The tiny twinge of envy stabbing her made Eleanor
bite her lip and look away. She was too old for those things, and
she’d never wanted them anyway.
She simply wanted freedom.
Sure enough, the weather worsened, and the captain
had to excuse himself to look after the ship.
“We might as well check on the others,” Eleanor told
Caroline. “Has Miss Cabot been very ill?”
Caroline shrugged. “She was sleeping when I left. I
wouldn’t know.”
“You didn’t bother to ask, I
suppose?” Eleanor returned. “You really are the most selfish
creature.”
Caroline’s eyes flashed. “I’ll thank you to keep
your opinions to yourself,” she replied with cold haughtiness.
“Very well, but the others might be gravely
ill.”
“It can’t be as bad as all that, surely.” Caroline
waved a hand in dismissal. “Miss Cabot was perfectly well when I
departed for supper, I’m quite sure.”
“You are, now?” Eleanor said
sarcastically. “We should check on her, and the others, just the
same.”
The ship was pitching and rolling so badly by that
time, the two women were practically thrown into each other’s arms
as they made their way down the narrow corridor.
The smell in the confined space was rank with
illness, and even Eleanor shuddered. She’d a feeling it was as bad
as ‘all that’, and worse.
She knocked once on Caroline’s cabin door. “Miss
Cabot, are you in there? Can you hear me?”
The only answer was a feeble groaning. Eleanor
opened the door, and Caroline hurried into the small cabin with
her, gasping at the wretched sight of her chaperone.
The older woman lay in bed, moaning faintly, a
puddle of vomit drying beside her berth.
Caroline drew back, fumbling for a handkerchief.
“You stay here with Miss Cabot,” Eleanor ordered.
“I’ll check on the others.”
“I cannot!” Caroline cried. “The stench
alone...”
“You’d better be good for something,” Eleanor
snapped. “I can’t manage everyone on my own. There’s water in the
bucket on the hook, if it hasn’t sloshed all over the floor. Dampen
your precious handkerchief and clean poor Miss Cabot’s face. I
won’t ask you to clean up the sick. I know you wouldn’t do it.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Caroline retorted. Still, Eleanor
watched with grim satisfaction as she went to the water pail and
cautiously dipped her handkerchief in.
When Eleanor entered the other
cabin, she found Mrs. and Miss Standish lying pitifully in their
beds, just as badly off. She groaned herself, all thoughts of a
pleasant crossing flown from her head. The sick needed tending to,
and it would be a difficult task indeed.
“Oh, not them too!” Caroline wailed, skidding to a
stop in the cabin doorway.
“Why have you left Miss Cabot?”
Eleanor asked sharply. “She’s hardly in a state to be by
herself.”
“I didn’t know what to do!”
Caroline’s voice rose in a helpless wail, and she looked at Eleanor
pleadingly, all traces of the haughty princess wiped away. “I
washed her face a bit. But it was so...”
“I know what it was. But the fact of the matter is,
we’re the only ones not cast down by seasickness. It’s up to us to
take care of the others, Caroline Reid.”
Caroline shook her head, her face leached of color.
“I can’t...”
“You can,” Eleanor said firmly. “And so can I. It
won’t be easy, I warrant, but we’ll have to work together.” The
very idea made her skeptical, for Caroline Reid was surely the last
person she would’ve chosen as a helpmate. Still, there were no
other choices, and so, with a grim sigh, Eleanor began to roll up
the sleeves of her dinner gown.
“You’d best do the same,” she warned Caroline.
“Unless you want it sullied beyond all cleaning.”
“This is my second best gown!” Caroline fairly
yelped, and Eleanor spared her a wry smile.
“Then you ought to change.” She couldn’t blame
Caroline for who she was; the girl had obviously been sheltered her
whole life. Still, Eleanor felt a not unkind blaze of satisfaction
that just like her, Caroline Reid was going to have to get her
hands dirty.
Several hours later, bent over a foul smelling sick
pail, Eleanor realized they were getting far more dirty than just
their hands. Mrs. Standish had vomited three times, twice on
Eleanor. She was exhausted, sweaty, and worst of all, she
stank.
She’d given Caroline the charge of watching Miss
Cabot, since she knew her, although also in part because the
chaperone seemed the least ill, and Eleanor thought Caroline had
the best chance of coping with her.
