Later that morning, Cecilia took a walk down to the harbor. Edward had told her at breakfast that he was meeting with Colonel Stubbs, and he did not know how long he would be busy. She’d been left to her own devices, possibly for the entire day. She’d gone back up to their room with the intention of finishing the book of poems she’d been plodding through for the past week, but after only a few minutes it was clear that she needed to go outside.
The room felt too tight, the walls too close, and every time she tried to focus on the typeset words on the page, her eyes filled with tears.
She was raw.
For so many reasons.
And so she decided a walk was in order. The fresh air would do her good, and she’d be far less likely to spontaneously burst into tears if there were witnesses.
Goal for today: Don’t cry in public.
It seemed manageable.
The weather was very fine, not too hot, with a light breeze coming off the water. The air smelled of salt and seaweed, which was a pleasant surprise, considering how often the wind carried on it the stench of the prison ships that moored just a little ways off the coast.
Cecilia had been in New York long enough to have learned a little something about the patterns of the port. Ships arrived almost daily, but very rarely did they carry civilian travelers. Most were merchant vessels, bringing in much-needed supplies for the British Army. A few of these had been fitted to carry paying passengers; that was how Cecilia had made it across from Liverpool. The Lady Miranda’s main purpose had been to bring foodstuffs and armaments for the soldiers stationed in New York. But she had also borne fourteen passengers. Needless to say, Cecilia had gotten to know most of them quite well on the five-week voyage. They’d had little in common except that they were all making a dangerous voyage across a temperamental ocean into an embattled coastal area of a landmass at war.
In other words, they were all plumb crazy.
It almost made her smile. She still couldn’t quite believe she’d had the gumption to make the crossing. She’d been fueled by desperation, to be sure, and she hadn’t had many other options, but still . . .
She was proud of herself. For that, at least.
There were several ships in the harbor that day, including one that Cecilia had heard belonged to the same fleet as the Lady Miranda. The Rhiannon, it was called, and it had journeyed to New York from Cork, in Ireland. The wife of one of the officers who took his supper at the Devil’s Head had sailed in on it. Cecilia had not met her personally, but her arrival in town had been the source of much gossip and good cheer. With all the gossip that rang through the dining room each night, it would have been impossible not to have heard of it.
She wandered closer to the docks, using the tall mast of the Rhiannon as her North Star. She knew the way, of course, but it felt almost whimsical to be led there using her primitive navigation. How long had the Rhiannon been in New York? Not yet a week, if she recalled correctly, which meant that it would probably remain at dock for at least a few more days before heading back across the ocean. The holds needed to be unloaded and then loaded with new cargo. To say nothing of the sailors, who surely deserved time on dry land after a long voyage.
As Cecilia reached the harbor, the world seemed to open up like a spring flower. Bright midday light poured forth, unhindered by the three-and four-story buildings that had been blocking the sun. There was something about the water that made the earth seem endless, even if the docks weren’t quite at the open ocean. It was easy to see Brooklyn in the distance, and Cecilia knew how quickly a ship could navigate through the bay and out to the Atlantic.
It was really rather pretty, she thought, even if the tableau was far too different from home to ever etch itself permanently on her heart. But she liked it all the same, especially the way the water whipped up into foam-crested waves, then slapped the retaining wall like an impatient nanny.
The ocean was gray here, but out over the horizon it would darken to a deep, fathomless blue. Some days—the turbulent ones—it had even looked green.
Another little fact she’d never have known if she had not ventured from her safe little home in Derbyshire. She was glad she’d come. Truly, she was. She would be leaving with a broken heart—for more reasons than one—but it would be worth it. She was a better person—no, she was a stronger person.
A better person would not have lied for so long.
Still, it was a good thing she’d come. For herself, and maybe even for Edward. His fever had risen dangerously high two days before he woke up. She’d remained by his side throughout the night, placing cooling cloths on his skin. She would never know if she’d actually saved his life, but if she had, then this all would have been worth it.
She had to hold on to that notion. It would keep her company for the rest of her life.
It was then that she realized she was already thinking in terms of leaving. She glanced down to her waist. She could be pregnant; she’d not yet had proof otherwise. But it was unlikely, and she knew she had to prepare herself for the logistics of travel.
Hence her trip to the harbor. She had not consciously considered why her feet were leading her to the water, but now, as she watched two longshoremen loading crates into the hold of the Rhiannon, it was quite obvious that she was there to make inquiries.
As for what she’d do once she was home . . . She supposed she’d have plenty of time in her ship’s cabin to figure that out.
“Good sir!” she called out to the man who was directing the cargo. “When do you leave?”
His bushy brows rose at her question, then he cocked his head toward the ship and said, “You mean the Rhiannon?”
“Yes. Do you head back to Britain?” She knew that many ships detoured to the West Indies, although she thought they usually did so on the way to North America.
“To Ireland,” he confirmed. “Cork. We leave Friday evening, if the weather holds.”
“Friday,” she murmured in response. It was only a few days away. “Do you carry passengers?” she asked, even though she knew that they had done so for the westward voyage.
“We do,” he said with a brusque nod. “Are you looking for a spot?”
“I might be.”
This seemed to amuse him. “You might be? Shouldn’t you know by now?”
Cecilia did not dignify this with an answer. Instead she employed a cool stare—the sort she’d once thought befitting of the wife of the son of an earl—and waited until the man jerked his head toward another fellow farther up the embankment. “Ask Timmins. He’ll know if we have space.”
“Thank you,” Cecilia said, and she made her way to a pair of men who were standing close to the bow of the ship. One had his hands on his hips while the other gestured toward the anchor. Their stances did not indicate that their conversation was urgent, so as Cecilia approached, she called out, “Your pardon, sirs. Is one of you Mr. Timmins?”
The one who’d been pointing toward the anchor doffed his hat. “I am, ma’am. How may I help you?”
“The gentleman over there”—she motioned back to where the cargo was being loaded—“mentioned that you might have room for another passenger?”
“Man or woman?” he asked.