Page 16 of Across the Star-Kissed Sea (Proper Romance Regency #1)

“I wish I could see it.” His touch felt so different from Frank’s. Whenever Frank took my arm, he seized it and dragged me where he wanted. Mr. Doswell, on the other hand, offered and let me come to him. Well, he had until this hesitant gesture, but even this was gentle, not demanding.

“Perhaps Mrs. Peyton could draw it for you.”

“She was there?” She could hardly make it out of bed these days, let alone draw. Although this morning might be different.

“Both she and her father. She was ... not her usual self.” He gave a nervous laugh. She’d been a boy then, of course. “Captain Peyton wished to come, but he took command in Captain Woodall’s absence. He would have been there if duty had allowed.”

“I believe it.” I shivered, half from the cold and half from the memory of the next terrible information we received not long after news of Charlie’s death. “Captain Peyton was the one to bring my aunt word about Uncle Byam.”

“Ah, yes.”

“But Captain Woodall was at Charlie’s burial?” I couldn’t help the incredulity that crept into my voice. Why would an unfeeling captain, unconcerned for anyone except his own, attend the burial of a boatswain’s mate?

“Yes.”

“I find that shocking when he paid no mind to my family before.”

Mr. Doswell’s fingers drifted from my arm, exposing it once more to the cold. “He was the one who instructed us to make a marker, as no one had brought one. Your uncle was understandably distraught.”

I couldn’t fault Mr. Doswell for loyalty to a captain, much as I wanted to. My uncle had similarly spoken well of Captain Woodall, even after he’d refused to let my aunt on board.

“What did the marker say?” I asked. Of course I didn’t expect him to remember. Mr. Doswell must have officiated in several burials during his time as chaplain. More if he’d been a curate or vicar before his time at sea, though he seemed too young to have been ordained more than two or three years.

“I think I still have the plans of it, if you’d like to see.”

I lifted my brows. “Do you copy all the grave markers?”

“His was the only burial I’ve officiated on land. Most of them die at sea and are buried there.”

Like Uncle Byam. I bit my lip to distract myself from that line of thought. Burial at sea seemed the harshest end to a brutal way of life.

“I only have it because I helped the carpenter design it,” Mr. Doswell said with a shrug.

“I’m certain you did lovely work.” I smiled at him, not certain why.

With how carefully he dressed and spoke, I could easily imagine his attentiveness to planning Charlie’s marker.

The cool air seemed distant, as though we stood in a pocket of sunlight.

Sometime in our conversation, I’d leaned toward him.

Too close. I shuffled back. “I apologize. I didn’t intend to fill your morning with my grief. ”

Thoughts swirled behind his eyes, as clear to see as the Marianne ’s wake below us, but I couldn’t decipher them. “You needn’t apologize for grief.”

The lapping of waves against the hull filled my ears as Mr. Doswell withdrew to his thoughts.

No one had said that to me before, that my mourning was not a burden to them.

Aunt Byam and Mama dealt with their own sorrow.

Mrs. Richardson was the only other person I had talked with regularly, and I never would have confided in her.

The grief I knew in my life—for Papa as well as my uncle and cousin—had always been hidden.

My family expected me to hide it. Only anger was allowed.

“From our conversation, it would seem you do not like ...” He bit his lip.

“Captain Woodall?” I asked.

Mr. Doswell paled and pointed to the deck. No, not to the deck. Just below it, where Captain Woodall’s daughter and son-in-law slept.

I covered my mouth with a hand. I’d said that too loudly. Bless him for remembering when I had not. What if they had opened a window? I shivered.

“I’m so sorry. You must be freezing.” He rapidly unbuttoned his coat and pulled it off. He held it out to drape around my shoulders.

“Oh.” I sidestepped. This was unnecessary. “No, thank you. I’ll just return below. You are very kind, sir.”

“Are you certain?” His face fell, and he lowered the coat.

“Yes, quite.” My mind had ceased to function, except to cycle through memories of the evening Agnes had come home simpering and giggling about a young man giving her his coat when she’d been cold at an assembly.

Then she’d gone and married him. “I do appreciate the offer. Truly.” I backed toward the stairs, mind grasping for excuses.

“I should see to Mrs. Peyton. She’s about to wake, you know. She’ll need her tea. And to dress.”

“Of course. I won’t keep you.” He gave a small bow but made no move to put the coat back on.

I scurried down the steps, my hair falling more quickly from its pins.

I grabbed the sides of my cap to hold it on and keep my hair contained.

What a simpleton! Men offered coats to women they didn’t have feelings toward.

It was a considerate gesture, and Mr. Doswell was a considerate man to his core.

Even when he’d incorrectly identified me on our first meeting, he’d done so out of worry for me.

Worry for me? I hadn’t thought of that before. I stopped at the hatch to let a few seamen pass. Gentlemen did not always do such considerate things for women below their status, however. Society did not expect it of them.

Mr. Doswell stood where I’d left him, greatcoat now draped over the rail and his back toward me.

He had been worried about me that first day, hadn’t he?

Not judging, not self-righteous. Simply concerned, both for my feelings and for heeding his captain.

When was the last time someone had truly considered my feelings? Had anyone since Charlie?