Page 188

EIGHT YEARS LATER

O N THE DECK of the Steamship Empress , Maddie wondered why the sky there, in the middle of the ocean and so close to The Bahamas, had a peculiar azure quality England’s sky lacked.

Even the clouds curled and twisted to form fluffy puffs with the most outrageous shapes.

That cloud running overhead had the shape of two lovers entwined together.

Their arms and legs were clearly visible, and they kissed in a fashion that made her lips tingle.

Or maybe it was her wicked mind to conjure up such debauched images.

She blamed the weeks spent in Nassau where everything from the culture, nature, and people vibrated with life and colour.

She had to thank Aunt Anne for the trip. Her aunt had married a Bahamian and invited Maddie, Verity, and her mother to spend a few weeks across the pond. She wouldn’t mind staying with Aunt Anne permanently and walking along the beautiful beaches of Nassau while enjoying its warm sun.

But what she loved most about the trip were the scents.

Nassau had smelled of flowers, roasted meat, and fruit.

On the ship, fresh, salty air that teased her appetite and restored her spirit, filling her with optimism—something she’d missed dearly in the past years.

What she didn’t miss was the stuffy air in her small cabin or London’s fog and the smell of burning coal and of something rotting in the Thames.

The only terrible thing about staying on a ship was there wasn’t much to do aside from taking strolls along the deck—unchaperoned strolls, which was liberating—reading and playing bridge.

London might be crowded and smelly at times, but it offered luscious soirées, wonderful nights at the theatres, and an endless series of art exhibitions.

Two more weeks before they arrived in England.

She might grow less optimistic out of boredom.

Besides, what waited for her didn’t thrill her.

With her artistic career compromised, she agreed to be the companion of a lady friend of her mother. Who knew? She might enjoy the work.

Sitting on a wooden bench on the deck, she faced the blue expanse of the sea. Such a simply soothing view for something so vast. Oh, if she were still able to paint, she would make a grand painting out of those shades of blue. Not a day passed without her wishing to paint again.

She stretched out the fingers of her right hand to warm them up.

After the stabbing incident and the infection, her hand muscles could become rather stiff, the joints would lock up, and pain would bother her for a while.

Sometimes the pencil would slip out of her fingers without her conscious thought.

Her physician had told her that, with months, maybe years, of long exercises that had brought her excruciating pain, she would still write and sketch.

She’d tried that and yes, she could write and do some sketching, but for what purpose?

She wasn’t an artist anymore. She’d paid a large price the night of the incident.

Back then, she hadn’t known how difficult, long, and painful her rehabilitation would be. How compromised her fingers would be.

But Hector had paid a higher price.

Foam curled on the crests of the waves like the curly locks of a white puddle dog.

The soft sea breeze shuffled her hair, and she inhaled deeply the scent of the sea.

She squinted in the sunlight, scrutinising the horizon as strolling passengers and sailors obstructed the view of what had turned out to be Hector’s grave.

Eight years ago, he’d sailed that very water to South America after she’d encouraged him to go.

If only she’d known. His ship had sunk well before it’d reached its destination, caught in a storm, and Hector had died with his companions.

No survivors. Another ship had witnessed the tragedy but hadn’t been able to intervene.

The worst naval disaster in the past decade The Times had called it.

Her chest still clenched for him. How happy he’d been when he’d decided to go.

One word from her, and he would have stayed in London. Safe and alive.

Sadness caught her as she imagined being thrown into the angry sea in the middle of a storm with waves several stories tall, thunder, and squalls. Had he died quickly? Had he suffered? How frightened had he been? She shivered in the warm air and rubbed her arms.

She opened her sketch book and started drawing his face or what she remembered of him.

His straight nose, cleft chin, and thick eyelashes.

But other details eluded her memory, like his charming smile.

Its slightly sinful quality was difficult to capture.

She winced as her fingers stiffened, sweat dampening her forehead.

Not that she ever finished a sketch these days. She’d start, get frustrated, and stop.

“There you are.” In a froth of pink satin and under a pretty parasol, Verity sat next to her. She peered at her sketching book, and her smile vanished. “You’re thinking about poor Hector again.”

“This trip makes me think of him a lot.” She sketched his hair. He’d had long, curly hair the colour of spun gold. But between her patchy memory and her trembling fingers, the lines never quite came as she wished and missed the softness of his hair. “I thought you were taking a nap.”

Verity huffed. “Mother felt sick again. When she finally fell asleep, I left her cabin. I needed a bit of fresh air.”

As Maddie’s fingers struggled to draw the fine details of an eye, she fought the urge to throw the pencil and the sketchbook into the sea. Her fingers refused to move the way she wanted, freezing over the paper. No wonder the academy rejected her, despite the help from the late Duke of Blackburn.

Back in those days, she’d underestimated the struggle of her recovery.

The infection hadn’t been the problem, but its effects on her body had stayed.

Her heart had broken when she’d realised her hand was no longer as functional as she’d wished.

No more delicate sfumato or subtle strokes of the paintbrush for her.

The committee of the academy hadn’t been impressed by her work.

No amount of exercise had given her fingers the flexibility an artist needed.

“Don’t be too sad.” Verity closed her parasol and faced the sun. The sunlight had turned her skin a lovely golden shade Mother found horrible but Maddie loved. “Tragedies happen. It’s not your fault. Everyone knows Hector wanted to go.”

