Hope Reborn (3 page)

“Yes, please. I need another forty thousand words. Have any idea where I might pick some up?”

“May I suggest the same place you obtained all the others?”

“Oh Chester, Chester, Chester. I was afraid you might say something completely and dreadfully useless like that. Why can’t you ever tell me what I want to hear?”

He grinned, bowed, then backed out like a real butler, and like she was a real lady.

“Where’s your room?”

He stopped at her door. “Directly across the hall. Supper’s at eight, ma’am. A warning bell will sound.” He bowed his head. “You should be able to cut that forty by a third before reclining for the night.”

She curled her lip. “Work, work, work. You’re such a slave driver.”

He smiled again and closed her door.

No way could she write that fast, much less think of that much for her arrogant, mindless heroes and her whiny coy heroines to do or say. That’s it.

She’d have them marry, say I do, and be done with the lot of them. Too bad the contract she’d signed clearly spelled out one hundred thousand hard-won words.

Why, oh why, had she accepted the advance?

She slipped out of her skirt and bustle then plopped into the chair. It didn’t even swivel, and the seat cushion wasn’t soft enough, and…now who was being whiny? She smiled.

After all, weren’t all the well-rounded characters she created at least a tad like her? She hefted her hiney to the back of the seat cushion and straightened the blank pages.

No time for complaining and whining.

She stared at the last page she’d worked on, reread it, and picked up the pen. She carefully opened the ink well then tickled her chin with the feather. The tickle never failed.

An idea emerged, and she dipped the quill in the offending black liquid. Soon flowing phrases filled the page. Like soldiers marching to a sure death, the letters formed their lines and hurried to their boring demise.

Doing what paid so well, she started mussing the next pristine white paper page.

Two wrong turns and five hundred decent words later, the supper bell rang and set her loose from the chains of her imagined dungeon. Shortly, Chester followed her down to the grand dining hall.

He located then held her chair out. Once seated, he scooted her closer to the table then backed away.

She nodded at the woman to her right. “Good evening, ma’am.” Then bent her wrist and extended her hand to the gentleman on her left. “Hello, May Meriwether, sir. Good evening.”

He took her fingers ever so gently. “The same May Meriwether who killed her husband last year?”

                           
 
Chapter

May wanted to say yes, and ask the idiot if he might be interested in being husband number eight, but instead, smiled her best parlor room grin. “Me?” She shook her head and laughed.

“No, not me. And I’ve never heard a murdering May Meriwether was on the loose. Now, I readily admit that I have killed off a few husbands alright, but only on the printed page.”

For too long, the man stared before recognition came. “Oh, so you’re a writer.”

Ding, ding, ding. “Yes, precisely though, I prefer novelist. I pen romantic tales of intrigue and love in faraway places; at least those who appreciate fine literature tell me such.”

The lady across the table leaned forward. “Oh, how exciting, I know you.” She leaned forward and glanced past her to the gentleman. “She’s a wonderful, famous author.”

The gentleman who still remained unknown, as he’d not taken the springboard she’d so graciously provided, only nodded, and the woman looked back to her. “I love your books, Mis’ess Meriwether.”

“It’s ‘miss,’ but please, won’t you call me May?” She smiled. “And thank you.”

For appearance sake, she chatted with her shipmates through four courses followed by a delicious tapioca custard. Then, as soon as the first lady excused herself, May became the second.

Chester was nowhere. Well, he was somewhere, but searching the dining hall on her way out, she never spotted him. She strolled toward the stairs. Ah, a most pleasant sound called her name.

Shuffling pasteboards stopped her short. Right there, in a good sized smoke-filled room, fifteen to twenty men sat around three felt-covered tables. She stepped closer and listened.

Should she?

“Millicent May Meriwether.”

She spun, glaring. Chester stood just out of swing reach; she leaned in. “Do not call me that. Aloud? And in a public place? What’s gotten into you? That’s twice in the same week.”

“It’s your name. Remember? I was there when you were born.”

“Give me some money.”

He nodded toward the room then pulled out a handful of gold coins, but didn’t pass them to her. “When these are gone, you’re done. Agreed?”

