breath. Marsali felt strangely comforted that he should feel indignant on her behalf.

Not that it will change my circumstances in the least.
But she supposed that when she had a difficult day or had to endure an injustice from Mr. Thomas, she would have this memory to look back on and draw strength from. She would be able to remember that once someone had cared what became of her and how she was treated.

Mr. Thatcher released her hand and set about picking up the items he had used to tend her cuts. “Was it the smell that so upset you tonight? The shock of it?”

“I think so,” Marsali said. “It certainly brought back that day, the realization of what had happened to Mother— that she probably hadn’t been ill at all but had been slowly poisoned by my aunt. If I had only known, I could have saved Mother, and she might still be here with me.” She closed her eyes briefly, imagining her mother as she had been before they’d come to England— smiling and full of life.

“When I saw Lady Cosgrove looking so like Mother did at the end, and when I realized that Lydia had taken the same
tonic
— only a larger dosage at once— I became frightened for them. As I am still.” Reluctantly Marsali used her good hand to push up from the table. “I must stay with Lydia, at least. She needs a friend right now.”

“She has a true one in you,” Mr. Thatcher said. “I’ll be in to check on you later this morning. I think I’ll sleep a bit now so that I may relieve you tonight.”

“Thank you,” Marsali said. “You continue to prove yourself a gentleman at every turn.”

Mr. Thatcher pretended to pout. “Which was entirely
not
my intention for this voyage and beyond. No fancy clothes and stuffy ballrooms for me, thank you. Instead I should like a horse and a plow and a bit of my own land. I should like to bring that land to life and to make for myself a life upon it.”

“An admirable dream,” Marsali said as she stood. “I must say I envy you such. Perhaps someday I will be free to plan a life like that as well.”

His half smile reappeared. “Indeed? I should like to see you behind a horse and plow. It would have to be a pony for certain, with your small stature, and I should think the ground would have to already be broken in.”

“Go get some sleep,” Marsali called over her shoulder, ignoring his teasing and the desire she had to stay in the common room, conversing with him. Mr. Thatcher was easy to talk with— both in jest and regarding serious matters. He was unlike any man she had ever become acquainted with… not that she’d been truly acquainted with any while living at her aunt’s home. But she had observed many gentlemen. She had learned that those who dressed finely often did not treat others that way, especially those less fortunate than they and those under their care. She suppressed a shudder and cursed other memories to be gone from her head.

Two days after the initial middle-of-the-night incident, Miss Abbott still had not appeared at the table for a meal, and Christopher found himself missing her presence. Even if it had meant the annoying Miss Cosgrove accompanying her and dominating the conversation, he would have preferred to have their company. The captain’s speeches were interesting enough— centered around how far they’d traveled and at what speed, the amount of coal it had required, and the general state of affairs in the engine room below— but Christopher missed conversing with Miss Abbott.

He preferred their lighthearted conversations, their jesting, and even their short, serious discussions of “things best left in the past,” as she put it.

Aside from missing her, he continued to be concerned for her welfare. She was doing an admirable job of caring for Lady Cosgrove and her daughter.
But who is caring for Miss Abbott
? Christopher wondered, and he worried that she might fall ill herself. Especially if what Mr. Tenney had told him was true. He believed the cause of Lady and Miss Cosgrove’s illness might well be foul water.

“Giving someone a bottle of foul water is as good as poisoning him,” he’d said. “Saw it myself in India when the sewage leaked into the river they drank from. People moaning and thrashing about, losing their minds and innards, just like the ladies. Bad water kills. And it spreads quickly to others— whether they’ve had the same drink or not.”

Christopher still felt inclined to trust Miss Abbott’s opinion about what ailed the Cosgroves, and Captain Gower had seemed to think it plausible as well, angry as he had made one Mr. Littleton of the Black Ball Line.

Regardless of the cause, it stood to reason that Miss Abbott might fall ill herself if she became overly exhausted and did not allow herself time to eat or sleep. And as far as Christopher could ascertain, she was doing neither. She kept a round-the-clock vigil at Miss Cosgrove’s bedside and refused much help from anyone. She ate very little, only accepting a small portion of the food he brought her after each meal.

Tonight I will insist that she eat more— and that she sleep.
Christopher ladled a bowl of stew and took two biscuits from the basket on the table to go with it.