Ryan's Bride (17 page)

“I don’t want to.” She turned over and sat up. The ship wasn’t lurching anymore, and the ginger water had quelled her nausea, but she had no intentions of sewing with the women. She hated sewing, tatting, knitting—anything that kept her indoors. It had been a bone of contention with her mother, as well as Miss Appleton. She much preferred being outside riding or hiking—anything to keep her in nature, because she loved it.

He closed the door and walked back to the bed to tower over her. “I didn’t ask if you wanted to, I said it was what I wanted. If I’m going to present you to my family and friends as a well-bred lady, you’re going to have to learn a few things. Sewing is one of them. You can also learn how to carry on a conversation. I’ve noticed when we’re around other people you won’t talk because you’re so insecure.”

Insecure.
She wished the word were a club so she could beat him over the head with it. “I don’t like to waste my time with silly things like sewing, and the reason I don’t talk is because I’m not interested in anything anybody is saying.”

“But if you understood the subjects they were discussing, you would be.”

“I doubt that. The women gossip about other women. They make fun of their hats, their gowns—everything about them. And the men talk politics. No one wants to talk about anything I’m interested in.”

“Like what?” He leaned closer, for she had his full attention.

“Like…” She floundered, not wanting to go too far, and quickly made up a story, which was becoming easier and easier to do. “Like animals. I knew a man who had a farm, and he let me help take care of all his animals.” That was not altogether a lie. There had been a lot of animals on their estate in England—sheep, cows, goats, pigs. And she had loved being around them, much to her mother’s dismay. Her father hadn’t cared, because he had always wanted a son, anyway, and didn’t care if she sometimes behaved like a tomboy.

Ryan shook his head as though he hadn’t heard her right. “You
like
taking care of animals?”

“That’s right.”

He slapped his palm against his forehead. “We’ve got more work to do than I thought if we’re going to turn you into a lady by the time we reach New York. Stay in bed the rest of the day, but bright and early tomorrow, my dear wife, your lessons begin.”

After he left, Angele glared at the closed door as though she could still see him standing there giving orders. She would cooperate but only because she had to.

And, she thought with a mischievous smile, if he thought it would take a lot of work to turn her into a lady, then far be it for her to prove him wrong.

She managed to appear sick on into the next day, thus postponing the dreaded time when she would have to join the ladies. Worse, Ryan had taken it on himself to tell Annette Marceau that Angele didn’t know the first thing about sewing. And, of course, Mrs. Piermont said she’d be delighted to teach her.

That night, Angele decided to go to dinner. She was tired of warm broth and tea and wanted real food. She was also bored with staying in the cabin.

She dressed in one of her favorite gowns among those she’d had made. Fashioned of peach silk and satin, an embroidered lace bib draped from the scoop neckline, with matching lace sleeves to her wrists. It was very delicate, much more suitable for a ball instead of a ship, and she almost changed her mind about wearing it. Then Ryan came to escort her to the dining room, and there was no time.

“You are stunning, Angele,” he said, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe. “Absolutely stunning.”

Feeling a bit shy, she murmured, “Thank you,” and took the arm he held out to her.

When they entered the dining room, once again heads turned at the sight of her.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Annette Marceau beamed up at her when they reached their table. “And your gown is so pretty, my dear.”

Angele thanked her for the compliment as the men politely stood. A waiter held her chair for her.

There was a tray of small loaves of bread on the table, and she felt like throwing one at Ryan when he said to Annette, “My wife can’t wait for her sewing lessons to begin. What time should she meet you and the other ladies tomorrow?”

Annette was pleased. “Ten o’clock will be fine. And she’ll probably want to join us after lunch for our literary group. Nanette Lanierre is going to talk about Jane Austen’s
Northanger Abbey
.”

“Wonderful,” Ryan said. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy that.”

Angele fumed over how they discussed her like she wasn’t there. And the thought of having to discuss
Northanger Abbey
made her want to run for the chamber pot again. She’d had to read the book in her English literature class at Miss Appleton’s school and had been bored silly. She would much rather discuss Austen’s
Emma
but would, of course, have to pretend ignorance of such cultured topics as authors and books.

Concentrating on eating solid food for the first time in two days, she mostly ignored the conversation going on around her. But she took notice when she heard Corbett ask Ryan how one of the Anglo-Arab mares was doing.

“Her leg is still bothering her,” Ryan said. “Unfortunately, none of the crew down there know how to do anything except toss hay and rake out a stall. I’m afraid it will have to wait till we get home so Jasper can see to it.” He swept everyone with an apologetic look. “I’m not much good at doctoring horses. I’ve always depended on my stableman to do that.”

“What exactly is wrong with her leg?” Angele tried not to sound too concerned, although she was.

His glance told her he was annoyed she had asked so specific a question. “She has a sore, and it isn’t something to be discussed while we’re eating.”

“But she doesn’t know that,” Corbett said, lips twitching. “And she likes horses. Don’t you, Angele?”

Ryan glowered at him.

“Sorry,” Corbett murmured, although he wasn’t. He had made his point as to her lack of manners, and Ryan knew it.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur. Angele forgot her hunger as she worried about the mare. If no one on board knew what to do for her, there might be serious consequences.

The captain stopped by the table to tell them they would be docking in Cherbourg in a few hours, explaining, “We’re way off schedule because of the squall. It blew us a bit off course.”

“Then why stop there at all?” someone asked.

“We have to take on passengers and some cargo.”

Annette gave a haughty sniff “More steerage passengers? From the sounds of their revelry last night, there’s too many of them already.”

