In Dublin's Fair City (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #6)

The moment he went, I tucked into the tray. Everything was beyond delicious. For a person who grew up eating stew and potatoes, I had certainly learned quickly to appreciate fine food and fine wine. With great daring I went over to the silver ice bucket and poured myself a glass of that champagne.

Rose appeared again after lunch, wanting to know what she could do for me, but I couldn’t think of anything and sent her away. I couldn’t imagine ever wanting a personal maid hovering over me, and certainly not dressing me, brushing my hair, and fussing around me, even if I became very rich some day—which wasn’t likely to happen. At least Rose could enjoy some freedom and have fun with her own kind during the voyage.

By midafternoon I was bored with sitting alone and decided to risk a sortie. I put on Oona's black velvet cape, trimmed with white fur, and raised the hood cautiously over the wig. Then I found a lace handkerchief to hold over my mouth and ventured out. My faithful Frederick was standing guard at the entrance to my hallway. He sprang to attention when he saw me.

“Feeling better, Miss Sheehan? Oh, that is good news.”

“I’m afraid not, Frederick,” I whispered through the handkerchief, “but I hoped that a turn on deck and a good dose of sea air might be beneficial.”

“It certainly might, Miss Sheehan. And you’re not likely to run into trouble, if you get my meaning. Most of the first class passengers take a rest after lunch so that they can stay up late for the dancing.”

I felt a pang of regret that I would have to forego the dancing. For asecond I pictured myself in one of those silk evening gowns being whisked across the floor under glittering chandeliers. Then, of course, I reminded myself that I didn’t know how to dance any of the latest dances anyway and certainly not as elegantly as Oona Sheehan would have done.

“If you like to find yourself a deck chair, miss,” Frederick said, “I’ll arrange for a rug to be sent out to you and a cup of beef broth.”

“I think I’ll just take a little walk this time,” I said. I pulled the hood even farther forward and stepped out on deck. I was unprepared for the force of the wind, as it nearly lifted hood and wig in one go. I clung onto both, turned my back on the wind and walked in an anticlockwise direction around the promenade deck until I was out of the gale.

It was a bright, sparkling day with enough of a swell to let you know you were at sea, but not enough to make you seasick. I stood at the rail and stared out at the horizon. There was no land, no birds, no sign of other ships, just myself alone on a vast ocean. It was a sobering thought. Exciting too—after the crowds of New York City.

The sound of wind and waves must have masked other noises because I didn’t hear the man coming until he spoke, close to my ear.

“Miss Sheehan?” he asked.

I whipped the handkerchief up to my mouth and drew the hood half across my face as I looked up at him. He was young, good looking, with the dark, windswept hair and blue eyes of the Black Irish—not unlike Daniel or Ryan—and he was dressed in fitting shipboard style in blue blazer and striped ascot.

“It is Miss Oona Sheehan, isn’t it?” he asked again.

“It is,” I whispered, “but you must excuse me. I am suffering from a throat complaint and my doctor has forbidden me to talk.”

“I see,” he said. “I hope it's nothing serious?”

“It should clear up in a few days if I rest and don’t use my voice. Please excuse me, Mr—”

“Fitzpatrick,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear you are not yourself. I too am heading home to Ireland. Maybe we shall run into each other again.”

“I’m afraid that's unlikely. I have been ordered to rest.” “Ireland is a small country,” he said. “You never know.”

With that he bowed and was gone.

I’d handled that one well enough, I told myself. I continued my stroll around the deck, holding the hood in place with one hand. I hadn’t progressed far when I heard a voice behind me shouting,

“Miss Sheehan, Miss Sheehan!”

I stopped and waited as another young man came running up to me.

“Oh, Miss Sheehan, it is you,” he said breathlessly. “I couldn’t believe my luck when I heard that you were on board. Do you not remember me? It's Artie. Artie Fortwrangler. I came to every one of your performances when you were in Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines. I was there at the stage door every night. Remember the white orchids?”

“Of course, Artie,” I breathed through the lace handkerchief. “You must excuse me. I am sick and the doctor has forbidden me to talk. It might be catching,” I added, as he was getting too close in his eagerness.

“I do hope you recover quickly enough to dance with me while we’re on board, Miss Sheehan,” he said, gazing at me with hopeful eyes. “They have ripping dances, you know. It would be a lifetime's dream fulfilled to whisk you around the floor in my arms.”

“We’ll just have to see,” I said. “Now I’m afraid I must go and rest again.”

“Here, let me get you a deck chair,” he said. “Don’t take another step.”

“No, really. I must go back to my cabin.”