Chapter Nine

They sailed into port at New London, Connecticut, on August 21st exactly as Captain Sinclair had promised her to the day. She hadn’t exchanged many words with him since she’d asked him to abandon the notion of escorting her to New York. The few times they had spoken, she’d hinted at it, but he’d remained unmoved. Unlike the many previous disagreements they’d had, Captain Sinclair didn’t seem angry. His demeanor was melancholy, if she were to guess. Perhaps that’s how a long voyage affected some people. Especially when you’d grown friendly with passengers you might never see again.

Mr. Peter told Louisa and Mairi it would be hours before they could go ashore, so they took their time with their toilette. During the crossing, fresh water had been too precious to waste on bathing. The ladies had had to stand in shallow tubs and sponge themselves from a basin of water. But once they weighed anchor in the calm waters of the Thames River—for like the port city of New London, its river had been named after its English counterpart—Will hauled a hip bath to their cabin and filled it with hot water.

Heaven.

They used their time luxuriating in the bath, applying powders and scents, dressing in their best gowns, pinning their hair into intricate whirls and curls, and finally adorning their heads with their best bonnets. Will knocked on their door and announced that the time had come.

“I’m going to miss you, Will,” Louisa said. “You’ve been very kind to us.”

“Oh, ye willnae miss me yet. I’m to travel with the captain as his personal ay-dee-kam.”

Louisa ran ay-dee-kam through her head a couple of times before retrieving the translation. “Do you mean his aide-de-camp?”

“Aye. That.”

“I see. Well, are you washed and ready to go?”

“Captain checked, but you can check, too, if ye like.” He bent his head and pulled the flaps of his ears forward so Louisa could inspect behind them. The fact that Captain Sinclair had checked tugged at her heart. He would be a good father and a good husband. It’s too bad he had to be a soldier. And it was very unfortunate that he would suffer when her father discovered her lie. Because General Robertson would find out. Maybe not right away, but eventually. She would do anything to change that. She’d even give up her own ambitions if she could change Captain Sinclair’s outcome to something that would make him happy.

She and Mairi followed Will up on deck and joined Reverend Wynterbottom who was shaking hands with Danny Sinkler and Turk. She didn’t see Captain Sinclair anywhere.

Mairi hung over the railing and scanned the dock, which looked and smelled like the Leith Docks in Edinburgh where they’d started their voyage. “Do you think he’s here?” Mairi asked.

“Who?”

“Mr. Kirby, a’ course.” Mairi continued to search. Would she be able to pick him out of a crowd based on the painted miniature alone?

“I doubt he’ll know to meet us.”

“That’s him.” Mairi shook Louisa’s shoulder. “That’s him.” She pointed to a tall gentleman wearing a short top hat, a dark brown cutaway coat and waistcoat, black tied neckcloth, and turned-down boots over tobacco-brown trousers. He removed his hat revealing a mop of loose light brown curls. He lifted his open face to the ship. Mairi leaned out and waved her hand high. “Mr. Kirby!”

The moment Mr. Kirby connected with Mairi, his face lit up with an astonished smile. He waved his hat high above his head. “Miss Robertson!”

Mairi grabbed Louisa’s hand. “He sees me,” she squealed with delight. “He’s here and he’s waiting for me.” She turned to Louisa, tears in her eyes. “I’ve never been so happy in my life. Thank you.”

Louisa embraced Mairi and they both wept, the feelings of the moment too overwhelming for them to sort.

From behind them, Captain Sinclair said, “Are you ready to meet your fiancé, Miss Robertson?”

“Yes,” Mairi said.

Captain Sinclair offered Mairi his hand and escorted her down the gangway. Louisa waited and watched. The dock was too noisy for her to hear their conversation, but it was clear from the look on Mr. Kirby’s face, Mairi had mesmerized him immediately.

