Till Dawn Tames the Night

Prologue

1818

LONDON DOCKS

There was no revelry at the Green Serpent Yard tonight. Though the rotting tavern was notorious for its bad gin—and even worse company—it was almost always crowded after dark. Its customers were the kind of vermin rarely seen outside of Newgate, and they cared not a whit about the quality of their spirits. But this night, oddly enough, the crowd was sparse.

Only a subdued little gathering of five men drank in the corner, and they sat hunched together, speaking in whispers. Every now and then one deep in his cups would burst out with a chuckle, but he was soon sobered by his companions’ faces. It was clear by their expressions that tonight those who laughed laughed alone.

As the minutes ticked by, they nervously watched the door as if they were waiting for the Devil himself to appear. When still no one came, they seemed to lose another bit of their nerve, but as if to silence their dread, they downed their gin in huge burning gulps, then wiped their mouths on their shirtsleeves and ordered more.

Fear was everywhere in the Yard tonight. Not only was it seen in the faces of the men and heard in the chilling clink of pewter mugs, it was as overwhelming a stench as the unwashed bodies that filled the tavern or the soiled straw that covered the floor. Even the rats seemed to sense what was in the air. At regular intervals they appeared from their dingy nooks to see what the silence was about. Rising to their hind feet, they sniffed, then prudently disappeared back into their holes.

Wha’ if he don’t believe us, Murdoch? Wha’ if he kills us all? I know we’re in this fer the gold, but they say Vashon’d just as soon kill a bloke as ta look at him. An aged man in the group spoke up. Though I’ve lived a good long time, I just don’t know if’n I’m ready ta go tonight. …

And what about that dragon? another man whined to their leader. I’ve heard it gives him mystical powers! I’ve heard stories about that pirate that’d scare the virginity out of a nun!

We’re fools to be here! He’ll not want our information! He’s slit more throats than I can count! Made brave by gin, this man slammed his fist on the board.

Than ye can count? Than ye can count? Their leader, Murdoch, a scurrilous-looking man of fifty, finally stood up. Ye stupid yellow dogs! Ye canna count ta three! In disgust he glanced over his lackeys and angrily announced, I need no cowards this night! Whoever canna find the courage ta stay, then take yer leave and be gone! But dinna be thinkin’ ye’re due any gold fer yer troubles! With that he lifted the plank table and shoved it to the floor. Glass shattered and the board split.

After that violent outburst, the minions abruptly ceased their complaints. Outraged, the barkeep started from his corner, but when Murdoch turned his gaze to him, the man stopped dead in his tracks.

If ye want ta see the morrow, jack, ye’d best stay out o’ this. Murdoch opened his coat and the dull glint of a pistol showed at the waist of his breeches.

Without further prompting, the barkeep decided to retire. He skittered from the room and dashed for his quarters.

Now, Murdoch said, turning back to his men, who is ta stay an’ who is ta go?

The only way we’ll be going is with Vashon’s knife in our gut. One of the men lifted his head. His pale blue eyes stared vacantly past his leader. A mad smile curled his lips, and he began to laugh. So I guess we’ll be staying!

That’s right, Murdoch pronounced, easing back to the bench. He warily eyed the crazed young man, then kicked a broken bottle of gin out of his way. He was just about to send one of the men to get another round when a shadow fell across him. He glanced up and met with his nemesis.

V-Vashon, he choked out, scrambling to his feet. Immediately his minions did likewise, and with slackened jaws they stared at the demon before them. He had taken them all by surprise, and if they had been frightened waiting for him, now that he was here, they were terrified.

Cringing, they watched him step forward. Though Vashon’s attire—a dark blue frock coat and pale buckskin breeches—was restrained and costly, it was clear this man was bad company. He towered over the lot of them by at least a head. Yet his great height wasn’t what sent fear crawling down every spine. Nor was it his well-muscled form. It was his expression.

Vashon’s face was handsome, uncommonly handsome, but it was as hard and merciless as a Spartan’s. Written deep into his eyes seemed to be the knowledge that he found the world to be an ugly place. And in his world, his wretched place devoid of beauty or peace, he looked as if he’d developed a great capacity for destruction. By just one glance it was easy to believe this man would do what he needed to, no matter how wrong, no matter how brutal. He seemed to wear his past in his eyes almost as he wore the pistol in his belt. It was hard not to further the comparison by wondering if this man, like the pistol, wasn’t just as quick, explosive. And deadly.

