Chapter 15
Fifteen
Alix closed her eyes tightly, listening to the hiss and splatter of the sea against the planked walls of the cabin, trying to ignore the pitch and roll of the ship.
Rafe and Jervis were arguing over the best remedies for seasickness, Rafe insisting on champagne and sea biscuits, Jervis on a cold mug of seawater.
She waved them both weakly away, fervently believing that an empty stomach would be the best cure of all.
The ship was noisy and Alix found herself straining to identify every squeak and thump, every shouted command, in an effort to reassure herself that the Xanthus was not in imminent danger of sinking.
Curled up in a tight ball on the bunk, her back against the planks and her hands braced against the frame, she eyed the cabin.
It was a cramped space off the officers’ mess and smelled heavily of tar and broiled fish.
A single lantern hung from the beamed ceiling, its light swaying over the two narrow bunks that hung from the far wall.
Her stomach began to rise. It seemed even the rhythm of the waves matched the shifting pattern of questions in her mind—stay or go, stay or go?
He’d said they would do this together, with their eyes wide open, but he hadn’t been open about anything.
She’d been a fool, Alix thought, as she closed her eyes, leaned over the side of the bunk and heaved.
But her stomach it seemed was as empty as her mind was of answers. Finally, worn out by illness and worry, she drifted off to sleep.
Toward morning she was awakened by the clatter of the officers taking their breakfast in the mess.
She smelled coffee and onions, and her stomach rolled.
Deciding not to attempt sitting up just yet, she lay back and listened to the voices conversing in English.
Such a foreign sound, she thought, before recalling that she was the foreigner now.
Rafe entered the cabin, a steaming mug in one hand and a biscuit in the other. Leaning against the door, he surveyed her carefully. “You’re looking better.”
“Liar,” she said flatly, “even without a mirror, I know I must look a wreck.”
He grinned. “Well then, a bit less green around the edges. I’ve brought you some tea. Drink it down like a good girl, and then I’ll take you up on deck. The fresh air will do you good, and there’s something I want you to see.”
Alix sipped the tea and tentatively nibbled on the biscuit, avoiding Rafe’s watchful eye.
She was angry and confused, yet his concern made her feel vulnerable.
She didn’t need Rafe Harcrest to take care of her, she reminded herself.
She put the mug and half-finished biscuit on the railed desk.
Lifting her chin resolutely, she said, “Lead on.”
Bracing her feet carefully against the sway of the ship, Alix followed Rafe through the narrow companionway and up onto the deck.
He was right, she thought, as he led her back to where they had stood the previous night.
Though the air was cold and damp with the promise of rain, it felt good.
She could almost feel her color returning.
The ship was fully rigged with three levels of sails and they bellied out, filled with wind.
Two sailors, their pants rolled up about their knees and their bare feet swinging, sat high among the spars.
Rafe followed her glance upward and smiled. “They’ve just finished adjusting the sails. The winds and the current have been with us, we’re making good progress.
“Look,” he said, gesturing toward the horizon, “you can see the coast of England.”
Alix looked to where Rafe was pointing and saw in the distance a jagged line of white cliffs barely visible through the early morning fog.
As the ship cut through the waves, Rafe stood by her side pointing out Shakespeare’s Cliffs and other harbingers of Dover.
He turned toward her and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, grazing her cheek with his finger.
“If you’d like, next summer I’ll bring you back down the coast, show you some of the little villages.
Sea bathing’s becoming quite the thing.”
Alix nodded, but made no answer, knowing there would be no such trip.
Within two hours they reached Dover. Alix slipped on her cloak and tied the ribbons of her bonnet, feeling somewhat dazed that her journey from Valcour was nearly at an end.
She stood on the deck watching as the crew clambered about the masts like a ragged pack of monkeys, lowering the sails, and binding them loosely to the spars.
There was a great clanking of chains and a splash as the Xanthus’s massive anchor was lowered.
The crew began preparing the longboats that would take them to shore.
“Should I prepare a chair to lower her ladyship, or will she descend by the ladder?” the captain asked Rafe.
“Her ladyship will take the chair,” he answered firmly. Then, turning to Alix, he translated. “The captain wishes you to take chair down to the longboat.”
