Page 4 of Discovering Dahlia (The Blue Orchid Society #5)

Dahlia climbed the stairs from the main deck, walking under the hanging quarter boards that bore the ship’s name. She stepped onto the terrace deck, which made up the roof of the dining room and saloon. Ahead was the door leading to the ship’s offices. The only deck higher was the bridge, where Captain Carmichael and Mr. Webster stood, preparing to give the orders to launch.

Seeing her, the captain touched a finger to his hat brim, and she saluted him in return, smiling. This was not the first time they’d sailed together. They had brought the SS Aurora from Belfast to Liverpool and then to London, but everything was different with actual passengers aboard. It was like they had been rehearsing all along, but now it was time for the show to begin. A wiggle of excitement moved through her, tinged with nervousness.

Deep below, the engines were already humming, the windlass cranking as it drew up the anchor. Passengers gathered on the main deck, with only a few venturing higher. Everyone wanted to stand at the rail. Friends and family massed on the docks to wave farewell and enjoy the spectacle of an ocean liner launching from London. With them, Dahlia was pleased to see, were photographers, their cameras ready on tripods.

The orchestra took their cue and started to play. Stewards carried trays of sparkling wine, distributing them as they moved among the passengers. The captain had warned against alcohol while stomachs were still adjusting to the ship’s motion, but Dahlia had insisted upon it. This was a celebration, after all, and she intended to do it properly.

She accepted a glass and nodded to the passengers who stood nearby. Lord Lockhart, a sponsor of Elizabeth’s charity school, was beside Dahlia at the rail. He raised his glass, muttering an awkward greeting, and smoothed down his wayward dark hair, which was in desperate need of a trim. His waistcoat was, as usual, wrinkled, and his trousers were too short. Dahlia liked His Lordship. All of the Blue Orchid Society did. While Lord Lockhart and Elizabeth shared very different views politically and had had a rough beginning, their concern for London’s underprivileged children had made the two unlikely friends.

Next to Lord Lockhart—certainly not on purpose—were the Darling Debs, and farther along the rail, Lord Ruben was turned away, speaking with Lord Meredith. Dahlia inclined her head in acknowledgment when Lord Meredith’s gaze met hers, and turned to her other side, greeting Mimi, Lady Chatsworth, and Mrs. Griffin as they approached. Dahlia was pleased to see Mrs. Griffin holding on to Victor’s arm as she walked. She didn’t think the dear woman would have managed the steep stairs alone with her cane. The elderly women wore delighted smiles as they sipped their drinks and watched the crew’s preparations to launch.

Dahlia heard familiar voices and looked back at the stairs, pleased to see her friends climbing to the terrace deck. The four couples came to join her at the rail.

“There you are,” Sophie said, squeezing Dahlia in a one-armed hug. She pointed with a tip of her wine glass toward the docks. “My photographer is down there, and I’ve left instructions that the launch of the SS Aurora is to be front-page news.”

“I’m so grateful,” Dahlia said. She raised a brow in a teasing expression. “But doesn’t a story need to involve a criminal element to be featured in the Illustrated Police News ? I hope we are not being accused of breaking any laws.”

“Only the law against women resisting Society norms,” Elizabeth said, “and taking our rightful place in the world, in spite of the men who would wish us to remain subservient.”

“If that was a law, my dear, you would be awaiting the hangman,” Chatsworth said, putting an arm around his outspoken fianc é e’s waist. “Wouldn’t she, Inspector?”

“They all would,” Jonathan said in his grumbling voice, motioning with his glass to the five women of the Blue Orchid Society. He smiled, but the expression was a weak one. His face was pale. From what Dahlia knew of him, Jonathan had never left London, let alone traveled by sea. The mal de mer must be affecting him already.

“Are you well, Jonathan?” Elizabeth asked.

“I’m afraid he suffers from motion sickness,” Sophie said, rubbing her husband’s back and giving a sympathetic look. “It started nearly the second he stepped on board.”

“I’m well,” Jonathan said.

“Hazel?” Dahlia looked down the railing, finding the nurse and Dr. Jackson.

