Aching for Always (26 page)

“This is her room,” he said, and in a louder voice added, “I certainly hope the transfer went smoothly.” He unlocked the door and ushered Joss inside. “The men are under the impression the captain, Miss McPherson and old Nate were met by another ship after we left them on the rock—the same ship from which you and the captain recently returned.”

“Ah.” Always good to know the story if you were expected to lie through your teeth. She thought of the story about her own made-up illness Di was feeding Rogan as
well as the story about a fling with Hugh she'd led Di to believe before that and felt a stab of guilt. She didn't usually lie, let alone juggle quite so many at one time.

Fiona's room was more spacious than hers but filled almost to capacity with a hanging cot, a trunk, a desk and a chair. There was a door to what she supposed to be a closet in the adjacent wall.

“I believe you are in want of this.” Roark pulled her mother's map of London from his coat and handed it to her.

A young boy ran by the door, stopped, turned on his heel and stuck his head in the door. “Mr. Lytle's compliments, sir. You are wanted in the sick bay. Your watch.”

Roark made his good-byes and agreed to let Joss know if anything changed.

Joss looked at the map. What part could a map of London play in righting a wrong done by her father? She closed her eyes and thought of her mother and the golden hair she wore tied up in a knot. She remembered the stories her mother had told—always so vivid and engaging—and how on the very best days, her mother would stop what she was doing, pull Joss into her lap and begin to spin some fantastical yarn. Joss thought of
The Tale of the Beautiful Mapmaker
and the handsome knight and felt a wave of nostalgia. Ah, Rogan, what a knight you seemed that day outside the hospital. . . .

She smiled, but the internal smile wasn't quite in line with the outside one, and she couldn't figure out why, apart from her worry for Hugh. Then she remembered the visions she'd seen on the islet. Why did that figure in the green stocking cap make her uneasy?

She sighed and looked around. Where would Fiona
put a map? Joss began with the usual places—the desk and its single drawer, which yielded little but paper and ink, and the trunk, which contained gowns and shoes. Remembering detective novels she'd read, she even checked the sides of the trunk and desk drawer for a false panel. Nothing. And, in any case, why would Fiona have to hide a map?

Joss checked the closet next, only to discover it wasn't a closet at all. It was the door to a much larger room whose far wall was lined with diamond-paned windows, through which the disappearing wake was visible. She scanned the low, wide cot, far larger than her own, and the long table with its richly upholstered chairs, thinking, Cripes, for a barely afloat ship from the 1700s, this is space fit for—

A captain.

She turned her head toward Fiona's neatly made bed and then, through the door, back to the gently swinging double-width cot.

Ah.

Good manners forbade her from entering—not to mention the guards outside the door—though it did not forbid her taking in everything she could from the doorway. There was a chest of drawers in the corner, and a desk beside it. Above the chest, an oval mirror hung from the ceiling by a ribbon. She wondered if that was where Hugh shaved. The desk was empty—the rolling of the seas made setting anything down an exercise in futility, she supposed—but a dozen or so books were roped into a bookshelf on the wall above it. The most personal object in the room was a small, rough-hewn box that sat just under the cot, the wood around its
brass lock burnished by regular use. She would have given up an order from the Chicago Public School system to look inside.

She heard a noise and turned to find a small wardrobe against the wall where she stood. The noise sounded again, and she realized the wardrobe door was not fully shut. When the ship tipped one way, it yawned open an inch or two, and when the ship tipped the other, it bumped closed. She watched, mesmerized as a glimpse of bleached linen came into view and disappeared. Underclothes? His nightshirt? Fiona's chemise?

Leaning in, she tried for a closer look, taking care to keep her toes proprietarily on her own side of the great divide. She thought she saw a hint of ruffle, though that didn't necessarily clarify the issue, as she knew a man in Hugh's time might reasonably be expected to wear a ruffled shirt, though she certainly hoped it eliminated underclothes as a possibility, at least for him.

She grabbed the door handle with one hand and the doorframe with the other and leaned in so far, she was practically doing an iron cross.

“Miss O'Malley?”

She slipped and scrabbled to her feet as Roark, clearly taken aback, watched.

“Yes?” she demanded. “I was doing something for the captain.”

“I'm sure he is appreciative. I have come about the captain.”

“What? Is something wrong?”

“You know his requirements about attendants. He is resting comfortably, but things are a-hoo on deck. I'm
afraid a French cutter has clipped the horizon. I am needed. Will you be able to go to him?”

“Yes. In just a moment. Mr. Roark, I hate to bother you, but I have a plane to—er, a very important appointment to make this evening. I have to return to the islet soon.”

“We will do our best, Miss O'Malley. I'm afraid the French navy is not always as sensible of schedules as one would hope. Oh, and I meant to tell you the captain has had me move you to a different cabin. It is across the hall from this one—the one with a scorch mark on the door. Nothing to worry about. Just a bit of cannon fire.”

Comforting.

“Thank you, Mr. Roark. I'll be down as quickly as I can. I have a little more to do here.”

His gaze went uncertainly to the place where she'd been hanging. “Shall I call for a hook and line?”

“No,” she said. “Thank you.”

He took his leave, and Joss finished her search, emptying Fiona's cot of its mattress, shaking out the sheets and tapping the walls in search of a hidden storage area. Nothing. She plopped on the cot and looked at the chest. The room was a bust. In fact, she thought with some consternation, it looked like no one had ever set foot in the place. She could see the mop marks around the base of the trunk.

Mop marks around the base . . .?

She jumped up, wrapped her arms around the sides and pulled the trunk forward.

