James River - Lost Lady Part 6

Bewildered, then as pleased as a cat with cream, she looked up at Travis as she took his arm again.

His eyes bright, he bent and kissed her nose. "Keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and we'll never make it to the s.h.i.+p. We'll have to stop at one of these inns."

She looked away from him, but her shoulders went back, her chin up, and she walked as if her feet could hardly touch the ground. And best of all, her fear left her. Her fingertips never left Travis's arm, but now she knew that even this slight touch was enough to keep her safe. Perhaps it wasn't so bad being with this great American and having these men, as low as they were, nodding their heads respectfully at her.

Sooner than she wanted to be, they were at the s.h.i.+p, and Regan was awed by the size of it. Weston Manor could have been set on the open deck.

"How do you feel?" Travis asked. "Not scared, are you?"

"No," she answered honestly, taking a deep breath of the cleansing sea air.

"I didn't think you would be," Travis said proudly as he led her up the gangplank.

She didn't have a chance to see much before he pulled her toward the pointed front end of the s.h.i.+p. There were tangles of rope as big around as her leg, and overhead was a spider web of cables. "Rigging," Travis murmured as he maneuvered her between sailors and boxes of supplies.

Quickly, he pulled her down narrow, steep stairs and into a little cabin that was neat and tidy. The walls were raised, arched panels, painted in two shades of blue. Against one wall was a large bed, a table was anch.o.r.ed to the middle of the floor, and two chests were on the opposite wall. A skylight and a window gave the room ample light.

"Nothing to say?" Travis asked quietly.

She was surprised at the almost wistful quality in his voice. "It's very pretty," she smiled, sitting down on the seat in front of the window. "Is your room as nice?"

Travis grinned. "I'd say it's exactly as pretty as this one. Now, I want you to stay here while I see to the loading of my supplies. " Pausing at the door, he turned back. "And I'll go through the pa.s.sengers and find that seamstress I hired and send her to you. You might want to look through those trunks and decide what you want to make first." His eyes twinkled. "And I told her to forget the nightgowns, that I had my own way of keeping you warm."

With that he was gone, and Regan was left to gape in puzzlement at the closed door. Pa.s.sengers! He'd told the pa.s.sengers she was to be sleeping with him? Were these pa.s.sengers American friends of his, people she hoped would someday respect her?

Before she could even contemplate the horror of this new situation, the door opened, and a tall, thin woman entered.

"I knocked, but no one answered," she said, eyeing Regan with interest. "If you'd rather, I could come back later. It's just that Travis said there was so much sewing to do, it would take the whole voyage. There's another woman on the boat—oh, no, Travis said it was a s.h.i.+p. Anyway, I think I can get her to help out. I don't know if she can do fancy work or not, but she can probably at least do the straight seams."

The woman was quiet for a moment as she seemed to be contemplating Regan. "Are you all right, Mrs. Stanford? Are you getting seasick, or maybe you're homesick already?"

"What?" Regan asked blankly. "What did you call me?"

The woman laughed as she moved to sit by Regan. She had lovely eyes, a full, pretty mouth, but in between was a sharp, long nose. "Neither you nor Travis seems used to being married yet. When I asked him if you'd been married long, he looked at me like he didn't think I was talkin' to him. That's a man for you! It takes them ten years before they admit they've given up their freedom. " Glancing about the room, she didn't stop talking. "But if you ask me, marriage was made for men; they just get another slave when they get a wife. Now!" she said abruptly. "Where are your new clothes? I reckon we'd best get started."

There were about a hundred thoughts whirling together in Regan's head, all of them confusing. In the turmoil of the last few days she'd completely forgotten about the clothes.

The woman patted Regan's hand sympathetically. "I guess with you being a new bride with a husband like Travis and all, and going to a new country, it's just too much for you. Maybe I should come back later."

New bride, Regan thought. She was a bride in a way. At least it was pleasant to imagine that she was a bride rather than facing up to the reality of the situation.

The woman was already at the door before Regan recovered herself. "Wait! Don't leave. I don't know where the clothes are. No, Travis said they were in the trunks."

