Stars in Her Eyes

1

April 10, 1897

No more black, I tell you, and that’s that!

Emily Middleton Larchmont directed her angry declaration toward her stubborn-jawed secretary/traveling companion, Hattie Heatherbee. Then Emily snatched off her heavily veiled black hat and sent it flying across her luxurious stateroom on board the Union Star.

Rather than shrinking from the younger woman’s rage, Heatherbee puffed up to her full, if less than intimidating, height and said sternly, "In that case, you will not attend the captain’s dinner, because you have nothing else to wear."

Wrong! Emily declared, grinning impishly. You forget the box from Paris.

You wouldn’t dare! Heatherbee gasped and clutched her flat bosom. Why, that gown would be scandalous under any circumstances, but for a widow—

I assure you, Heatherbee, my dear departed husband would approve. He bought the gown for me, didn’t he? Furthermore, I intend to wear the Cretan necklace, too.

Heatherbee’s normally pale face went ashen. You’re only doing this because of that forward young man, Mr. Webb. I knew it was a mistake to leave the two of you alone every afternoon. As for this latest outrage, I simply won’t allow it.

Emily shrugged. I don’t need your permission.

Then I refuse to go to the captain’s gala, Heatherbee threatened. "I won’t be seen with you in that—that scrap of fabric."

Suit yourself. Emily reached for the silver box from Paris that had been on top of her armoire ever since their departure from Liverpool.

Seeing Emily start to undress, Heatherbee knew the battle was lost. Her shrill voice sounded less forceful when she asked, What sort of excuse will you give Captain Sidney for my absence?

I’ll think of something, never fear. Now, will you please help me with these accursed buttons?

No! I won’t be a party to this. Heatherbee stamped her foot in a final show of defiance. Miss Emily, I have put up with your scandalous escapades for five years. I held my tongue about your marriage even though I disapproved. I let you drag me all over foreign lands with unspeakably horrid food, dirty quarters, terrible climates, and people who couldn’t utter a word of the King’s English. When I took this position years ago, your uncle advised me that you were difficult—actually, he said ‘special,’ but I translate as I see fit. The senator further warned me that I shouldn’t attempt to constrain you in any way. But I think he’d change his mind if he saw you parading to dinner in that revealing gown, with your husband not yet cold in the ground. No! Dismiss me if you wish, but I cannot, in good conscience, undo your buttons!

Without another word, Heatherbee marched out of the door and slammed it behind her so hard that the crystal wall sconces tinkled.

Oh, dear, Emily said with a sigh. She shouldn’t have riled Heatherbee. Now she’d be seasick for the rest of the trip. Poor woman! Emily had put her through a lot. Maybe it was wrong to cast off her widow’s weeds so soon. She paused for a moment in thought, then smiled. I suppose Heatherbee’s right. I do want to wear the gown for that nice Mr. Webb, but for myself as well. I’m blasted tired of looking like a crow! Still, Heatherbee has a point.

Emily paced the length of her cabin, then back again, doing mental battle with herself. Should she hold with tradition or damn the idle tongues of busy-bodies and do as she pleased? She stopped her pacing and gave a quick nod of her head. For her entire life, she had done exactly what she wanted, so why should she change now?

Her mind made up, she tugged at the pins holding her blue-black hair in its tight, matron’s chignon. Her long tresses sprang to life, the curls bounding over her shoulders and down her back as if in sheer joy at being given their freedom at last. She shook her head, smiled even more brightly, and uttered a deep sigh of pleasure.

In a fit of impatience, she yanked at the mourning necklace of polished jet that had been her only adornment for nearly a year. The strand broke, sending beads cascading into the tucks and folds of her black bombazine gown.

Oh, bother! she muttered, tearing the stubborn fastenings of the colorless costume in her hurry to be free.

Moments later, dressed only in her undergarments, she surveyed the ruined black gown and scattered jet beads. She hadn’t a moment’s regret, but she did wonder what had come over her. She’d been feeling out of sorts for weeks now. Today, her temper had turned unaccountably short-fused. Just look how she’d upset poor Heatherbee.

