Marrying Christopher (6 page)

“These hands will need some healing. It will be a while before I could use you. Gentlemen pay for soft hands— not rough.”

“Oh no.” Marsali extracted her hand from the stranger’s as she shook her head vigorously. “You misunderstand. I haven’t come looking for… work. It’s only that I’m in a bit of trouble.”

The woman arched an eyebrow. “With child?” She leaned forward and took Marsali’s chin, turning it, so her profile was presented. “What a pity. You would be popular. Though the other girls wouldn’t like it.” She let go abruptly and sat back in her chair, her gaze drifting to Marsali’s waistline. “How far gone are you? It’s possible it could still be taken care of. Though that would mean even longer before you could work.”

“I am
not
with child,” Marsali said. “And I do not wish—”

“Well, I’ve no need for any more maids right now, especially not one as pretty as you. It would only cause problems.” The woman stood, indicating their conversation was over.

Marsali resisted the urge to rub both her hand and chin where the woman had touched her. Instead she stood as well. “I am not here applying for a position as a maid— or anything else,” she quickly added when the hopeful, speculative expression reappeared on the woman’s face. “My coach mistakenly dropped me off outside your… establishment, and I am in need of transport to the Waterloo dock. I have passage on a ship that is to leave tomorrow morning.” She held her breath, waiting to see if the woman might offer any help.

“What do you expect me to do about it?” she asked haughtily, her eyes still appraising Marsali in a way that made her most uncomfortable.

“I thought, perhaps, I might offer you something in my trunk in exchange for a coach to take me.”

“Have you anything of value?” The woman seemed possibly interested again.

Marsali’s mind reviewed the contents of her trunk— scant compared to those she’d arrived at her aunt’s with four years earlier. And scant compared to the opulence— however distasteful— she’d glimpsed upon entering Madame Kelner’s establishment. She wondered suddenly if Madame Kelner herself was standing before her.

“Well?” the woman asked, impatience in her tone.

“I do not have much,” Marsali admitted. “But the trunk itself, perhaps? In exchange for an old carpetbag or even a sackcloth in which I might carry my things.”

The woman shook her head. “What need would I have for a trunk, and an old one at that? No one around here is going anywhere. I am afraid I cannot help you. Now, if you would be so kind as to remove yourself from my premises. Customers will be arriving soon, and you wouldn’t want any of them becoming confused about you, would you?” She smiled in a knowing sort of way, and Marsali had the uncomfortable feeling that the woman had guessed every thought and revulsion she’d felt since first walking through the door.

Still, inside Madame Kelner’s had to be better than out alone on that street. Two more women had taken up their posts before she had made her way inside. She did not want to be out among them and the men who would soon be arriving to peruse the offerings. “Please,” Marsali begged. “I have nowhere to go.”

“I am not running a charity.”

So she is Madame Kelner.

“The girls around here work for their keep.
You
could work for yours as well.” Madame Kelner stepped closer, her eyes boring into Marsali’s. “I could fetch a high price for you— even if it was just for one night. I would even see to it you had a proper gentleman.”

“No.” Marsali shook her head and backed away.

“Then get out.” Madame Kelner’s hand shot forward, narrowly missing Marsali’s face. “See that you are gone immediately, lest I receive an offer for you too good to pass up.” Madame Kelner swept past her in a swirl of satin. “Kimberly will show you out.”

She exited the room, and the young woman who had shown Marsali in returned.

“This way,” she said quietly and bent to pick up one side of the trunk. “We’ve a back entrance. It will be a little better than going straight out to the street right now.”

Marsali nodded, swallowing back the tears she felt threatening. Lifting the other end of her trunk, she followed the girl out of the room, through the foyer, and past the long staircase leading to the upper floor. They entered another door and crossed through a kitchen. Marsali’s stomach growled with hunger as they passed by an oven and the scent of baking bread overtook the other, less pleasant aromas of the building. They left the kitchen and came to a narrow hall with several doors leading off it.

