The Sister Wife (6 page)

“Sometimes when I speak to her, she seems lost in another world. It's as if she doesn't want to listen to what I have to say, no matter its import. Enid looks up to you…you're like a brother to her. She'll listen to you.”

“With all due respect, maybe you need to listen instead of speak, sir, let her pour out her heart to you.”

The captain was silent for a moment, sighed deeply, then said, “I've tried to do that, but it's the one subject she keeps hidden.” He smiled, suddenly, and lifted his glass. “Besides, you have no choice in the matter.”

“Because it's a direct order, sir?”

The captain laughed. “Nothing like that. In my wife's letter, I wrote that you have something to ask and will meet her outside St. Paul's on the afternoon we drop anchor in Halifax.”

“How did you know I would agree?”

The ship rose on a swell then dipped down violently. Both men instinctively grabbed their goblets. The lamp above them swung, dimmed, then brightened again.

“I've always known that you would do anything for your childhood friend, even this.” He lifted his goblet. “To my sweet Enid and to the two men who love her.”

W
hen Mary Rose woke the next morning she was surprised to find the children gone. Their bedclothes were neatly pulled tight, small pillows on top and covered with brightly quilted counterpanes she hadn't seen before. Bronwyn had probably sewn them the same day she made the twins' knickers and brightly colored pinafore tops. It seemed there was nothing beyond this woman's capabilities. Surprisingly, the only stab of jealousy Mary Rose felt was one of wishful thinking: She wondered how it would be to think of others with such consideration.

She spotted a note on the stand near her water pitcher. Steadying herself against the movement of the ship, she made her way to it and unfolded the paper.

As Mary Rose slipped into her lacy dressing gown, she wondered why she was surprised at Bronwyn's obvious intelligence, literacy, and elegant penmanship. Just because she wasn't from the British aristocracy didn't mean she couldn't read or write or know details about poetry, such as the poem by Blake that Mary Rose had never learned.

A light tap at the door broke into her thoughts. She crossed the small room and drew it open. Mr. Quigley inclined his head slightly. “Lady Ashley, I have two seamen with me who will prepare your bath.”

Mary Rose stepped aside, and let them enter. “Thank you.” Never before had anyone brought a bathtub to her, but here it was, claw feet and all. The men set it in the corner of the square room, nodded to the steward, left for a few minutes, then returned with buckets of steaming water and a stack of Turkish towels.

“Will that be all, m'lady?” Mr. Quigley said when they had finished pouring the water into the tub. He wore a rather odd expression, she thought, as she indicated that it was a lovely bath and that she was grateful.

Then she said, “I would so appreciate a cup of tea, if you wouldn't mind. Cream and sugar with it also.”

He bowed. “Yes, m'lady…before your bath?”

“Yes, please.”

As he walked away she thought she heard him muttering about a scarcity of water aboard, but his back was to her and she couldn't be sure. Scarcity or not, a woman needed her bath. She might be willing to give up the manor house, cut back on the expenses needed for her wardrobe, but one thing she was unwilling to sacrifice was a bubbly soak after a dusty two-day carriage ride with squirming hot little bodies that smelled like wet puppy dogs.

She relished her soak in the fragrant water, congratulating herself that she'd remembered to bring a box of French-milled soap that smelled of lilies. She closed her eyes in pure pleasure and let her hair slip beneath the water, working it into a mass of suds then letting it fan out. Maybe life aboard ship wouldn't be so difficult after all.

It was with great reluctance she stepped out of the tub, wrapped herself with one Turkish towel, and dried her hair with another. She'd just finished pulling on her morning dress when another soft knock sounded at the door. Before she could open it, however, the twins raced in, all smiles, until they saw the bathtub. They were carrying a small wooden bucket between them.

“I don't need a bath,” Pearl said, her eyes wide with vexation. “I had one last week.”

Ruby let go of her side of the bucket and tried to hide behind Bronwyn. Mary Rose could see the merriment in Bronwyn's eyes as a strange odor filled the room, obliterating the fragrance of lilies. Fish. The children smelled like fish. And their playclothes were damp and smeared with something resembling spoiled spinach. Seaweed? Fish entrails? They looked more like ragamuffins than children related to the Earl of Salisbury.

Bronwyn laughed, acting as if they looked exactly as children should look. “Show Lady Ashley your treasure, lambs,” she said.

