Keturah Read online

  “Are any of the other passengers opening their doors?” Gray asked, watching the ceiling as another wave rushed across. Thunder boomed, startling them both.

  “Now they shall,” Philip said.

  Gray moved to the doorframe and braced himself against it, watching Keturah’s door. But as lightning cracked and thunder rumbled, as if registering its complaint of their presence, it was the younger girls’ door that opened first. Selah was there, in a dressing gown hastily thrown over a shift, her blond curls loose around her shoulders. Spotting him, her bowlike lips opened in relief, and she rushed to him as she might a brother. “Oh, Gray! Is it not awful?”

  He took her hand. “Now, now, ’tis only one of the Atlantic’s famous storms,” he said, patting her hand awkwardly. “Come, let us get you back to your cabin. You may keep your door open, though.” He led her back, taking slow steps and bracing so that they did not careen all the way down to the far stairs.

  Verity appeared in the doorway just as they neared, in a similar state of dress. It was fine, even fashionable for ladies to be in their dressing gowns at home … but only in the relative sanctity of their closets. Men were even invited into those private places on occasion, to drink tea as the women prepared for balls or parties, but they were invited. And there were not sailors liable to be passing by.

  He had just deposited Selah back in her room, under her sister’s capable arm—even if her skin was a bit wan—when Keturah’s door flew open. He glanced over at her and took a step back, holding on to the girls’ doorframe, so she could see her sisters were well. But more to give him precious seconds to look upon her.

  Never had he seen her more beautiful, with her long brown hair sliding around her shoulders in rumpled waves. Her dressing gown—painted with flowers all down the trim and across the train—opened to expose a thin sheath of a night shift. He swallowed hard and hastily looked to her bare feet, remembering with a smile the two of them running through mud puddles as children and returning to their homes to face the switch. There they were … the same exact toes, only now a woman’s.

  “Gray?” she asked, and abruptly he realized she’d caught him staring at her toes, even as they disappeared beneath the trim of her shift. She wrapped her dressing gown tighter around her and nodded into her cabin. “Might you do me an enormous favor and assist Grace with our lamp? ’Tis gone out.”

  “Ours did too,” he said, moving at once, relieved to have a task. Philip met him in the passageway, silently fishing out the flint and handing it to him. “Keep the door propped open, would you?” he asked Keturah, hoping to glean a bit of light from across the passageway.

  Grace, her servant, moved aside as he neared. “I think the wick is too short,” she said. They heard either Selah or Verity retching, across the hall. Grace, stumbling and bracing herself, reached for their chamber bucket. “I shall attend her, Lady Ket.”

  Keturah obviously agreed, for the servant disappeared. Gray pulled a knife from his jacket pocket, flipped it open, and set to pulling out a bit more wick and then trimming it—all of which was far more complicated this night than on calm seas.

  It was then that he heard distant shouts of sailors above. Alarmed shouts, right before a rogue wave hit. This time not from the front but from the front port side of the ship. The Restoration made horrendous noises of complaint, sounding like she might be cracking apart, and with a cry Keturah came tumbling toward him from the door.

  He heard the girls’ cabin door slam shut and had just barely turned to brace himself and catch her when she rammed against his chest. Her left hand was inside his jacket, against bare skin, the other against his upper right chest.

  “Oh, Gray, forgive me,” she said in the dark, clearly horrified. She tried to pull away, but another wave shoved her further against him. And did she ever feel good in his arms …

  “’Tis all right,” he said, huffing a laugh. “I hardly think you would throw yourself at me if you had a choice in the matter.”

  “Yes, well,” she said, finally finding the footing to lean away from him when gravity allowed, leaving him a tad breathless. Stubbornly he turned back toward the lamp, cursing himself for wishing for another rogue wave. He fished in his pocket for the flint, sparked it twice, three times, and on the fourth it caught, glowed, and slowly rose in flame.

  “You did it!” Keturah said gratefully. “Thank you. Such fearsome storms are ever so much more negotiable with a bit of light, do you not agree?”