“Wait here,” Kimberly said, lowering her end of the trunk. She turned away, hurrying down the hall and disappearing through one of the doors. Marsali sat on the trunk and tried to think what she must do next. She had no idea whatsoever which direction the wharf lay, and even if she did, it wasn’t as if she could pull her trunk along with her.

Kimberly reappeared in the hall, something folded over her arms. She came closer, holding the offering out to Marsali.

“I overheard your conversation with Madame, and I thought you might be able to use this.” She shook open the bundle, and Marsali saw that it was a large cloth sack, the kind flour was sometimes delivered in.

“Thank you,” she said, only slightly relieved. She still had no idea how she was going to reach the docks. “And I shall give you my trunk in return for coach fare?”

Kimberly shook her head. “I haven’t any money. I’m sorry. I still owe Madame for…” Her voice trailed off, and Marsali was left to surmise what might have incurred the debt.

“But I can tell you how to get to the docks,” Kimberly said. “And you can carry your belongings— some of them, at least— in this. It will be easier than your trunk.”

“Thank you.” It wasn’t much, but it was a better option than any she could think of, and Marsali felt a rush of gratitude for the young woman, likely risking more trouble with Madame by helping as she was.

She fished the key out of her reticule and unlocked the trunk. Kimberly held the sack open while Marsali made instant decisions about which items she must take and which she could live without. Her hairbrush, yes; woolen petticoat, no. Hopefully her employer would provide her with another when winter came. Two of the three dresses she owned, beyond the one she wore, yes. Her least favorite, no. Nightgown and cap, yes. Underclothes, yes. Books, no. Sewing kit, no. She held back tears and suppressed a sigh. She pulled her cloak and a heavy woolen shawl from the trunk and set them aside, knowing neither would fit in the nearly full sack. No doubt it would have held more had she had the time to fold and arrange things properly, but she’d shoved each item in as quickly as her shaking fingers would allow.

The last item in her trunk was a bundle of mostly faded hair ribbons, one of the last gifts from her father. Marsali placed these in the flour sack, and Kimberly helped her tie the string tightly around the top.

“Hold this,” Kimberly instructed, handing her the sack. She snatched the shawl from the edge of the trunk where Marsali had placed it and hurriedly tied two large knots at the back. Then she draped the shawl over Marsali’s shoulders and tied it securely in front. When this was accomplished, she layered the cloak over the shawl, pulled the hood up over Marsali’s head, and tied it as well.

“Walk hunched over, with your head down, and it will appear as though you’ve a hump on your back,” Kimberly said. “Shuffle your feet, keep your face covered as much as possible, and it’s likely the only people who will take notice of you will be the lads who loiter by the wharf— and they’ll only taunt you about being old and decrepit or throw a rock or two.”

“Will this really work?” Marsali asked as she clutched the sack to her and pulled the cloak tight around it.
“Aye. I’ve done it myself a time or two. It’s important you keep your head down and walk just so.” She took a few shuffling steps down the hall and back again. “See how it gives the appearance of the old and infirm?”

Marsali nodded, though she wasn’t certain her performance would be as good.
It had best be. My very life may depend upon it.

“You must make sure to keep your head down. And if someone approaches you, don’t look up, but start coughing and gagging. Spit on the street if you must— anything so it appears you’re very ill. Go now.” Kimberly turned Marsali toward the back of the hall and pushed her along toward a door at the end.

“But I don’t know how to get to the docks,” Marsali said, her panic returning at the thought of being thrust into the alleyway alone.

“I’ll draw it out for you.” Kimberly stepped in front of her, opened the door, and went outside. She searched around a moment and found a broken bottle, then picked up a jagged piece of it, bent to the dirt, and began drawing.

“We’re here.” She marked the spot with an
X
. “You’re going to walk to the end of the passageway, then turn left. You’ll be on Lime Street again. Stay on Lime until you get to Hanover. Go right on Hanover, and stay on it a good long time until you reach the docks. I’m not sure which direction your ship will be, but you can walk up and down until you find it.”