Vashon, Murdoch quavered, I canna thank ye enough fer comin’. I dinna know if ye would come.…

We’ve come. So tell me your information.

At the plural reference, Murdoch looked to the door. A burly pirate stood there. He appeared to have twice Vashon’s years, but even though his hair was gray and his gut had expanded with age, he looked quite capable of using the pistol he had aimed right at Murdoch’s head.

Murdoch turned his eyes back to Vashon. He gulped. W-w-would ye be havin’ a drink with us, guv’nor …?

I want your information. Now.

With those words, all the men held their breath, save the speaker and the man behind him holding the pistol. Even the mad henchman with the pale blue eyes quit smiling. It was obvious it wouldn’t do to try this Vashon’s patience.

Murdoch gulped again and summoned his courage. His voice took on an imploring tone. I hate ta inconvenience ye, Vashon, even ta be thinkin’ such things, but there is the matter o’ price?

I’ll determine if what you have is worth paying for. Vashon crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. He looked down upon Murdoch and his cohorts as if they were no better than a pack of mangy curs. His stare unglued Murdoch altogether.

I’ll tell ye then, Murdoch conceded hastily. ’Tis no problem at all. Because, ye see, guv’nor, I know ye’ll pay. Ye’re a man after me own heart. I admire ye. I trust ye—

Get on with it, Vashon demanded, obviously disgusted by Murdoch’s bootlicking.

O’ course, o’ course, guv’nor! Murdoch rattled. I canna wait ta tell ye, for what I know’ll be worth more ta ye than all yer gold!

Your note said something about the Star of Aran. What do you know about the emerald?

I know where ’tis.

Vashon stiffened. His gaze burned into Murdoch. Deadly quiet, he said, If you know where the Star is, why aren’t you going after it?

We-e-ell, ’tis a bit more complicated than that.…

Straightening, Vashon abruptly motioned to his man. Isaac, let’s quit these lying fools.

Wait! Murdoch cried, following him to the door. All right! All right! I dinna know where the jewel is! But I know where the viscount is lookin’, and I know how much you hate the Viscount Blackwell!

Vashon turned and grabbed Murdoch by his jacket. This mere gesture sent two of Murdoch’s frightened men scurrying for the door. With his eyes nearly bulging from their sockets, Murdoch watched a portion of his salvation run bowlegged out into the night.

I know all about Josiah Peterborough, Vashon calmly informed him, all the while pressing him against the wall, and I know where he is looking. But the Star’s not in Ireland. So he and you are wasting time. The pirate released him. Terrified, Murdoch slid to the floor like a rag doll.

Vashon turned to go, and with him went Murdoch’s hope for gold. Desperate, he scrambled to his feet and grasped the pirate’s sleeve.

But now Blackwell is searchin’ elsewhere! He’s searchin’ for the gel an’ only I know where she is!

With that statement, Vashon paused. Coolly he turned back. You know where she is?

The viscount got a clue the gel might be in London. So he’s been all o’er trying ta dig her up. He’s told everyone about her an’ the locket she’d be wearing. Brightson here—Murdoch nodded to one of his remaining cohorts—he saw a gel with that same locket an’ followed her home. We was going ta give Peterborough the information, ’til we decided ye hated him so much ye’d probably pay more.

Vashon’s eyes narrowed. What does the viscount plan to do with this girl once he finds her—if he finds her? As I recall, she was only four when her father died. What could she remember about the Star?

Looking as if he’d just escaped execution, Murdoch nervously hitched up his breeches and offered, I dinna know wha’ she remembers, guv’nor, but I do know Blackwell wants her. An’ when he finds her, he plans ta kidnap her. An’ surely ye know he ain’t much above torture ta git what he wants. Ask old Danny here. He used ta work fer him. Murdoch motioned to the man with the pale blue eyes, who sent them a mad little smile only to turn his interest to his thumb.

He plans to kidnap her then? Vashon mused.

Aye, an’ as I see it, once Blackwell gits his paws on her, she ain’t gonna be much use ta anyone else, tha’s fer sure.

Where is this girl?

She’s in London.

The ominous pirate thought about this for a moment. Vashon looked as if he didn’t quite believe Murdoch. His expression almost sent Murdoch scrambling for the corner.

Go on.