  “Indeed,” he said, staggering toward her, obviously aware that he must not be caught alone in her cabin with her—regardless of circumstance—if he was to preserve her reputation. “’Tis like life itself,” he said, pausing near her, broad hands clutching the doorframe above her head. “One can face much darkness with the aid of light, whether it be the Lord’s or a flickering flame in a dancing lamp.” He grinned at her and hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

  It was then that Callender and Wood opened their door and spied them together. Wood’s face lit up in surprise and delight at the sight of them so close while Callender scowled.

  Keturah shifted uneasily in the face of their misguided assumptions. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her, but as she did so, another wave sent her grasping for the doorframe.

  “Selah!” she called. “Verity! Grace! How do you fare?”

  Grace managed to open their door again between waves. “We are well, Lady Ket. And you?” Her dark eyes surveyed her mistress from top to bottom like a worried hen over her chick, then shifted to Gray. Keturah could see her eyes rest on the broad expanse of his muscular chest. Hurriedly, she said, “We’re well. And Mr. Covington was able to get my lamp lit again,” she added loudly, hoping Mr. Callender had heard her over the wash of the waves.

  “That’s one way to phrase it,” Mr. Wood said, lightly punching his companion in the gut. At least, that was what she thought he said. Surely he wouldn’t have the audacity to insinuate …

  They heard the shouts of sailors above once more, and Keturah had just had a moment to think not again, when another rogue wave struck the ship, sending Keturah careening toward Grace. Grace herself toppled back, landing hard on the cot and bumping her head on the wall. Just as Ket was about to follow suit, she felt Gray’s hand close around her wrist and pull her to a stop.

  “I have you,” he said, holding the doorframe with one hand and her with the other. His legs were spread-eagled to give him better stability, and his jacket yawned wide, giving her a glimpse of even more of his chest and belly—muscles far bigger and more defined than when they last swam together at the swimming hole. A man’s now. So much more defined than Edward’s had been. His dark hair flopped partially over his eyes in a way that she knew would make most women swoon. “Come, Ket. Grab hold here.”

  He pulled her closer and placed her hand firmly on the doorframe and swung out to the passageway with the momentum of the next wave. There, he grasped one of the many bars that ran across the ceiling for just such an occasion as this. “Is Grace all right?”

  Ket glanced back. “Grace? Are you injured?”

  “No, mum. Just hit my head,” she said, rubbing the back of it.

  “Stay seated, Grace,” Gray said. “’Tis far safer.”

  Keturah noticed water sloshing past his bare feet, and any temporary relief over her firm hold fled. “Gray, are we … going to sink?”

  He shook his head. “No. Though the waves are fierce, the Restoration is a stout vessel.”

  Verity appeared in the far doorway again. Gray turned and began to ask Ver about Selah—who was vomiting again. He looked down the passageway at Mr. Callender, who held fast to a bar as he did. “She cannot withstand many more of those rogue waves,” Mr. Callender told him.

  “Yes, she can,” Gray gritted out, not glancing Keturah’s way. But she knew he said it for her and Ver. “She was built to withstand this storm and worse.”

  “Better for us to encounter a privateer than such wrath from the sea,” grunted t
he man.

  “There’s still time for that!” quipped Mr. Wood from their cabin doorway. “I wager a gold florin that we shall outrun at least one privateer before we reach Nevis,” he said to his companion.

  Gray let out a sound of disgust. “Gentlemen! There are ladies present! I must ask you to confine your idle musings to your cabin rather than unnecessarily alarm them.” Carefully, he began to make his way down toward them as if he intended to lock them inside.

  Verity’s eyes met Keturah’s. Privateer? they seemed to silently ask her. Truly? They’d read the horror stories in the papers of entire families held for ransom. Others were killed, people whispered, their belongings spirited away.

  Keturah forced a smile. “England is at peace. And the British Navy shall make sure the Restoration reaches Nevis unmolested,” she said. “’Tis only this storm and any others that we need to manage. And we are weathering this one with pluck, are we not? If those waves did not capsize us, nothing will.”

