Chapter 2 #2
Indeed, it bothered her that she still really had no idea why the leyline magic hadn’t worked as it should.
Unless it had something to do with the fact that she’d cast the spell while on the water.
Could it be that the flow of the river beneath the boat had somehow interfered with the leyline energy emanating from the earth?
There was nothing like that mentioned in the Parasol Academy Handbook, but perhaps such a theory had never really been tested before.
If that were the case, surely the choppy waters of the Bristol Channel would make another teleportation go awry a second time.
Yes, maybe it would be safer to teleport while on dry land.
Conversely, she and Lord Fitzwilliam could always catch the train to Ablington.
It wasn’t so very far. Why, they’d probably arrive at Rose Cottage in time for dinner.
Mina was about to confirm that yes, both she and Christopher did wish to travel to Bristol, when Lord Fitzwilliam clutched at her skirts. “I’m sorry, but I … I don’t feel very well,” he murmured.
One look at the boy’s pea-green pallor and Mina knew he was seasick. And no wonder. The ship was pitching and rolling terribly. The whole experience of being whirled around and around during the teleportation process had no doubt contributed to the young viscount’s unsettled internal state too.
Lord Kinsale’s forehead creased with concern.
“The sea is par-particularly rough, this-this afternoon, lad. It might be b-best if we go up on deck. The fresh air m-m-might help.” He nodded at Mina’s umbrella and Lord Fitzwilliam’s valise.
“You m-might like to leave your be-belongings here though, Mrs. Dav-Davenport. So you c-c-can hang on to the railings.”
“Of course, Lord Kinsale,” agreed Mina, depositing her things by the cabin door. “And yes, taking some fresh air sounds like a very good idea.”
Once they were on deck, perhaps there’d be a moment when the marquess was distracted.
Then she could produce a bottle of medicine from her governess’s pocket that would alleviate Lord Fitzwilliam’s nausea.
Such was the nature of the Parasol Academy uniform’s “magical” pockets.
They somehow provided a nanny or governess with whatever a child needed.
You just reached right in, and there it was.
The marquess and Brutus led the way, and within a minute, they were all up on the rear poop deck of the Kinsale Cloud.
Any number of curious glances were cast her way and Lord Fitzwilliam’s by the marquess’s crew.
Especially the captain—Lord Kinsale had stopped to have a brief word with the man as they’d traversed the quarterdeck.
Mina tried to ignore the stares and whispers.
No doubt the men were all wondering where she and the young viscount had come from.
“Hold-hold on to the taffrail, lad.” Lord Kinsale nodded at the polished wooden railing.
The Irishman stood nearby, booted feet planted as wide as his shoulders, hands on his buckskinclad lean hips.
Even though the wild wind kept whipping locks of his dark brown hair into his eyes, he was watchful, standing guard as though he’d dive into the Channel itself to rescue little Lord Fitzwilliam if he went overboard.
“And k-k-keep your eyes on the horizon,” he added.
“That always helps m-m-me whenever I feel seasick.”
Lord Fitzwilliam nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“You … you’re not feelin’ unwell, Mrs. Dav-Davenport?” asked the marquess, his voice as deep and rolling as the sea itself.
Mina summoned a smile. “I’m quite fine, my lord,” she replied, fighting to be heard over the snatching wind and crashing waves.
But that wasn’t the worst of it; she was also highly conscious of the fact that her skirts were plastered against her hips and legs in a most unseemly manner.
Not only that, but she feared her coal-scuttle bonnet might be torn from her head at any moment, and only heaven knew how much havoc the gale would wreak upon her perfectly coiled and precisely pinned hair if that happened.
The very idea of not meeting the Parasol Academy’s strict uniform protocols at all times bothered her no end.
As if the wind were listening to her thoughts, and had indeed decided to taunt her, it suddenly caught at her bonnet and whipped it from her head. It went bowling along the deck, Brutus in hot pursuit, like a hound after a rabbit.
“Brutus!” bellowed Lord Kinsale, turning away and striding after the dog. “Don’t you even think about eatin’ that hat!”