Relief washed over Murdoch’s features. There now! I knew when we got this information that ye’d be wantin’ it! An’ old Peterborough can just go ta the Devil, said I! Anxious to please, and even more anxious to save himself from bodily harm, Murdoch wiped off a bench with his coat sleeve. He then offered the seat to Vashon. Can I get you to rest, guv’nor? There ain’t no need to—

I said, go on.

Murdoch blanched and looked up at the pirate’s tall, unyielding figure. He couldn’t get his next words out fast enough. She’s at an almshouse, right here in London—grew up there, I heard tell.

What else.

We-e-ell … Murdoch hesitated. It was obvious that as much as he loved his life, he loved gold more. Using the last remnants of his courage, he stuttered, I—I hate to mention this, guv’nor, but th-there is the small detail of payment.…

Continue, I said.

He eyed Vashon uneasily. The almshouse is called The Phipps-Bluefield Home for Little Wanderers. ’Tis between the docks and Goodman’s Fields in Whitechapel. She works there now, helping the other poor lads and lassies, but we’ve heard tell that she’s lookin’ fer a new position. The owner’s jus’ died—or somethin’ of that sort.

Do you have her name?

Murdoch nodded.

Then what is it? Tell me her name and I’ll know you have the right girl.

Hoping to end this night still possessing his life, but perhaps a little richer, Murdoch whispered, I canna quite recall, guv’nor, but perhaps a wee bit of gold might—

Without warning, Vashon grabbed Murdoch’s soiled collar. His cohorts gasped in horror as the pirate forcibly pulled him up to his eye level. When Murdoch squealed like a stuck pig, Vashon said, Tell me her name, you ass, otherwise you shall sorely regret summoning me here.

Her name’s Aurora! Aurora Dayne! Murdoch choked.

Vashon released his hold. Murdoch stumbled to the dirty floor, coughing and rubbing his neck. The pirate studied him for a moment. He reached inside his greatcoat, and Murdoch’s eyes widened with terror. The men started scrambling for cover, but Vashon only produced a bag full of coins.

Correct answer, idiot.

With a cynically handsome smile, Vashon thumped the bag down on the floor beside Murdoch. Then, to everyone’s relief, he said, Now, tell me more.…

THE PHIPPS-BLUEFIELD HOME FOR LITTLE WANDERERS

Aurora wiped a small patch of soot from her garret window and looked out at the London rooftops. It was time to leave, and though she had yearned for this moment for over a year, now that it was here she felt overwhelmed by it.

I wish you weren’t leaving, a girl’s voice murmured behind her.

Aurora turned and gave the girl a small reassuring smile. If I weren’t going, Faith, you would not be blessed with my room.

The girl Faith looked around the tiny room. The floor, though bare, was swept and waxed; the walls were still white from their last whitewashing. The blankets were a bit worn and patched, but still the bed was freshly made and tightly tucked. Aurora could see the girl was pleased.

"Oh, I don’t want you to go … but I do cherish the thought of my own room!" Faith burst out.

Aurora laughed. I understand completely. I remember what a palace this little room was compared to sleeping downstairs with the children.

Yet now what will your room be like?

Faith’s question caught Aurora off guard. I—I really don’t know, she managed to say. I suppose when I get there, it will be much the same as this one.

Except it won’t be in a shabby old orphanage, will it? It’ll be in a great mansion. You’ll quickly forget us.

Aurora met Faith’s reproachful stare. Immediately she went to her and took both her hands in her own. I have to go, Faith. You know I must.

A tear fell down Faith’s cheek. The girl wiped it away with a vengeance. Why did Mrs. Bluefield have to die of consumption? Now John Phipps has come along and in one year ruined everything!

Aurora’s expression filled with sorrow. They hugged and Faith wept on her shoulder. When the girl’s tears were spent, Aurora pulled back and said, Now you know, Faith, John will take good care of the Home. He really is a decent man. It’s just that I … well, I cannot seem to get along with him.

He’s a madman.

No, no! Aurora exclaimed.

He is, Faith persisted, hiccoughing. Your leaving is driving him crazy. He’s been in a fit ever since you told him you wanted to go.

Aurora didn’t meet her gaze. She wanted to deny Faith’s words but it was difficult. From all outward appearances, John was a steady young man, righteously bent on improving the Home now that he’d inherited, but there were times … there were times when he seemed a bit unbalanced. And, unfortunately, she had always caught his attention more than the other girls at the Home, so she’d seen more of his erratic behavior.