Mairi lost her balance for a moment and wobbled. Captain Sinclair had warned them they would be unsteady on their feet once they disembarked, but it would only last a few minutes. Mr. Kirby was delighted to catch Mairi and hold onto her. He cradled her in his arms as if holding a life-sized doll made of china. Had she just watched two people fall in love? And did Mr. Kirby know how very lucky he was to have Mairi and not her for a wife?

Captain Sinclair strode back up the gangway and called to her. “Coming?” He reached out a hand. She was tempted to slip her gloved one in his. She had a fleeting desire to repeat with Captain Sinclair the scene Mr. Kirby and Mairi had just played out. But that was not the drama in which she and Captain Sinclair had been cast. Mr. Kirby and Mairi were cast in a comedy. Louisa and Captain Sinclair’s play was a tragedy.

…

She didn’t want him to come along. Too bad. That wasn’t her decision. Ian was in charge, and he didn’t bloody care what Miss MacQuarie wanted. She might be done with him, but he wasn’t done with her. Not by a long chalk.

He offered her a hand thinking she might appreciate some help to shore. But no. The bothersome hen shooed him away. She shooed him away. Well then, fine. She could steady her own goddamn self down the gangway.

It always took Ian a moment to find his land legs. However, he neglected to keep in mind that Miss MacQuarie was not at all prepared for solid ground. As soon as they stepped off the planking, he heard Miss MacQuarie utter a very unladylike curse word.

When he turned to find her crumpled on the ground, he uttered the same curse word only louder. “Oh, Christ, lass. I’m sorry.” He scooped her up, set her back on her feet, and held her there while she tottered from side to side.

“Bloody hell. The land stays still, but I cannae stop moving.” She clutched his bad arm for support.

“Ow.” He peeled her gloved hand off his arm one finger at a time. “Dinnae panic. It’ll go away in a second.”

She swatted him with her purse thing. “I’m no’ panicking and stop manhandling me.”

He released her and she immediately teetered backward. Ian caught her with his good arm and righted her again. He growled in her ear, “Stop fighting me.”

He felt her body sag against his.

“Sorry,” she sobbed.

He stared down his nose at her. She was obviously out of sorts. He didn’t know why but he deeply regretted being so impatient. “I’m sorry, too.” He waited for a moment, then said, “Can you stand on your own now?”

She stepped away from him, sniffed and took a brave breath. “Yes. I think so.”

“Good. Let’s go find Mr. Kirby and Miss Robertson. They said they’d wait by the dray with the baggage.”

He forged a path through the crowd of people standing on the dock and did his best to shield Miss MacQuarie from being jostled about. When at last they reached the dray, he got that uncomfortable itch. Something wasn’t right. Shite. Where the hell was Will? He shouted his name.

“I’m here, Captain.” Will waved to him from the back of the dray. The lad had made a sort of nest for himself among the trunks and baggage.

“Good lad. Stay with the luggage. See that it gets to the house safely.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Here.” He handed Will a few American coppers. “In case you need ’em.”

“Do ye ken we’ll be attacked by Indians, sir?” Will asked gravely.

Ian kept a straight face. “Perhaps. But I trust you’ll handle them brawly.”

Will puffed out his narrow chest. “Aye-aye, Captain.” The driver snapped the reins and the dray pulled away. Ian waved farewell.

Miss MacQuarie said, “Why ever did you let Will think there would be Indians?”

He smiled down at her and shrugged. She might grasp the fundamentals of navigation, read Shakespeare, and speak Spanish, but wearing trousers didn’t make you think like a man. She’d never understand Will’s need to be one today.

Oblivious to the rest of the world, Mr. Kirby and Miss Robertson stood gazing into each other’s eyes wearing soppy grins that made them appear to Ian like twin dafties. He shook his head in disgust and asked Miss MacQuarie, “Do you want to interrupt them, or should I?”

She made a gracious sweep of her hand. “You may do the honors, Captain.”

Ian stepped forward and cleared his throat. Twice. No response. He called to Mr. Kirby, a shout that startled other people milling about, but had no effect on the smitten kittens. He asked Miss MacQuarie, “Do you want to take a crack at it?”