She hated his insinuation that she’d be a loser. An excellent judge of character, she considered herself far above average at the game of poker.

“Fine, but you ought to have more confidence in me. Agreed.” She opened and held out her palm.

He dropped the coins. “Don’t forget those forty thousand moneymakers you need to produce.”

“How could I with the likes of you around?”

Shaking his head as he went, he climbed the stairs.

She strolled in, and all heads turned. The hum of conversation went silent. She beamed her best, innocent, what-are-you-naughty-boys-doing smile. “Evening, gentleman. Might there be a seat for a lady at one of your tables?”

The night proved too short, but profitable. The next morning at breakfast, she returned the original coins to Chester with a straight face. “Here, oh ye of little faith.”

“A heathen shouldn’t quote the good book.”

She curled her upper lip. “I’ll have you know that I am not a heathen, I’m agnostic.”

“Seems to me such a fine, intelligent lady would have reconciled with her Creator in forty-one-years’ time.”

“Hush your nasty mouth. Really, what has gotten into you calling me by my first name, and now shouting my age for anyone to hear?” She straightened her back in the chair. “Besides, I don’t look a day over thirty-three.”

“Like I said before, I attended your birth, ma’am. I know all your secrets.”

She resisted the urge to snarl. “If you truly were, you were only five, how much could you remember?” He had supposedly attended her birth—at least that’s what her mother claimed, but could anyone know someone else’s heart of hearts? She held out her coffee cup. He filled it. “Would you be so kind as to inquire when the card room opens this evening?”

“Yes, ma’am. And I will say my age is precisely why I do remember that day. Quite traumatic.” He grinned. “Anything else?”

“Well, yes. Can you please see if you can get me a better dinner seat?”

“Of course. Anything else.”

“No, I suppose not, except to get out. Maybe I can knock out a few hundred words.”

“Yes, ma’am, but a few thousand would be better.”

She waved him off. “Go away. The Egyptians treated the Hebrews better than you treat me.”

He did, and she went to work. Halfway through wringing her boring fifth page from her overworked imagination, a knock pulled her from the south of France. She scooted her chair back.

Had he lost his key? She hated interruptions when on a roll. “Chester?”

Another knock reverberated. That one a bit louder. “Miss Meriwether?”

It sounded nothing like him. She walked to the door. “Yes, who is it?”

“The purser, ma’am. May I have a word?”

“Yes, of course.” She smoothed and straightened her dress then fluffed her tendrils a bit before opening it. “Good evening, sir. What do you need?”

He nodded once. “Good evening, ma’am. The Captain would enjoy the pleasure of your company tonight at his table.”

“Interesting.” Chester had outdone himself. “What is this costing me?”

The man stiffened. “Captain Orr doesn’t sell seats, ma’am.”

“Really? Even more interesting. Of course, I’ll be pleased to join him.” She closed the door, then went straight to her closet and examined the meager dress choices Chester had packed for her. She hated dinner dates.

Why had the man invited her? What if he’d read her books? She geared her stories to female audiences and never understood why a man would want to read them anyway.

Several had gotten downright gushy over her thinking that her heroines characterized herself. The cads. Of course she put a bit of herself into each one, but how ridiculous for them to expect….

She tried to produce a mental image of the man, but couldn’t. Now she did like men in uniform, but a sailor? How could one ever maintain a relationship with someone who was always gone?

Men, she hated the hairy brutes. Why had this one invited her to dine with him? What exactly were his intentions?

Maybe she’d won some lottery. Could be that he pulled her name from a hat. Or perhaps, he invited everyone aboard sooner or later?

The sitting room’s door opened, then Chester-sized footfalls preceded a knock on her bedroom door. “Ma’am.”

“What? I’m busy.”

“It’s almost eight. Do you require any assistance?”

She rejected the notion of changing again, resisted the urge to put on more perfume, then opened the door.

His lips thinned into what was almost a smile. He nodded. “Well done, ma’am. I knew that sapphire blue was a good choice. You appear more than ready—and very beautiful I might add. Shall we go?”

“The purser said this invite didn’t cost me anything, is that true?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

At the dining room, the purser rushed toward her the minute she appeared in the doorway. “Good evening, ma’am. Kindly follow me.”

