“But you are,” he said, somewhat in surprise, for
Isobel was really quite skilled at the pianoforte.
Isobel stood up, shrugging lightly as she moved away
from the instrument. “There are better uses of my time, I suppose.
I’m twenty-two, you know.” She did not look at him as she added,
“most women my age are married, and have put such childish pursuits
aside.”
Ian saw that a faint blush was stealing across her
cheeks, tinting her porcelain complexion a lovely rose.
He swallowed, shoving his hands in the pockets of
his trousers. “Time passes so quickly,” he said after a moment, for
he was unable to think of an adequate reply.
Isobel’s dark eyes briefly lifted knowingly to his.
“Yes,” she replied quietly, “it does.”
Dinner was excellent, as always, and Ian enjoyed
chatting about hospital business with Stephen and Arabella. Isobel,
he noticed, spoke little, and when his gaze rested on her, she
quickly looked away.
Again Ian felt a deepening twinge of unease,
thinking of her words in the music room. Could she really be
twenty-two? Ian could hardly credit it. He had meant it when he
said time passed quickly, and he wondered why Isobel had not
married.
Could it be possible that she was waiting for him?
He was twenty-eight, and had every intention of marrying. But to
Isobel? He paused, a glass of wine to his lips, as this idea took
hold of him. He had not truly considered it before because he’d
always assumed Isobel would marry within her social sphere. No
matter how much the Moores welcomed him, or contrived to have his
name on the invitation lists for Boston’s many balls, dances, and
suppers, he was not of their class and never would be.
He was, Ian thought with only a trace of bitterness,
a farm boy from Mull, wet behind the ears, who had made a foolish
mistake and run away to sea. In the last ten years he’d been
blessed by other people’s kindnesses to him, but it did not change
who he was.
What he was.
“Ian? Arabella spoke with a slight sharpness, and
with a start he realized he’d once again lost the thread of
conversation.
“Ian’s worn out, Mother,” Isobel said with a soft
smile meant only for him. “You know how hard he works.”
“Indeed I do.”
“I apologize,” Ian said hastily. “You were
saying...?”
“You’ve done well for yourself, certainly,” Stephen
told him after the women had retired to the drawing room, and he’d
taken Ian into his own private enclave, the library, for port and
cigars. “Very well indeed.”
Ian murmured his thanks. “I love my
work,” he said simply. “And I am profoundly thankful that your son
saw a flicker of ability in me that I’d been unable to see
myself.”
Stephen nodded thoughtfully. “Yes,
Henry was always clever that way. He took risks, still does, and
it’s helped him. Instead of one ship now, he owns what... four?
Five?”
“Six, I believe,” Ian said with a smile. It amused
him to think that Stephen Moore didn’t even know how many ships his
son owned in Boston’s harbor. Of course, Stephen had his own
business interests in finance to keep him engaged.
“Six...” Stephen mused. “Yes, he’s done well for
himself. Tell me, how is Margaret? We have not seen her of
late.”
Henry had married Ian’s relative,
Margaret MacDougall, nearly ten years ago. They resided only a few
blocks away on Charles Street, although Henry was still gone most
of the year on ship business.
“She’s well,” Ian replied. “I don’t see her or Henry
as much as I’d like, of course.”
“Yes, I’m sure the hospital keeps you busy. She’s
reforming the city as usual?”
Ian nodded, chuckling. “Of course. I believe she is
tackling the schools now. You know how she is.”
“It’s a pity they never had children.”
“Yes, it is,” Ian agreed quietly. He knew the lack
troubled Margaret, although she’d managed to put it behind her some
years ago.
“Of course, there might be help
from another quarter.” Stephen’s tone was surprisingly jocular.
“You must be nearing thirty, Ian.”
Ian swallowed. He’d been expecting this, and yet it
still left him alert and uneasy, afraid that one word might
misdirect both him and Stephen. “I’m twenty-eight.”
“High time to find a wife.” Stephen nodded, rubbing
his chin. “Don’t you think?”
“I haven’t...” Ian shrugged
helplessly. “The hospital work keeps me so busy, I have very few
social concerns, as you well know.”
