Chapter Seven
By late afternoon the next day, Max had secured the last of the cargo, and Dover Harbor was already surrendering to the evening’s damp.
The jetty lamps cast their amber halos through a salt haze, reflecting in every puddle on the stone.
Dockworkers barked at one another over crates of fruit and casks of gin.
Above them all loomed the black hull of the Peninsular and Oriental steamship Constellation, the gold leaf of its name glinting in the low light.
He drew up near the customs shed, boots squelching through the mud, and dug his hands into the pockets of his overcoat.
The air was raw and full of brine, and coal smoke billowed from the ship’s twin funnels.
Up on the main deck, deckhands in tarred canvas swarmed, manhandling barrels and sorting through net-wrapped bales.
The business of shipping an entire civilization’s worth of detritus could not proceed without chaos.
Max watched a crate stamped FRAGILE—CAIRO tilt dangerously on a pulley, steadied at the last moment by the wiry boy who’d spent all morning trailing after the porters and earning their derision.
There was no sign of Eden yet. Max’s orders had been explicit: meet him at the gangway promptly at seventeen hundred hours, where he would escort her and her companion to their private quarters, giving them plenty of time to get settled before they got underway.
She wasn’t late yet, but he felt anxious, nonetheless.
He wouldn’t be able to relax until she was safe in her cabin.
A bell sounded from the purser’s office: half-past four. Passengers were beginning to drift up the gangplank, leaving England forever or at least for the winter.
He shifted his gaze up the wharf and caught a flash of fiery hair.
Eden moved with brisk authority, setting her apart from the rest of the crowd.
Flanking her was Mrs. Carlisle, a woman who looked to be in her early thirties, wearing starched black widow’s weeds, her thin face pinched and anxious.
So, this was the chaperone that Eden had agreed to bring to preserve her reputation.
He’d been assured that they’d leave her at the hotel in Cairo when they ventured out into the desert, then retrieve her on their way home.
Max straightened, his pulse accelerating. She was going to go through with it. He supposed that some small part of him had thought she might come to her senses at the last minute. He wasn’t certain if he was disappointed or elated that she hadn’t.
He should have known she was too stubborn to give up on her dream.
She met his eyes directly over the crowd, and it was all he could do to keep from hurrying toward her.
“Lady Eden,” Max said as she approached, offering the most perfunctory of bows.
She looked him up and down, her lips tightening ever so slightly at the formal address. “Mr. Thorne. I trust your journey from London was... tolerable?”
He tried to smile. “It was fine. And everything is in order. We’ll be departing soon.” He had been determined to keep her at arm’s length, using the formal address as a boundary. But now, looking at her, he just felt foolish.
“I’ve arranged for your trunks to be sent straight to your cabin,” Max continued, gesturing toward the base of the gangplank where a harried quartermaster was ticking off names on a ledger. “Your cabin and Mrs. Carlisle’s adjoining room await you below deck. Starboard side, aft.”
“Thank you. I appreciate all your preparations. I’m so happy to finally be underway.” She turned and began to ascend the gangplank.
Max fell in step just behind her, Mrs. Carlisle trailing in his wake, and his gaze was drawn to her squared shoulders and elegant bearing.
He could feel the excitement vibrating around her like a halo, but she gave no outward indication of it.
He knew what lay beneath those dull gray skirts—the impossibly long legs and magnificent derriere.
This was going to be one hell of a long trip.
As they reached the top of the ramp, the ship’s first officer called out, “Careful, ma’am, the deck’s slick.”
Eden paused just long enough to let Max and Mrs. Carlisle catch up before stepping onto the Constellation’s grooved wooden deck, the railings polished to a blinding gleam.
Inside the vestibule, the scent changed: brass polish, wet wool, and the sour tang of anxious passengers. A porter materialized to relieve Mrs. Carlisle of her valise, bowing low as he did so.
Eden ignored the gesture, instead glancing aft where a cluster of gentlemen—scholars, by their tweedy disarray—were already arguing the route of Hannibal’s elephants across the Alps.
Max knew with sudden certainty that she wished she could march over there and join them.
But they wouldn’t welcome her. He knew that, too.
Max turned to her, lowering his voice. “Departure in less than an hour, weather permitting. There’s a lounge in the forward salon if you’d care to be up top for it.”
She considered, then said, “Let’s see the accommodations first.”
“As you wish, my lady.”
She paused at that, her mouth twisting. “It’s only Eden, you know.”
He looked at her, weighing the safety of familiarity against the dangers of it. “Noted.”
They descended the narrow staircase, Max bracing himself instinctively as the ship listed slightly in its berth.
On the lower deck, their cabin awaited—modest by the standards of the daughter of an earl, perhaps, but downright palatial compared to some of the bunks he’d slept in.
Two adjoining rooms, the connecting door already cracked open, a carafe of water and glasses waiting on the table.
The porthole offered a view of Dover, its spires and rooftops melting into the mist, and the ghostly white cliffs above.
Mrs. Carlisle immediately disappeared into her own room while Eden inspected the cabin.
She ran a gloved hand along the polished wood of the desk, nodding once at its adequacy.
She made no comment about the lace curtains or the monogrammed towels—either because they met her standards or, more likely, because she’d never been one to care much for such matters.
Max hovered in the corridor, hands clasped behind his back, unsure if he was meant to linger. “If you require anything else—”
“I’ll let you know,” Eden said, still facing the window. “Please don’t treat me like a pampered princess, Max. I don’t know if I can bear it. I’m still the same woman you knew all those years ago.”
He nodded, oddly chastened. “Of course.” But he didn’t leave. Something in the set of her shoulders, the way her breath briefly fogged the glass, kept him rooted. He sensed that despite her outward strength, she was badly in need of some comfort.
