Page 11 of Across the Star-Kissed Sea (Proper Romance Regency #1)

“How often have we sat at the bottom of an abyss with no way out?” I said.

It didn’t matter if they listened. My message wasn’t for them.

It was for the weary boys in the front. “When towering waves crash down around us, and we have little hope that the sun will rise again on our seemingly insignificant existence?”

Her look softened as I continued, and her head tilted to one side as she studied me.

I’d written these words as much for myself as anyone, and suddenly, I felt terribly exposed.

It was as though she saw straight through the sermon into my soul.

The words stopped. I sought my place in my notes, mind suddenly muddled.

Quiet chuckles from the mates’ corner made my face heat. They laughed at their own jokes, but it felt as though they laughed at my stumble. She still watched me.

“And he ...” No, you already said that line.

I ran my thumb over the numbered paragraphs I’d written.

Had I made it to part six? Or was it seven?

I swallowed. “As we put our faith in the Holy One, the impossible becomes possible. He will lead us over the mountains and through the ravines life throws in our path.”

What I wouldn’t give to emerge from this ravine and throw off the weight of my former love’s refusals.

A few weeks at sea in the company of people with no connection to her would make it fade, would it not?

I had to keep believing it would. Perhaps avoiding Miss Byam could prove the distraction I needed.

No, I couldn’t avoid her. At the very least, I had to set things right. She might still hate me and shoot those unnerving, soul-searching looks in my direction, but I had to try.

The mates’ talking crescendoed until seamen’s heads turned to watch them. Mrs. Hallyburton, sitting near the officers, eyed them darkly, and I almost expected her to pull a cat o’ nine tails from under the stool she sat on.

I was losing my audience. Time to skip to the end and finish the service before I lost control completely.

I couldn’t compete with the rowdy mates, and I did not wish to try.

Those who wanted to listen to me would hear.

“‘For the time would fail me to tell of ... the prophets: Who through faith—’”

One of the mates snorted loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. I groaned internally. What was the use?

“Hush!” Miss Byam glared at Mr. Walcott, then at anyone nearby who dared to laugh at whatever joke the mates had told. The gun deck quieted. She waved toward me to continue.

Miss Byam had been listening. And had either enjoyed it or taken pity on me.

Whichever it was, that meant she had some sliver of kind feelings toward the man who had utterly embarrassed her.

The corners of my mouth pulled upward, a renewed desire to finish rising in my chest. “‘Who through faith subdued kingdoms, wrought righteousness, obtained promises, stopped the mouths of lions.’”

When I ended with a thrown-together conclusion, the men dispersed quickly, to my relief and theirs. I was out of practice, not having given sermons since my time on the Deborah . The next would be easier.

I gathered my things as the captain came over. “Thank you, Doswell.” Captain Peyton slapped my arm. “Join us for dinner tonight.”

I glanced around the other officers. Dining in the captain’s cabin was an honor, especially if the officers hadn’t also been invited. “Will Mrs. Peyton be well enough for that?” She hadn’t missed Sunday services on our last voyage.

He laughed. “I’m certain she’ll recover by then. She hasn’t been seasick in years.”

It hit the most hardened of sailors sometimes. “I look forward to it, then,” I said.

Peyton turned and disappeared into his quarters just as Miss Byam stood. The carpenter’s, boatswain’s, and gunner’s mates had left.

I gripped my books. Now was as good a time as any. I crossed the deck before she could run off. “Miss Byam.” I bowed.

She folded her arms. “Mr. Doswell.”

A cold reception. Keep going. “Thank you for ... for helping restore order.” Did that sound as awkward as it felt coming from my mouth?

She lifted a shoulder. “They were telling terrible jokes. Your sermon was better than listening to that.” She wrinkled her nose.

I laughed uneasily, unsure if I could take that as a compliment. I didn’t know what to make of her brashness.

She straightened her back and dropped her arms to her sides. “Though I thought perhaps you should have based your sermon on Matthew 7, given the circumstances.”

