help. Do not return to steerage until bedtime even though you wish to lie down. I suspect it only makes it worse.”
She led the girl to a barrel of sea water used for washing and proceeded to dump buckets of water on the girl, washing the vomit from her hair and clothing.
“Do you have any other clothes you can wear?” The girl shook her head.
Corinne craned her neck around to meet his eye. “Bring me your cloak?”
It was the only warm thing they had between them, and Corinne’s willingness to share with someone so far beneath her who would surely soil it with more sickness, surprised him. He retrieved the cloak, and Corinne pulled the girl into an area protected from sight, ordering her to remove the wet clothing.
“What is your name?” he heard her ask.
“Flora.”
“Flora, you will get your sea legs soon,” she said, emerging with the girl cocooned in the large cloak. “I want you to sit out here on deck all day, face the direction we are traveling and keep your eyes on the horizon. It helps your body understand why it is being jostled so.” Corinne gave her a warm smile and a wink, and Flora managed a weak smile in return.
She found her a place on deck. “I will find you just a bit of food. Not too much—just enough to soak up the juices in your stomach, all right?”
The girl nodded gratefully. “Thank you, mademoiselle.”
Corinne froze, looking up at him.
He shrugged and winked. If a child recognized her for the lady she was, he would not argue. His pride to be escorting the compassionate Mademoiselle Corinne de Gramont swelled.
His companion proceeded to prove she did not consider herself above menial labor by scrubbing out the girl’s clothing and hanging it to dry. She even carried buckets of sea water to steerage below to rinse the girl’s hammock and wash the floors. She urged the mother out to the fresh air as well, settling her beside her daughter, leaving the bucket for her to use when sick.
As the days passed, the mother and daughter recovered and Corinne continued to dote on her young friend, braiding her hair and teaching her to count in German and English.
Corinne did not sleep in his hammock again, seeming to grow shy with him, as if she had only just realized he was a man. But no, she had been aware of that before. Perhaps she had begun to care for him. The thought made his chest grow warm. But even if she had—it was impossible. He could not think of courting her, but that did not stop him from drinking in the sight of her every chance he had.
Even tired and miserable, dirty and dressed as a pauper, her beauty shone brighter than any woman on the ship. He became aware that nearly every man had noticed it, too. In the days that followed, he caught the leers from the sailors, the stares from the lower class in steerage, and the appraising interest from the merchants.
He disliked them all—grateful for the farce that she was his wife so he could act out his territorial responses. Not foolish enough to miss it, Corinne did not seem concerned. Whether it was out of trust in his ability to defend or naiveté, he did not know.
Four weeks into the journey, the captain rewarded his crew with the opening of a barrel of ale for their consumption. The sailors drank heartily, becoming increasingly boisterous. Even Moreau began to turn pink in the face with drink. He had ordered Corinne to serve them and had the audacity to slap her ass when she walked by.
Jean-Claude stalked over from where he had been sitting, ready to give the captain a piece of his mind. Unfortunately, Moreau’s action had set the precedence for his men, and the very next sailor she passed grabbed her ass and held it, squeezing.
“Do not touch her!” he bellowed, knocking over a stool as he barreled across the crowded foredeck.
Corinne dumped a pint of ale over the sailor’s head. The clod did not harm her but pulled her down on his lap, thrusting a hand down the neck of her dress to grope her
She led the girl to a barrel of sea water used for washing and proceeded to dump buckets of water on the girl, washing the vomit from her hair and clothing.
“Do you have any other clothes you can wear?” The girl shook her head.
Corinne craned her neck around to meet his eye. “Bring me your cloak?”
It was the only warm thing they had between them, and Corinne’s willingness to share with someone so far beneath her who would surely soil it with more sickness, surprised him. He retrieved the cloak, and Corinne pulled the girl into an area protected from sight, ordering her to remove the wet clothing.
“What is your name?” he heard her ask.
“Flora.”
“Flora, you will get your sea legs soon,” she said, emerging with the girl cocooned in the large cloak. “I want you to sit out here on deck all day, face the direction we are traveling and keep your eyes on the horizon. It helps your body understand why it is being jostled so.” Corinne gave her a warm smile and a wink, and Flora managed a weak smile in return.
She found her a place on deck. “I will find you just a bit of food. Not too much—just enough to soak up the juices in your stomach, all right?”
The girl nodded gratefully. “Thank you, mademoiselle.”
Corinne froze, looking up at him.
He shrugged and winked. If a child recognized her for the lady she was, he would not argue. His pride to be escorting the compassionate Mademoiselle Corinne de Gramont swelled.
His companion proceeded to prove she did not consider herself above menial labor by scrubbing out the girl’s clothing and hanging it to dry. She even carried buckets of sea water to steerage below to rinse the girl’s hammock and wash the floors. She urged the mother out to the fresh air as well, settling her beside her daughter, leaving the bucket for her to use when sick.
As the days passed, the mother and daughter recovered and Corinne continued to dote on her young friend, braiding her hair and teaching her to count in German and English.
Corinne did not sleep in his hammock again, seeming to grow shy with him, as if she had only just realized he was a man. But no, she had been aware of that before. Perhaps she had begun to care for him. The thought made his chest grow warm. But even if she had—it was impossible. He could not think of courting her, but that did not stop him from drinking in the sight of her every chance he had.
Even tired and miserable, dirty and dressed as a pauper, her beauty shone brighter than any woman on the ship. He became aware that nearly every man had noticed it, too. In the days that followed, he caught the leers from the sailors, the stares from the lower class in steerage, and the appraising interest from the merchants.
He disliked them all—grateful for the farce that she was his wife so he could act out his territorial responses. Not foolish enough to miss it, Corinne did not seem concerned. Whether it was out of trust in his ability to defend or naiveté, he did not know.
Four weeks into the journey, the captain rewarded his crew with the opening of a barrel of ale for their consumption. The sailors drank heartily, becoming increasingly boisterous. Even Moreau began to turn pink in the face with drink. He had ordered Corinne to serve them and had the audacity to slap her ass when she walked by.
Jean-Claude stalked over from where he had been sitting, ready to give the captain a piece of his mind. Unfortunately, Moreau’s action had set the precedence for his men, and the very next sailor she passed grabbed her ass and held it, squeezing.
“Do not touch her!” he bellowed, knocking over a stool as he barreled across the crowded foredeck.
Corinne dumped a pint of ale over the sailor’s head. The clod did not harm her but pulled her down on his lap, thrusting a hand down the neck of her dress to grope her
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