She slipped her arm through Miss Robertson’s and said, “Darling, is this your Mr. Kirby? You must introduce us.”

At last the lovebirds awoke from their stupor. Miss Robertson made introductions, and Mr. Kirby stammered through what must have been a welcoming speech he’d rehearsed.

“How did you know we’d arrive today?” Miss MacQuarie asked.

Ian knew the answer before Kirby owned it.

“I didn’t, actually.” The man dipped his head. “I’ve come to the docks every day for the last week…hoping.”

He knew in his head he should be happy for the man. Kirby had applied for a wife, and a wife had been delivered to him. A bonnie wife and from the looks of her, a willing wife. Yet a part of him resented the man’s good fortune. What had Kirby done to deserve Miss Robertson? Then he remembered: they called her the General’s Daughter from Hell. Miss Robertson had been nothing but biddable during the crossing. Had she reformed, or was she saving her worst for after the wedding? Perhaps he should feel sorry for poor Mr. Kirby.

Reverend Wynterbottom joined them. Ian had completely forgotten about the man.

After introductions, Mr. Kirby said, “My carriage is right this way if you’ll all follow me.” Kirby offered Miss Robertson his arm. The loon was going to walk into a wall if he didn’t tear his eyes away from Miss Robertson and look where he was going.

Ian offered Miss MacQuarie his arm, but not because he needed to attach himself to her like a lovesick puppy. He did it for purely practical reasons. The streets were crowded and rutted and it would be just his luck she would turn an ankle.

“Does your arm pain you?” she asked.

“Only when a certain someone sticks her thumb in my wound.”

She snorted. The bloody wee bizzum snorted.

“You find that amusing?”

“Me? No.” Was she feigning innocence? Was she acting again?

“It’s a serious matter, ye ken. It could have been worse. As it was, I nearly died.” How did she manage to get at his spleen?

“I know and I am sorry. You’re in a delicate state, and I promise to handle you gently from now on.”

He clamped his mouth shut and bit back a curse. When he had his temper under control he growled, “Miss MacQuarie, when I get you alone I’m going to—” Something occurred to him, a sudden thought which blossomed into a full realization. He smiled his bitter satisfaction. “I see what you’re doing.”

“What? What am I doing?”

“You’re trying to make me so angry, I’ll return to the ship.”

She gasped and sputtered those female sounds, the ones that meant she thought he was being ridiculous, but it was all an act.

“I’m not trying to—that’s utter nonsense. I dinnae ken where you get such notions.”

They didn’t speak again until they reached the carriage, a smart-looking coach and four. Mr. Kirby must be doing well for himself. Ian held the reverend’s stick for him and gave the older clergyman a boost up into the carriage.

While Kirby helped Miss Robertson inside, Miss MacQuarie turned to him and announced in full voice, “Well, this is goodbye then, Captain Sinclair. You’ve executed your duty splendidly. Miss Robertson and I are safely delivered into the capable hands of Mr. Kirby.” She was acting up a storm. He knew it. She knew it. He suspected Miss Robertson knew it, too. “I thank you for your service and do wish you a good voyage home.” Mr. Kirby was, however, unfamiliar with Miss MacQuarie’s talents.

“Captain Sinclair, I insist you join us. There’s plenty of room in my house. You’ll be an honored guest at our nuptials. We can be wed within a fortnight.” He turned to the Daughter from Hell. “That is, if you desire it so, Miss Robertson.”

Miss Robertson gave him a pretty blush. “I do, Mr. Kirby.” Could women make themselves blush whenever they wanted to? He knew he couldn’t control his own color. Perhaps that was a skill taught only to women.

“Captain Sinclair has very important business awaiting him in Boston,” Miss MacQuarie insisted.

“Thank you, Mr. Kirby. I accept your gracious offer as it is my fervent wish to see you wed so that I may report the details to Miss Robertson’s father.”

He experienced a euphoric rush when his pistol-wielding, trouser-wearing actress slumped her shoulders in defeat.