Page 3 of Discovering Dahlia (The Blue Orchid Society #5)

Miles Ashcroft, Lord Meredith, had pictured various scenarios throughout the last weeks as he’d anticipated his first encounter with Dahlia Lancaster onboard the SS Aurora . He’d considered where they might meet, fretted over what to wear, even rehearsed in front of a mirror what he would say. But only in his most fantastical version of events had he imagined her falling into his arms the moment he stepped onto the deck. That was not to say he had not considered the possibility—dreamed of it, even. But in spite of his preparations, he was completely surprised when it did happen. Surprised, but not at all displeased.

The truth was, Miles loved Dahlia Lancaster. He had loved her since the first day they’d met, years earlier, at her coming-out ball. He, and every other man in London, had been smitten silly by the sight of her. But Miles’s feelings had gone deeper than simple admiration of her appearance. She was clever, diverting, and very thoughtful. In time, the two had become friends. But once Ruben had expressed an interest, Miles had stepped back and resigned himself to knowing that friends was all he and Dahlia could ever be.

Dahlia regained her footing and pulled back, standing up straight. A softness flitted across her face, but it was replaced quickly by a polite smile, as if a door had been slammed on any nostalgia. “Lord Meredith, welcome aboard.” There was no hint in her expression that there had once been a connection between them. “Have you met Captain Carmichael?”

Miles schooled his own expression, matching it to hers and hiding his disappointment at the coolness of her reception. He did not give up hope, however, that their former closeness could return. He followed her gaze toward the top of the gangway, seeing the uniformed man she indicated. “He was speaking with the duchess when I arrived,” Miles said.

“You will enjoy him.” Dahlia motioned for him to accompany her. “And he does like to meet all of the passengers.”

Miles followed, glad that at least she had not found an excuse to leave as she’d done the few times they’d come upon one another in the past year. His chest was hot as he remembered the Molyneaux’s Easter ball. Dahlia’s face falling and the way she’d fought against the tears as she’d fled from the ballroom still made his heart ache. Since that day, she had avoided both Society and Miles himself. And he could hardly blame her. Such public humiliation and the consequences would not endear anyone toward the friends of the person who’d caused it.

As Miles and Dahlia walked toward the captain, a thin man with a bushy mustache joined them. He scowled and walked with noisy, stomping steps, very obviously unhappy.

Dahlia sighed. “Lord Meredith, may I introduce Mr. Daniel Yeates? He is the vice president of Lancaster Steam Sailing and Shipping Limited. And my third cousin.” She added the last part as if familial closeness would explain away the man’s ill manners.

“How do you do?” Miles said.

Mr. Yeates gave a curt nod. “Your Lordship.” His expression did not relax.

“I’d hoped you would have joined the captain and myself earlier,” Dahlia said, “to welcome aboard the passengers.”

Her cousin huffed. “I’d hoped to as well,” he said. “But Mrs. Yeates is still very upset. It took some time to soothe her.”

Dahlia grimaced. “Yes, I am very sorry about the change in the cabin assignments.”

“I understand your cabin did not change.”

Dahlia did not respond to what was clearly an attempt to elicit a reaction. “Captain?” she called.

Seeing them approach, the captain turned fully toward them. His shoulders were wide. The skin of his face was weathered, and deep lines spouted from the corners of his eyes, a result, Miles thought, of years of squinting against a bright sun.

Dahlia stopped, nodding between Miles and the Captain. “Lord Meredith, please meet our fearless leader, Captain Carmichael.”

The banter in her voice only emphasized how cool she’d been to Miles. And both jealousy and sadness filled him in equal measure. It used to be him with whom she teased.

“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Captain,” Miles said.

“Yourself as well, my lord.”

Mr. Yeates leaned close to Dahlia and whispered something. She whispered back.

“Oh, Lord Meredith, there you are.” Lady Priscilla’s voice came from behind, and a moment later, the young woman had taken hold of Miles’s elbow. Her friends, Helen Rothschild and Charlotte Grey, were with her. The trio were all beautiful, wearing smart traveling clothes and elegant hair arrangements. They greeted Miles amiably.

Seeing them, Dahlia went still, but she faltered for only an instant before her polite smile returned and she cordially welcomed the young ladies who, until a year earlier, had been her dear friends. The only hint of discomfort that remained was a heightened color on her cheeks. Miles was amazed by her poise in the circumstance. She betrayed none of the distress she must have felt as she introduced the women to Captain Carmichael with the grace of an accomplished hostess.

The young ladies made polite small talk with the captain. But their refusal to look at Dahlia belied their own discomfort at the situation.

“I thought the ship was steam powered,” Lady Priscilla said, looking with annoyance at the sails and then at last at Dahlia. Her blonde curls, large blue eyes, and perpetual pout always gave Miles the impression of an unhappy child.

