empty, the pillow straightened and blankets folded. Dash slid to and fro across the floor of the cabin with the movement of the ship, whimpering as he went.
“Can you find Yael, Harriet? I’d go myself but—” Louisa began to retch.
With Dash under one arm, Harriet had made her way up the iron steps, clinging to the rail with her free hand. There was no sign of the prayer group through the window of the saloon. She’d come up to the weather deck on impulse, to see if Yael was here and to see the storm for herself.
“Get below, miss,” a sailor called to her over the roar of the wind. “You’ll fetch up in the briny.”
Gripping the banister, she made her way back down the stairs. At the bottom was Zebedee Cox, his collar askew and his hair uncombed.
“Rough, ain’t it?” he shouted. “Damned queasy-making.”
“Yes,” she shouted back. “How is Mrs. Cox?”
“Indisposed. As a matter of fact, I was looking for you. She asked if you’d be kind enough to—” Water streamed down the polished stairs, soaking Harriet’s boots, filling Mr. Cox’s trouser cuffs. “To call in on her, Miss Heron.”
Harriet’s chest felt tight and she was shivering. She had to get back to Louisa and she still hadn’t found Yael.
“I cannot, Mr. Cox, I’m looking for my aunt.”
“I saw her just a minute ago, on her way back to the cabin,” he said. “My wife begged you to come to her.”
Harriet pictured Mrs. Cox. She knew what it was to be ill and to need someone by you.
“All right,” she said. “Take me to her.”
The Coxes were traveling first class; their cabin was on the port side of the middle deck, off a small, private sitting area shared with two other cabins. Mr. Cox opened the door and ushered Harriet inside. The cabin was bigger than their own, longer and wider, with a padded seat along the inner wall. Brushes and combs and clothes lay on the floor in disarray and a pair of satin shoes tumbled in a corner with the movement of the ship. In the gloom, Harriet didn’t immediately see Sarah Cox.
When she did, she cried out in surprise. Mrs. Cox was sitting on a chair wedged up against the curved wall at the end of one of the beds, bent double, her arms clutched over her stomach. Her hair was undressed, tied in a ribbon on the nape of her neck, and her face looked gray.
“You’re ill.” Harriet crossed the cabin, kneeled beside her. “Whatever is the matter?”
Mrs. Cox wiped her forehead on her sleeve and sat up in the chair. “I’m sorry, Harriet. I didn’t know who else to ask for.”
She raised the salts clutched in her hand to her nose. “I’m in trouble,” she said. “Awful trouble.”
Without warning, she began to shriek, making a series of staccato cries as if she were being murdered. Harriet felt terrified.
“Mrs. Cox? What is it?”
The cries subsided and she sat up again, her eyes wide; perspiration was running down her face and neck, soaking her delicate nightdress. The ship pitched violently and Harriet grabbed the back of the chair.
“You must fetch help, Mr. Cox,” she said, raising her voice over the thumps and cries that were going up from nearby cabins. “Your wife needs a doctor.”
Zebedee Cox was still by the door, braced against the frame. “I’m not calling any doctor,” he said. “Keep your voice down.” There was a knock on the door and Mr. Cox opened it partway.
Harriet caught a glimpse of one of the crew, outside, saluting. “Pardon me, sir,” he said. “Got to fit the deadlight. Over the porthole. Won’t take a jiffy and it’ll keep Mrs. Cox safe.”
“There’s no need,” Mr. Cox said. “We shall be quite all right.”
“But, sir—”
“I’ll leave you two ladies for the time being,” Mr. Cox called. And he left, shutting the door behind him.
Harriet stared at the closed door, then turned back to Mrs. Cox. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Cox. I’ll go for the ship’s surgeon. I’ll bring him straight to you.”
Mrs. Cox covered
“Can you find Yael, Harriet? I’d go myself but—” Louisa began to retch.
With Dash under one arm, Harriet had made her way up the iron steps, clinging to the rail with her free hand. There was no sign of the prayer group through the window of the saloon. She’d come up to the weather deck on impulse, to see if Yael was here and to see the storm for herself.
“Get below, miss,” a sailor called to her over the roar of the wind. “You’ll fetch up in the briny.”
Gripping the banister, she made her way back down the stairs. At the bottom was Zebedee Cox, his collar askew and his hair uncombed.
“Rough, ain’t it?” he shouted. “Damned queasy-making.”
“Yes,” she shouted back. “How is Mrs. Cox?”
“Indisposed. As a matter of fact, I was looking for you. She asked if you’d be kind enough to—” Water streamed down the polished stairs, soaking Harriet’s boots, filling Mr. Cox’s trouser cuffs. “To call in on her, Miss Heron.”
Harriet’s chest felt tight and she was shivering. She had to get back to Louisa and she still hadn’t found Yael.
“I cannot, Mr. Cox, I’m looking for my aunt.”
“I saw her just a minute ago, on her way back to the cabin,” he said. “My wife begged you to come to her.”
Harriet pictured Mrs. Cox. She knew what it was to be ill and to need someone by you.
“All right,” she said. “Take me to her.”
The Coxes were traveling first class; their cabin was on the port side of the middle deck, off a small, private sitting area shared with two other cabins. Mr. Cox opened the door and ushered Harriet inside. The cabin was bigger than their own, longer and wider, with a padded seat along the inner wall. Brushes and combs and clothes lay on the floor in disarray and a pair of satin shoes tumbled in a corner with the movement of the ship. In the gloom, Harriet didn’t immediately see Sarah Cox.
When she did, she cried out in surprise. Mrs. Cox was sitting on a chair wedged up against the curved wall at the end of one of the beds, bent double, her arms clutched over her stomach. Her hair was undressed, tied in a ribbon on the nape of her neck, and her face looked gray.
“You’re ill.” Harriet crossed the cabin, kneeled beside her. “Whatever is the matter?”
Mrs. Cox wiped her forehead on her sleeve and sat up in the chair. “I’m sorry, Harriet. I didn’t know who else to ask for.”
She raised the salts clutched in her hand to her nose. “I’m in trouble,” she said. “Awful trouble.”
Without warning, she began to shriek, making a series of staccato cries as if she were being murdered. Harriet felt terrified.
“Mrs. Cox? What is it?”
The cries subsided and she sat up again, her eyes wide; perspiration was running down her face and neck, soaking her delicate nightdress. The ship pitched violently and Harriet grabbed the back of the chair.
“You must fetch help, Mr. Cox,” she said, raising her voice over the thumps and cries that were going up from nearby cabins. “Your wife needs a doctor.”
Zebedee Cox was still by the door, braced against the frame. “I’m not calling any doctor,” he said. “Keep your voice down.” There was a knock on the door and Mr. Cox opened it partway.
Harriet caught a glimpse of one of the crew, outside, saluting. “Pardon me, sir,” he said. “Got to fit the deadlight. Over the porthole. Won’t take a jiffy and it’ll keep Mrs. Cox safe.”
“There’s no need,” Mr. Cox said. “We shall be quite all right.”
“But, sir—”
“I’ll leave you two ladies for the time being,” Mr. Cox called. And he left, shutting the door behind him.
Harriet stared at the closed door, then turned back to Mrs. Cox. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Cox. I’ll go for the ship’s surgeon. I’ll bring him straight to you.”
Mrs. Cox covered
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