“I don’t have to meet her to know what’s going on,” said Lydia, glowering. “At this very moment she’s no doubt sashaying herself across Ireland, throwing herself at Thomas’s head, having herself a marvelous time thinking of the fortune she’s about to get her claws into.” Lydia’s expression grew hard and resentful. “We’ll not have it, will we girls? Irish princess indeed.”
Chapter 9
On the rolling deck of The Countess of Liverpool, Evleen leaned over the bulwark and heaved again. Never in all her life had she been so miserable.
“Are you all right?” Patrick stood beside her, red hair whipping wildly in the northern gale, his little face pinched with concern. Through some miracle, he remained unaffected by the rolling and tossing of the ship, as did Lord Thomas. She was far from being the only pitiful soul hanging over the side, though. Many of the other passengers were suffering the same as she.
The bow dipped into a deep trough formed by the churning waves and abruptly rose again, leaving her stomach behind. “Ah, Patrick,” she moaned, “if the sea should open up and swallow me, I wouldn’t mind.”
Patrick patted her arm. “But you were feeling so fine.”
“That was an hour ago,” she gasped, “in Ringsend, before we sailed.” Another attack of nausea struck her. She bent nearly double over the bulwark, stomach wrenching as she heartily wished she were dead. Up to now, she had, to her surprise, enjoyed the journey immensely. Last night they had stayed at The Raven Inn at Athlone, which she’d found to be much more comfortable than expected. The rooms were clean, and the food! Oh, she shouldn’t think of food at a time like this, but she remembered how she and Patrick could hardly believe their eyes at sight of a table laden with boiled round of beef, roast loin of pork, peas, parsnips, a roast goose, a boiled leg of mutton, plum pudding and more. She had been hard-put to take dainty bites instead of stuffing her mouth. Patrick, though, was unencumbered by concern about good manners and how it would look in front of Lord Thomas. He dug with gusto into all that delicious, unaccustomed food which now, just the thought of it was making her even sicker than she already was. Not long after dinner, while a fiddler played lively Irish tunes, Patrick had fallen asleep at the table and Lord Thomas was obliged to carry him to bed. Thus far, she reflected, Timothy had been mistaken about Lord Thomas. Up to now, he had been most solicitous and kind. And when he said goodnight at the door to her room after putting Patrick to bed, he had been gracious but remote. It was as if that enthralling exchange of glances at the Whispering Arch never happened. And it probably didn’t, she mused darkly. It must have been all her imagination. How could she possibly think a man with as high a rank as Lord Thomas could have any personal interest in a poor Irish girl? Not that it mattered. She shivered in the cold, biting wind and drew her shawl closer about her. A wave of dizziness and nausea swept over her again. Not that anything matters.
Thomas arrived, having obtained a blanket from somewhere. “Here, let me wrap this around you.” He draped it around her shoulders. “Are you sure you don’t want to go below?”
“Mercy, no.” The very thought made her stomach heave again. “It’s so dark and confined and suffocating down there. It’s fresh air I’m wanting.”
Patrick spoke up. “I guess the boat isn’t so enjoyable after all, is it, Evleen?”
“No it is not,” she gasped back, remembering—was it only a few hours ago?—how she had stood on the shore of the port of Ringsend and caught her first glimpse of The Countess of Liverpool rocking gently in the harbor. As she recalled, she remarked how eager she was to set sail across the Irish Sea. At the time, it had seemed like great fun—an exciting adventure. Ha. Little had she known.
“What kind of boat is it?” Patrick asked, equally excited and eager as he looked across the water toward The Countess of Liverpool.
“It’s a mailboat, cutter rigged,” Lord Thomas answered. “One hundred and five tons, a beam of nineteen feet or so, draught of ten feet six inches, mast of sixty-eight feet. Very strongly built.”
“There’s a comfort,” she lightly remarked, impressed by Lord Thomas’s broad knowledge of ships. In fact,