Alix concealed her annoyance. Her husband, it appeared, couldn’t be trusted to tell even the simplest truths.
The chair swayed precipitously as they lowered her down to the longboat and Alix clutched the arms, her knuckles showing white, as she inwardly cursed Rafe’s high-handedness.
They rowed through a heavy mist to reach the wharf and, as Rafe helped Alix up, he explained that they would stop at a little inn just up the street for some tea while Jervis arranged for a coach to take them up to London.
As they walked, the mist began to turn to drizzle and Alix tugged her cloak more closely about her.
Glancing about the busy streets she saw others do the same, men pulling their hats more firmly down around their ears, ladies with umbrellas opening them, and those without drawing their shawls around their heads.
Rafe pointed out the sign for the inn, just as the drizzle turned to a steady driving rain.
The hem of Alix’s skirt became sodden from the grimy water sluicing past her along the cobblestones.
She watched enviously as people ducked into the doorways of their homes, or climbed hastily into their carriages, wondering if it was possible for her to look or feel any more bedraggled.
As if in answer, two elegantly clad women with a small boy in tow dashed into a doorway.
Casting a charming smile at Alix, the little boy quickly turned and stamped his foot in a puddle, splattering the front of her skirt with mud.
“Oh, darling, look what you’ve done to your stockings,” she heard one of the women fuss, as the door closed behind them.
Rafe glanced down at Alix’s once-smart traveling gown.
“It seems we’ll need to visit a seamstress as soon as we reach London,” he said reassuringly.
“But for now, let’s see if we can’t get you warm and dry.
As luck will have it, this is our destination.
” He held open the inn door through which the women and the boy had passed.
The walls inside were white, the ceiling beams low and darkened by decades of smoke.
A fire burned in the large stone hearth and groups of people sat around tables covered in good linen, talking and laughing over plates of food.
Rafe whispered in her ear, “This place is famous for its scones, people come from London just to try them. I’ll make certain they have a plate waiting with our tea. ”
As she surveyed the room, it struck Alix that the customers seemed more upscale than she would have expected in a busy seaport.
Though there were a number of men who looked to be sea captains and merchants, there were a quite a few more dressed in the fine wool and silks of the quality.
Groups of tastefully clad women, who appeared fresh from a day’s shopping, chatted over tea, exclaiming over the contents of prettily wrapped parcels.
Rafe cast a worried look at Alix, then at the dining room, then back to Alix, as if noticing for the first time how truly travel-worn her gown appeared.
He hadn’t seen any familiar faces among the shoppers, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been recognized.
This was not the way he wanted society to meet his bride, he reflected grimly.
“I’ll see if I can’t arrange for a private dining room for us,” he said.
He’s embarrassed to be seen with me, Alix thought as Rafe stepped away to speak with the innkeeper. She found herself wishing she could disappear between the cracks of the wide planked floors. Even the serving girls, in their crisp white aprons and mobcaps looked more reputable than she.
“Sweetheart, you may have your soldiers after you’ve had your tea.”
“But I want them now,” Alix heard a child whine. She turned and saw the little boy who’d splashed her staring defiantly at a heavy-set blonde in a red brocade gown that was too formal for afternoon.
“After tea, dear,” the woman cooed in a tone of strained sweetness.
“Now!” the boy demanded in a voice that threatened to become louder.
The woman glanced around with some embarrassment to see who might be listening to the exchange and as she did so, her eye fell on Alix. She studied Alix briefly then dismissed her with a sniff that suggested a disreputable odor had somehow made its way across the dining room.
The woman turned back to the boy and Alix heard her say, “Very well sweetiekins, you may have your soldiers, there’s a good boy; now let mother and Auntie Harriet enjoy their tea.” She cast another look about then demanded in a piercing tone, “Where is the serving woman with our tea?”
A young girl in a crisp white apron slipped past Alix carrying a tray laden with tea things.
Placing the tray down, she carefully but quickly set out cups, saucers, and plates heaped high with cakes and scones.
Alix couldn’t help staring, not at the women, but at golden brown scones and the delicately iced cakes.
She was, she realized suddenly, ravenously hungry.