Marrying Christopher (3 page)

“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.

“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. “She 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 turned 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.