She took a deep breath and finally looked at Faith. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. You know that, Faith. If I ever thought he’d do anything wrong, I would never leave. John just doesn’t like to be told ‘No,’ but when I’m gone, he’ll run the Home in a decent manner, I promise you that.

I know. But I wish you weren’t going. He frightens me.

There’s no reason to be frightened!

He does strange things. Especially where you’re concerned!

What do you mean? Aurora asked, not sure she really wanted to know.

Just yesterday I saw him staring at the sampler you made for Mrs. Bluefield when you were a child. And it’s such a shame for it was a beautiful sampler, too, Aurora. It must have taken you months.

What happened to it? Aurora whispered.

It’s gone. John Phipps stood staring at it in the eating hall. Then I watched him calmly take it from its frame and put it into the hearth like it was merely kindling. Oh, Aurora, he was so cold about it!

Aurora turned away, sickened. The sampler had taken her nearly fifteen months to complete. Even now, years later, she could remember how painstakingly she had made each little stitch. She also recalled how pleased Mrs. Bluefield had been by it. She had stitched Mrs. Bluefield’s own motto at the bottom—Toil endeth the follies of the day. Now, almost bitterly, she thought it should have read, Folly endeth the toils of the day.

Aurora, must you go?

With a troubled gaze Aurora looked at Faith. Surely you see I must? He just will not leave me alone, and I cannot marry him. I know I shall probably never have such a chance for a husband again, but it’s all wrong and I’d rather die an old spinster than marry him. Do you hate me for that?

Sadly Faith shook her head. They hugged once more. When Aurora broke free, she gathered her willow hamper, which held all her belongings, and went to the door. But before she left, she took a lone book that sat upon her dresser and pressed it into Faith’s hands.

The Perrault fairy tales? Faith whispered, staring up at Aurora with tear-reddened eyes. You cannot mean to leave this behind. Mrs. Bluefield gave it to you.

For the first time Aurora lost the tight control she was holding over her emotions. She could barely keep her voice from trembling. The children so love these stories. Once a week I’ve been stealing downstairs to read to them in their sleeping quarters. If John found out, he’d disapprove, but the children and I have kept it from him so far. I think you can too. In the evening he’s quite involved in his prayers, you know.

I’ll read to them once a week, Aurora. I shall find a way, I promise, Faith said, the tremble in her voice matching Aurora’s.

Then God bless you, Faith. And I—I hope we meet again. With that Aurora could hold back no longer. She clutched the willow basket to her bosom and fled down the garret stairs in tears.

THE HEROINE

Anyone who braves the world sooner

or later feels the consequences of it.

—Lady Elizabeth Melbourne

1

Queenhithe Dock

Her adventure had begun.

Taking a deep breath, Aurora could hardly hide her anxiety as she looked past the main deck of the Seabravery toward the river Thames. It was barely noon and they were still moored at Queenhithe Dock, but in a few hours they would be sailing.

As was her habit, she nervously fingered the locket at her throat. It was an odd locket, battered and chipped, yet unique. The gold had been cast in the shape of a tiny lizard and set with chips of glittering emerald. Rubies were its eyes and its underbelly, diamonds. It was hinged, but this one’s hinges were hidden and it had a clasp that only she knew how to open. Most didn’t even realize it was a locket, thinking instead it was just a pendant. But inside, as his only gift to his little girl, her father had etched the last verse to a favorite nursery rhyme.

Fingering the locket now, she felt another chip of emerald missing. The loss saddened her, yet she vowed not to be melancholy. When she had left Faith and the Home, she had had her cry. Now there would be no more tears. Today she had become a lady of adventure, wild and carefree. Soon she would begin her passage, and in only a matter of weeks she would be seeing exotic places: places she had known only in dreams. London would be behind her and a whole new life would begin.

With excitement coloring her cheeks, she looked out across the river. The Thames beckoned her to go forth. As if it could speak to her, the normally sluggish river, churned up by the wind, sent frolicking waves against the ship’s sides with the same excited beat as her heart.

As if still unable to believe her good fortune, she abruptly dug into her brown silk reticule to find the letter. For a moment she couldn’t find it and her smooth brow furrowed with worry. It all had seemed like a dream. Was she to wake up now? Was it not true after all? Her fingers found the vellum. The letter was still there. Everything was still going to happen.