Emily stooped to pick up some of the beads, then immediately tossed them away. Whatever was happening to her? She had the oddest feeling that she was on the brink of some great adventure. Then, too, she felt so restless these days, and she had such a longing for something.

Something, she murmured. But what? What is it I want?

She glanced toward the porthole and shielded her eyes against a strange glare coming through the glass. Perhaps her odd mood had something to do with that green light she’d seen flashing every night since their departure from Liverpool. The beam both fascinated and unnerved her. Whatever it was, it seemed to be aimed directly at her cabin. She felt almost as if someone were watching her.

Ridiculous, she muttered. How could there be peeping Toms in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean? She paused thoughtfully, recalling the article she’d read in the London Times that had reported strange flying objects sighted in the sky over the United States in past months. Wouldn’t that be a wonder? she mused. Perhaps my window-peeker is from another world.

Hands on shapely hips, Emily marched straight to the small, round porthole and opened it. She scanned the heavens, searching for the light, but it was gone. With defiant invitation in her voice and a flash of her gold-starred green eyes, she said, "Well, whoever you are, I hope you get a good look at the real me. I am not wearing widow’s weeds tonight!"

Feeling a bit foolish for carrying on a one-way conversation with the night sky, Emily slammed the porthole shut, then turned away. She stripped off her plain muslin underthings, replacing them with dainty, lace-edged satins. Next, she opened the silver box and carefully unwrapped the gown she meant to wear. Heatherbee had been quite correct; this confection of taffeta and ribbons did verge on being scandalous. It was perfect for the captain’s dinner.

Emily smiled, then gave a low, throaty chuckle. I’m sure this will please Jonathan Webb, she said, and pleasing him will certainly delight me.

Humming to herself, she quickly dressed.

Someone had indeed been watching Emily…with more than casual interest. What had seemed a routine mission weeks ago, had now become a near-obsession to a fearless voyager from another galaxy.

High above the placid Atlantic, the Starwanderer had focused his greenish scanning beam on Emily. Adjusting the glowing console dials to a new setting, he made the light pass through his own shapeless form before aiming down to Earth so that he could experience all impulses firsthand. The beam became an extension of his nerves and eyes so that he could feel as well as see.

Immediately after making this adjustment, he experienced unexpected sparks of emotional static as he gazed at the woman far below. Until now, she had always hidden her beauty in cold, emotionless black. Would she wear another color, after all? His sexual-excitement quotient rose markedly at the thought, and his every nerve ending throbbed.

At present, Emily—still in black—was with the birdlike creature who usually accompanied her. They were in Emily’s quarters, arguing heatedly.

Such emotion! Such passion! the Starwanderer mused, awestruck.

Where he came from, beings spoke at all times in calm, flat tones. Anger had been eliminated so long ago that it was an almost forgotten concept except among the Ancient Ones, who claimed that the dangerous emotion caused misunderstandings, wars, and needless waste.

Could the Ancients be in error? he wondered aloud, not for the first time.

He had always thought it sad that when anger and hatred had been banished from his planet, love, joy, excitement, and passion had been neutralized as well, leaving his race with sterile feelings and flat emotions.

Fascinated by the fire in this woman, the Starwanderer watched Emily snatch away the dark veil covering her face and hurl it across the room. When she turned back, she stared directly into his sensor beam. He felt a sharp jolt, as if his ship had struck a meteorite. An instant later, a powerful tremor shook his consciousness when he found himself looking directly into her brilliant, snapping eyes. Gazing into them was like downing a potent, blazing Uruzian Moonshot in one gulp. He felt his equilibrium shift markedly. But like the afterglow left by a stiff Moonshot, her gaze left the Starwanderer feeling euphoric and pleasantly giddy, as if she had just pressed several of his pleasure points simultaneously.

A moment later, the birdlady left. At last, he was alone with Emily!

She moved slightly away from his scanner while unfastening the tight bodice of her high-necked gown. When she turned back, he experienced a powerful jolt. Stark black had given way to bare, living flesh. His beam sensed that her skin was as soft as the texture of silkworm-cloth. Her body was the pearl-pale hue of a winter