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Authors: Jennifer McVeigh
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keep an eye on her girls.
“Now, Mr. Westbrook,” Mrs. Nettleton said in a confidential tone, leading him away, “you promised to help us with our little theatrical presentation. Do you know
The Palace of Truth
?”
He ignored her, and instead said to Frances, “Miss Irvine, you’re traveling without family?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should certainly join us for dinner one evening.”
Mrs. Nettleton frowned, two fingers pinching the fabric of Mr. Westbrook’s coat. “A lovely idea and well meant, but I’m not sure Mrs. Sambourne would approve of you making favorites of her girls.”
“Nonsense! You know Miss Irvine, and I’m sure if I speak to the captain he would allow her an invitation to dine with us in the first-class saloon.” He looked at Frances with a warm, open smile, and his eyes shone conspiratorially. He was being kind, but he was also enjoying frustrating Mrs. Nettleton’s finer social principles, and Frances couldn’t bring herself to join in the joke. There was no pleasure in being used as bait to rile Mrs. Nettleton. She was stung by the woman’s reluctance to introduce her, and it had reminded her all at once of the humiliation attached to emigration. You didn’t leave England without leaving Society.
“Thank you, but I’m afraid Mrs. Nettleton is right. Dinner wouldn’t be possible. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
As she left, she heard Mrs. Nettleton say, in a voice that dropped to just above a whisper, “Mr. Westbrook, you must promise me not to start up any kind of flirtation. It would be too unkind. You can’t imagine how difficult it is for some of these girls. Mrs. Sambourne tells me . . .”
Frances had hoped that traveling to South Africa would be a fresh start, an escape from English Society, but the
Cambrian
offered no more protection than her uncle’s drawing room.
Seven
T here was a squall out at sea and the ship was kept in port for two days waiting for better weather. Entertainments were planned for the voyage. A weekly paper was started called the
Cambrian Argus
, and a concert was decided on by two elderly ladies in first class. They held auditions in the saloon, and Frances, wanting to keep her thoughts away from her father, went along. They declared her a nice little player, and gave her permission to practice on the pianoforte in the music room at four o’clock every day.
On the way to her first practice, a voice called to her from the stairwell. “Miss Irvine?” She turned. A man was standing above her, coming down from the deck. The bright day made him into a shadow. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the light. It was Mr. Westbrook, his square jaw set to one side and his dark brows bunched into a frown.
“Are you cross with me?”
“Cross?”
“You thought I was making fun of you yesterday.” He walked down the steps until he was standing beside her, quite close, in the small well at the bottom of the stairs. That was clever of him, to have read her so closely.
“And you weren’t?”
“It’s not an easy journey to make, to a new continent, by yourself.” He leant a hand on the wall above her. She could feel the heat rising from his body. He blocked out the light from the stairwell, and they stood together in near-darkness. “I remember feeling very alone when I first went to Africa.”
It was a long time since someone had offered her any comfort, and the ease with which he understood her made her want to confide in him. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “To be honest, it probably makes no difference whether I am in South Africa or England.”
He considered her for a moment. “Irvine. Is it Irish?”
“Yes,” she said, bristling at the question. “My father was Irish.”
“A merchant?”
“No. A shopkeeper. He made and sold furniture.” She wasn’t going to dress it up for him. Let him think what he liked.
“Some of my greatest friends are Irish. Wonderful drinkers.”
She laughed. “Yes. My father had a talent
“Now, Mr. Westbrook,” Mrs. Nettleton said in a confidential tone, leading him away, “you promised to help us with our little theatrical presentation. Do you know
The Palace of Truth
?”
He ignored her, and instead said to Frances, “Miss Irvine, you’re traveling without family?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should certainly join us for dinner one evening.”
Mrs. Nettleton frowned, two fingers pinching the fabric of Mr. Westbrook’s coat. “A lovely idea and well meant, but I’m not sure Mrs. Sambourne would approve of you making favorites of her girls.”
“Nonsense! You know Miss Irvine, and I’m sure if I speak to the captain he would allow her an invitation to dine with us in the first-class saloon.” He looked at Frances with a warm, open smile, and his eyes shone conspiratorially. He was being kind, but he was also enjoying frustrating Mrs. Nettleton’s finer social principles, and Frances couldn’t bring herself to join in the joke. There was no pleasure in being used as bait to rile Mrs. Nettleton. She was stung by the woman’s reluctance to introduce her, and it had reminded her all at once of the humiliation attached to emigration. You didn’t leave England without leaving Society.
“Thank you, but I’m afraid Mrs. Nettleton is right. Dinner wouldn’t be possible. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
As she left, she heard Mrs. Nettleton say, in a voice that dropped to just above a whisper, “Mr. Westbrook, you must promise me not to start up any kind of flirtation. It would be too unkind. You can’t imagine how difficult it is for some of these girls. Mrs. Sambourne tells me . . .”
Frances had hoped that traveling to South Africa would be a fresh start, an escape from English Society, but the
Cambrian
offered no more protection than her uncle’s drawing room.
Seven
T here was a squall out at sea and the ship was kept in port for two days waiting for better weather. Entertainments were planned for the voyage. A weekly paper was started called the
Cambrian Argus
, and a concert was decided on by two elderly ladies in first class. They held auditions in the saloon, and Frances, wanting to keep her thoughts away from her father, went along. They declared her a nice little player, and gave her permission to practice on the pianoforte in the music room at four o’clock every day.
On the way to her first practice, a voice called to her from the stairwell. “Miss Irvine?” She turned. A man was standing above her, coming down from the deck. The bright day made him into a shadow. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the light. It was Mr. Westbrook, his square jaw set to one side and his dark brows bunched into a frown.
“Are you cross with me?”
“Cross?”
“You thought I was making fun of you yesterday.” He walked down the steps until he was standing beside her, quite close, in the small well at the bottom of the stairs. That was clever of him, to have read her so closely.
“And you weren’t?”
“It’s not an easy journey to make, to a new continent, by yourself.” He leant a hand on the wall above her. She could feel the heat rising from his body. He blocked out the light from the stairwell, and they stood together in near-darkness. “I remember feeling very alone when I first went to Africa.”
It was a long time since someone had offered her any comfort, and the ease with which he understood her made her want to confide in him. She shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “To be honest, it probably makes no difference whether I am in South Africa or England.”
He considered her for a moment. “Irvine. Is it Irish?”
“Yes,” she said, bristling at the question. “My father was Irish.”
“A merchant?”
“No. A shopkeeper. He made and sold furniture.” She wasn’t going to dress it up for him. Let him think what he liked.
“Some of my greatest friends are Irish. Wonderful drinkers.”
She laughed. “Yes. My father had a talent
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