“How long do you think it will take me?” Marsali asked, loath to leave this small security yet anxious to be gone as well.

Kimberly shrugged. “An hour or two, I’d think. Longer, perhaps, if your ship is at one of the far docks.”

“Thank you,” Marsali said, looking into the girl’s eyes. “May God bless you for helping me.”

Kimberly shook her head. “That’s kind of you, miss, but it ain’t likely to happen. One good deed against my many sins is not likely to balance out. But I thank you just the same. Be gone now.” She waved her hands, as if shooing away a pigeon or a stray cat. Her heart aching, Marsali turned away.
Why does life have to be so unfair?
So difficult for so many?
Were circumstances different, she felt the girl might have been a friend.

Had Papa still been alive.
And had Kimberly had a father to see after her as well.
We might have taken tea together in the afternoons and gone on carriage rides around the park.

Leaning purposely forward, Marsali shuffled down the alleyway.
But those things are not to be. Not for me. Not for the women on this street. Who has time for tea or going to the park when simply surviving requires so much?

Christopher sat on a crate alongside the rail, where he could easily see the comings and goings on the dock below. In the hours since the medical inspector had left, the wharf had grown quieter and the street darker as the business of the day had been completed, excepting the boardwalk taverns, from which an occasional burst of raucous laughter came whenever a door opened.

“Rethinking your decision?” Captain Gower hung a lantern on a nearby post and came to join him.

“Not at all,” Christopher said, though his thoughts had been turning to home— or his sisters’ homes, at least. He had no qualms about traveling to America aboard a steamship, and neither did he regret his decision to leave England. He only wished there might have been a way to bring Grace and Helen. He missed them, their companionship, their evenings full of talk and laughter. “I was simply enjoying the solitude you promised,” Christopher said. “I admit to being unaccustomed to such. It may take some getting used to.”

“That it does,” the captain agreed. “When I am long from the sea, I find myself yearning for it, for quiet hours at the ship’s wheel with nothing to disturb me except the cry of a gull or the fin of a dolphin skimming through the waves. But then, when I’m out on the ocean, when all is calm and quiet, I cannot help but think of home, of my wife and wee’uns and how desperate I feel to return to them. It seems a man— at least one destined to sail— cannot ever feel entirely satisfied.”

“I suppose it is good, then, that I am not destined to be a sailor,” Christopher said, half jesting, though the captain’s words had struck a chord of discomfort. He wanted to believe he could be entirely happy in America. But was that possible having left his sisters behind as he had? He’d not been happy in England, so this was the better choice— was it not? He frowned, weary of thinking on it and wishing the ship had sailed already.

Captain Gower chuckled. “You may not be a sailor, but I reckon you know just what I mean.”

“It would seem that I do,” Christopher admitted. “But I have placed my hope in America— that her freedoms and opportunities will be my happiness and a better life than I could ever live here.”

“She is the reason we stand on this ship,” Gower said. “If I cannot get any Englishmen to sail on her, it’s certain I’d not have convinced any to finance her.”

“What will your American investors think if we do not sail as planned tomorrow?” Christopher asked.

“We’ll make up that day or die attempting to,” Gower promised, and Christopher felt the first inkling of uncertainty in his gut.
Speed does not necessarily equate with death
, he’d told the coachmen just this morning. But might it, if the captain grew careless?

“Miss Abbott may yet arrive,” the captain said, lighting a pipe he had pulled from his pocket but sounding less hopeful than he had earlier.

Christopher followed his gaze, scanning up and down the boardwalk, and saw that a lone figure— cloaked and with hood drawn around the face—
was
approaching, walking slowly past the Irish ship next to theirs. With the captain, he watched as the individual moved laboriously along the wharf, not stopping at the larger vessel but glancing up at the
Amanda May
and continuing toward them. It was apparent now that the individual was a female— a rather small one, and possibly deformed. She was hunched over and shuffling along as if with great difficulty.