  Verity nodded slowly, her brows still knit with concern. “I wonder how Brutus fares.”

  “He’s probably slumbering through the entire ordeal,” Keturah said. “Birds know when storms are life-threatening and when they are not. If he thought it was truly a danger, do you not think we would hear his screech, even from here?”

  That seemed to bolster her sister, and her pretty moss-colored eyes shifted toward Gray—who was leaning toward Mr. Callender in a threatening manner—then back to her sister. “So?” she whispered, cocking one brow and glancing to the empty cabin behind her. “Tell me something to distract me from this storm.”

  Keturah stiffened. “There is nothing to tell.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Pity, that,” she said, her eyes wandering to Gray and back again. “He is frightfully handsome, is he not?”

  “Verity.”

  “What?”

  “Ladies do not speak of such things.”

  Verity laughed. “Ladies do not,” she said under her breath, “but sisters do. Come now, Ket. Admit it. He’s handsome.”

  Ket’s cheeks burned. She knew her sister only whispered, but the idea that he might hear … Still, she knew how Verity was when she got in this sort of mood. If she did not give her something, she was liable to keep after it. “Of course he is handsome,” she whispered back, hating that she sounded defensive. “He has always been one of the most handsome in our circle.”

  “And the one who,” Ver said, leaning closer to cast a glance down the passageway to make sure he was staying put, “has a new eye for you.”

  “No. That is not so,” Ket said.

  “Say what you will,” she said smugly.

  “No. Perhaps our childhood friendship has been rekindled. Nothing more.”

  “Has your widowhood made you blind, Sissy?” Verity asked. “Or perhaps you do not wish to see it. He is rather careful around you. But I’ve seen him,” she whispered. “When he thinks you unaware, he steals glances in your direction.”

  “No,” Keturah said stubbornly. “If he was to have eyes for anyone, ’twould be for you or Selah. You two are far prettier. And …” Undamaged, came to mind, but she held her tongue.

  Verity stared at her, rocking with each wave, her muscles tightening to keep her grip, but her eyes remained steady. “After all this time, Ket,” she said, her whisper full of sorrow, “you still believe such lies?”

  “’Tisn’t a lie. Merely fact. ’Tis good to acknowledge such truths and accept them,” she said, feeling as sensible as her words. “Father always said that one does best when one faces facts.”

  “Then you, dear sister,” Verity said softly, “must face the fact that not all is in the order you desire. Ket, you fail to see that you have become quite lovely in womanhood, with attributes that draw many a man’s eye, beyond even our dear Gray.”

  Her words struck Ket. Pierced her. She cursed the tiny bit of hope that lit within her, like an aching girl’s heart, desperate for attention and approval, rather than a woman grown.

  “They do not know what to do with you,” Ver added with a laugh as Gray began to make his way back toward them, “but that does not keep them from being curious. Especially this one,” she hissed, just as Gray came within earshot.

  Ket stared back at her sister furiously, refusing to look his way. Had he heard that? Known they were talking about him? After all that had transpired this night, that would be the worst. Because the last thing she needed—no matter how attentive, how charming, how handsome Gray might be—was another man sidling into her life.

  No. Her path ahead was complicated enough.

  Gray looked from Ket to Verity and back again. “Are you well? Has Selah’s stomach settled?”

  “Well enough, thank you,” Keturah said, her tone crisp. “I do believe you’re right, Mr. Covington.”

  He leaned back, as if the return of her formal address was a slap, but she pressed on.

  “This storm will surely pass and the Restoration shall see another dawn, with all of us aboard her. We might as well try to get some sleep, shall we not?”

  “Indeed,” he said, a hundred questions in those dark blue eyes. More water rushed past his feet, and she recalled his staring at her bare toes, as if remembering that day they had splashed through one mudhole after another.

  “Good night, Verity,” she said to her sister. “Send Grace to me if Selah doesn’t soon settle, will you?”

  “Yes, Ket,” she said obediently, momentarily slipping back into line.