Maddie sighed. She was both sad for him and for herself, if she was going to be honest. Cramps took hold of her fingers, and she set the pencil aside.

The disappointment never failed to hurt her.

She guessed she mourned the death of her dream.

Better to gaze at the sea and the—she straightened, forgetting about the sketch.

The foam she’d admired earlier didn’t seem to be foam at all but a.

..blanket? A flag? Whatever it was, the piece of fabric flapped in the breeze.

The waves rhythmically hid it from view, but there was no mistaking the fact it was something human made.

She craned her neck. The piece of fabric was attached to a pole or something similar.

Another wave lifted it, and wooden planks tied by ropes came into view, along with what looked like a body.

A gasp tore out of her as she shot up, the sketch pad falling to the floor. “It’s a raft.”

“What is it?” Verity stood up as well, shielding her eyes with a hand.

“Over there. It’s a raft.” She clamped her hands over her mouth. “Good Lord. There’s a person on that raft.”

Verity cried out. “I don’t remember what we are supposed to do or say when a person drops into the sea.”

She gave her sister a gentle shove. “Go find a sailor. I’ll keep an eye on the raft in case the current drags it away.”

Grabbing a fistful of her skirts, Verity ran away. “Ring the alarm as well. It’s right over there,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Right. The alarm. Staring at the raft dangerously floating up and down, Maddie pulled the chain of the alarm hanging on the wall.

A deafening, high-pitched ring sounded, making her wince.

She couldn’t tell if the raft sailed away from the ship or closer.

Passengers came to abrupt stops as the alarm ripped the quiet afternoon.

“What is it?” a woman asked.

“Are we sinking?” another cried.

Maddie waved them away. “Move, move. I must see the raft.”

She squeezed herself through the small crowd gathering on the deck and grabbed the handrail, searching the waves. She sagged in relief when she spotted the raft. Definitely closer.

“Maddie, Maddie!” Verity returned with two sailors at her heels and another one came from the other side of the deck.

Before they asked any questions, Maddie pointed at the raft. “There’s a raft over there.”

A mutter spread through the passengers as more people stared at the spot she was pointing to. The sailors leant over the rail, craning their necks.

“Man overboard!” one of them shouted.

Other sailors repeated the yell from somewhere, and soon the shout “man overboard” echoed around her.

Three long rings followed by three long blasts bellowed from behind her. Gosh, they were loud. A metallic groan resounded as the ship slowed and came to a halt.

She grimaced but didn’t dare to close her eyes so as not to lose contact with the raft. Footsteps thundered against the polished wood of the deck. More orders were yelled and repeated until a lifeboat was dropped into the sea with a few sailors on board.

Gripping the rail with both hands, Maddie breathed heavily. People pressed against her from every side. Minutes passed, and the boat seemed miles away from the raft. In fact, it looked like it wasn’t moving at all.

Why did it take so long to cover the short distance?

The boat floated up and down with the waves, disappearing from view.

She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth and scratched the glossy surface of the rail.

For God’s sake, couldn’t they speed up and row faster?

The sun would set before those sailors reached the raft.

What if the person wasn’t dead and needed medical attention?

“Quick, quick,” she muttered under her breath.

The wind picked up speed, raising the water. Great. Now both the boat and the raft weren’t visible, hidden by the growing waves. Maddie shifted her weight and bit her lips. No one panicked, so probably she overreacted. The sailors next to her seemed perfectly calm, as if the situation were normal.

A few passengers had lost interest and left, returning to their game of pétanque, while she dug her fingers into her palms. A wave lowered, and the boat swept into view again.

But was it sailing towards the raft or the ship?

Bother. Nothing made sense in the sea. She could have sworn the raft had been barely a few yards away.

She released a breath when the boat appeared again. There was no mistaking the direction. It rowed towards the ship, and she spotted a slumped figure among the sailors. Lord, they got him.

The commotion returned to the deck. The passengers talked in excited tones and pointed at the boat. The raft floated up and down, empty. She swatted the anonymous hand of one of the pointing people away from her field of vision.

Faster. Faster.

When the boat was close to the hull, she leant over the railing, rising on her tiptoes.

A man, wrapped in one of the blankets of the ship company, lay on the boat.

Aside from a leonine mane of dark-blond hair, she couldn’t see anything.

It took another good half an hour for the boat to approach the hull and for the sailors to haul it up with ropes.

“Give them space.” A sailor urged the passengers back until he formed a wide circle of space.

She stepped away, clasping her hands together.

“My goodness,” Verity said next to her.

Blimey. Maddie hadn’t realised Verity stood so close to her.

“He needs a doctor,” one of the sailors shouted. “The man is alive.”

Alive. The tension lifted from her shoulders.

Now that he was closer, she could see the man clenched a bundle in his arms and when a sailor tried to take it from him, he growled, his tanned skin wrinkling under the curtain of his hair and thick beard.

“I’m a doctor!” A short man hurried forwards, opening a path through the crowd. “Out of my way.”

Maddie tried to see what was going on, but too many people were gathered on the deck. The doctor exchanged a few words with the sailors. She stretched her neck to catch a glimpse of the castaway.

As the man was carried away by the sailors, she lingered after the passengers lost interest again. Alive. How could anyone survive on a raft in the middle of the ocean? What had happened to him?

The wind carried the torn page of her sketchbook with Hector’s face to her. She snatched it before it fell into the sea.