“It was certainly advertised as such.” Miss Grey took her cue from her friend, looking annoyed as well.

Miss Rothschild only looked uncertain. Out of the three, she was the one whose avoidance of Dahlia Miles found most difficult to believe. But he did understand her loyalty to her other friends and the strain of being in the middle. He’d felt it himself when it came to Ruben and Dahlia.

“The sails are merely for reinforcement, ladies,” Captain Carmichael said pleasantly. “All ocean liners are equipped with them. If the winds are in our favor, why waste the coal?”

“I was made to believe it would be an entirely modern ship,” Lady Priscilla said, sounding arrogant rather than disappointed.

“Then, you are fortunate indeed.” Captain Carmichael maintained his good nature, but the skin around his mouth was strained. “The SS Aurora is the most modernistic ship on the seas. She was constructed with the finest materials available and uses the very latest technology.” He ran a hand over the railing as he spoke, as if to soothe the ship from insults. “You’ll not find a more fuel-efficient vessel, nor one with such attention to comfort. Miss Lancaster has seen to that.”

The ladies looked at Dahlia, doubt and disbelief evident in their expressions.

“She appears to be a fine ship, sir,” Miles said, hoping to steer the conversation in a more courteous direction.

“The finest you’ve ever seen,” Captain Carmichael said. “But I can’t take the credit. That’s all down to the owner.” He nodded toward Dahlia. “Not a detail she didn’t see to personally.”

“I would not believe anything less from Miss Lancaster,” Miles said.

Dahlia glanced at both men, gave an appreciative smile, then went back to her whispered conversation with her cousin. It did not seem to be a pleasant discussion.

“I confess to knowing very little about steamships,” Miles said to the captain. “But I would be very interested to learn more.”

The captain looked him over, and Miles got the impression that he was a man used to sizing people up. “I believe you would.” He held Miles’s gaze with an approving eye. “I promised Lady Covington a tour. If you’re available tomorrow morning after breakfast, perhaps you’d join us?”

“I’d be delighted,” Miles said. He could not help but smile at the prospect, not only of seeing the ship and its workings but of watching the captain answer Lady Covington’s questions. He knew she would have many. “Thank you.”

The captain gave another sharp nod.

“Would you care to have your photograph taken before you are shown to your cabins?” Dahlia asked the women. Although her words were spoken graciously, they could not have been mistaken for anything but a dismissal. She indicated the photographer, and a steward took the cue, leading the three young ladies across the deck.

Even after they departed, the air felt tense.

Dahlia’s shoulders relaxed visibly, and she rubbed her eyes. She gave the captain a grateful smile, then a moment later, looked up at Miles as if only now remembering he was still with them.

“You should pose for a photograph as well, my lord.” Dahlia held out a hand and took a few steps toward the photographer, whose head was covered with a cloth as he looked through the camera at where the Darling Debs posed in front of a backdrop. “A keepsake to remember the cruise.”

Miles squinted his eyes, shaking his head. “I don’t fancy a photograph of myself alone. Might you consent to join me?”

“Of course.” Dahlia gave the same polite smile, and the pair waited for the photographer to finish. He had to change the plate three times, making a photograph for each of the women, before Miles and Dahlia could cross the deck to stand in front of the backdrop.

Miles stood beside her, unsure what to do. Should he offer his arm? Touch the small of her back? Smile? Not smile? His hands felt cumbersome, as if he were holding something and didn’t know where to put it down. At last he clasped them behind his back.

Dahlia stood still, giving no indication that she wished for it to be an amiable photograph, instead giving every indication that she did not wish to be here at all. She clasped her hands in front of her, not even brushing him with her skirts.

The photographer was still readying his equipment, and the longer Miles stood beside her, the more discomfort he could feel.

“The weather is lovely this afternoon,” he said. “Perfect for sea travel, don’t you think?”

Dahlia glanced at him and then back at the photographer. “Yes, it is.”

“Hold still, please.” The photographer put his head beneath the cloth and held up his fingers, counting down. After twenty seconds, he emerged to change the plate. In another twenty seconds, he was finished.

Dahlia excused herself politely and left Miles standing alone.

Disappointment hung heavy in his gut as he watched her go. But he reminded himself that he’d expected this. There was an entire week ahead in which they would be in close proximity. He knew, in time, he could regain her friendship, prove he wasn’t like Ruben, and earn back her trust. She had trusted him before. Surely she could again.

He pushed out a breath through his nose and looked around the deck. He didn’t know where to go, and he definitely didn’t want to bother Dahlia and Captain Carmichael again.