  With a formal, close-lipped smile and tip of the head to Gray, she eased back, got a firm footing, and grabbed hold of the door. “Good night, Mr. Covington. Thank you for coming to our aid.”

  “You are most welcome, Lady Tomlinson,” he said, his own tone now clipped.

  Keturah closed her door but did not move away from it. Instead, she leaned against it, letting out a breath and sucking in the next, as if she had forgotten how. She put her palms and forehead against the wood, as though reaching out to him, feeling him just outside, hovering there.

  Then, when the next wave passed, she hurried to her cot and sat down before she went tumbling. Remembering him, so close she could smell him—all sea salt and sweat. His eyes covering her, staring at her in such a way—for just a moment—that she might’ve believed Verity’s words were true. The feel of his touch, holding her firm, safe. Not at all like Edward’s had been—all claim and demand and force.

  She put her head in her hands and closed her eyes.

  Cease this, Keturah. Cease.

  Gray is not yours. Nor shall he ever be.

  Think of Tabletop. Your sisters’ future. Saving Hartwick Manor.

  And nothing more …

  Chapter Nine

  She did well, sticking to that train of thought. For weeks she and Gray exchanged only the most formal of conversation. Mr. Callender seemed glad that there was a division between them but made no effort of his own to woo her. Meanwhile, Mr. Wood acted rather put out by their separation. It was he who caught her pacing one night in the passageway outside her cabin, unable to sleep. She was shaking, she was so nervous, sick unto death of the confined space of her cabin as well as the whole ship. The Restoration reeked from stem to stern. There was not a body aboard her who didn’t need a hot bath and a change of clothes. And now, just a week or two from reaching Nevis, all Keturah could think about was finally arriving, finally having her feet on solid ground again, finally being off this cursed, wretched ship… .

  “Lady Tomlinson!” Mr. Wood said, coming up short outside his cabin after obviously enjoying a cup of grog or two with the sailors abovedecks. “Whatever is the matter?” he asked, turning toward her.

  “Oh, ’tis nothing. I simply could not sleep. Nerves, I suppose,” she added ruefully, in a whisper, hoping he would quiet down. She didn’t want her sisters to awaken and find her pacing like an unsettled house cat.

  “I hear tell it happens to all of us at this time in a voyage,” he said
kindly while edging closer. “Would you like to take a turn around the deck?”

  The thought of it brought her instant relief. A bit of exercise, clean air … and perhaps even a chance to hear Gray play. She glanced toward her cabin door. “Perhaps I ought to rouse Grace to accompany us.”

  “Ah, no need to awaken the poor girl,” Mr. Wood said, lifting his hands. “I promise to be nothing but the most courteous escort. Have we not already taken a hundred turns together around those decks?” He looked up to the ceiling.

  It was true. They had. But in the company of her sisters and others. And yet he was right; it was horribly late and the last thing the weary Grace needed was for Keturah to cut into her slumber simply because she felt the need to stretch her legs. Was Keturah not as much a target here in the passageway, so near the crew’s quarters, as she was abovedecks?

  “Come along, Lady Tomlinson.” Mr. Wood offered her his arm. “A bit of fresh air will do you wonders.”

  She wondered how he knew that. Again, she could not figure what he intended with her. He seemed drawn to her, though in a purely platonic manner. There was nothing predatory about him, and yet she kept getting the sense that something else lurked below the surface.

  You really are beginning to imagine far too much, Keturah, she told herself as she climbed the steep stairway after Mr. Wood. He waited above for her, took her hand, and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. But Keturah’s eyes were on the masses of stars above—far more than she had ever seen in England or even on the voyage so far. They had always returned to their cabins just as twilight began to fade. This late, millions of stars appeared. “They’re so beautiful!” she gasped.

  “Indeed,” he said with a chuckle, leading her to the rail. “With no moon, they’re the prettiest tonight. Perhaps that’s why,” he added, “they are still at their music at this hour.”

  Keturah noticed it then, the barest hint of music above the noisy waves. She glanced at Mr. Wood, merely a silhouette beside her. “Do you think … we might edge somewhere closer to hear them?”