Eleanor moved the pail to the door, glad to notice
that the rough movements of the ship had slowed, and the pail’s
contents did not slosh onto the floor. A glimpse out the port hole
showed a livid sky, but the ocean beneath had begun to calm its
restless, angry surging.
As she sponged down Mrs. Standish’s face once again,
Caroline appeared in the doorway of the cabin, wringing her
hands.
“I can’t do it,” she said shrilly. “I can’t. I
won’t. I hate the smell, the sickness, I won’t do it!” Her voice
rose to a shriek before she dissolved into inelegant, noisy
sobs.
Eleanor watched her for a moment
before walking over and calmly slapping her on the face.
Caroline’s sobs cut off mid-gulp and she gaped in
surprised. Eleanor wondered if anyone had ever raised a hand to her
before.
“You were hysterical,” she said. “Or nearly, and we
haven’t time to indulge in such senseless wailing. Miss Cabot and
the others depend on you, as well as me, to make it safely across
this accursed ocean, so you’d best be on hand.”
There was a moment of silence, fairly pulsing with
tension, and Eleanor wondered if Caroline would rebuke her,
dissolve into more wails, or preferably, stiffen her spine.
Caroline, to her credit, chose the latter, and
nodded in mute acceptance.
“Go see to Miss Cabot,” Eleanor said gently. “If
she’s comfortable, you might as well get some sleep.”
Caroline looked again as if she longed to protest,
bitterly, but she simply nodded again and left the room.
From the bed, Mrs. Standish let out a feeble moan.
“Water...”
It took three more days of nearly constant nursing
before the ailing women had finally found their sea legs, and
Eleanor and Caroline could find some rest.
Even after a sponge bath, her dresses stiff and
salty from being washed in ocean water, Eleanor felt unclean. This
was hardly the way she’d intended to begin her new life in America,
but there was little she could do about it.
They were a day’s journey off Boston Harbor as she
sat in her cabin, attempting to mend the worst of the rents and
tears in her dresses.
A hesitant knock sounded at the door, and when
Eleanor bid enter, Caroline peeked her head around the oak
frame.
“The captain said we should see land tomorrow,” she
said breathlessly. “It’s been a fearful journey, hasn’t it?”
“Indeed it has.” Biting her lip in concentration,
for she’d never been an accomplished seamstress, Eleanor threaded
her needle once again.
“I’m so glad I brought as many frocks as I did!”
Caroline confided. She peered in the cracked mirror above the
washing pitcher and bowl, smoothing one hand over her still-glossy
ringlets. “I should hate to arrive in Boston in something dirty and
stained. My uncle expects me to be well turned out at all
times.”
“Does he?” Eleanor had not much opportunity to learn
of Caroline’s circumstances. “Is he giving you a season, then?”
Caroline whirled around, her reflection momentarily
forgotten. “Oh, yes! He quite assures me that a Boston season is
just as well as a London one, and I am hoping it’s true. I shall
find a husband, of course, but not before I enjoy myself
immensely!”
“I’m sure the delights of the Boston season are
manifold,” Eleanor said. She imagined the offerings briefly...
balls and midnight suppers, musicales and masquerades. She smiled
wryly. It was the stuff of the romantic novels Jane McCready had
sometimes read on the sly. Eleanor had never bothered with it, and
she couldn’t imagine herself in such surroundings now.
“Why are you going to Boston, Eleanor?” Caroline
asked, almost timidly, as if she realized she perhaps should
already know.
“My brother is a doctor there. I’m going to live
with him.”
“Just the two of you? Is that... well... don’t you
need a chaperone?”
“I hardly think so,” Eleanor replied, stabbing her
needle in the cloth once more. “America is different, and I’m a
widow as it is. I should think it is completely respectable.”
“A widow!” Caroline’s eyes widened. “Oh, but I’m
sorry! Did you love him very much?”
Eleanor thought briefly of John’s face, the shock of
brown hair, the warm eyes, the ready smile. All were slightly
blurred, nameless features arranged in a pleasing pattern. Had he
really looked like that, or was it just what she liked to remember?
“I did love him,” she said after a moment, “but we only had six
weeks together before he went to India. Sometimes it’s hard to
remember.”
Caroline was silent, and the only sound was the
creaking of the ship and the gentle lapping of the sea against its
broad sides.