Flanked front and rear, she proceeded through the huge room to a fancy schmancy, half-full table. The embossed linen cloth hung to the floor and literally glittered with all the china, crystal, and silver. An elegant, but simple, candelabra in the center held several flickering candles.

Quite impressive, indeed.

All the men at the table rose. She smiled demurely as she’d seen Queen Victoria do in newspaper photographs. The purser led her around to his boss’ right.

Captain Orr extended his hand. “Miss Meriwether, welcome. So glad you could join me this evening.”

She lightly took his fingertips. “My pleasure, sir. Gentlemen.” She nodded acknowledgement while the purser pulled her chair out. She sat, and he pushed her back up to the table before she nodded toward each woman. “Good evening, ladies.”

The handsome man sitting at the head of the table exchanged small pleasantries with her and the others at his table, but offered no clue as to why he’d singled her out, then had her seated on his right.

A bit older than expected, if she had to guess, she’d put him in his early sixties. Hard to tell with his full beard though. Not a lot of gray, but enough to add interest.

The guest across from her smiled. “My wife loves your books.”

She gave him her why-are-you-talking-to-me smile. “Thank you. Always good to know I have satisfied readers out there.”

He nodded, apparently flustered she didn’t take his cue and launch into some brilliant and entertaining dissertation on her great works of fiction. He turned to the captain.

“Are we still making good time? For the life of me, I can’t figure out how you know how fast we’re going.”

The seaman expounded upon a rather interesting explanation of determining speed on the open waters. What was a sexton? Maybe Chester knew. The Captain concluded with the fact they were making sixteen knots an hour, then faced her.

“Miss Meriwether, there’s something I need to know.”

She smiled. “And that would be?”

“I understand you enjoy gambling, which leads me to a distasteful question. Do you cheat?”

Well, now she knew. She laughed genuinely. “Are the losers whining?”

“There’s been some talk, specifically over that big pot you won with a pair of lowly sixes.”

“A true gentleman would not be questioning a lady’s honor, or at least in my world, they don’t. But as the master of this vessel, I acknowledge that you do have a certain obligation to inquire.” She smiled.

“I appreciate your understanding.”

“Cheating at cards would take all the fun out of it.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “I noted the bluff coming in the aforementioned hand of stud.”

“I see.”

“The obviously poor loser represented a pair of kings from the start, but the three other monarchies were soon accounted for. I’m a hard lady to bamboozle.”

“Indeed.” He gave her a slight nod. “You play any other games besides poker, ma’am?”

“I do, and you?”

“I enjoy a game of chess and several card games.”

“Backgammon?”

“Of course.” He grinned. “After dessert, would you care to accompany me to my stateroom and try your luck?”

She studied the man for a moment then leaned in close. “Are you proposing to place me in a compromising situation? I don’t care to have my reputation sullied.”

“Of course not, but I understand how tongues wag. Bring your man, or I’ll have my purser play chaperone if that’s satisfactory.”

She insisted both of them attend, but it disappointed her somewhat that Chester seemed to enjoy himself chatting with the seaman in the far corner.

She, on the other hand, experienced a most frustrating evening matching wits with the captain and hated it immensely that when the agreed quitting time arrived, she had to fork over a few gold coins from her previous nights’ winnings.

At the door, she extended her hand. “Perhaps a rematch.”

He took her bent fingers and smiled. “Tomorrow evening soon enough?”

“Yes.” She pulled her hand away. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

That night, waiting for sleep to find her, May replayed the evening. The captain proved a worthy opponent, but was he really after more?

Should she tell the man she’d never been married, or really even in love? No, it would probably cost her a seat at his table if his real motive was to separate her from her bloomers.

He probably made a habit of picking an out-of-the-ordinary lady on every journey, one who traveled alone, to get into his bed. Well, that wasn’t going to happen with her.

Having waited this long, she certainly wanted it all, or else she’d have none of it.

The next three mornings and afternoons dragged by in a sea of ink and pure white paper. While the evenings proved most invigorating, and even though a bit profitable, too short.

Several times, it seemed Captain Orr intended to lead her down a path that would end in his bed, but she coyly thwarted his real or imagined advances at each turn.