Grinning broadly, the woman held out her hand. "I'm Sarah Trumbull, and I'm happy to meet you, Mrs. Stanford."

"Oh yes!" Regan sighed, liking this woman very much in spite of her extraordinary manipulation of the English language.

Sarah was on her knees in seconds as she threw open the lid to the first trunk. Perhaps the best indication of her admiration was her complete silence as she gazed down at the riot of colors and soft, silken, finely woven fabrics. "These must have set Travis back a bit of gold," she finally managed to whisper.

A sharp wave of guilt pa.s.sed over Regan as she remembered how she'd purposely chosen many more clothes than she needed just to embarra.s.s Travis when he found he could not pay the bill. Yet, obviously, he had paid the bill, and she wondered how much it had cost him—mortgages perhaps, selling what he owned?

"You're looking a little green again. Are you sure the s.h.i.+p's rolling isn't bothering you?"

"No, I'm all right."

"Good," Sarah said, looking back at the trunk. "Travis wasn't exaggerating when he said this was going to take months. You think that other trunk is as full as this one?"

Swallowing hard, Regan glanced at the closed lid. "I'm afraid so."

"Afraid! " Sarah laughed, pulling a leather portfolio from the trunk. "Look at this!" she said, emptying it onto her lap. Several pieces of heavy paper fell out, and on each one were four delicate watercolors of women's gowns. "These the dresses you picked out?"

Taking them, Regan smiled. They were beautiful dresses, and the sketches themselves were works of art. As Sarah and Regan began exploring, they found that each dress and coat had been carefully cut, and the trims for the particular garments were wrapped inside.

"It looks like I have my work cut out for me," Sarah said, then laughed at her own pun. Gathering drawings and fabrics, she said she'd like to get started, and as abruptly as she had appeared she left the cabin.

For a few moments, Regan sat alone on the window seat, looking at the cabin and wondering what adventures were ahead of her. She thought of Farrell and wished he knew she was on a s.h.i.+p bound for America and that a wardrobe fit for a princess was being sewn for her.

She had no idea how long she sat immobile on the seat, but gradually she became aware of the sounds outside her door. For all of her life she'd been forced to stay in a very small area, and the only living she could do was inside her head. Now she realized that she was free to see and do things, that the door to her cabin was not locked, and all she had to do was walk up some stairs and she'd be on the deck of an actual s.h.i.+p.

Taking a deep breath, feeling like a bird let out of a cage, she left the cabin, standing for a moment at the bottom of the dark stairwell. When a door next to her opened, she jumped in surprise.

"I beg your pardon," came a polite male voice. "I had no idea anyone was here." When Regan didn't answer, he continued, "Perhaps I should introduce myself since it looks as though we're to be neighbors. Or am I being too presumptuous? Maybe the captain could do the honors."

The young man's formal manners were a welcome relief after the last few days' complete suspension of anything resembling courtesy. "We will be neighbors," she smiled, "so perhaps just this once we can suspend formalities."

"Then allow me to present myself. I am David Wainwright."

"And I am Regan Alena* Stanford," she said as an afterthought, not wanting to reveal her true ident.i.ty or let this man know the truth about her relations.h.i.+p with Travis.

Gently, he shook her hand, then asked if she'd accompany him up to the upper deck. "I believe they're still loading. It may afford us some amus.e.m.e.nt to see these Americans among themselves, though I confess I sometimes have difficulty understanding their dialect. "

The sun was warm and bright on the deck, and Regan caught the feeling of excitement as people rushed around her everywhere. They emerged at the base of the quarterdeck, a partial additional deck at the fore end of the s.h.i.+p. Soon realizing they were in the way, she and David climbed the stairs to the top of the quarterdeck. Here they had a good, high view of the activities on the rest of the s.h.i.+p as well as on the wharf. And here, too, she had a view of David Wainwright. He was a small man with a plain face topped with straw-colored hair. His clothes were of good wool, his cravat perfectly white, and his slim feet were encased in soft kid slippers. He was the type of gentleman she'd always known —his hands made for the keys of a piano or to idly twirl a snifter of brandy. Looking at his long, slim fingers, she thought with disgust that an uncouth man such as Travis would probably hit two keys at once with his big fingers. Of course, she had to admit that those wide fingers sometimes. .h.i.t the right chords.