Relieved, she brought it to the light and was just about to read it once more when a loud female voice interrupted her.

Another woman! Thank heavens! I didn’t know how I would endure this crossing without another female to share my sorrow!

Aurora looked up, and her aqua eyes widened as a plump, well-attired matron came toward her on the deck. The woman wore a black satin calash bonnet and sported a black pagoda-shaped parasol. She was obviously dressed in widow’s weeds, but her gown was of the highest quality. The costly black taffeta rustled as the matron came forward to greet her.

Do let me introduce myself, my dear, the matron announced, shading her with the parasol. I am Mrs. Stefan Lindstrom. We’ll become quite chummy on the way to Bermuda. I know, because this is my sixth trip.

Six! Aurora answered, amazed. I fear this is my first.

"You shall do just fine. I know all the cures for seasickness and I hear the Seabravery is the finest vessel sailing. In fact, the captain tells me that the owner of the ship will be sailing with us, so I expect Captain Corbeil shall take special pains to make the going smooth. What is your name, my dear?"

Mrs. Lindstrom’s last question caught her off guard and it took her a moment before she could speak up. Miss Dayne. Miss Aurora Dayne, she answered haltingly.

Lovely, just lovely. And you are lately of …?

Aurora paused again. Lately of The Phipps-Bluefield Home for Little Wanderers.

Oh! An orphan! How completely romantic! Mrs. Lindstrom clasped her hands.

Aurora gave her a puzzled look. She didn’t know at all what the matron meant. Growing up an orphan had not been the least romantic. Mrs. Bluefield, saint that she was, had seen to it that she was educated and cared for. But other than that her life at the Home had been drab, as drab as the color of the Home’s serviceable linen gowns. This Mrs. Lindstrom made no sense at all.

I’m not an orphan now, Aurora explained. I mean, I was an orphan at the Home, but since I’ve come of age, I’ve been a teacher there.

And a good one, I’m sure.

The matron gave her a broad smile, and immediately Aurora warmed to her. Mrs. Lindstrom was a bit too inquisitive, perhaps, and certainly prone to dramatics, but Aurora liked her nonetheless. The fact that Aurora had been a poor orphan didn’t seem to put Mrs. Lindstrom off in the least and that was unusual for someone of her obvious wealth.

"So what has brought you to the Seabravery, Miss Dayne? the matron asked next, seeming to burst with questions. Are you, perchance, joining a fiancé in St. George’s? I can only guess, with your petite figure and that glorious color of hair, you must have some wonderful adventure before you. Oh, how I wish I were young again! The things I would do …!"

As Mrs. Lindstrom rattled on about her lost youth, Aurora selfconsciously swept a curl from her forehead and discreetly tucked it beneath her shabby brown bonnet. She had never thought the color of her hair glorious. Caught exactly in a middle hue, her hair had never been fiery enough for a redhead nor pale enough for a blonde. Indeed, to her, the faded red color seemed dull. Its tint seemed to mimic her life: pallid and restrained.

With a small frown, she recalled how John Phipps had once even commented her hair was properly quiet. But he’d been all too enamored of that properly quiet hair, she thought darkly. That was just what she was running from. After Mrs. Bluefield had died a year ago of consumption, the gray pallor of John Phipps’s influence descended upon her life like a shroud. Though she had known him ever since her first day at the Home, suddenly, with Mrs. Bluefield’s passing, there was no escaping him. His attentions had become suffocating, his presence unbearable.

Guilt darkened her aqua eyes. John Phipps was not an awful man, despite what he had done to her sampler. On the contrary, with his self-righteous piety, most thought him quite a good man. A terribly good man, she thought, still remembering how she’d been called an ingrate for spurning his offer. She might actually regret declining his offer, yet still she doubted it. Though her hair color might be properly quiet, her heart was not. And she could have never given it to him.

Even now she could recall the episode that had quite clearly proved their incompatibility. Staunchly Evangelical, John Phipps had found Mrs. Bluefield’s philosophy of running the Home with mere kindness insufficient. He had become convinced that Christianity would make the lower orders more content with their paltry lot. Since there was certainly no lower order to society than orphans, he’d felt compelled to begin emphasizing the messages of William Wilberforce to the little ones, and, once, when he’d been so caught up by the Evangelical cause, he caught Aurora reading Cinderella to the children and publicly implored her to rethink her path, calling the fairy tale particularly exceptionable when it painted some of the worst passions that could ever enter the human heart.