“Of course. But a man can’t be a bachelor all his
days, surely. I speak in such a forthright manner only because you
are like a son to me.”
“And you, a father.” Ian was
silent, remembering how the Moores had made him welcome when he’d
arrived with Henry, little more than a ship’s boy, sulky and
defiant.
The Moores had gladly offered to
house Ian during his schooling, and even paid for his lecture
tickets. The bond they’d formed was strong, and Ian felt they were
as much his family as the Campbells he’d left back in
Scotland.
“Speaking of family,” Ian said, wishing to change
the subject and not entirely sure why, “I’ve heard from my sister,
Eleanor. She’s been widowed and is hoping to start a new life,
possibly in America.”
Stephen raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Do you
mean here?”
“I’ve sent her passage here, on one of Henry’s
ships,” Ian confirmed. “God willing, she’ll arrive in the beginning
of June.”
Stephen frowned. “And what shall she do? A widowed
woman may not need to be as closely chaperoned as a maid, but it
would surely be unseemly for her to live alone, a stranger in this
city.”
“She’ll live with me, for the
meantime at least. She hopes eventually to visit our sister,
Harriet, in Canada.” Ian smiled as he thought of it. He hadn’t seen
Eleanor for eleven years. When he’d run away from their family
farm, Achlic, after losing most of the property to James Riddell in
a foolish business venture, Ian had been too ashamed to keep in
contact with those he loved.
He’d vowed to win back Achlic, and
it was a dream that still haunted him, despite his successful life
in the new world. Well, he thought, he may not have won Achlic Farm
back, but at least he could shelter his sister when she needed him.
It was something.
“Have you told Isobel this news?” Stephen asked, and
Ian shook his head.
“No... the occasion has not arisen.”
“Perhaps it should,” Stephen replied, his voice
pleasant yet firm with implied meaning. “You are quite close to
her, are you not? I daresay you realize society has noticed such an
alliance.”
“Of course,” Ian murmured uncomfortably. Stephen
seemed to imply that Isobel would be shamed if Ian did not ask her
to marry him. Had they been seen together that many times? He knew
the gossip of Boston society was rampant, and he tugged at his
collar just thinking of Isobel as the target of so many sharp
tongues.
Still, he was surprised. He was sure he’d not acted
inappropriately towards Isobel. She was like a sister to him.
Perhaps he was the only one who realized that.
“Isobel has an attachment for you,” Stephen said
quietly. “She always has. No matter what Arabella or I may think of
it, we cannot deny her anything she so ardently desires. I daresay
we spoil her.”
“Sir...?” Ian could feel a flush
creeping up his neck. Stephen Moore seemed to be saying that Isobel
ardently wanted
him
. Yet Ian could hardly credit it. Surely Stephen would not
speak so forthrightly at such an early juncture.
“Come,” Stephen said briskly, putting a stop to
Ian's uneasy conjectures. “Isobel and Arabella are waiting in the
drawing room. I know Isobel would like to play for you.”
Ian let the tinkling pianoforte music wash over him
as he sat in the drawing room, his thoughts still racing. If the
Moores expected a proposal from him, what could he do? The last
thing he wanted was to jeopardize his relationship with them, or
lose their respect.
Besides his affection for them as a family, he had
an uncomfortable feeling that their enmity would not help his
prospects at the hospital at all. Stephen was on the board of
trustees, and a whispered word in the chief surgeon's ear could see
Ian doing no more than emptying buckets of sawdust and blood for
the foreseeable future.
He glanced at Isobel, dark haired and rosy cheeked,
her face animated as she played. When Ian had lived with the
Moores, he’d spent a great deal of time with Isobel, playing whist
and draughts in the evening, sharing a camaraderie like that of
siblings. He'd teased her, tickled her, joked with her the way he
once did with Eleanor. He'd never thought of anything more.
Yet as they'd grown older, it had seemed natural for
Ian to accompany her to the occasional musicale or supper. Only now
could he see how those pleasant evenings together might be
misconstrued.
Isobel caught his gaze and smiled at him, her own
eyes seeming to shimmer with some kind of hope... and promise. She
was a lovely girl, Ian thought. Perhaps he could grow to love her.
Surely it was not impossible.