As if anticipating his question, a man appeared beside him, looking dapper in a plaid waistcoat and trousers. The trimmed blue-green tip of a peacock feather poked out of his satin hat band. He gave a polite bow. “Lord Meredith, how do you do? I am Victor Vandelay, Miss Lancaster’s assistant. If you’d follow me, please, Mr. Bryce has your berthing assignment.” He introduced Miles to the purser, who presented a brass key and an envelope, thick with its contents.

“Welcome aboard, Your Lordship.” Mr. Bryce motioned to a steward, who joined them promptly.

Miles glanced at the key, seeing that the number 7 had been etched into the bow.

“We launch in just over an hour, my lord,” Victor Vandelay said, snapping shut his pocket watch and putting it into his waistcoat pocket. “And you’ll not want to miss that.”

Miles nodded, impressed by Dahlia’s staff. Those he’d met were competent and professional.

The steward led Miles through a door, holding it open. “The saloon, Your Lordship.”

Miles stepped inside, astonished by the sight of oak-paneled walls and thick carpets. The room was luxurious and comfortable, with large windows, plush sofas, and deep wing chairs. Miles’s father was an investor in a cargo-shipping company, so Miles was no stranger to ships. But the functionality and bare utilitarianism of a freight ship made the amenities of the SS Aurora even more impressive. The saloon was furnished with the same care and eye to detail as a drawing room in a manor house.

He followed the steward to a grand staircase with carved balustrades and polished railings. Passengers walked past the windows, enjoying the view from the promenade decks.

“The dining room is through there, my lord.” The steward pointed to a pair of doors to one side of the staircase before leading Miles down. “Tea and biscuits will be served tonight at seven,” he said. “Many passengers will be feeling the effects of the ship’s motion, so the first onboard meal will be gentle on the stomach. The effects pass for most within a day.”

Two wood-panel passageways branched off the landing, each leading along a corridor lit by gas lamps. The steward led Miles down the left one. The first door had no number, simply the word Diamond painted in gold. Beyond were the numbered cabins. Some of the doors they passed were open, with servants bringing luggage and passengers settling in to their accommodations.

Ruben’s voice came from the far end of the corridor. It sounded as if he were complaining about something.

Miles was glad when the steward stopped well before the end, indicating the door with the number 7. It wasn’t as if he didn’t wish to see Ruben. The two of them had been friends for years, and Miles felt a debt of gratitude to Ruben that stretched back to their school days. But lately, he felt the need to brace himself before meeting up with his old friend. And the feeling left him with guilt at his disloyalty.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside. The room was larger than he’d expected, with golden wood on the floors and wall panels. A thick rug covered the center of the floor, and the bed’s headboard was a rich mahogany decorated tastefully with carved molding.

“Looks like your valet has already been here.” The steward nodded his approval at the dinner coat and clean shirt hanging on the closet door. Freshly polished shoes were beside a plush wing-back chair.

Well done, Peterman.

The steward pointed to a switch beside the berth. “The bell will alert your valet on the steerage deck, and there is running water here in the basin. It may take a few moments to get hot.” He patted the faucet. “If you need clean linens or anything at all, don’t hesitate to contact a steward. One will always be nearby. Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord?”

“Not at the moment. Thank you.”

The steward left, and Miles closed the door behind him. He tossed his hat onto the bed and shed his coat as he surveyed the cabin. He was pleased at the sight of soft pillows and a duvet patterned in blues and greens. Ocean liners were not known for their comfortable beds, but the SS Aurora , he was finding, set her own precedent. As, he knew, did her owner.

A tasteful picture hung on the wall, depicting a stone bridge in the twilight. Miles knelt on the bed and looked through the porthole. Crowds were gathering on the docks to watch the ship depart.

He leaned to the side, watching workers on the docks as they operated pulleys and heaved loads. There was always a feeling of jealousy when Miles watched men working with their hands. Aching muscles, a sweat-stained brow, completing a physically demanding task—that had always been the sort of work Miles had enjoyed. He had attempted over the years to learn the management of his father’s shipping enterprises, but the workings of business made him feel simpleminded, which was both frustrating and humiliating. It did not come naturally to him in the way physical activity did. He would prefer mending a fence or chopping logs to calculating accounts. But, of course, as the heir apparent to the Earl of Rushford, few such opportunities presented themselves. He’d found an outlet for his energy in hunting, riding, and fencing, all activities permissible for a peer. But there was still something missing. The feeling of accomplishment, he supposed, at putting one’s back into a difficult task and seeing it through to completion.

He turned around, sitting with his back against the bulkhead wall, and studied the picture opposite him. The painting was very serene... and romantic. He could imagine standing upon the bridge, watching the sunset cast a golden light over the world. Was it a sign? Was this cruise the start of something new between himself and Dahlia? Or did the painting’s twilight signify that it was over, the time had passed, and it was too late?