Page 24 of Across the Star-Kissed Sea (Proper Romance Regency #1)

Mr. Howard stood at the galley stove filling the Peytons’ silver teapot with steaming water.

At his side stood ... Mr. Doswell? He retreated a step, shoulders hunching, with a sheepish look on his face.

Or was that embarrassment? He gripped his hat behind his back, the straw brim just visible around the wool of his jacket.

I trained my gaze on the tray and cleared my throat.

“Good morning, sirs. If you’ll excuse me.

” I seized the tray from the cook. If the chaplain felt awkward every time I came near, I’d simply have to avoid him.

Quite the feat with our cabins sharing a wall.

I moaned inwardly as I hurried toward the great cabin.

The teacups rattled in their saucers with each step across the rolling deck.

No, avoiding him was impossible. I’d have to pretend nothing was wrong. If only I knew what was wrong.

The marine on duty nodded to me as I stopped before the cabin door. I took a deep breath and steadied the tray on one arm to knock. I’d learned my lesson not to barge in in the morning. Before I could knock, the door swung open to the jovial smile of Captain Peyton.

Praise the skies. He was already dressed and about his work.

“Miss Byam, you’ve arrived at the perfect time.” He held the door open for me to enter.

“Thank you, sir,” I mumbled, waiting until he’d quit the room before setting the tray on the table.

“Have you an appetite today, ma’am?” I certainly didn’t after seeing Mr. Doswell in the galley.

His rosy complexion—from the heat of the galley or the morning light, I couldn’t tell—made him almost seem normal.

He was still coltish as ever. I fought against my lips, which wanted to grin for reasons I couldn’t determine.

Mr. Doswell was a conundrum, and I didn’t know if I had the capacity to decipher him.

Mrs. Peyton pushed herself up, making the hanging cot sway. “A little.”

“Cook just poured the water for your tea,” I said. “Would you like to dress as it steeps?”

She nodded and stretched, then slipped out of bed with more energy than I’d seen since the beginning of our voyage.

I went to fetch her stockings and stays from the trunk, keeping a careful eye on her.

So she was finally getting used to the motion of the ship.

Good. She rubbed her stomach for a moment as I rummaged through the trunk.

Not fully adjusted, clearly. I mustn’t get my hopes up too high.

“How is Mr. Doswell this morning?” She sat in a chair and pulled on her stockings without help.

I lifted a shoulder, untangling the lacing on the stays. “I don’t know.” The Peytons were unusually concerned about the chaplain. But then, so was I.

Mrs. Peyton stood and lifted her arms so I could wrap the boned material around her. “The captain says he talks to you more than anyone.” She held the stays in place as I began threading the lacing through the eyelets.

“He speaks to you and the captain far more than he speaks to me.” Especially the last few days.

I missed a hole, and the stays’ lace slipped through my fingers.

For some reason, the thought of him talking with the Peytons irked me.

It shouldn’t. He’d known them far longer than he’d known me.

Did he confide in them when he dined in the great cabin?

I laced with vigor, spiraling the cord and tugging like a crew of able seamen jumping the halyard.

What could I do about Mr. Doswell? Nothing, really.

Attempts to force him into conversation would make him retreat further.

Perhaps I could pretend an illness or discomfort and ask for help.

I paused at the bottom of the stays. That wasn’t a half-bad idea.

Mr. Doswell couldn’t resist being helpful.

If I played the distressed damsel, would he have a choice but to speak with me?

I returned to the top of the stays to cinch them snug.

Yes. Appeal to his charity. His empathetic heart wouldn’t allow him to keep away.

If he saw vulnerability, he’d feel better inclined to vulnerability himself.

I pulled sharply at the lacing about Mrs. Peyton’s lower back.

But what injury or misfortune could I believably invent?

Mrs. Peyton grunted, hands flying to her stomach. “A little too tight.”

“Apologies, ma’am.” I glanced down. How was the lacing too tight? The bottom edges of the stays weren’t even close to touching. I’d laced the top normally. It wasn’t as if she’d eaten enough the last few weeks to fatten up. I’d noticed the ill-fitting stays but hadn’t thought much of them.

I froze. Then blinked. Seasickness that lasted longer than anyone else’s despite years of experience at sea. Fatigue to the point of sleeping great stretches of the day. Stays that seemed increasingly too small. I bit my lip. Was Mrs. Peyton with child?

“Is that better?” I asked, mind whirling. No wonder she’d asked about my experience with children. No wonder she’d changed her mind about bringing a lady’s maid.