Now was Mina’s chance to produce the medicine Lord Fitzwilliam needed. As she sank to her knees, she pulled a small, clear glass bottle from her pocket. “My lord,” she murmured. “I have a special cordial here that will help ease the sick feeling in your stomach.”
The boy pouted as he hugged Mr. Hopwell closer to his chest. “I don’t like medicine, but if it will make this horrid feeling go away, I’ll drink it.”
“Very good, my lord.” Mina reached into her pocket again and withdrew a silver spoon. “You don’t need to drink a lot.” She uncorked the bottle then somehow managed to pour out a generous spoonful of the pale honey-hued medicine without spilling any. “Just this much.”
Lord Fitzwilliam obediently swallowed the liquid. Then he smiled. “It’s delicious,” he declared brightly. “Not dreadful at all. It tastes like all my favorite things. Gingerbread and chocolate and ice-cream and boiled sweets.”
“Oh good. I’m glad.” Mina repocketed the spoon and the medicine bottle. As she climbed to her feet, the marquess returned to her side, brandishing her bonnet.
“Here you are, Mrs. Dav-Davenport,” he said with a smile that was almost bashful. “B-bonnet rescued from the elements and me p-p-pug. I suspect you’ll be wantin’ it to protect your fair complexion.”
Mina curtsied, partly to show her thanks and partly to hide her blush.
Good Lord, she’d turned into a giddy schoolgirl, all because a gentleman with wide shoulders was paying her a smidgeon of attention.
For all she knew, he could be married with children.
If that was the case, she shouldn’t be admiring the man’s physique at all.
“Thank you, my lord. I’m most grateful. Not just for this”—she gestured at her errant bonnet before she slid it over her undoubtedly ruined coiffure—“but for your consideration and forbearance given the circumstances.”
Lord Kinsale leaned against the railing and crossed his arms. The pose emphasized his bulging biceps and Mina fought to keep her eyes on the marquess’s face.
“I hope you’ll f-f-forgive me for sayin’ so, but I still don’t quite understand how you c-came to be on me b-boat.
How did you m-m-manage to evade me ship’s crew? ”
Oh dear. Mina wished the marquess would let this matter go because she really didn’t have any explanation that he would believe. She hated telling lies, but she certainly couldn’t tell him the truth. About anything.
She gave an inward sigh then marshalled an apologetic smile.
“As I said, we mistakenly boarded the wrong vessel and, well … I suppose your crew were so busy, they didn’t regard us?
” She recalled something that the marquess had said earlier about the Kinsale Cloud’s departure, so she added, “Night was falling. Perhaps they didn’t see us in the fading light. ”
Oh, she was a terrible liar. Even to her own ears, her reasoning sounded implausible. But it was all she had.
Lord Kinsale frowned. “Hmmm. Perhaps … Although, how did you end up in me p-p-private quarters, of all places?”
Now Mina did feel a trifle ill. “My lord,” she began, hoping her embarrassment and guilt weren’t showing, “I know it was entirely inappropriate and indeed, positively rude of me to take refuge in your wardrobe with Christopher. It was, without a doubt, a gross invasion of your privacy, but”—she drew a breath—“as soon as we boarded, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake, but the ship had set sail.
So Christopher and I took refuge below deck for some time until …
” She blushed. “We went in search of the necessary, so to speak. And sustenance. But then, I’m afraid, we ended up in your cabin.
I’m so dreadfully sorry. About everything. ”
Drat it. She was not a convincing liar, by any means.
She tried again. “All I can do is apologize. You must believe me; it truly was an honest mistake that we boarded the Kinsale Cloud. A quirk of fate if you will.” She reached into her pocket and her fingers closed about her coin purse.
“I-I can pay you a fare, to cover the cost of ferrying Christopher and me to Bristol—”
Lord Kinsale waved a dismissive hand. “Good Lord. I don’t want your m-m-money, Mrs. Dav-Davenport. And you ain’t in any trouble for stow-stowin’ away if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Mina, relief washing through her. “I’m most relieved you don’t think ill of me. I’m most grateful.”