Ruby reluctantly came out from hiding and took hold of her side of the bucket again. Together, they struggled to get it closer
to the light that poured through the square trap in the ceiling. They set the bucket down and then sat on the wood plank floor to examine their treasure.

“Mithter Thorne thaid we could bring thith to show you,” Ruby said, her eyes big. “We were on the poop deck when thome men were fithing for the people on our boat.” She bent over her bucket and pulled out an orange creature the size of both Mary Rose's fists. It appeared to be a very large bug with feelers that waved in the air.

Mary Rose put her hand to her throat and took a step backward. “What is it?”

“It's a baby lobster,” Pearl said, her voice filled with awe. “The fishermen said it's too little to keep so we have to throw it back in the water. We wanted to show it to you first.” She took it from her sister's hand and held it out for Mary Rose to hold.

“And Mithter Thorpe thaid itth a miracle. Lobtherth live on the bottom, but we think thith one ran away from itth mommy.”

“Or maybe its mommy didn't want it anymore,” Pearl said, “so it just swam to the top of the ocean looking for another family.”

The sting of tears at the back of Mary Rose's throat began even before she considered the smell, her still sore hands, or the eyes on the wiggling creature that seemed to be staring at her. Pearl's words still echoed in her heart as she took in their expectant faces.

Big orange bug or not, she wouldn't disappoint them. She knelt down between them and held her breath as she opened her hands.

“But Lady,” Ruby whispered, “you have a hurt on your hand.”

Pearl bent lower to see for herself. “Two big hurts,” she said.

“It might make it hurt worth if you hold Othcar,” Ruby said, her eyes large and fixed on Mary Rose's face.

“I'm quite certain this little lobster won't hurt my hands,” Mary Rose said, swallowing hard. She met Bronwyn's gaze above the girls' head. Even in the dim light, her eyes appeared watery. Mary
Rose wondered if it was the shared experience, each seeming to know what the other thought, that made them exchange soft smiles.

She cupped her hands as Ruby carefully placed the baby lobster in her palms. She lifted the creature toward her face. “Hello, Oscar the Lobster,” Mary Rose said in her best lobster voice.

Her words were met by gales of laughter, Bronwyn's giggle almost as loud as the twins'.

“Othcar the Lobthter,” Ruby sang out and danced around the room. Her twin joined, and after Mary Rose gave the crustacean to Pearl, she gently danced poor Oscar along in both hands.

Mary Rose sat back, considering the scene. A half hour earlier, the sweet bouquet of lilies seemed to her the most precious in the world. Now? She took in the children's laughter, thought about Oscar running away from a mommy who didn't want him, and decided fishy lobster had just replaced lilies as the most beautiful aroma on earth.

 

The women and children proceeded through the cabin door single file, Ruby now holding Oscar and Pearl holding the bucket. They planned to switch turns as soon as they reached the deck because they had disagreed vehemently on who got to hold Oscar until he went for a swim to find his mommy—“who most certainly was swimming as fast as she could to keep up with the
Sea Hawk
,” both Bronwyn and Mary Rose had repeatedly assured them. But when it came time to throw the little lobster overboard, Ruby started to cry. “But I love Othcar,” she sobbed, clutching him gently to her heart.

“Me too,” Pearl bawled inconsolably. She put her arm around her sister, though seeming more protective of Oscar than of Ruby.

Mary Rose looked to Bronwyn to see what magic nanny-spell she could cast on this event to get their smiles to return. But
Bronwyn looked as stricken about throwing the lobster overboard as the twins did.

Mary Rose pictured the bathtub that remained in their cabin and giggled, surprising herself as much as she obviously surprised the others.

The twins stopped their crying and gaped.

“I can think of no reason we can't keep Oscar.”

“Keep Othcar?” Ruby whispered in awe. “Won't he die?”

“Not if we arrange for him to have a little water to live and play in.”

Their eyes grew wide, and behind them, Bronwyn grinned at Mary Rose. “I suppose you'll be wanting Mr. Oscar the Lobster to live in our bathtub, then?”

The twins bounced up and down. “Can he, Lady? Can he?”

“The thought did cross my mind,” she said, though her voice was nearly drowned out by the girls' shouts. “And I do say 'tis a grand idea for so grand a baby lobster, especially one named Oscar.”

With great solemnity of purpose, the group marched along single file once more, across the deck and to their cabin.

“I daresay, m'lady, we need to get Mr. Thorpe to open the hatch entirely, not just a mere few inches,” Bronwyn said as they traipsed into the cabin.