“No need to fuss.” Jonathan scowled. None of the women were cowed in the least by the expression. The police inspector put up a gruff exterior, but beneath, he was warmhearted and gentle.

But Hazel was already there, the backs of her fingers on the inspector’s forehead. “No fever,” she said. “But your skin is very clammy.”

“I would recommend something to settle your stomach,” Dr. Jackson said, joining his fiancée. “However, with motion sickness, I’m afraid there is nothing else to be done but wait it out.”

Jonathan nodded, his jaw clenched tightly, as if he were fighting to hold back the contents of his stomach. He was stubborn, and Dahlia did not even suggest that he might wish to return to his cabin to lie down. She was certain Sophie had already done so. With any luck, he would be hale and hearty tomorrow morning.

A steward brought a folded paper sack, handing it to Sophie. Hopefully the inspector would not need it.

Dahlia took a sip of sparkling wine and rested her hand on the railing, leaning forward to watch as the anchors were raised and the gangway taken down. The mooring ropes were detached from the deck fittings and hoisted up to be stored tidily away. The movements were becoming more familiar to her, but she was still mesmerized by the speed and efficiency with which the crew managed their tasks. Once the ship was loose, the pistons started working, their chugging noise getting faster as the steam heated and puffed from the funnels.

The ship rocked once it was loose and lurched when it started forward. Dahlia had come to expect it and adjusted her stance accordingly, but the others around her were not so prepared. All around her, guests stumbled and grabbed at the handrail.

Lord Lockhart, a man not known for his physical grace, gasped and reached out for the handrail as well. He unintentionally grabbed on to Miss Rothschild’s arm instead, pulling her toward him. He struggled to regain his balance without causing her to lose hers, miraculously managing not to spill his drink.

The young lady was not so lucky. Her cup tipped, splashing its contents over the pair of them as she fell against him.

Lord Lockhart’s face went splotchy, and he stuttered out an apology. “Miss, I . . . I . . . please, I did not intend to . . .”

Dahlia took his glass, freeing his hand as he set Miss Rothschild to rights.

Instead of looking upset, Miss Rothschild blushed very prettily. “Thank you for catching me, Your Lordship. I rather lost my balance.” She held on to his arm, still unsteady, her gaze never leaving his.

A steward took away the glasses discreetly and swiped a rag over the deck, but neither Miss Rothschild nor Lord Lockheart appeared to notice.

Lorene, Charlotte, and Priscilla stared open-mouthed at the pair, and Dahlia knew her friends must be staring too.

Captain Carmichael let go one long blast from the ship’s horn, breaking the spell and reclaiming the attention of the passengers to the operation at hand.

Deep beneath the water, the ship’s propeller gained speed, pushing the SS Aurora forward, and with that, the cruise was officially underway.

A cheer went up, and colorful streamers burst from the decks, shooting out toward the spectators. Handkerchiefs waved the voyagers on, and photographers’ heads dove under their cloths, and within a moment, it was all behind them.

Dahlia met Victor’s gaze, and her assistant raised his glass. She returned the gesture, feeling very grateful for him. He alone knew what it had taken to bring this all about. This launch was his triumph as well as hers.

Even after the applause and cheering stopped, the merry atmosphere lingered. Passengers talked excitedly, looking over the rails to the water moving beneath them. The band continued to play, but Dahlia allowed herself to enjoy the festivities for only a moment longer. A light supper would be served within the hour, and she wanted to be certain the food was in order. And, less pleasantly, the effects of mal de mer would be apparent soon enough for some unlucky passengers, and the stewards needed to be ready with basins and cloths.

Victor’s gaze met hers again. He undoubtedly had the same thoughts as he bid the older women farewell.

Dahlia walked quickly over the deck to join her assistant. She paused near Ruben’s group to set her glass on a server’s tray.

“Will you just look around you?” Lord Ruben was saying. Based on the color in his cheeks and the volume of his voice, the cup in his hand was not his first, nor, most likely, his second. “See what is possible when one does not spend all one’s time worrying about gowns and ribbons and house parties?” He looked at Lorene with an expression of disdain that made his wife’s face go red.

