Page 30 of Across the Star-Kissed Sea (Proper Romance Regency #1)

May

M y brain hadn’t stilled in days. I could feel it—the crazed energy twitching through every limb.

Wanting to collapse but not having the ability.

Words didn’t make sense, whether I spoke them or someone else did.

My lungs couldn’t draw in enough air, even standing stationary as I was in the middle of my cabin.

It was like the emptiness inside me the day they’d dragged Papa away without warning.

The darkness of the lower deck, punctuated only by dim light coming through the canvas over my window, seemed to swallow me whole.

The crashing of vicious waves roared in my ears despite the calm.

Everywhere I looked, I saw Frank’s pale face just moments before the sea had taken him.

I held my brush limply in my fingers, but my hair had become such a rat’s nest after the storm that I’d quickly given up trying to get the pins out.

If not for Mr. Doswell’s grip, I might not have had to worry about my stupid hair.

The thought should have chilled me, but my heart had reached its limit.

The Marianne tilted, and the brush flew from my hand and clattered to the deck.

My legs wobbled as though uncertain if they wanted to give way or hold me up against the motion.

I stared at the brush’s outline. My mother would suggest tending to my hair, for it would only get worse the longer I waited.

I usually followed the advice. Looking presentable was part of my job, after all.

How unimportant it seemed now. Why did it matter what I looked like when Frank was lying at the bottom of the ocean, never to see the docks of Portsmouth again?

My vision blurred. I’d never hear that familiar Pompey accent teasing me again. Frank had sounded like home. The distance seemed impossibly far now. Why had I agreed to this journey? I should have stayed safely in England, even if it had meant a position as a scullery maid.

A knock on my door filtered through the haze of my mind. I didn’t move.

“Are you well?” Though it wasn’t a Portsmouth voice, somehow, its softness yanked the tears from my eyes. I covered my face, trying to hold them back, but a sob managed to escape.

The door opened, and footsteps crossed the room.

Arms encircled me and with them, the scent of jasmine and tea and ginger.

I buried my face in the delicate linen of his cravat as my body shook.

Mr. Doswell held me tightly, as securely as when he’d grabbed hold of me against the force of the waves.

He wouldn’t let go, and I didn’t want him to.

I sank into his warmth, willing it to take away the ice inside me.

“He was there,” I said as I wept. “And then he was gone.” My words wavered almost to incoherence. My leg throbbed as though being torn away from Frank’s grasp all over again.

Mr. Doswell rested his head protectively against mine. “I know.”

“I should’ve ...” What more could I have done? Something. Tears seared my face before getting lost in his cravat. I gasped for air, the emptiness of Frank’s loss pressing so heavily against my chest.

Mr. Doswell pulled me closer, and I slumped against him, knees buckling. I gripped his waistcoat as the sea of grief threatened to drag me under. He alone anchored me through the deluge.

“He’s gone,” I whimpered. Ripped away in the blink of an eye, just like Charlie and Uncle Byam. Never to be seen or heard again by those who cared.

Mr. Doswell didn’t speak as I blathered, the anguish flowing out in words even I couldn’t understand.

He stroked my matted hair and didn’t hush me.

Nor did he tell me it was God’s will that Frank should die.

We swayed in the darkness, either from the ship’s motion or from him rocking me, I could not tell.

My sobbing finally quieted to uncontrollable sniffling as he held me.

My head ached, and my eyes burned. I burrowed my face against his neck, my mind too drained to think better of it.

The ground had been swept out from under me, and I wanted only the safety that seeped into me from the strength of his arms. How could I feel such despair and yet such solace all at once?

If only I could stay here in his embrace instead of facing the morning and the realities it would bring.

The duties I’d have to drag myself through in the midst of missing Frank.

I’d have to face them, whether I wished to or not.

I pulled my head back and released his waistcoat. His arms held for a moment, then reluctantly let me go.

“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping at my eyes.

“You needn’t be.” Sadness nearly as sharp as my own creased his face. His eyes glimmered with unshed tears in the faint light. Why was he sorrowing over Frank’s death? Frank had mistreated him—practically to the point of insubordination—the entire voyage.

