The Orphan's Dream (23 page)

For a split second Jerusha D'Angelo appeared to be lost for words. Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink. ‘I'm so sorry. I had no idea.'

‘It's an easy mistake to make,' Mirabel said hastily. ‘Hubert is a great deal older than I, but we are very happy together.'

‘I'm sure you are.' Jerusha's eyes danced and her lips curved into a mischievous smile. ‘But I'm afraid you'll have to get used to others making the same assumption, honey. You'll be the talk of the first class dining room.'

‘I daresay, but it doesn't matter to me. Hubert is a fine man.'

‘I admire your spirit, Mirabel. I like you already, and I can see we're going to be great friends. You must sit next to me at dinner so that we can talk.'

Mirabel managed a smile, although she found Jerusha's ebullience and direct manner slightly overwhelming. ‘Thank you. I'd like that.'

‘What will you do in New York?' Jerusha continued, seemingly unaware of the effect she was having on her new friend. ‘Will you be staying there?'

‘Not for long. We're going to Florida in search of rare orchids.'

‘My goodness, how exciting. How do you plan to get there, honey? It's a long way from New York.'

‘I can't remember the itinerary exactly, but I know we're travelling by train and then by sea.'

Jerusha seized both of Mirabel's hands. ‘Then you must come and visit with us. We have a tobacco plantation near Richmond, West Virginia. Papa took it over after the war, when I was just a baby. He bought up most of the surrounding land so that we're one of the biggest growers in the whole state.'

Coming from anyone else this might have sounded like bragging, but Jerusha spoke with such naïve enthusiasm that her words were merely a statement of fact. Mirabel smiled and nodded. ‘Thank you, that's very kind and I'd love to, but I would have to check with Hubert first. I know he's very eager to get to Florida.'

‘You must introduce me to him, Mirabel. I'll talk him round, you'll see. If I set my heart on anything I always get my way.' She raised her hand to beckon to the waiter as he entered the drawing room carrying a laden cake stand. ‘You must try the macaroons, they melt in the mouth. I know because I've already had one or maybe two. Papa says I'll be as fat as butter if I keep on eating as I do, but I don't care. I adore food, especially sweet things.'

Speechless and fascinated by her new friend, Mirabel sipped the tea poured by a disapproving Grimwood. She nibbled on an éclair while Jerusha devoured macaroons at an alarming rate, somehow managing to give a detailed account of her travels in Europe in between mouthfuls. Having apparently tired of that particular subject she went on to talk about her home and her father's rise from poverty to riches. Mirabel was feeling quite dizzy with trying to keep up with Jerusha's butterfly mind.

‘So you see,' Jerusha said, dabbing her lips on a crested linen napkin, ‘Papa was what they used to call a carpetbagger.'

‘Really?' Mirabel said, mystified. ‘What is a carpetbagger?'

‘Pa is a Yankee from the north. He was all but destitute when the war ended, but he won a fistful of money in a card game, moved south and bought the plantation at a fire-sale price. He worked hard and made a fortune, which the old families resent. They prefer to live in genteel poverty rather than deal with the likes of us.' Jerusha tossed her head and her fiery auburn tresses caught the last rays of the sun as it fought its way through heavy cumulus clouds. She rose to her feet. ‘I think it's time we went to change for dinner, honey. I know I take hours to complete my toilette.' She smiled down at Mirabel. ‘You will sit with us in the dining room, won't you? I want to hear all about you and your husband.' She lowered her voice. ‘I can't wait to see the older wives' faces when they realise you aren't his daughter.'

AS SHE ENTERED
the dining room on her husband's arm Mirabel was comforted by the fact that she was as fashionably turned out as any woman present, but there was a sudden lull in the conversation as heads turned to stare at them, and she felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Hubert patted her hand. ‘You've caused quite a sensation, my dear,' he said softly.

She knew that was true, but not for the right reasons. The temptation to turn and run was almost overpowering, but she held her head high as they made their way towards one of the long tables. The room was crowded with passengers in evening dress. The dark dinner suits of the men complemented the elegant silks and satins worn by their wives. Diamonds blazed beneath the electric lighting, which was the most modern of all features on the ship, and the air was redolent with expensive perfume and cologne. A tall gentleman boasting an unmistakeably military moustache and an air of command stepped forward to slap Hubert on the shoulder. ‘Hubert Kettle. I haven't seen you for years.'