As her lips curved in a secret smile, she looked away from David, who was explaining why he was going to such a heathen place as America, and searched for Travis.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to be traveling with an English lady," David was saying. "When my father suggested I go and see to his holdings in that wilderness, I dreaded the journey. I've heard more than my share of stories about the place, and as if that weren't enough, just meeting a single American can turn one against the country. Look at that!" he gasped. "That is just what I was speaking of."

Below them, two sailors dropped the burdens they were carrying to the center of the deck, where another man carried them downstairs, and began shoving each other. Within seconds, one swung his fist at the other's jaw and missed, but before he could strike again the second man slammed his fist into the first's nose. Blood seemed to gush forth instantly, and the hurt, angry man began to swing wildly.

Out of nowhere, Travis appeared, grabbed the much smaller men by the backs of their s.h.i.+rt collars, and lifted them from the deck. There was no difficulty in hearing Travis as he told the sailors what he thought of their behavior and what he promised to do if they gave him any more trouble. Shaking them like puppies, he tossed them aside, told them to get cleaned up and return to work, as he carried both their bundles to the waiting sailor.

"That is an example of what I mean," David said. "Those Americans have no discipline. This is an English s.h.i.+p with an English captain, yet that* that American lout thinks he has every right to enforce his will over the crew. And besides, the men should not have been let off so lightly. Their bad conduct should be made an example of. Every captain knows that the only way to stop insubordination is at the very outset of it."

Regan agreed with him, of course. She'd heard her uncle say the same sort of thing many times, but the way Travis had handled the angry men seemed to her efficient and sensible. Frowning, she was puzzled by her thoughts, wondering who was actually right.

Her mind on other things, she did not at first see Travis waving at her.

"I believe that man is trying to get your attention, " David said, half in disgust, half in disbelief.

Trying to be sophisticated, Regan gave Travis a polite return wave before looking away from him. She had no desire to make a spectacle of herself as he had just done.

"I don't think he was satisfied," David said wonderingly. "He now seems to be coming this way. Perhaps I should get the captain."

"No!" Regan gasped, her eyes turning to Travis and smiling in spite of herself.

"Did you miss me?" Travis laughed, sweeping her into his arms and swirling her around once.

"Let me down!" she said angrily, but her voice did not agree with the pleasure on her face. "You smell like a gardener."

"And what would you know of the smell of a gardener?" he teased.

From behind her, David cleared his throat noisily.

Blus.h.i.+ng, Regan managed to push Travis's hands away from her. "Mr. Wainwright, this is Travis Stanford." Her eyes looked up pleadingly at him. "My* husband," she whispered.

Travis's eyes didn't flicker. Actually, his smile seemed to grow warmer as he thrust out his hand, enveloping David's slim, smooth one. "I am glad to meet you, Mr. Wainwright. Did you know my wife in England?"

How smoothly he said the lie! she thought. Yet how kind of him to save her honor this way. She would have thought he'd laugh at her, as he did so often.

"No, we just met," David said quietly, looking from one to the other, seeing Travis's possessive arm about Regan's small shoulders, seeing a refined, elegant English lady in the grasp of a half-savage, mannerless, working-cla.s.s man. He very much wanted to wipe his palm where Travis had touched him.

If Travis saw the delicate curl of the small man's upper lip, he did not show it, and Regan was too busy trying to regain some of her dignity by pus.h.i.+ng Travis's hand away.

"I was hoping you'd known her before," Travis said, and ignored Regan's look because his words had an odd ring to them, almost as if he wasn't telling the truth. "I have to get back to work, love," he smiled. "You stay up here and away from the lower deck, you understand?" He didn't wait for her to answer but turned to appraise Wainwright. "I trust I may leave her with you?" he said politely, formally, but at the same time he gave the impression that he was laughing. Regan very much wanted to kick him.