Chapter seven? She walked hastily away from me to go below before I could form a response. So, she hadn’t forgiven me. I drummed my thumbs against the covers of my books. I knew chapter seven, with its entreaties not to judge, very well. It would appear she knew her Bible.

Once a few minutes had passed and I could safely assume she’d made it to her cabin, I tucked my books under my arm, adjusted my spectacles, and made my way down the ladder.

After so awkward a sermon, I should have withered under the humiliation as I relived each stumble in my head.

Even now her unyielding stare distracted me from my usual self-critique.

She’d meant the jab about Matthew 7 to discourage me from speaking to her, perhaps even to anger me. It had done just the opposite, though I didn’t know how. The quickness of her response brought a grin to my face.

First you insult her, and now you smile at her anger.

I sobered instantly. I hadn’t accomplished my task of making things right. If only brewing this apology were as simple as mixing a flavorful blend of herbs for a tea. I’d have mastered it by now.

But a good concoction took careful thought, and a proper steeping took time. There might be hope of success yet. I needed to think some more. Over a cup of tea.

May

By evening, the Marianne had hit rough water, and my stomach would not tolerate it. A light-haired boy delivered dinner, though I hadn’t left my cabin in hours and hadn’t asked anyone to fetch it for me. I sat in the dark, picking at the salty pie, but I quickly gave up and stumbled to my hammock.

Mrs. Peyton had stayed in bed the whole day, much to my relief.

The gun deck, being higher on the ship, rocked more than the mess deck, and the mess deck was bad enough.

With one hand on my aching head and one on my protesting belly, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine I lay on solid ground.

The hammock helped minimize the feel of movement, especially if I couldn’t see the cabin turning about me.

This was not quite the adventure I’d anticipated when scheming with Charlie.

He’d failed to mention the horrors of seasickness.

For the briefest moment, I wished I were a child once again, curled up in Papa’s arms near the sitting room hearth. He had always taken it upon himself to watch over me when I was ill, making sure I felt safe and cared for. Now he was on the other side of the world, and I was alone.

A soft tap sounded on my door. Mrs. Peyton must need me.

I sat up, my body objecting to the movement.

I thought I’d had the better luck, finding an unusual position at sea.

Clearly, Mama had been the luckier one. She didn’t have to do her work while her insides fought to come out, and she had Aunt to keep her company in her work.

I had a ship full of men, few of whom I wished to know better and fewer still who cared about my health.

The moment my feet hit the floor, the dark cabin began to spin. I stumbled, smashing into the wall before falling to the floor. It took all my power not to relinquish my dinner all over the deck. The smell would not help me, of that I was certain.

The door opened quickly. “Miss Byam?” The gun room’s lanterns caught my visitor’s red hair. Mr. Doswell. My stubbornness wanted to moan, but all I felt was relief. My predicament might repulse him, but at least he wouldn’t poke fun. He was not the fun sort.

I pushed myself to sitting and leaned my head back against the wall. “I hate ships.”

“I’ve thought the same thing before.” He pushed the door open wide, letting in more light, then knelt beside me. He extended a teacup. “I noticed you’ve been in here quite a while and wondered if you were sick like the rest. I thought this might help.”

I took it with trembling hands and brought it to my face.

The ginger-laden steam wafted against my clammy face.

I touched the surface of the herbal infusion with my upper lip.

It was hot but not burning. The spicy liquid washed down my throat, brightened by a touch of lemon and cooled at the end with a brush of mint.

I took a breath, and this time, my stomach didn’t lurch as badly. “Thank you,” I managed.

“We’ll be past the Bay of Biscay in a couple of days. The weather should settle by then.”

A couple of days! I took another sip, wanting to cry. I couldn’t take this for a couple more days.

“We should get you above after you’ve finished that,” he said, flipping out the tails of his coat and sitting back.

Golden lantern light painted one side of his face, igniting the green in his eyes.

His black attire, which should have given him a severe look, warmed in the mellow glow.

Like when I’d seen the old Dutch paintings Papa had taken me to as a child, I couldn’t look away from how the light played across his face, nor from the way the shadows of my cabin outlined the angles of his brow and jaw.