Mr. Doswell cleared his throat as though he could read the questions on my face and reached down to retrieve my brush from the floor. He gently set it in my hands.

I gave a mirthless laugh. “I don’t think I have the fortitude to untangle this shambles tonight.

” I tugged on my knotted hair with a sigh.

“I’ll have to see to it in the morning.” At which point, I would curse myself for not taking care of it before bed.

What a sight I must look with my eyes red, clothes rumpled, and hair a disaster.

I smoothed my apron, for what good it would do.

Mr. Doswell, of course, looked as polished as ever.

He swallowed, then tentatively held out his hand. “May I?”

I froze, gripping the brush. He would do that for me?

My heart launched into a funny pattering.

No one had helped me with my hair since Agnes left.

We hadn’t had money for hairdressers since Papa’s conviction, and I’d been too young before that to ask for my parents to pay one of the well-dressed men to cut and style my hair.

I couldn’t let Mr. Doswell handle this knot.

I handed him the brush, uncertain why I did, and turned my back to him. It wasn’t odd for a man to fix a woman’s hair. It happened in every city across Britain. But they weren’t usually handsome young gentlemen with hearts of gold doing it in private cabins in the dark.

He softly pulled at a pin, wiggling it back and forth until it slid free. “I’m sorry about Mr. Walcott,” he said. “Losing a friend leaves a hole in your heart that is impossible to fill.”

I nearly didn’t hear him, I was so focused on the feel of his hands working through my hair. “Thank you,” I managed.

He slid out another pin and then another without tearing or catching my hair. Clearly, he had done this before. His feather-light touch sent tingles across my skin.

My hair fell down my back with an ungraceful plop.

He offered me the pins, and I snatched them.

Perhaps I should take over from here. That was the sensible and proper thing to do.

But I kept my lips shut as he gathered my hair in his hand and began brushing the ends.

He moved slowly up the length of my hair, never forcing his way through a snarl, taking more care than I ever did.

My eyelids drooped as his strokes with the brush lengthened.

The sleepiness came from the exhaustion of crying, not his soothing touch, I was certain.

“If you decided to retire from the clergy, you could make a good living as a hairdresser,” I said. The brush reached my scalp, gliding across as gentle as a morning breeze.

He chuckled. “With four older sisters and a brother at sea since before I was born, I had a healthy dose of lessons in arranging hair.”

That made sense. I let my eyes fall closed, a part of me wishing he’d never stop.

My arms hung limp at my sides. I could have fallen asleep on my feet.

The harsh world around us, with its death and pain, dissolved into this moment.

I clung to it, this dark peace full of quiet and comfort. Full of him.

His fingers traced up the nape of my neck. A spark flashed through my veins, and my eyes flew open. He methodically divided my hair into sections to plait as though he hadn’t just caused my whole body to wake.

“I suppose you could get any sailor aboard to do this just as well,” he said. “The men with long hair help each other plait their queues.”

I didn’t want any other man on this ship doing this to my hair.

I bit my lips, which suddenly felt dry. I was enjoying this far too much, and I didn’t like what the appreciation implied.

Was it so terrible to take a liking to a clergyman more humble than most of his station?

Frank’s taunting voice echoed in my head that there was.

The thought of Frank reopened the wound inside me. I’d forgotten it for a few blissful minutes.

“Do you have a ribbon?” Mr. Doswell asked. Why was his voice a balm to my soul?

“Yes.” I took the end of my hair from him and hurried to my trunk.

I fumbled around for anything that could tie it off.

My fingers finally found a ribbon in the corner, and I hastily knotted it around my hair.

“Thank you, sir. That was very kind of you.” Never mind that he’d cast some sort of spell over me in the act.

He retreated a step. Did he sense my distress? “Is there any other way I can be of service?”

I shook my head, unsure if he could see it in the dark.

Always thinking of others. Someone like me did not deserve someone like him.

Kind, gentle, respectful of everyone, no matter their station.

I was brash and stubborn and so far beneath him.

The spark that had burst to life under his touch fizzled. “No. You’ve done so much already.”

He hesitated at the door. “If you need someone to talk to about him, I am here. Grief is a hard road to walk alone.”