‘Brigadier Fortescue-Brown.' Hubert shook his hand. ‘It's been a long time since Delhi.'

‘Indeed it has. We're both civilians now, of course.' The brigadier turned to the tall, angular woman who stood at his side. ‘My dear, you must remember Captain Kettle.'

Mrs Fortescue-Brown raised a silver lorgnette, staring through it at Hubert as if he were a specimen in a glass case, Mirabel thought, eyeing the lady warily. She could feel a set-down coming and she was not disappointed.

‘Yes, of course I do.' She turned to Mirabel with a patronising smile. ‘And you must be his daughter.' A frown creased her brow. ‘I didn't know you were married, Hubert. I thought after that episode with –' She broke off, biting her lip.

‘Mrs Fortescue-Brown, Brigadier, may I introduce my wife, Mirabel?' Hubert said stiffly.

The brigadier was first to recover. He bowed gallantly over Mirabel's hand. ‘How do you do, Mrs Kettle? It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.'

‘How do you do, sir?' Mirabel inclined her head, conscious of the fact that the brigadier's wife was staring at her, eyebrows raised.

‘Prudence?' Brigadier Fortescue-Brown gave his wife a meaningful look, but she turned away.

‘I thought better of you, Hubert,' she said icily. ‘The girl is young enough to be your granddaughter. Thank heaven you've left the regiment. That's all I can say.' She stalked off to take her seat at the table.

‘You'll have to excuse my wife,' Fortescue-Brown said in an undertone. ‘Dashed high standards and all that, Hubert. She'll come round.'

Hubert slipped his arm around Mirabel's slender waist. ‘I'm sorry if our relationship offends your good lady, sir. But I won't allow anyone to insult my wife.'

‘It's all right, Hubert,' Mirabel whispered.

‘No. It's far from all right. Perhaps we should dine in your state room.' Hubert guided her firmly towards the door, but their way was barred by a stranger. ‘Excuse me, sir,' Hubert said politely. ‘We're just leaving.'

‘Indeed you are not, sir.' The gentleman extended his hand. ‘Vincent D'Angelo. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Kettle. Won't you join us at our table?'

Mirabel realised at once that this must be Jerusha's father, and although there was barely a passing physical resemblance between him and his daughter they shared a similar outgoing nature that made it impossible to ignore their friendly overtures. She was quick to note the heavy gold signet ring on Vincent's right little finger, and the diamond-encrusted cufflinks which flashed gaudily with even the slightest movement of his arms. Unlike his daughter, whose complexion was milk and honey, Vincent D'Angelo was olive-skinned and his mop of dark hair had been tamed by the use of strong-smelling pomade. In fact he exuded an aura of mixed scents that made him smell like a barber's shop, taking Mirabel back to the days of her childhood when she was allowed to sit on a stool watching the barber expertly shave her pa. She realised that she was staring at Vincent and she turned to her husband. ‘Hubert, this is Jerusha's father. I told you about the young American lady I met earlier.'

‘How do you do, sir?' Hubert allowed Vincent a brief handshake. ‘If you'll excuse us, please?'

Vincent leaned closer. ‘I saw what happened just now, my dear sir. Might I suggest this is not the best time to retreat? I recognise an army man when I see one. I myself served with the Union army many years ago.'

Mirabel could see Jerusha beckoning frantically and she made a move towards the table. ‘Mr D'Angelo is right, Hubert. I don't want to hide away.'

‘That's the spirit, ma'am,' Vincent said with an approving smile. He hooked his arm around Hubert's shoulders. ‘And after dinner perhaps you would like to join me in the smoking room. I have some particularly fine cigars you might like to try.' Without giving Hubert a chance to argue, he led him to a seat at the table.

Mirabel gave him an encouraging smile as she joined Jerusha. Mrs Fortescue-Brown's reaction might have been expected but it had been humiliating, and very public. Mirabel had been prepared for such a reception, but she could see that it had come as a shock to Hubert.

‘Are you all right, honey?' Jerusha asked anxiously. ‘I saw the way that woman treated you and I'd like to slap her silly face.'

‘It's not worth worrying about,' Mirabel said firmly. ‘Tell me more about your plantation. I grew up in London so it's hard to imagine what it must be like to live in the country.'

‘As I said before you must visit with us and then I can show you in person.' Jerusha leaned across the table, catching her father's eye. ‘Pa, you must make Mr Kettle break his journey and stay awhile with us.'