“No,” the captain said. “Haven’t you noticed an empty cabin in your class? But don’t worry. It shouldn’t take long, and then we’ll be on our way. If you’re asleep by the time we get there, you won’t even know we’re stopping.” He gave them a little salute and moved on to the next table.

Angele had decided she had to do something about the horse. Pressing her fingertips to her temples, she swayed a teeny bit, as though she felt dizzy.

Corbett, seated directly across from her, was the first to notice. “Is anything wrong?”

Everyone at the table turned to look at her as she answered, “Yes. I’m afraid I still feel a bit weak, and if I may be excused, I’d like to go back to my cabin.”

Annette made ducking noises of sympathy. “You poor dear. I do hope you’re better by tomorrow.”

Angele managed a smile. “I should be all right by then. I just need some more rest.”

She made to get up, pushing back her chair, but Ryan quickly moved to assist her. “I’ll walk you back.”

The other men rose politely once again, despite her telling them it wasn’t necessary.

Ryan took her arm and led her out. “Maybe you ate too much. Do you want me to stay with you?”

“No, no, of course not. I’ll be fine. I just overdid it a bit. A good night’s sleep is all I need.”

He saw her to the door and said he would be back after a brandy and cigar with the men. She told him not to hurry.

She waited till she thought he would be back in the dining room. Then she left the cabin, hurrying toward the stairs at the end of the hall she had seen the steward and some of the crew use. It was dark, and she didn’t have much time. Ryan might be worried about her and not tarry in the men’s salon over a half hour or so, and in that scant amount of time she had to find the area where the horses were and try to help the mare with the injured leg.

Her gown caught on a splintered step. She wished she’d had time to change into something less fragile. Maybe it was good she would be sewing with the ladies. She could get her hands on a needle and thread and try to repair the tear before Ryan noticed and asked how it happened.

Two decks down she heard the sound of music and singing and knew she had reached steerage. The cargo and horses had to be at the opposite end of that level.

At the bottom of the steps, there were two doors. She opened the one opposite the noise and knew at once from the damp, loamy smell that she was in the right place.

Several lanterns were burning, and she saw a boy, not yet twenty, lazily tossing hay over one of the railings.

“Excuse me, but are these
Monsieur
Tremayne’s horses?”

He jumped, startled, for he’d not heard her approach and was surprised to see a woman. “They…they are,” he said uncertainly. “He…he’s the only one who brought horses on board this time. They’re all his.”

“And which one has the injured leg? I’d like to see her.”

He looked at her uncertainly.

“Please,” she begged. “I don’t have much time.”

“But you aren’t supposed to be here. I mean, ladies don’t come here, and I’ll get in trouble.”

“No one will know if you hurry.”

It was obvious she meant to have her way, so he reached for a lantern and motioned her to follow him to a nearby stall. “It’s some kind of sore. It keeps getting bigger. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. She hasn’t put her weight on it since yesterday, so it must be hurting worse.”

Angele stepped up on the bottom rung of the stall. “Hold the lantern up so I can see her.”

The mare was favoring her right foreleg. It barely touched the floor.

“I’m going in there. Keep holding the lantern up.”

He moved to block her. “You can’t. If you get hurt, they’ll throw me to the sharks.”

Angele stepped around him. “Nonsense. I told you—no one will know, and if they do find out, I’ll say you tried to stop me.”

Unlatching the gate, she stepped inside, careful to move slowly. Her father had taught her that even the most gentle horses could be spooked and become dangerous.

She had coiffed her hair in ringlets which were held back from her face with a comb. But when her head scraped a low beam, the comb tore free and her hair tumbled down around her face.

“Easy, girl.” She made her voice soft. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to take a look at that leg of yours.”

The mare tossed her head and stomped back a few paces.

“Lady, be careful,” the boy shouted.

“Please be quiet,” she hissed. “We don’t want anyone to know I’m here, remember?”

She reached out and began to rub the mare’s neck, and she didn’t move away anymore. “See? I told you I wouldn’t hurt you. Now let me see…”

She motioned to the boy to lower the lantern. He was hanging over the railing. Because she still couldn’t see well, she took it from him and set it on the floor.

“No.” He scrambled over the railing. “You can’t do that. If she prances around and knocks it over, the whole place will go up in flames.”

“Then hold it,” Angele said, picking it up and handing it to him. “I can’t understand why you’re so scared.”

“It’s not my job to take care of these animals. But there was nobody else, and they made me do it, and I got kicked by a horse once and nearly broke my leg, and I’m not getting any closer than I have to.”

“Just stand there and don’t get in my way, and everything will be fine.” She knelt and heard the boy suck in his breath as she gingerly lifted the mare’s hoof. She could see the swelling and oozing. “I was afraid of this—it’s beginning to get infected, and if something isn’t done, gangrene will set in and kill her.”

“
Monsieur
Tremayne looked at it this afternoon and said it’s just a sore—that there’s no injury he can see.”

“It isn’t a sore.” Angele had probed with her finger and found what she had suspected—something hard and sharp embedded in the flesh. “Do you have a needle?”

“No. What do you want one for?”

“She’s been stung by one of those huge bees that Blois is known to have, thanks to all the vineyards in the area. The stinger is still in there, and that’s what is causing the sore and infection. I have to get it out.”

“That horse will never let you dig into her with a needle.”

“She let me find the bee’s stinger. I think she knows I’m trying to help her.”

As if to confirm it, the mare dropped her head and nuzzled Angele’s hair. Laughing, she said, “All right, we understand each other, don’t we, girl?”

Straightening, she told the boy she was going to find a needle. “And you go to the kitchen—galley—whatever it’s called, and find some vinegar. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”