Dahlia rushed away, praying that her former friend did not see her. She would never wish Lorene to know she’d overheard her husband speaking so cruelly to her, especially when Ruben’s insult to his wife was, in a way, praise of Dahlia, or at least of her accomplishment.

She joined Victor, and the pair of them continued on to the galley. But Dahlia’s mind could not stop returning to what she’d overheard. Ruben’s words should have been a boost to her confidence, but as much as she might have enjoyed hearing them, she couldn’t find it in herself to take pleasure in Lorene’s humiliation.

***

The next morning, Dahlia rose just as the sky was turning the slightest bit purple, and dressed. The ship was anchored for the night off the coast of Whitstable, and the decks were lit by gas lanterns, but within the hour, the sun would be up, and they would be off, headed for their first port of call: Boulogne-sur-Mer. The sea was an inky black, and the morning was chilly. With a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, she climbed up to the terrace deck, as she had each morning since bringing the SS Aurora from Belfast, and started for the bow.

She came around the corner of the bulkhead supporting the bridge and stopped. Someone was already there. A man sat in the center of the deck, legs crossed and hands resting on his knees. It took only an instant before recognition dawned, and though she could not see his face in the dim light, she knew exactly who he was. Benedict adhered to many of the habits he had developed while living with monks in China, and it appeared he had chosen the terrace deck for his meditation.

“Good morning, Dahlia,” Benedict said. His voice was not loud, but it carried over the sound of the waves hitting against the hold and the creaks of the ship.

“I did not mean to disturb you,” she said. “I just came to clear my head.” She’d intended to spend some quiet time alone, breathing the fresh air and settling her thoughts to prepare for the day. She’d taken up the practice on the first mornings at sea, when her mind was spinning with worries about the maiden voyage. It had calmed her, and she looked forward to these peaceful moments before the passengers awoke and she returned to the duties of solving problems and making decisions.

“Then, we are here for the same reason,” he replied. “But if you would prefer it, I will find another—”

“No, of course not,” Dahlia interrupted.

He nodded, his face still cast in shadows, and held out his hand, offering her a seat on the deck beside him.

Dahlia gave a small laugh at the idea. Her skirts would wrinkle beyond recognition. Nor would she be able to rise if she did manage to sit. Not gracefully, in any case. Her corset would see to that. “I prefer to stand, thank you.” She crossed to the bow, resting a hand on the rail and closing her eyes, drawing in a deep, calming breath. The launch had gone off without a hitch. And aside from a few small surprises—cabin adjustments and the results of motion sickness—it had all been better than she’d hoped. She took in another breath, considering the day ahead. Some passengers might still feel ill, so she and Captain Carmichael had decided upon an afternoon arrival at Boulogne-sur-Mer. Guests could disembark, if they desired, and explore the city or even go sea bathing.

Victor had pointed out that some may choose to eat a French supper in a café or even return hungry after the ship’s meal had already been served, so the chefs were preparing a flexible meal that could be made quickly, depending on demand, kept warm, and served at various times. The chefs were also keeping milder fare at the ready for those who still felt the effects of motion sickness.

She thought again of how grateful she was for her assistant and his idea of this “rehearsal journey” with a small number of passengers, where complications and adjustments could be made before the ship was at full capacity.

A gust of wind blew her hair, nearly taking her hat with it, and sprayed a fine mist over her face. She glanced over her shoulder to see whether the wind had bothered Lord Benedict, but he appeared not to have moved. The sky was lighter, nearly lavender now. It was almost time to turn off the lanterns. She looked up to the bridge. The lanterns up there were glowing. There was movement, and though she couldn’t hear anything over the wind and waves, she was certain Captain Carmichael was already giving orders. Any moment now the crew would get to work, engines would start up, passengers would wake, and the peace of the morning—

A shout stopped her thoughts, and Dahlia spun. Benedict had already jumped to his feet and was heading in the direction the noise had come from.

She rushed after him, rounding the corner of the bulwark to find Victor sprawled on the ground. The papers and notebook he had apparently been carrying were spread around him, some being caught up by the wind.

“The entertainment schedules!” he cried in a panicked voice.

“Stay there,” Dahlia ordered him.