“Think noth-nothin’ of it, lass.” The marquess’s deep green eyes narrowed a fraction as he studied her face. “Th-though, I cannot help b-but think that somethin’ is wrong. Are you sure you and your young lad aren’t in any other kind o’ trouble? Perhaps I could help.”
Good heavens, was the fact she was in the process of stealing a child away from his guardian written all over her face with indelible ink?
“Ah, no. Nothing’s wrong.” Mina folded her hands together at her waist so she wouldn’t fidget nervously.
“I think perhaps that I’m simply weary from … from the journey.”
“Are you hungry? Thirsty? I-I can get the galley to prepare somethin’ for you and wee Christopher here.”
Even though Mina had no appetite for anything at all, Lord Fitzwilliam might want something to eat or drink, especially now that his nausea had abated.
And it might be a way to stop Lord Kinsale questioning her.
It was hard to talk when one’s mouth was full.
“Yes, please,” she said. “If it’s not too much trouble. ”
“O’ course not.” Lord Kinsale swung away, striding a few yards across the deck to speak with a crew member.
As soon as the marquess’s back was turned, Brutus gave a disgruntled growl. Trouble? Ye’re nothing but trouble if ye ask me, he mumbled to himself. Everythin’ that comes out o’ yer mouth is feckin’ codswallop.
Mina had suddenly had enough of the dog’s insolent manner.
Everyone was entitled to their own opinions of course—and she hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—but the pug’s mental musings were unusually loud.
Codswallop? she repeated, arching an eyebrow as she stared back at the pug.
I won’t stoop so low as to repeat the other profanity you used.
I think you should mind your language around women and children, Mr. Brutus.
The pug blinked at her. Dog’s teeth. Ye can hear me thoughts? How is such a thing possible?
Yes, I can, replied Mina. Quite clearly.
And to answer your second question, some people learn to speak Latin, or Swahili, or Icelandic, or Gaelic.
Well, I’ve learned the language of animals, especially dogs.
Birds and horses too. Cats occasionally.
I once had an exceedingly pleasant conversation with a pair of elephants at the London Zoo.
Sweet Jaysus. The pug cocked his head and eyed her with renewed interest. Ye’re an odd one then, ain’t ye?
No odder than you, rejoined Mina. And I assure you, I’m not a threat to you or your master. So if you’d reduce the growling and snarling, I would appreciate it. I’d rather you didn’t frighten young Christopher.
Humph. The pug puffed out his chest. I’ll consider it. But it’s not the boy I object to. Brutus shot Mr. Hopwell a baleful glare. It’s his rabbit. There’s somethin’ not quite right about it.
It’s a toy! exclaimed Mina indignantly.
Brutus’s already wrinkled brow furrowed even more. It’s still a feckin’ rabbit. Why, if I get hold of it, I’ll rip its ears off and chew off its tail and pull out its stuffin’—
You’ll do no such thing.
Are you always so bossy?
Are you always so rude? returned Mina in her best governess’s voice.
At that moment, Lord Kinsale returned. He smiled at Lord Fitzwilliam. “How d-d-does pound cake sound with a side of ginger b-beer, Chris-Christopher? There might even be a few Bath b-b-buns.”
The young viscount’s face lit up. “Oh yes, please, sir. That sounds delightful.”
Oh, indeed it did. Mina’s mouth began to water. Cake, of any kind, was her Achilles heel. Out of habit though, she stuffed her craving down as she recalled her mother’s oft-quoted adage: A lady must always remember that a moment on the lips becomes forever on one’s hips.
But then, she reminded herself as she and Lord Fitzwilliam followed the marquess, it would be the height of bad manners if she didn’t take afternoon tea with the Irish peer.
She’d already decided that it might not be safe to teleport when aboard a ship.
So really, it wasn’t remiss of her to at least have a small serve of pound cake.
Just a finger-width slice. Just to be sociable.
After all, Lord Kinsale had gone to all the trouble of organizing it.
And really, what harm would it do if she enjoyed herself, even just for a little while?