Soon after that John had proposed. He had proudly offered her a modest, quiet, passive life in faith and charity and holiness with sobriety. Then, as a wedding gift, he had presented her with Hannah More’s Coelebs in Search of a Wife, most obviously in the hope that it would cure her of her love for the unparalleled vice and infidelity of literature.

It could never have worked, and now, in hindsight, Aurora could see why Mrs. Bluefield had always encouraged her to leave the Home for a position in the outside world. She had never gone because she had felt a great debt to the Home. She would have worked there her entire life if only to repay a little of Mrs. Bluefield’s kindness. But her mentor was now long departed and the thought of spending the rest of her life by John Phipps’s side had become untenable. But just when her search for a position had seemed fruitless, the miracle she had prayed for happened. The letter now in her reticule had arrived. It was as if the sender had known of her situation and was generously offering her escape.

So is it St. George’s you’re destined for, Miss Dayne, or one of the outlying plantations?

Startled out of her thoughts, Aurora looked at Mrs. Lindstrom.

Oh, I know! the matron continued. You’re going out to Clairdon to marry one of the Sinclair boys! How many sons does Lord Sinclair have now, anyway? Eight was what I heard at last count. Quite strapping lads if I do recall … In fact, Miss Dayne, you couldn’t do any better.

Aurora artfully covered her smile with her gloved hand. Mrs. Lindstrom certainly did go on! When she lowered her hand, she said, I’m going to have to do much better, Mrs. Lindstrom, because I’m afraid I’m not meeting a fiancé in St. George’s, and most assuredly none of the Sinclair boys. In fact, I’m not going to St. George’s at all. I’m going to Kingston, Jamaica.

Kingston! Good heavens, I didn’t know the ship was going on to Jamaica.

Yes, I’m to be a companion to Lady Perkins of Roselawn Plantation. From her letter, I suspect she is rather elderly—you haven’t by chance heard of Roselawn, have you? Aurora gave the matron a hopeful look. She had always considered herself as possessing quite a bit of fortitude. But sailing away from the only home she had ever known to a tropical island and having not one point of reference was most definitely unnerving.

St. George’s is quite a distance away from Jamaica, love, but let me think.… Mrs. Lindstrom shook her head. No, I can’t remember a Roselawn, and I must say I pride myself on knowing who is who—but Roselawn and Lady Perkins—no, I simply cannot recall.

I see. Aurora tried to hide her disappointment.

How did you hear of this position? Mrs. Lindstrom gave her a concerned look.

Well—she looked out to the muddy waters of the Thames—it’s really been quite a surprise. Lady Perkins’s letter came only a week ago. It instructed me that if I should like a position, to be here today, ready to sail.

How very brave of you, my dear, to venture so far alone! But I suppose the orphanage treated you wretchedly.

Oh, no! On the contrary! Suddenly Aurora’s eyes misted. The Phipps-Bluefield Home might have been an orphanage, but Mrs. Bluefield had made it a wonderful place. In the years she had grown up there, as far back as she could remember, the kind woman had been her mother, her friend, her teacher. And now she was severing her last and only ties to her. Despite her troubles with John Phipps, it was painful.

There, there, my dear. Mrs. Lindstrom watched her with a troubled expression. She patted her hand and said, They must have been good to you then, for you to miss them so.

Yes, yes. Aurora’s words spilled out before she could stop herself. For some reason she was becoming unbearably homesick.

But now, Miss Dayne, you’ll see the world—well, at least half of it!

Yes. She tried to smile.

And who knows what passion and romance you may find along the way!

Aurora blushed. That was just exactly what she craved, but now that it was before her, she wondered if she was up to the challenge. Perhaps she really was as properly quiet as John had said she was.

I’m afraid to disillusion you, Mrs. Lindstrom, she said. My life has been rather unremarkable, and I fear even a trip to Jamaica may not change that.

When one is young and beautiful as you are, my dear, there’s no telling what adventures may lie ahead.

Aurora laughed in spite of herself. Well, we can always hope, can’t we?