“I can lend you a dress,” Caroline said quietly, “if
you like.”
“Catch me, Uncle Rupert, catch me!”
Harriet gazed from the doorway of the cabin, baby
Anna in her arms. Rupert was playing a game of tag with Maggie and
George, the puppy, now half grown, frisking at their heels.
Rupert had arrived two weeks ago, and he’d been a
blessing to their family, filling the house with laughter and
delighting the children with his games. His company was a special
boon this summer, when the days had been cold and wet.
“Careful, now,” she warned as her children made
towards the house. “Your boots are caked with mud and Margaret
Jane, look at the state of your apron.” The scold was lighthearted,
and, all offending boots removed, Harriet ushered them into the
house.
There were honey and oatcakes on the table, along
with a fresh pot of tea, and the children eagerly helped
themselves. Harriet laid Anna in a fleece-lined basket and poured
the tea into thick mugs.
“Little savages.” Rupert ruffled George’s hair as he
took two oatcakes himself. “When did you get this marvelous
honey?”
“Papa found a honey tree,” Maggie said between
mouthfuls of oatcake. “A great big, hollowed out one, simply
buzzing with bees!”
“Lucky for him.”
“We took most of it to market this past spring,”
Harriet said. “It paid for Blackie, and the two fat geese that will
be our Christmas dinner and then some.”
“Maggie was sad about the bees,” George said
scornfully, “because they wouldn’t have any food!” He shrugged,
taking a large bite of honey-smeared oatcake. “I’d rather have
honey. May I take another, Mam?”
Rupert chucked Maggie under the chin. “You think of
everyone, don’t you? I’m sure your pa left enough honey for the
bees.”
“He certainly did,” Harriet said with a smile. “And
God willing, we’ll have more honey this fall as well.”
This was greeted with a chorus of delight from the
children, and Harriet laughed. “Away with you, and finish your
oatcakes. Don’t be greedy, George. Honey is still a precious
treat--we want it to last the summer.”
Rupert leaned against the fireplace mantel, his
expression thoughtful. “You’ve certainly made a good life for
yourself, with this holding.”
“You could do the same, if you’d the mind,” Harriet
said lightly, but Rupert was not fooled and he burst out
laughing.
“I know how you want to see me settled, Harriet. On
a holding across from yours, with a wife, and half a dozen
children!”
Harriet smiled in acknowledgment. “At least that
many, I’m sure.”
Rupert pushed away from the mantel, shaking his
head. “I don’t yet reckon if that’s the life for me.”
“Of course, you must make your own way,” Harriet
allowed. “Allan did the same. But I wouldn’t be honest if I denied
that I hope the path leads back to your own hearth, here on the
island, however far you may go.”
George perked up at this. “You aren’t leaving us,
are you, Uncle Rupert?”
“Not yet, scamp.”
“Not yet?” Harriet raised her eyebrows. “You sound
as if you’ve plans.”
“A few, but young ones yet. Nothing is settled, to
be sure.”
Anna began to fuss, and Harriet scooped her into her
arms, kissing her downy head. She was inordinately curious about
Rupert’s plans, whatever they were, but she knew better than to
push for information. “You must tell us,” she said lightly, “when
they’ve settled.”
Rupert smiled, the cheeky grin of his youth. “You’ll
be the first to know.”
The front door opened, and Allan came in, muddy,
wet, with an equally dirty dog at his heels.
“Allan MacDougall, get that dog out of the house!”
Harriet ordered, and Allan grinned shamefacedly.
“Sorry, my love.”
Blackie whined in protest, and Allan grabbed him by
the scruff of his neck. “Come on, beast. We’re both unwanted at the
moment!” He waggled the papers he held in his hand at Harriet.
“Although you’ll be wanting these, I warrant!”
Harriet gasped and stood still. “Are those
letters?”
“From Eleanor.”
“Give them to me, Allan!”
Allan grinned. “I’ve got to take my boots off
first.”
“Never mind your boots,” Harriet cried, and snatched
the letters from him. Laughing, Allan went outside.
“How does Eleanor fare?” Rupert asked with mild
curiosity, and Harriet spread her hands.
“I haven’t heard from her since before the first
snow. Her husband was posted to India, I know, and she’d removed to
Glasgow to live with her in-laws.”