She rubbed a hand over her face and then froze. The walls around her neither dipped nor swayed. The mattress felt feather stuffed, and no salt tinged the air. Obviously she was no longer aboard a ship, but in the shadows of the room, she could not place where she was.
Scrambling to her feet, she headed to the strip of golden light glowing between the heavy drapes. Perspiration dripped from her forehead and made her dress cling, and the air felt heavy and wet. Where was she? Some outer ring of Dante’s inferno?
A tug upon the curtains brought sunlight flooding in, saturated in shades of pink and violet. Sunset—of what day? And over what land?
The street brought a tickle of memory and the crawl of heat up her neck. Her eyelids slid shut. Baltimore, at the home of the Lanes. And given that she had no memory between staring up at the towering son of the family and waking up a moment ago, she could only assume that she had made a cake of herself in some fashion or another.
“Perfect.” She loosed the fabric in her fingers and turned to examine the room in the fading light. Smaller than her room at home, but comfortable. The furniture looked relatively new, absent the flourish of decoration Mama had always favored but lovely in its simplicity.
Her trunk sat in a corner, an island of familiarity. She opened it and pulled out a white muslin day gown not too terribly wrinkled or so complicated she would require assistance to get into it. After making use of the pitcher and basin and fantasizing about a bath—perhaps she would order one later—she changed, pinned up her hair, and felt marginally better.
In the hall outside her room, shadows cloaked the windowless walls and made night feel closer. From behind the door nearest hers she heard familiar snoring in two tones. The Wesleys. She touched a hand to their door and drew in a long breath. No doubt they were nearly as exhausted as she from having to tend her. Try as she might, she could make out no other sounds from anywhere in the house. Were the Lanes all out? Gwyneth headed for the stairs and made her way down, though silence permeated the air.
From the front rooms came only the tick-tock of the case clock in the parlor. She paused at the base of the stairs and turned in a circle. She had no idea where she ought to go, but it was cooler down here, so she intended to discover some corner in which to huddle.
Or perhaps a table. She could draw, something the pitching of the ship had prohibited. And perhaps tomorrow she could get out her paints. Any table with a lamp would do for work with a pencil, but she would need a sunny spot if she were to dabble in oils. Did Captain Lane have any kind of a garden? Somewhere with flowers in bloom, a riot of color. Pinks and purples and yellows, oranges and greens of every shade. The play of light upon darkness.
Darkness that oozed and yawned.
No. She pressed a hand to her eyes to force that image away. Flowers, she would think about flowers. Roses and orchids and lilacs and lilies and…and…
“Miss Fairchild, are you all right?”
The intrusion of the voice made her jump and spin, but the start gave way to calm when she spotted Thaddeus Lane leaning into the doorway to the dining room.
He was so tall his head would have hit the frame had he been standing straight, taller even than Papa. Slender, but the fit of his frock coat hinted at hard muscles. He had a pleasing face, not quite so handsome as his captain friend but with a more open expression in his eyes that drew her a step toward him before she remembered she did not know this man a whit.
“I am…” She could not claim to be well. That was too obvious a falsehood. But the truth was hardly polite conversation. She twisted her fingers together and said no more. The fact that she was would have to do for now.
Something sparked in his eyes, putting her in mind of the dark yellow topazes Mama had favored on autumn days. He stepped from the doorway and straightened. “You must be famished. Come, sit.” He motioned toward the room behind him. “I will ask Rosie to prepare you a plate. We expected you to sleep the night through.”
“It is still today, then?”
Only when he breathed a laugh did she realize how ridiculous a question that was. Heat kissed her cheeks, but the smile he sent her bespoke understanding.
“Still today. You slept only four hours.” He ushered her into the brightly lit dining room, where the scent of beef lingered.
“Four! I have not slept so much at once since I left.”
She half expected him to echo Captain Arnaud and the Wesleys, to say that now that her feet were firmly upon the land, she would soon return to normal. Instead he only acknowledged her statement with a hum low in his throat.
Gwyneth drifted to a stop, her gaze fastened on the cup at the head of the table. At home that was where Papa would have sat, steaming coffee before him.
Captain Lane touched a hand to her elbow and pulled out the chair adjacent to the one that must be his. “Would you like some coffee, Miss Fairchild?”