We must! Mrs. Lindstrom laughed in return. Abruptly, the matron released the black whalebone frame of her parasol and without further ado, she said, Come, Miss Dayne. Though Mr. Lindstrom’s been dead almost ten years, I still find I mourn him, but I cannot take the sun in these weeds. So if you’d be so kind, I should like us to find respite in my cabin. I could have my maid make us some chocolate and together we can wait to weigh anchor.

Why—why—that would be lovely, Aurora said, but Mrs. Lindstrom had already left, her pointed black parasol leading the way like the prow of a ship.

Mrs. Lindstrom’s cabin between decks was quite grand. The chests of drawers were made of mahogany and there was the slightest bit of bronze-doré decorating the corners, but still the furniture was made for a ship. The nobs and handles were recessed into the wood so that should one lose one’s balance during the course of the trip there would be no sharp protrusions from the bureaux. A tiny blue Axminster carpet brightened the cabin considerably and with the portholes open, a nice breeze flowed in from the Thames. Mrs. Lindstrom’s maid, upon their arrival, busied herself putting refreshments on the teapoy, which was also designed for a ship, for it sported a small brass railing around its top.

So, Miss Dayne, Mrs. Lindstrom began once their chocolate was served, does your cabin meet your expectations?

Yes, yes, my cabin is lovely. Aurora didn’t mention that even her small, rather plain cabin was still far larger and more elegant than her garret room back at the Home. She took a sip of her chocolate and added, I’m sure the fare is heavenly on this grand vessel. I can hardly believe my new mistress was so generous as to book me on it.

Yes, that’s quite extraordinary, especially since the owner is traveling with us. That makes the fare double. Less room, you know, and also, they take such greater pains.

Do you know the owner? Aurora asked.

Mrs. Lindstrom shook her head. Her silver sausage curls peeking out from the front of her calash bobbed like springs. "No, I only know that he is supremely wealthy—the Seabravery is only one of fifty ships that he owns. He also has an enormous sugar plantation on some island in the Caribbean. St. Kitts, I think or perhaps Nevis."

He seems quite mysterious, Aurora commented while fiddling with the ribbons of her bonnet. She longed to take her bonnet off, but they surely would be sailing soon and she would have to return to the deck.

I must say he is quite mysterious, quite the romantic figure, I hear. You see, my dear, Mrs. Lindstrom leaned forward as if she were about to tell a wicked piece of gossip, "another reason passage on the Seabravery is so dear is because this ship has never been plundered. Not by a pirate or privateer. Apparently there’s something absolutely dastardly about this owner’s reputation that has kept even the worst sort of ruffian from bothering it."

Is that so? Aurora asked in a hushed voice.

Quite. I heard it from my son-in-law, and he knows everything. Absolutely everything. That’s why he got me on this ship. He felt it would be the safest passage.

Are you going home, then? Have you a house in St. George’s? Aurora anxiously fingered her locket. She was glad to change the subject. This trip had always seemed a bit too wonderful to be true, and she didn’t want anything to spoil that impression. For some reason, the talk about the ship’s owner made her vaguely uncomfortable.

Yes! I’ve been gone six months, and though I love my grandchildren considerably, I cannot wait to see my friends. We’ve got quite a little group of ladies in town—oh, I wish you were not going on to Jamaica! Mrs. Ransom has a young daughter just about your age … what are you, my dear? About nineteen?

She hesitated. She always loathed that question. Yes, nineteen, she said too hastily.

That’s superb. Julia Ransom is twenty now. You two would be the best of friends!

Aurora was once more taken aback by Mrs. Lindstrom’s forthrightness. The woman was quite casual in including her within her social circle. It was as if the woman forgot to whom she was speaking. Aurora had rarely had any contact with the upper classes, but every now and again a wealthy uncle or cousin would deposit his undesirable orphaned relatives at the Home. Those guardians of any consequence always made it pointedly clear that she and Mrs. Bluefield were not their equals. But not the remarkable Mrs. Lindstrom.

More chocolate, Miss Dayne? Mrs. Lindstrom waved her hand in the direction of the pot.

Aurora shook her head. Please call me Aurora, won’t you? She gave the widow a quiet little smile. She felt so relieved that she’d met her. The voyage would surely not be so terrifying while Mrs. Lindstrom was aboard.

I know we’re to be great friends. The matron seemed delighted at her offer. She patted her hand. And you must call me Flossie. That was Mr. Lindstrom’s nickname for me.

How dear you must have been to him.

The matron smiled a sad smile of remembrance, but then she promptly brightened. "Now,