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Authors: Elizabeth Boyle
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her father's cabin began to creak open.
They broke apart like guilty children caught stealing tarts. Julien backed down the corridor into the shadows, where he could remain unseen.
"Is that you, Reenie?" her father called out.
"Yes, sir," she replied, smoothing out her shirt and puffing her hair back.
"Haven't you got this watch?" He stepped out of his cabin and into the hall, eyeing her with a speculative glance.
"Yes, sir," she said. "I was just going up." She motioned toward the ladder.
"Well, get on it, lassie. I need my best lookout up there. There's a moon tonight, and I don't want to be taken unawares."
"Aye, sir."
He nodded to her and turned to go back into his cabin.
"Sleep well, papa," she called to him.
"I'll see you in the morning," he said over his shoulder. "And Reenie, tell de Ryes there to go back to his own ship." With that he'd chuckled and closed the door.
Chapter Eight
London
1813
During the carriage ride home, Maureen stared out the window and wondered at her own stupidity, while Lady Mary prattled on about their triumph at Almack's.
"And both Lady Wilcott and the Dowager came over to me to ask about you. I hadn't seen Eliza since ... well, since before I married the Captain. But oh, she looked jealous when we were interrupted seven times by young men seeking introductions to you. How many requests to dance did you turn down?" The lady didn't wait for Maureen's reply, rather continued with barely a pause. "Fourteen by my count. The Dowager almost went into apoplexy over your success, especially when my friend, Lady Dearsley, came over and pointed it out. Oh, the Dowager tried to tell me that it was because her granddaughter is too modest to draw attention to herself, but then, one look at Miss Wilcott tells the entire story, doesn't it? The poor girl favors her father's side of the family — an exact replica of the old Dowager." Lady Mary sighed. "You outshone everyone."
Maureen let the curtain fall back into place and smiled at the lady, her memories of the evening far different.
She could hardly call the night an unqualified success. She'd let de Ryes go.
How could she have been so foolish?
"And did I tell you we've been invited to a soiree Friday night? The invitations are quite exclusive. Oh, this is exactly how I always imagined it would be to have a —" This time the lady's chatter stopped abruptly, as if she realized how close she'd come to revealing such a secretly held desire.
Maureen knew what she would have said if she'd finished her sentence.
... to have a daughter.
But Maureen wasn't her daughter, not even the goddaughter everyone thought her to be.
How she wished she could join in Lady Mary's triumph, forget who she was, forget de Ryes. Pretend she was nothing more than a daughter riding home from her first entrance into society. Have a woman like Lady Mary beaming across at her with motherly affection and pride.
But that was not to be. Those dreams weren't meant to be a part of Maureen's life. How would she even know what motherly regard felt like? Her own mother had died of yellow fever when Maureen was but three.
And Aunt Pettigrew, well, she was a dear soul, but she hadn't a maternal bone in her body.
Now, as Lady Mary's make-believe fell away, Maureen regretted the loss of a mother she'd never known, much as Lady Mary's face told her that her newfound "godmother" feared the day when this masquerade would end.
But Maureen never underestimated Lady Mary's resiliency. In a matter of moments, the dear woman had settled back in the seat of the hired carriage, as if the cracked and stained leather were royal velvet, obviously choosing to return to her revelry in her new social position. "Now, tell me about dancing with Julien D'Artiers."
"With whom?" Maureen asked, her ears perking at the sound of Julien's name, connected as it was to the unfamiliar surname.
"Julien D'Artiers. The man you danced with. I thought you were going to turn down all your offers,
They broke apart like guilty children caught stealing tarts. Julien backed down the corridor into the shadows, where he could remain unseen.
"Is that you, Reenie?" her father called out.
"Yes, sir," she replied, smoothing out her shirt and puffing her hair back.
"Haven't you got this watch?" He stepped out of his cabin and into the hall, eyeing her with a speculative glance.
"Yes, sir," she said. "I was just going up." She motioned toward the ladder.
"Well, get on it, lassie. I need my best lookout up there. There's a moon tonight, and I don't want to be taken unawares."
"Aye, sir."
He nodded to her and turned to go back into his cabin.
"Sleep well, papa," she called to him.
"I'll see you in the morning," he said over his shoulder. "And Reenie, tell de Ryes there to go back to his own ship." With that he'd chuckled and closed the door.
Chapter Eight
London
1813
During the carriage ride home, Maureen stared out the window and wondered at her own stupidity, while Lady Mary prattled on about their triumph at Almack's.
"And both Lady Wilcott and the Dowager came over to me to ask about you. I hadn't seen Eliza since ... well, since before I married the Captain. But oh, she looked jealous when we were interrupted seven times by young men seeking introductions to you. How many requests to dance did you turn down?" The lady didn't wait for Maureen's reply, rather continued with barely a pause. "Fourteen by my count. The Dowager almost went into apoplexy over your success, especially when my friend, Lady Dearsley, came over and pointed it out. Oh, the Dowager tried to tell me that it was because her granddaughter is too modest to draw attention to herself, but then, one look at Miss Wilcott tells the entire story, doesn't it? The poor girl favors her father's side of the family — an exact replica of the old Dowager." Lady Mary sighed. "You outshone everyone."
Maureen let the curtain fall back into place and smiled at the lady, her memories of the evening far different.
She could hardly call the night an unqualified success. She'd let de Ryes go.
How could she have been so foolish?
"And did I tell you we've been invited to a soiree Friday night? The invitations are quite exclusive. Oh, this is exactly how I always imagined it would be to have a —" This time the lady's chatter stopped abruptly, as if she realized how close she'd come to revealing such a secretly held desire.
Maureen knew what she would have said if she'd finished her sentence.
... to have a daughter.
But Maureen wasn't her daughter, not even the goddaughter everyone thought her to be.
How she wished she could join in Lady Mary's triumph, forget who she was, forget de Ryes. Pretend she was nothing more than a daughter riding home from her first entrance into society. Have a woman like Lady Mary beaming across at her with motherly affection and pride.
But that was not to be. Those dreams weren't meant to be a part of Maureen's life. How would she even know what motherly regard felt like? Her own mother had died of yellow fever when Maureen was but three.
And Aunt Pettigrew, well, she was a dear soul, but she hadn't a maternal bone in her body.
Now, as Lady Mary's make-believe fell away, Maureen regretted the loss of a mother she'd never known, much as Lady Mary's face told her that her newfound "godmother" feared the day when this masquerade would end.
But Maureen never underestimated Lady Mary's resiliency. In a matter of moments, the dear woman had settled back in the seat of the hired carriage, as if the cracked and stained leather were royal velvet, obviously choosing to return to her revelry in her new social position. "Now, tell me about dancing with Julien D'Artiers."
"With whom?" Maureen asked, her ears perking at the sound of Julien's name, connected as it was to the unfamiliar surname.
"Julien D'Artiers. The man you danced with. I thought you were going to turn down all your offers,
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