Swiftly, he turned and bounded down the stairs, leaving Regan to wonder if he were jealous. Perhaps Travis was worried that he couldn't compete with a gentleman of Mr. Wainwright's quality.

Chapter 7.

The s.h.i.+p sailed with the tide. Regan, too excited to eat, too curious to leave the quarterdeck even for a moment, was unaware of the way David's face whitened or of his constant swallowing. When he excused himself, she smiled and stayed where she was. Noisy seagulls flew overhead as the men ran the sails up.

The rolling of the s.h.i.+p reminded her that they were about to set out on a journey, that with the moving of the s.h.i.+p she was starting a new life.

"You look happy," Travis said quietly from beside her.

She hadn't been aware of him coming up the stairs. "Oh yes, I am. What are those men doing? Where do those stairs lead to? Where are the other pa.s.sengers? Do their rooms look like ours, or is everyone's a different color?"

Travis gave her a grin and fell to telling her what he could about the s.h.i.+p. It was a twenty-four-gun brig, the guns needed to keep away pirates. The other pa.s.sengers lived in the lower deck, amids.h.i.+ps. He didn't tell her about the close airlessness of their quarters or the strict rules governing the pa.s.sengers'

infrequent exercise. Only the two of them and Wainwright were allowed to come and go freely.

He explained why nearly all s.h.i.+ps were now painted a shade of ochre. Before America's revolution, all s.h.i.+ps had been swabbed with linseed oil, which made the wood darken with each coating. The older the s.h.i.+p, the darker it was. During the war, the English made a point of attacking the darker s.h.i.+ps, until someone decided to paint all the s.h.i.+ps the color of a newly built one.

Travis pointed to several patches of red paint and said that almost all the interiors, especially around the cannons, had been painted red so that the crew would be used to the color and not panic when, during a battle, they were surrounded by the red of blood.

"Where did you learn all this?" Regan asked eagerly.

"Someday I'll have to tell you about my time on the whaler, but for now let's get something to eat. Unless, of course, you don't feel like eating."

"Why shouldn't I want to eat? It's been a long time since breakfast."

"I was afraid you might have a touch of what your little friend had—seasickness. It's my guess that half the pa.s.sengers below are spilling their guts into chamber pots."

"Really? Oh, Travis, I must see if I can help."

He caught her arm before she could reach the stairs. "There'll be plenty of sick people later, but for now you're going to eat and rest. You've had a long day."

Maybe she was tired, but also she was sick to death of his orders. "I am not hungry, and I can rest later. I will go to help the other pa.s.sengers. "

"And I say you will obey me, so you'd better make up your mind."

She glared up at him, refusing to move.

Leaning down, his face close to hers, he said quietly, "Either you do what I say or I carry you downstairs in front of the entire crew."

A feeling of helplessness came over her. How could she reason with this man? What could she do to make him understand that it was important to her to feel useful?

As he moved his hand toward her shoulder, she pivoted on one foot and sped down the stairs, through the door, and into the cabin. Sitting down on the window seat, she tried hard not to cry. It wasn't easy to keep to her dreams of someday being a respected lady when she was ordered about like a child.

It was some time before Travis came back to the room bearing a tray laden with food. Quietly, he set the table before going to sit by her. "Supper's ready." He tried to take her hand, but she drew it away.

"d.a.m.n it!" he exploded, jumping up. "Why do you sit there looking like I've just beaten you? All I said was I didn't think you should miss your supper and do without sleep to help a bunch of people you don't even know."

"I know Sarah!" she gasped. "And you did not say I should rest; you said I had to rest. You never suggest anything; you always demand everything. Did it ever occur to you that I have a mind of my own? You held me prisoner in England, wouldn't so much as allow me out the door, and now you hold me prisoner in this little room. Why don't you tie me to the bed or chain me to the table? Why not be honest about what I am to you?"

Several emotions flickered across Travis's handsome face, but the predominant one was confusion. "I told you why you couldn't stay in England. I even asked that boy you were with if he'd known you. The s.h.i.+p hadn't set sail then, and if he'd told me, I could have taken you to your family. "