“ARE YOU KEEPING a journal, David?”
Her voice flowed over him, fluid and feminine. He closed the journal and looked up. “Morning, Elisabeth. Aye. Ma gave me this to keep a record, something I can hand her next we meet. She says someone working in the printing business best be comfortable recording events.”
She sat beside him. “Would you mind telling me about her?”
He smiled, thinking of her. “Ma’s the one ye ask permission or forgiveness of, the one adamant we attend school and kirk. She’ll see through any excuse ‘fore ye even have time to think it up. She holds the family together; not the one of us has a chance to forget it. I had a heck of a time convincing her to allow me to go to America. Without the persuasion of Da and Uncle John, it ne’er would have happened. I’ve only seen her weaken one time, and that was when Margaret, my sister, died of the fever two winters past. Margaret was less than a year old when we lost her.”
“The only girl . . . I feel for your mother. The loss would be that much harder. I’m sorry for that, David, the loss of your sister.”
“Good day, Mr. Hale. Up to catch a wee bit of the fresh air, are ye? It’s a fine morning, to be sure.” Elisabeth jumped up as the sound of Liam’s voice carried across the deck.
“May we talk later, David? I ought to go.”
“Of course. Are ye feeling poorly then, lass?”
She smiled. “Oh, no. But I must see to my father.”
He saw Liam wink as she passed, then heard her greet her father. “Wait for me, Papa. I’ll walk with you. You remembered Liam, didn’t you? He’s the boy traveling to Philadelphia with Mr. Oliver to open the new school?” Her father’s reply was lost as they walked away.
David looked thoughtfully at the ocean, his journal forgotten for the moment, forearms resting on his knees as he twirled his pencil round and round in his fingers. Dropping down next to him, Liam took out his knife and began working a piece of bone.
“So . . . ye’d be thinking her Pa wouldna want her to be passing the time with me?” David finally asked.
“Aye. Ye’d have noticed yourself, if you weren’t so caught up with the wee lass.” He was silent for a moment, as if mulling it over. “Well, to be fair, I have had the pleasure of a bit more dealings with the cull than ye, on account of his talks with Mr. O.”
David pulled a piece of straw from the bale behind him and stuck it between his teeth.
“It’s not ye, David; it’s the lot of us. He willna be pleased to be sharing her company with the likes of us, no’ any of the Scotch. Nor the Irish, I’d be guessing.”
He pulled the straw from his mouth and glanced at Liam, searching his face. This was the first he’d seen Liam serious. Bitter, even. He exhaled a long, slow breath, conceding Liam’s assessment, resigned in his acknowledgment that it was no surprise, nothing he hadn’t encountered before, the only wonder being that she had even approached him in the first place.
And she had. First.
“Aye, well, be that as it may, I don’t think I can see my way clear to stop talking to the lass, long as she be willing.” He took his cap off and ran his fingers through his hair before setting it back in place, then put his pencil and journal into his pocket. “Mayhap I should, Liam, but I don’t think I will. It’s just a conversation. I’m free enough to have a conversation with the likes of anyone willing to do the same, Sassenach wench or no’.”
Liam grinned. “Aye, that ye are.”
“What’re ye working on there?” David asked, pointing a finger at the bone and knife in Liam’s hands.
“A die. Mr. Oliver should have a new seal for his new Academy, aye?”
David leaned over and took a closer look. It was intricate work, and Liam’s long slender fingers were sure and quick as he went about it. He had the letters naming the Academy all formed precisely, up through the letter ‘v’ in ‘Oliver’s’, the space of each calculated to leave ample room for the remainder. He frowned, looking up at Liam.
“That’s incredible. Where’d ye learn that?”
Liam shrugged. “A fellow I knew once.” He pocketed the die, stood, and stretched, bouncing from one foot to the next, full of restless energy. “There’s the Reverend, searching for ye. Dinna be forgetting, the lads from Kilkenny are playing tonight. Lively boys; they’re sure to take the edge off. And the lass with them . . . Annie . . . well.” He sighed dramatically.
David laughed. “And ye’d best no’ be forgetting those lads are her kin, and not likely to take their eyes off her. I’d hate to see that pretty face of yours colored purple.”
“Don’t underestimate my charm, Davey,” Liam said, grinning. “And bye the bye, ye’re going to need to work on yours, ye be thinking ye can keep your hands full of that Wallace chit whilst your thoughts are full of the beautiful, proper Miss Hale. She gets a whiff of that, the rest of your passage will be miserable. Trust me on this.”
He frowned. Which “she” would be the one making him miserable? There was nothing between him and Sarah Wallace. Nothing. Admittedly, she’d caught him watching her dress the other day. Mayhap he’d kept his eyes on her a bit too long. Blonde, rosy, and plump, with a bosom one could lose himself in—well, there was a lot to look at. And she’d certainly made no effort to be modest about it. He could almost suspect she’d planned it.
Which could absolve him . . . mayhap . . . of the brief groping that took place last night when she cornered him up here by the livestock. Though truly it was more of a thought than an action, owing to the sound of Uncle John’s voice drifting from across the deck.
How had Liam known?
Liam laughed at his expression. “Finish your business with the Reverend, Davey, then come. It’s time for me to recover my stash from ye.”
“Aye, soon after our meal.” Zounds, this ship was small.
November 12, 1783—The ship is full of those from all walks of life and all manner of looking at it. The man who shares our berth has indentured himself for a year in exchange for passage. He seems honest and steadfast, and likely to benefit in the end. Others, maybe not so much. The Germans, particularly the women, are a hardworking bunch. Few gentry on board, Elisabeth among them. The friendship of a lad called Liam Brock shows promise to last well beyond the length of the passage. Ma would name him sauce-box, and she’d be right. But there’s more there, much more.
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