“Yes, thank you.”

I tied off the cord. What had possessed Captain Peyton to bring his wife on a voyage like this in such a state?

Of course many women delivered children on navy ships, but they didn’t usually set out in that condition.

Surely Mrs. Peyton would have been better off staying in the comforts of her home surrounded by family than wasting away on a soggy old ship.

Unless ... Did Captain Peyton know? I let my arms fall slowly to my sides. Would he be so chipper if he did?

Mrs. Peyton glanced at me over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised.

I instantly looked away, certain my shock was written plainly across my face.

She clearly did not desire anyone to know her secret.

How long did she think she’d get away with it?

Was that what she’d started to tell me when we’d been helping étienne?

“Ma’am, during the battle you had something you wished me to know,” I said. “Then we were interrupted. Was it important?”

She turned around, feeling the back of her stays with one hand. Was she checking how noticeable the gap was? “Oh. No, it wasn’t. Never mind that.”

She didn’t want to tell me. “Tea?” I hurried to the table. What was I to do now? Pretend as though I didn’t know? Ask directly?

“I think I’d prefer a gown first,” she said, still standing in the middle of the cabin in her shift and stays.

Good heavens. I was a failure at pretending.

“Yes, of course.” I rushed to the trunk and retrieved the first day gown on top, not bothering to ask which she’d prefer.

She rarely had a preference. I lifted the gown over her head and helped her fit her arms into the sleeves.

I couldn’t assume Captain Peyton was ignorant of the situation.

If I figured it out, he certainly could.

But then, he was a man. They didn’t always notice these things.

I smoothed down the gown’s skirts. The only man I could think of who might notice was Mr. Doswell. He noticed everything. I tied the gown closed. He even noticed destitute lady’s maids who were the daughters of convicts and hardly had any friends in the whole world.

I poured the tea, the spicy ginger steam hitting my nose instantly. The underlying notes of jasmine flooded my head with visions of him.

Mrs. Peyton slid her feet into slippers and sat at the table.

I placed the teacup in front of her, which she lifted and drank from eagerly.

Her color had returned compared to the last few weeks.

Had she passed the worst of her illness?

She couldn’t be very soon confined, but heaven only knew where we’d be when the time came.

I swallowed. Thank goodness for étienne, or I’d have to take charge with the sparse knowledge gained from assisting in one of my sister’s children’s births.

I only hoped étienne was familiar with delivering babies.

My thoughts still spun in a dizzying torrent when I made my way to the gun room to retrieve my sewing kit.

The revelation answered many questions but also presented many more.

I paused just inside the door of my cabin, kneading my forehead against an impending headache.

Mrs. Richardson hadn’t been nearly this confusing of an employer.

As I crouched by my trunk, my eyes fell on something peeking out over the edge of my hammock. The crown of a straw hat. I pursed my lips, which tried to smile against my will. For all his timidity, Mr. Doswell was persistent. I sighed. Perhaps the hat wouldn’t look as silly on me as I imagined.

When I lifted it from my bedding, long black ribbons fell out behind it.

I held it up to the lantern light from the gun room.

This wasn’t a top hat. The crown had a similar look to his, and the ribbon around it looked the same, but its shape was that of a bonnet.

I fingered the ribbon trimming the brim, with its practically invisible stitches placed with great care.

Little bows graced each side in the same stately black as the rest of the trim.

A lump welled in my throat as I placed the bonnet on my head.

I couldn’t say why my fingers trembled as I tied the ribbons loosely under my chin.

This was the hat Mr. Doswell always wore, and he’d cut it and shaped it just for me.

Any other man on this ship would have brushed aside the inconvenience, but given Mr. Doswell’s appreciation of style and the great attention he paid to dressing himself, this could not have been an easy sacrifice to make.

This was what he’d been hiding in the galley earlier.

I brushed my palms over the stiff straw.

He must have been shaping it with Cook’s steaming kettle.

And last night when I’d gone to his cabin to try to talk, he had been working on this.

No wonder he’d been flustered. My vision blurred.

It seemed like so long since someone had done something this thoughtful for me.

I wanted to march into the next cabin and scold him.

I could have managed without a bonnet. But he was too tenderhearted to watch someone suffer, even over a small matter.

I removed the bonnet and set it gently back into my hammock, then tucked the ribbons beside it. Mr. Doswell was a mystery. A gracious, kind mystery. Perhaps I didn’t have the capacity to decipher him, but I certainly wished to try.