Benedict crouched beside Victor, helping him to a sitting position, while Dahlia rushed around the deck to catch the papers as well as her assistant’s hat before they were blown away.

“Victor, are you all right?” She knelt beside him, cramming the papers under her arm so they wouldn’t be lost again.

Victor looked relieved to see the schedules were recovered. He held a handkerchief to the side of his forehead and pressed another to his knee. “I slipped,” he said. He drew away the handkerchief, revealing a cut above his eye.

Dahlia pushed his hand back to his forehead. “Keep it there,” she said, glancing at the cloth on his knee, which was already colored with blood as well. The decks were often slippery, especially with the wind blowing seawater onto them, so it was not entirely surprising that a person would fall. She was just surprised that it was a person as experienced on the decks as Victor. “I will send for Dr. Jackson and Hazel.”

Two stewards had already appeared at the bottom of the steps. Hearing her, one of the men met her eyes and nodded, hurrying away to carry out her order. The other steward started up the steps, but when he neared the top, his foot slid out from under him, and he plunged forward.

With a quick reaction, Benedict caught him before he hit the deck, and once the steward had regained his feet, the two bent down to examine the steps. The steward touched the stair just below the deck, bringing up his hand and sniffing his fingers. He frowned. “Engine grease, I believe.”

“Engine grease?” Dahlia asked. “But how did it get there? The engines are nowhere near the upper decks.”

“And it wasn’t here when I came up the stairs,” Benedict said thoughtfully. “I would have certainly fallen in the dark.

“As would I.” Dahlia looked at the step with the grease. Though the decks were lit, this stair was still cast in shadow. Any of them would have missed it. “There must be a leaking bucket,” she said uncertainly. Or... or what? She had no idea how this might have happened. Why would anyone have cause to carry grease around outside the engine room? She glanced up at the bridge, wondering if there was some apparatus that required greasing. The wheel, perhaps? Or the engine-order telegraph? That must be the answer. But she couldn’t imagine Captain Carmichael didn’t have a safety procedure in place to avoid carrying grease around in the dark. He was adamant that the decks were kept spotless.

Another steward joined them, bringing a bucket and a mop, and with him was Mr. Yeates. Dahlia’s cousin came partway up the stairs, stopping when Benedict held out his hand in warning.

“I heard there was an accident.” Mr. Yeates looked at Victor.

Victor’s face clouded as it always did when Mr. Yeates was present. Though Dahlia didn’t understand the specifics, she knew her assistant did not like her cousin.

“Engine grease, sir,” the steward repeated, holding up his fingers.

“Well, get it cleaned up, then,” Mr. Yeates snapped at the man with the mop.

“If some grease was dropped, there could be more,” Dahlia said. “All of the decks must be inspected. We do not want anyone else to slip.”

The steward nodded and dipped his mop into the water.

“Wait,” Victor said in a loud voice. “Do not wash it just yet.”

All of them turned to him.

“But—” Dahlia started to protest.

“Send for Inspector Graham,” Victor said.

Benedict nodded his agreement.

Dahlia could only look at the men in confusion.

“There is an inspector onboard?” Mr. Yeates asked.

“Inspector Jonathan Graham of the London Metropolitan Police,” Benedict said.

“The mystery is solved,” Mr. Yeates said with contempt. “You slipped on grease.”

“Surely this little accident is not something for which we should trouble Jonathan,” Dahlia said. She did not like her cousin’s tone, but he was right. They knew what had happened.

“Perhaps not,” Victor replied. “It may be nothing, but the inspector will have a better chance of determining whether this was merely unhappy fortune or whether something more nefarious is afoot. Grease doesn’t drip,” he said, frowning. “Nor does it spread itself out evenly.”

Benedict frowned as well, his typically peaceful face brooding.

Dahlia pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. “You think a person did this on purpose?” She couldn’t believe it. What would be the point?

Victor looked down at the offending step and at the steward still standing uncertainly with his mop, then turned to Dahlia and Benedict. “Falling up the stairs can cause injury.” He rolled his eyes upward at the handkerchief still pressed to his forehead. “But if someone had slipped going down ...”

“It would almost certainly have been fatal,” Benedict finished for him.