“Methinks this fragrance that greets us is not that much different than skunk spray,” Mary Rose said.

“Or a barnyard full of cows with noisy dyspepsia,” Bronwyn added, lacing her fingers together to rest her hands atop her abdomen.

“Or Brother Brigham's beaver-oil curative,” Mary Rose added. “Tonight's our supper with the captain. Should I lather on the curative and give Oscar a good-night kiss when I give Ruby and Pearl theirs? I shall truly impress, and even perhaps make the captain and his guests swoon.” She stood up, sniffed, and stuck
her nose in the air. She lifted one hand dramatically. “‘So good to meet you, Captain Livingstone,' I shall say. ‘Would you care to kiss my hand?'”

Ruby's gaze darted back and forth between her sister and Mary Rose. Pearl's mouth fell open as Bronwyn jumped up to play the role of captain. She took Mary Rose's hand and with equal drama pretended to kiss it. Then she drew in a deep, audible breath. “'Tis eau de lobster, I believe, m'lady. Or is that the rare and beautiful eau de beaver oil, which I recognize from my fur trapping adventures in the Old West?”

“'Tis the latter, I am happy to declare,” Mary Rose said, casting a mock glance at Bronwyn, who'd now stepped into the role of Brigham. “A healing ointment given to me by my dear Mormon brother, its fragrance sweeter than that of any other animal in God's kingdom.”

“Sweeter than buffalo carrion, to be certain,” Bronwyn said, raising an eyebrow.

“'Tis sweeter indeed,” agreed Mary Rose, “than even owl
vomitare
.”

“Vomitare?”

Mary Rose grinned. “Latin for ‘vomit.'”

“Ah,” Bronwyn said, frowning as if in deep concentration. She clasped her hands behind her and paced, head bowed, just as Mary Rose had seen Brigham do a dozen times. Her brow still furrowed, she then looked up and said in perfect imitation of his American drawl, “Ahh, yes, I have it. A word from the Lord…” She slapped a hand to her forehead. “I will use owl
vomitare
as the base for my next healing ointment…” Bronwyn started to giggle, no longer able to keep a straight face.

Mary Rose fell into a chair and doubled over as their laughter rang through the room. The sound was contagious and the twins joined in, though it was apparent they didn't know why Mary Rose and Bronwyn were carrying on so.

After a moment Bronwyn sobered. “Oh, dear,” she whispered, sliding into a chair near Mary Rose. “What I've just said…do you think it blasphemy?” She looked stricken. “Please tell me I haven't committed some unpardonable sin by having a critical spirit toward God's great apostle.”

Mary Rose reached for her hand and held it gently. “If you did, then I did also. But we meant no harm. I cannot believe our antics could be counted against us.”

“There are rules, you know, m'lady.” Bronwyn withdrew her hand. “Certain things we will need to learn as we travel. Brother Brigham has said that when the Prophet receives a word from God about anything, 'tis our God-given duty to obey without question. What if he's received a word from God that we aren't to poke fun at his apostles?” Her eyes were round with vexation.

At her words, tears filled Mary Rose's eyes, but they had nothing to do with fears of blasphemy. And everything to do with the fine line between mirth and sadness.

Bronwyn studied Mary Rose, her concern even more pronounced. “M'lady, what is it? Have I distressed you by speaking of worrisome things? I was speaking of my own sins, none others.” She rose from her chair and knelt before Mary Rose, this time taking Mary Rose's hands in hers.

Mary Rose shook her head. “'Tis nothing you have said, but I wish you would stop calling me m'lady and simply be my friend.”

Bronwyn studied her face for several moments, and then said, “'Twould not be proper, m'lady. Not as long as I am in your employ. But when we reach America, then perhaps we can be friends.” She held on to Mary Rose's hands. “But that is not what troubles you, is it, m'lady? I sense there is more, perhaps much more.”

Mary Rose studied the sweet uplifted face before her, sensing she could trust Bronwyn with anything she might tell her. Bronwyn's faith was strong, her view of the future full of hope and joyful expectation. Mary Rose didn't want to create the slightest
doubt in Bronwyn's heart by voicing her own doubts about the future; her fears that Grandfather had made a terrible error in judgment in converting to a new religion that didn't seem to allow for independent thinking; her growing certainty that as soon as they reached Boston, presented their little charges to Hermione, she and her grandfather should book passage on the
Sea Hawk
's return voyage to Liverpool.