at least three gallons of water, and she was going to stick her head in it.
However ungraceful that might be. Picking up the slim bar of soap she still had and a small cup, she placed them on the floor where she might reach them. The cabin was growing hotter. She
pulled the pins from her hair and worked the braids loose quickly. Washing would serve little purpose, if she was sweating again.
With her head in the kettle, using the cup to pour water over her hair was awkward. Her
shoulders strained but she persisted until every strand was wet. The soap took an effort to lather but she worked it into her scalp to wash away weeks of grime. When she returned to using the cup, a soft sigh of relief left her lips. The water rinsed everything away, leaving her skin tingling.
She would never take the feeling of clean skin for granted again.
With her face and neck so clean, the chemise suddenly annoyed her past her endurance. She
could not bear it another moment. Standing up, she striped every last stitch of clothing off.
Modesty be damned, she was tired of stinking.
Three gallons of water had never brought such relief before. Lorena used it on every inch of her skin before nodding in satisfaction. She pushed the kettle into the corner of the cabin before struggling to lift the heavy lid of her trunk. Searching among the paper-wrapped bundles, she found a new chemise, stockings and corset. Her dress would have to do because the ones in the trunk would be wrinkled terribly from five weeks.
She dried her hair on her soiled chemise before slipping into the fresh clothing. Even if she detested the stiffly boned corset, at least the fashion was to have laces in the back and front.
It granted her a measure of control she liked. Her nose wrinkled when she lifted her dress off the bed, but there was no help for it. She raised it above her head and let it slither down into place over her new undergarments. Each button made her hotter when she closed it. But braiding her hair and pinning it back up brought a measure of relief. Never mind that it was still wet, the cabin was becoming unbearable.
Returning to the deck, she stared at the island. They were much closer now. Captain Connell was shouting orders and his men scurried to obey. Gleaming white walls covered the tip of the island.
She could see the flags of the British navy fluttering in the morning breeze. An explosion rent the air as a single cannon fired over them, the ball falling into the ocean.
The men sent up a cheer.
"You'll be happy to hear that the fort has granted us permission to approach, Miss St. John."
Captain Connell had turned to face her. He wore a pleased expression. "Quite soon you will be ashore."
And out of my hands...
She finished the sentence for him. The silence from him and his officers proved how little liking the man had for taking on the honor of bringing her to Bermuda.
"How delightful."
How dishonest common courtesies really are.
He said one thing and she answered back, all the while neither of them spoke the truth. It was exhausting when you thought about it. Her entire life had been about putting on a good show. It was the truth she was an experienced actress.
The hope she'd kindled dimmed. Mordaunt was an officer and no doubt would expect her to
continue on with this playacting of proper ness.
But there was nothing except to go forward. Even with the prospects dim. She didn't fight to hold on to her hope after all, her life had always been a struggle to make do. You would think she was accustomed to it. And still something inside her yearned for more. It burned in spite of the years of adjusting and bending. She hungered for something so badly but didn't even know what it was she craved.
Commissioner Adam Mordaunt did not remove his bicorn hat when they met. The man stood on
the green lawn that surrounded his house while she climbed the hill toward him. His dark eyes surveyed her without emotion. He was dressed as if he were standing
However ungraceful that might be. Picking up the slim bar of soap she still had and a small cup, she placed them on the floor where she might reach them. The cabin was growing hotter. She
pulled the pins from her hair and worked the braids loose quickly. Washing would serve little purpose, if she was sweating again.
With her head in the kettle, using the cup to pour water over her hair was awkward. Her
shoulders strained but she persisted until every strand was wet. The soap took an effort to lather but she worked it into her scalp to wash away weeks of grime. When she returned to using the cup, a soft sigh of relief left her lips. The water rinsed everything away, leaving her skin tingling.
She would never take the feeling of clean skin for granted again.
With her face and neck so clean, the chemise suddenly annoyed her past her endurance. She
could not bear it another moment. Standing up, she striped every last stitch of clothing off.
Modesty be damned, she was tired of stinking.
Three gallons of water had never brought such relief before. Lorena used it on every inch of her skin before nodding in satisfaction. She pushed the kettle into the corner of the cabin before struggling to lift the heavy lid of her trunk. Searching among the paper-wrapped bundles, she found a new chemise, stockings and corset. Her dress would have to do because the ones in the trunk would be wrinkled terribly from five weeks.
She dried her hair on her soiled chemise before slipping into the fresh clothing. Even if she detested the stiffly boned corset, at least the fashion was to have laces in the back and front.
It granted her a measure of control she liked. Her nose wrinkled when she lifted her dress off the bed, but there was no help for it. She raised it above her head and let it slither down into place over her new undergarments. Each button made her hotter when she closed it. But braiding her hair and pinning it back up brought a measure of relief. Never mind that it was still wet, the cabin was becoming unbearable.
Returning to the deck, she stared at the island. They were much closer now. Captain Connell was shouting orders and his men scurried to obey. Gleaming white walls covered the tip of the island.
She could see the flags of the British navy fluttering in the morning breeze. An explosion rent the air as a single cannon fired over them, the ball falling into the ocean.
The men sent up a cheer.
"You'll be happy to hear that the fort has granted us permission to approach, Miss St. John."
Captain Connell had turned to face her. He wore a pleased expression. "Quite soon you will be ashore."
And out of my hands...
She finished the sentence for him. The silence from him and his officers proved how little liking the man had for taking on the honor of bringing her to Bermuda.
"How delightful."
How dishonest common courtesies really are.
He said one thing and she answered back, all the while neither of them spoke the truth. It was exhausting when you thought about it. Her entire life had been about putting on a good show. It was the truth she was an experienced actress.
The hope she'd kindled dimmed. Mordaunt was an officer and no doubt would expect her to
continue on with this playacting of proper ness.
But there was nothing except to go forward. Even with the prospects dim. She didn't fight to hold on to her hope after all, her life had always been a struggle to make do. You would think she was accustomed to it. And still something inside her yearned for more. It burned in spite of the years of adjusting and bending. She hungered for something so badly but didn't even know what it was she craved.
Commissioner Adam Mordaunt did not remove his bicorn hat when they met. The man stood on
the green lawn that surrounded his house while she climbed the hill toward him. His dark eyes surveyed her without emotion. He was dressed as if he were standing
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