“Are you trying to redeem yourself from our first encounter?” I asked, breaking my stupor to study the diamond pattern across the teacup he’d brought.

He dropped his chin and drew a circle with a finger on the knee of his breeches. “I never wanted to embarrass you. Quite the opposite.”

He sounded so sincere, I almost believed him. “You assumed you knew who and what I was.”

He blushed. “When you’ve heard young women dragged off by Mrs. Hallyburton for violating the captain’s rules, it makes you wary for the others.”

I could imagine the tumult.

“Many of them are just trying to earn enough to eat,” he added quietly.

I lowered the cup. That wasn’t a sentiment one heard from a clergyman very often. No condemnation. Not even self-righteous pity. Sincere sorrow for their state. I’d taken such offense to his offering to pay me off, but it seemed he’d done it because he’d wanted me to have the funds to eat.

“I am truly sorry for my mistake,” he said again, scratching the back of his head. “I feel terrible that that was your welcome to the Marianne . It isn’t an easy situation to enter, surrounded by so many blundering buffoons.”

I laughed and took another sip. My head’s spinning had slowed. “You mean boarding a ship full of men who only give you strange looks? Why would that be so difficult?”

“This life isn’t for the faint hearted.” His expression grew serious, and he returned to tracing shapes on the leg of his breeches.

He’d said that to himself as much as he’d said it to me.

In a better composed state, I might have inquired further.

Only that morning, I’d harbored a rather poor attitude toward this man.

Either he’d added something strange to this infusion to muddle my mind, or we’d both misunderstood each other.

I slowly finished the tea while I watched him. Two vastly contrasting apologies from two dissimilar men in one day. I hadn’t expected that. Something loosened in my chest, allowing room for comfort to drift in and take up a small corner.

He motioned to the teacup, and I returned it to him. With surprising agility, he got to his feet without jostling the cup in its saucer, then he reached down to me.

I set my hand into his, and his fingers wrapped around it as gently as if he were holding a little bird fallen from a nest. Warmth spread from my fingers up my arm.

Gentlemen didn’t wear gloves very often on ships.

It made sense for the seamen and even the standing officers, who constantly had to work rope and sail and wood, but the rest of the officers followed suit.

Feeling his skin against mine made me hesitate.

Part of me still did not wish to feel comfort from this clergyman.

“Slowly,” he said, allowing me to pull on his firm arm instead of yanking me up himself. He steadied me as the ship rose rapidly. When it righted, he kept hold of my hand. “Shall I help you above?”

I quickly shook my head, releasing his hand and cutting off the odd sensation his touch had given me. Was odd the right word? It hadn’t been unpleasant. “I can manage,” I said, trying to sound certain.

He did not look convinced. “Might I recommend the forecastle? Setting your sights on the horizon will help.”

“So long as I don’t set my sights on the head.” What an idiotic thing to say. The illness had turned my brain to mush. It sounded like one of Mr. Walcott’s jokes.

He chuckled. “I would avoid that.” He hesitated and then bowed. “If you are certain you don’t need help, I’ll leave you to it.”

As he turned to go, I remembered my manners. I followed him through the door. “Thank you, Mr. Doswell.” And I truly meant it. Someone had remembered me. I hadn’t expected it to be the very man I’d determined to hate on my first day. “You are too kind.”

“I can bring you more if this keeps up. Do not hesitate to ask.” He pointed toward his door. “I’m only right ... .” His voice trailed off to end the obvious statement.

“Yes, of course.” Did he know about the hole in the partition between our cabins? I expected not, and I would not be the one to tell him. One benefit of not having a lantern was that he would not be able to see into my cabin as well when he did discover it.

When he discovered it. Good heavens. I’d have to take care in here. My one place of privacy on this ship was not so private with that crack in the partition.

He bowed again, stiffly this time, and shot into his cabin. I would have stood there staring at his closed door for a moment longer, laughing at his awkwardness or pondering this new perspective of the Marianne ’s chaplain, but my stomach started to turn again, and I raced for the ladder.