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Authors: Cathy Marie Hake
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ship wasn’t moving forward.
Six
M illicent had just blown out her lamp when a horrid screech filled the air. She jumped out of bed, but it took a few minutes for her to realize the Opportunity felt different. The gliding sensation that accompanied the rocking had disappeared. Without the light, she fumbled and scrambled into her clothing. Completely oblivious to it all, Arthur continued to sleep.
Bang! The outer door to the suite opened.
Racing toward the nursery door, Millicent called out, “Mr. Clark?”
Silence . . . for a brief second. Then she heard shouting in the passageway.
Heart thundering, Millicent had to use the striker half a dozen times before lighting the lamp. Please, Lord, keep us safe. She found only one life preserver in the armoire.
Arthur protested sleepily as she lifted him into the impossibly big white vest. He rolled over, and his head slid through an arm hole. The straps each measured at least a mile long, and Millicent wrapped and knotted them. Belatedly, she jammed a cap as best she could on the top of the little boy’s head. She stuffed a pillowcase with nappies, blankets, and a few more of his baby gowns, then scooped up Arthur in one arm and the supplies in the other. By the time she pinched the doorknob between her index and third finger, Millicent’s prayer shrank down to two words she couldn’t stop repeating. “Help, Lord. Help, Lord. Help, Lord . . .”
The parlor carpet squished beneath her foot. Her prayer shortened. “Lord, Lord, Lord.”
A shadow loomed on the corridor wall, then a big male form filled the suite’s door.
“Lord, Lord, Lord . . .”
“Miss Fairweather?”
“Mr. Clark! Here. Here’s Arthur.” Mr. Clark strode toward her and grabbed. “No, not the pillowcase—Here’s your son.”
“Miss Fairweather—”
His steady voice did nothing to calm her. The man simply didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. “You’ve got him upside down!” She dropped the pillowcase and rearranged Arthur, then shoved her boss toward the door. “Hurry now. Hurry.”
Mr. Clark refused to budge. “The ship isn’t sinking, Miss Fairweather.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me, sir. I won’t be hysterical. You’re all Arthur has. Go!” The stubborn man didn’t move an inch.
Arthur let out a muffled whimper. Millicent tamped down the urge to do the same thing.
“There’s been a mechanical failure.” Mr. Clark leaned forward and enunciated carefully, “Something broke in the engine room. They’re inspecting it even as I speak.”
“It has to be more than that. The floor is wet.”
Tucking Arthur under his arm like an enormous baguette, Mr. Clark went past her, into the nursery. Arthur let out another, louder whimper. “Hush, there,” Mr. Clark said in a reassuring tone. “Daddy has you.” He emerged carrying the lamp. Looking down, he stated, “It appears as though the carafe spilled.”
Disbelief and relief shot through her. Millicent laughed. “Merciful Lord, we’re safe!”
“As ardently as you were calling upon His name, I’m sure the Almighty heard you.” He set the lamp on the parlor table and studied the bundle he held. “What have you done to my son?”
Arthur’s cap was swooped down, covering one eye. His head stuck out of the armhole, and he scrunched the other eye closed as he let out a wail.
“I’ll have him out of that in a trice.”
Mr. Clark’s brow hiked upward. “I seriously doubt that.”
Her boss didn’t relinquish Arthur, so Millicent started to undo the knots. “If you could please lift—yes. And now this way . . .”
“Silk worms couldn’t spin a cocoon this complicated.” He finally shoved Arthur into her arms. “I have a pocket knife in my chamber.”
“No!” Millicent didn’t realize she’d grabbed Mr. Clark’s sleeve until he gave her an odd look. Hastily releasing him, she said, “There’s just this one life vest. You cannot cut it—what if we truly need it for your son
Six
M illicent had just blown out her lamp when a horrid screech filled the air. She jumped out of bed, but it took a few minutes for her to realize the Opportunity felt different. The gliding sensation that accompanied the rocking had disappeared. Without the light, she fumbled and scrambled into her clothing. Completely oblivious to it all, Arthur continued to sleep.
Bang! The outer door to the suite opened.
Racing toward the nursery door, Millicent called out, “Mr. Clark?”
Silence . . . for a brief second. Then she heard shouting in the passageway.
Heart thundering, Millicent had to use the striker half a dozen times before lighting the lamp. Please, Lord, keep us safe. She found only one life preserver in the armoire.
Arthur protested sleepily as she lifted him into the impossibly big white vest. He rolled over, and his head slid through an arm hole. The straps each measured at least a mile long, and Millicent wrapped and knotted them. Belatedly, she jammed a cap as best she could on the top of the little boy’s head. She stuffed a pillowcase with nappies, blankets, and a few more of his baby gowns, then scooped up Arthur in one arm and the supplies in the other. By the time she pinched the doorknob between her index and third finger, Millicent’s prayer shrank down to two words she couldn’t stop repeating. “Help, Lord. Help, Lord. Help, Lord . . .”
The parlor carpet squished beneath her foot. Her prayer shortened. “Lord, Lord, Lord.”
A shadow loomed on the corridor wall, then a big male form filled the suite’s door.
“Lord, Lord, Lord . . .”
“Miss Fairweather?”
“Mr. Clark! Here. Here’s Arthur.” Mr. Clark strode toward her and grabbed. “No, not the pillowcase—Here’s your son.”
“Miss Fairweather—”
His steady voice did nothing to calm her. The man simply didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. “You’ve got him upside down!” She dropped the pillowcase and rearranged Arthur, then shoved her boss toward the door. “Hurry now. Hurry.”
Mr. Clark refused to budge. “The ship isn’t sinking, Miss Fairweather.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me, sir. I won’t be hysterical. You’re all Arthur has. Go!” The stubborn man didn’t move an inch.
Arthur let out a muffled whimper. Millicent tamped down the urge to do the same thing.
“There’s been a mechanical failure.” Mr. Clark leaned forward and enunciated carefully, “Something broke in the engine room. They’re inspecting it even as I speak.”
“It has to be more than that. The floor is wet.”
Tucking Arthur under his arm like an enormous baguette, Mr. Clark went past her, into the nursery. Arthur let out another, louder whimper. “Hush, there,” Mr. Clark said in a reassuring tone. “Daddy has you.” He emerged carrying the lamp. Looking down, he stated, “It appears as though the carafe spilled.”
Disbelief and relief shot through her. Millicent laughed. “Merciful Lord, we’re safe!”
“As ardently as you were calling upon His name, I’m sure the Almighty heard you.” He set the lamp on the parlor table and studied the bundle he held. “What have you done to my son?”
Arthur’s cap was swooped down, covering one eye. His head stuck out of the armhole, and he scrunched the other eye closed as he let out a wail.
“I’ll have him out of that in a trice.”
Mr. Clark’s brow hiked upward. “I seriously doubt that.”
Her boss didn’t relinquish Arthur, so Millicent started to undo the knots. “If you could please lift—yes. And now this way . . .”
“Silk worms couldn’t spin a cocoon this complicated.” He finally shoved Arthur into her arms. “I have a pocket knife in my chamber.”
“No!” Millicent didn’t realize she’d grabbed Mr. Clark’s sleeve until he gave her an odd look. Hastily releasing him, she said, “There’s just this one life vest. You cannot cut it—what if we truly need it for your son
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