He glanced at Stephen, and saw him
nodding approvingly at his wife. Whatever else, Ian knew, he would
have to make his intentions clear quite soon. Only first, he needed
to decide what they were.
CHAPTER THREE
“This ship is dreadful!”
Eleanor listened to the complaining
squeal of her companion on board ship and grimaced. She’d not
exchanged more than a few words with Miss Caroline Reid in these
first six days of their voyage, but she could already tell the girl
was thoroughly spoiled.
Their cabins were adjacent, and she
could clearly hear the little madam complaining about everything in
sight... the food, the linens, the company.
Her chaperone, Florence Cabot, was a rather vague
woman in her fifties, seemingly more attached to her smelling salts
than to people. She never took the girl to task, as Eleanor ached
to do. Instead she murmured placatory remarks, which made Miss Reid
only more disagreeable.
Eleanor rose from her bed, where
she’d been reading. Her cabin was small but comfortable, and yet
for Eleanor it felt like paradise. Ian’s letter had come a
fortnight ago, with passage on Henry Moore’s ship,
The Endeavour
. It felt
like a lifeline had been thrown to her, rescuing her from drowning
in the gloomy boredom of Glasgow.
The McCardells had been nonplussed by Eleanor’s
abrupt plans to depart not only their home, but the entire
country.
“Really, I don’t think you should travel across the
ocean by yourself,” Henrietta had said in tones stiff with
disapproval. “I accept I have little control over your actions, but
I hope you are able to remember your position as my son’s
widow.”
“Of course, Mamma-in-law,” Eleanor
replied soothingly. She was almost free, she could afford to
placate the older woman. “I assure you, I will conduct myself
accordingly. And, as you know, the ship is owned by a relative of
mine, so really it is all in perfect order.” This was stretching
the truth a bit, as Henry Moore would not actually be on the ship,
but Eleanor did not care. She only longed to leave the stuffy
confines of the McCardell home and begin anew.
The ship lurched uncomfortably, and
Eleanor grabbed the door frame. The captain had warned them of the
weather turning rough, and it appeared to be doing so.
She heard another squeal of dismay from her
neighbor, and closed her eyes. Her stomach turned over with queasy
indignation.
The weather worsened over the next few hours, so by
the time Eleanor prepared for dinner, she was barely able to
perform the necessary functions without stumbling or falling. She
opened her cabin door, grateful for what little fresh air the space
provided.
There were only five passengers on
board
The Endeavour
, Eleanor, Caroline and her chaperone, and an elderly widow
with her middle aged spinster daughter, both rather sullen and
silent.
At the table this evening, however, Eleanor saw
there was only Caroline and herself. She sighed inwardly. Caroline
was closest in age to her, and by all accounts they should have
become friends. Yet Eleanor could not think of a less likely
companion.
“You ladies seem to be the only
ones free from the sea sickness,” the captain, James Barker,
remarked as they sat down to their meal.
“Hopefully this storm will abate soon?” Eleanor
asked questioningly, and Mr. Barker shook his head.
“I’m afraid it’s only likely to get worse. I hope
the other ladies are not too put out?”
Caroline made a pretend pout. “How
terribly dull, to be in such good health,” she said with a pretty,
tinkling laugh. “I’d much rather be confined to my bed, with
someone to administer cloths to my forehead, and hold my hand.”
Another tinkling laugh, and Eleanor barely refrained from rolling
her eyes.
“What nonsense,” she replied briskly. “If you had
the seasickness, you’d be spilling your guts into a bucket, not
swooning on a bed, longing to be mollycoddled.”
Caroline’s eyes narrowed in anger, and Mr. Barker
chuckled dryly.
“Mrs. McCardell has the right of
it, I’m afraid. I’d be obliged if you ladies would look in on your
fellow passengers. Seasickness can take some people terribly, you
know.”
“A sound idea,” Eleanor said, but Caroline merely
pursed her lips and looked away.
Eleanor longed to shake some sense into her. When
she considered her own life, she was sure she’d never acted as
thoroughly spoiled and vain as the young miss across the table. She
wondered what Caroline Reid was traveling to in Boston... fancy
frocks and a season?