Vincent smiled indulgently. ‘Of course, kitten. Anything you say.' He turned to Hubert. ‘I guess I'll have to do my darndest to persuade you, sir, or I'll never hear the last of it.'

Hubert inclined his head with a wry grin. ‘I imagine kittens have claws, Mr D'Angelo.'

‘I sure do,' Jerusha said, laughing. ‘Oh, here's the soup.' She looked up expectantly as the waiter served them. ‘I'm starving.'

Between them Vincent and Jerusha kept the conversation going throughout the meal, but Mirabel was relieved when it was over. It had been difficult to ignore the covert looks from the other diners. The women were frankly disapproving and the knowing gleam in their husbands' eyes made her feel distinctly uncomfortable. She left on Hubert's arm, holding herself erect and staring straight ahead. Outside in the cool of the late evening, with the moonlight creating a silver pathway across the inky sea, Jerusha caught up with them. ‘Pay them no heed, Mirabel honey. The old crows are just jealous.'

Vincent advanced on them, taking long strides. ‘I'm heading for the smoking room, Hubert. Now can I tempt you to a fine Havana cigar?'

Mirabel felt her husband hesitate and she quickly withdrew her hand from his arm. ‘Don't refuse on my account.'

‘Will you be all right, my dear?' His face was even paler than usual in the moonlight and the lines on his face were deepened by worry.

‘Of course I will. I have Jerusha to keep me company and Gertie will be waiting in my state room. Please go.'

‘If you're sure I'll say good night. I'll see you at breakfast.' Hubert strolled off with Vincent, heading for the smoking room.

‘He's a great guy,' Jerusha said softly. ‘I'd marry him myself if he wasn't already spoken for.' She walked to the railings and leaned on them, gazing out to sea. ‘I just love the ocean. I think I could live quite happily on board an ocean liner.' She turned her head to give Mirabel a quizzical look. ‘Wouldn't that be just fine, honey?'

A sharp pain knifed through Mirabel's heart as she thought of a seafaring man who had lost his life to the angry ocean, and she nodded dully. ‘Yes, it sounds wonderful.'

Jerusha stretched her arms above her head and sighed. ‘I could just die for something sweet and a cup of hot chocolate. Come to my state room, Belle, and I'll ring for the steward.' She linked her hand through Mirabel's arm. ‘You don't mind if I call you Belle, do you, honey?'

A storm in the night created great waves that sent the ship plunging into the troughs and rising again only to drop with a stomach-churning thud that made the steel hull judder and shriek like a soul in torment. To her intense relief, Mirabel discovered that she was a good sailor, as was Gertie, but Hubert suffered terribly and was confined to his bed. Mirabel tended to his needs but he preferred to be alone with his mal de mer, and she found herself more and more in Jerusha's sparkling company. Vincent was unperturbed by the rough seas, but the dining room was almost deserted at mealtimes, and it was too dangerous to promenade around the deck.

After nine days of continuous rain and gales Grimwood told them that this was the worst crossing he had experienced in a long time as he served their afternoon tea. Even the waiter looked a little green around the gills, but Jerusha's hearty appetite had not deserted her and she worked her way steadily through a second plate of cream cakes. Mirabel watched her in awe, sipping her tea and taking care not to spill the hot liquid on her afternoon gown as the vessel pitched and tossed on the turbulent waters.

Back in her state room early that evening she sat at the dressing table while Gertie worked quickly and neatly, brushing, combing and twisting her dark hair into a coronet and ringlets. ‘At least the bad weather keeps the old frights from looking down their snooty noses at you, Mabel,' she said cheerfully. ‘Serve 'em right if they're sick as dogs until the ship docks in New York.'

‘Seasickness is a horrible thing,' Mirabel said, thinking of Hubert. ‘I wouldn't wish it on anybody.'

‘At least the master is on the mend. Will he venture down to dinner this evening?'

‘I think he might.' Mirabel stood up to inspect her reflection in the cheval mirror. Her gown of cream satin, enriched with waterfalls of Brussels lace, its skirt draped and drawn back into a fashionable bustle, emphasised her tiny waist and flattered her gentle curves. Her fingers strayed to the sapphire and diamond necklace, which she had worn every evening, together with the matching earrings. Hubert was a kind and generous man, who didn't deserve censure or ridicule for marrying her. If anyone had the nerve to say anything on this, their last evening at sea, she would tell them exactly what she thought of them.