He cleared his throat. “It’s a good, solid ship. Old, but she’ll get us there. I’ve made the crossing half a dozen times and only once lost my lunch.”
Eden turned to face him, a glint of genuine amusement in her eyes. “I imagine you’re not easily rattled after all your adventures.”
“Not by ships, no. Not by much, in fact.”
For a moment, she looked as if she wanted to say something more, but then Mrs. Carlisle called out from the other room: “Tea’s ready, my lady.”
Eden inclined her head to Max in silent thanks, then stepped through the connecting door. He waited until he heard the low murmur of their voices, the rattle of teacups, before shutting the door and turning back up the stairs.
By the time he reached the main deck, the harbor had shifted into twilight.
The last of the passengers had boarded, the dockworkers now unloading crates of potatoes and sides of beef, the shouts and laughter beginning to thin.
Max found himself at the rail, looking out at the wavering gaslights of the town, listening to the subtle changes in the ship’s timbre as its boilers ramped up and the paddlewheels started their slow churn.
A final bell clanged, and the gangplank groaned as it was drawn in from the dock. The sensation of movement was barely perceptible at first—a slight lurch, a shiver in the soles of his feet. Then the ship’s siren howled, low and mournful, a sound that always made Max think of animals in pain.
He watched the gap between ship and shore widen, the silhouettes on the dock raising hands in farewell or clutching at hats against the wind.
Somewhere behind him, a steward’s voice announced the seating for first supper, but Max didn’t turn.
He waited until the Constellation had fully disengaged from the world it was leaving behind, and only then allowed himself a long, measured exhale.
The air tasted different already—cleaner, expectant. He flexed his fingers, banishing the numbness, and made his way back below.
They were underway. No turning back now.
After Max left her in her cabin, Eden had tea with Mrs. Carlisle.
Though they’d shared the carriage ride down from Willoughby Hall, they had only spoken a few words to each other.
Mrs. Carlisle had seemed as upset about the prospect of accompanying Eden to Egypt as Eden was about having to take her.
However, they were stuck with each other now, so she hoped they could learn to get along. Mrs. Carlisle grieved the loss of her husband, who had been gone for only a few months, deeply. Unfortunately, the man had left her destitute, and she obviously hadn’t wanted to be a burden to her sister.
Eden admired Genevieve for her need to rescue every wounded bird.
After all, she didn’t know what would have happened to her and the others had Genevieve not taken them under her wing.
But she still felt odd about having someone else move to Willoughby Hall to take Lavender’s place.
Especially someone who seemed so glum and downtrodden.
“I’ve never been on a ship before,” Mrs. Carlisle admitted, obviously anxious to be doing so now.
“Neither have I,” Eden replied. “But I’m ecstatic to be leaving England for the first time. I can’t wait to see all the things that lie ahead of us.”
Mrs. Carlisle brushed a stray strand of dirty blond hair back beneath her cap and sighed. “I fear that I’m not up to this journey.”
Eden tamped down her irritation, not wanting to add to the woman’s dismay, but she very much feared the same thing. “Why don’t we go up on deck and watch England disappear in our wake? Perhaps it will do you good.”
Mrs. Carlisle shook her head furiously. “Oh, no, my lady. I’d rather just stay down here and unpack.”
“Suit yourself then,” Eden said, relieved that the woman had ignored her invitation. She didn’t want this experience ruined by Mrs. Carlisle’s obvious despair.
She headed above decks to watch their departure and found a secluded place at the rail. Her heart swelled as she gazed out at the receding shoreline.
The steamer’s funnels loomed against the sky, their forms softened by the lingering mist. Eden stood motionless, her heart hammering in her chest.
She couldn’t believe she was finally doing this. Excitement filled her, but also the heavy weight of expectation. Now that her plans were in motion, she must actually prove all her theories. And if she failed...
Well, almost everyone expected her to, so perhaps she shouldn’t worry so much. But she knew she’d never forgive herself if she did meet with failure.
Max approached her, his gait marked by the surety of a military man.
There was something different about him now, a change she couldn’t quite place.
The years had hardened and weathered him, but she sensed it went deeper than that.
He’d been through hell since she’d last seen him, and she wondered if he’d ever open up to her about it.
Would she ever tell him what her life had been like while he’d been gone? Those bad years with Richard?
Perhaps not.
He didn’t say anything, simply joined her at the rail. A little thrill went through her to have him standing beside her as the country of their birth fell behind them. She took a breath, the tang of sea air invigorating, and cast her eyes toward the distant horizon, where the sun rapidly sank.
“The Channel should be behind us by dawn,” he said, perhaps mostly to fill the space between them. “We should reach Gibraltar in four days. Malta in a week, if the wind holds.”
Eden’s eyes tracked a fishing boat laboring in their wake, its crew tiny silhouettes against the gloom. “And after Malta?” Though of course, she knew. She’d traced this journey in her mind a thousand times. She just wanted to keep him talking.
Max shrugged, feigning indifference. “Alexandria. Cairo by train, if the line’s running. There are rumors of floods on the Delta.”
Eden looked at him, searching his face for some trace of the boyish enthusiasm she remembered. He was reserved, yes, but more than that: she felt the invisible, unyielding barrier he had built around himself. She nodded, acknowledging both his words and that wall.
Eden watched England fade into a smudge on the horizon, and her heart ached with a freedom both exhilarating and terrifying.
Egypt lay ahead, but so did weeks of shared proximity with a man who’d once occupied a far more intimate space in her life.
She wondered, not for the first time, if engaging his services for this journey had been wise.
Still, the comfort of his presence was undeniable—the only fixed point in this vast, sudden expanse of ocean.