A folded sheet came into view.

Bingo.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE
 

The beautiful mapmaker died, and many men came to court the daughter. But the princess-girl, now an able woman, waited for the knight who would share with her all he possessed—his help and his heart.

—The Tale of the Beautiful Mapmaker

She spread the thick vellum on Hugh's cot, watching his fitfully sleeping form before returning to the map.

The Edinburgh map was identical in style to other maps her mother had created. This, she supposed, could mean only one of two things: Fiona or some other time traveler had stolen one of her mother's maps and brought it to the past, or her mother based her mapmaking on some eighteenth-century artist's style. There was a third possibility, of course, but it was so far-fetched as to be beyond consideration.

She examined the work—the lush, hand-printed colors, the beautiful copperplate script. How clearly her mother's passion for her art had come through in the execution. Though Joss did not know when or even the reason why her mother had abandoned this calling in order
to mass-produce maps, Joss had always associated the reason with the story of the heroine in
The Little Mermaid
—Hans Christian Andersen's dark, unsparing tale, not the sanitized Walt Disney version. Andersen's mermaid gives up her voice and tail in order to walk on land and be near the handsome prince, and every step she takes on her new feet feels as if she's walking on swords. Had Joss's dad been the handsome prince? She didn't know, but for all the joy her mother's hand-drawn maps brought Joss, they held an element of sadness as well.

But what could Hugh, or indeed anyone, find in a map of Edinburgh? Or, for that matter, in the map of London Hugh had taken from her company? She unfolded that one as well. What struck her immediately was the exact duplication of the cartouche: both had the Scottish Blackface sheep; both had the pele tower; both had the hawk, the hunting dog with teeth bared, and the wild boar; and both had an odd dashed background. Since each of her mother's maps usually had a cartouche made specifically for it, Joss was puzzled as to why two disparate maps would share not just similar but identical cartouches. What's more, she had the strongest sense the map that was missing from the map room—not the one Hugh had taken, but the one she thought Building Services might have moved—had the same cartouche. She hadn't looked at it—
really
looked at it—in years, but she certainly remembered there being sheep.

She moved the maps to the side and rested her head on her fist, gazing at them thoughtfully. She could feel the warmth of Hugh's body and the labored rise and fall of his chest. Maps, maps and more maps. What had her fa
ther done? What were Hugh and Fiona really looking for? And what, if anything, did her mother have to do with it?

She heard Hugh's voice and realized with a start that she'd been asleep. It took a moment to figure out she was at his side on a stool, not in his arms, especially as the dream she'd been having had been a long and subconsciously enhanced replay of that kiss on the balcony. Di had been right. There was something quite satisfying about having found her Mr. Mistake.

He shook the covers loose, and when she tried to straighten the sheet, he caught her by the arm.

“Duck!” he cried in a muffled rumble. “'Tis Reynolds!”

“No, no,” she said, trying to soothe him. “You're dreaming.”

He flopped to his side, breathing shallowly. She laid a hand on his temple. He was on fire. His cheeks were flushed, and a sheen of moisture glistened on his skin.

“Aye, the fever has begun,” came the surgeon's voice behind her, and she jumped. She hadn't realized he was in the room.

“What can we do?” she asked.

“Wait. 'Twill grow worse before it grows better.”

If it grows better.
In 1706, they were two hundred years away from having antibiotics. She felt a new kick of fear for him—and for herself were she to lose him.

“On his phone. The scurrilous cad.” Hugh thrashed at the sheets.

Joss stole a glance at Lytle. “I mean no disrespect, but I think you had better leave. Can you give him more laudanum?”

“I cannot. He is a large man, but I fear more would be tempting fate.”

“May I have a fresh basin of water, then, and some towels?”

“I'll tell my boy.” Mr. Lytle exited.

She touched Hugh's forehead, caressing that scar that ran through his brow. “It's all right. It's all right.”

He calmed a bit. “She must not see,” he whispered.

“Who, Hugh? Who?”

“Fiona. Need Fiona. Oh, why did Maggie leave?”

Joss pulled her hand back as if she'd been burned.
Maggie? My mother, Maggie?

“Maggie who?”

“The blood! Oh, the blood!” he shrieked. “I'll kill him! I'll kill him with my own hands!”

Mr. Lytle returned, followed by a boy carrying a basin and towels. The boy handed them to Joss.

Hugh called out again, and Lytle frowned. “Keep him comfortable. If anything changes”—he shook his head uncertainly—“send for me.”

For the better part of the afternoon, Joss kept Hugh as cool as she could, and his cries gave her much food for thought. She was heartened to see his discomfort ease, and he fell into a quieter sleep. As for the ship, it never slowed, and Joss prayed they were moving in a large circle that would deliver her soon to the islet.

Sometime later—she must have dozed—she was awakened by Mr. Roark, who carried a chop and a mug of beer.

“I don't think he'll eat.” She gazed at Hugh's pallid complexion.

“It's for you,” Roark said. “Take it to your cabin. Get some rest. Let me take a shift.”

“But the French—”

“Are gone. Did you not know? Ran into the protective arms of
L'Achilles
, one of the French navy's largest ships. I called off the chase.”

“L'Achilles
is a rather poor name for a ship, don't you think?”

“Hardly matters when you carry forty-two guns. We are heading back to the islet. I am hoping to touch there in half a watch.”

She must have frowned, for he added with a gentle smile, “Two hours.”

Lytle arrived with the next dose of laudanum, and Joss got to her feet.

“Keep him cool,” she said to Roark.

“When it comes to water, m'um, I am uncommonly handy.”