The Seafaring Lady’s Guide to Love by Fenna Edgewood

Chapter 17

Rosalind was crying.

“Oh, my darling,” Philip said softly, turning to her in the hall. “I am so sorry. I’m so sorry for all of this wretchedness I have brought you into.”

He pulled her to his chest and burrowed his face in her hair. She smelled sweet and clean and good. Fresh and alive. Everything opposite to what they had just come from.

“Are you sorry you married me?” He asked, only partly jesting.

“How can you ask that?” She replied, looking up at glaring from teary eyes. “Are you sorry you married me?”

“No,” he said very seriously. “I am gladder now than you could ever know. Your love is a balm, Rosalind. You have healed my bitter, damaged, broken heart. If not for you—well, perhaps I would not be in quite as poor a state as Martin. But I was crippled none the less. Limping along, not truly living.”

“But now?” Rosalind said, quietly, and touching a hand to his cheek.

He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

“Now there is much to look forward to,” he said, looking down into her eyes. “Would you not agree? A lifetime of adventures. Is that not what you wished for when you came aboard the Witch?”

“It is,” she said, smiling a little. “But Philip... Oh, poor, Cherry.” He saw her expression darken once more.

“I know,” he said. “I know. Thank God she has Philippa Rose. And you. And even Gracie, you know.”

“I want her to come back with us, to Bedford,” Rosalind said suddenly. “To see my mother, to meet my other sisters. Oh, Philip, I think it might really be good for her. And for Philippa Rose. My mother would love to meet them, and they could stay right at Orchard Hill if they liked. It is quiet, but beautiful. Peaceful. Perhaps Cherry would like that.”

“Very well,” Philip said, resting his head against hers. “We will discuss it with her. I have no issue with that.”

“Come, Rosalind!” Gracie’s high-pitched voice called up the stairs. “Cherry is parched and Philippa is crochety.”

“I am rather parched, too,” Rosalind admitted. She looked at her husband’s face and quickly added, “And don’t you even suggest that we look for refreshments somewhere in this terrible house. I do not want to stay here a moment longer.” She gave a shudder.

He put his arm around her waist and drew her along the corridor. “I understand. I truly do.”

Back in the carriage, Cherry was quiet.

Philip had seated himself next to her and put his arm around her shoulders, trying to comfort with his touch without being cloying. She leaned against him, and once again he felt a pang of sadness as he thought of a childhood they might have shared, memories they would have made.

Would they have been even closer than they were now? It did not seem possible. And yet he knew sharing a childhood with his twin would have enriched his life immeasurably.

Never, ever would he separate his children—if he was to have any—as his father had so cruelly done, and for such ignorant reasons.

The time passed more quickly on the drive back to the hotel.

When they arrived, it was past dusk. The mosquitos and night bugs were already swarming around the veranda as they entered and made their way to their rooms.

Inside the suite, mesh curtains hung over each bed so that the windows of each room could be kept open for the cool night air while keeping the insects away from sleepers.

“You must be exhausted, Cherry,” Rosalind said softly as they entered. “Are you hungry?”

Cherry shook her head mutely and started to carry Philippa Rose and a bundle of baby things into her room.

“Here, let me help you with those,” Philip said gently. He followed her in, grateful for an opportunity to talk to her in private for a few moments.

He set the items down on a chest. Folded baby blankets. A little tin rattle one of the sailors had kindly crafted, which had become Philippa’s favorite toy—though she tended to hit herself with it as much as she shook it.

“I am so very sorry about Charles,” he said, fingering the soft flannel of one of the blankets. “I still cannot believe it.”

He felt Cherry shift to look at him. She set Philippa Rose down on the bed carefully.

“I can,” she said, slowly.

He met her eyes.

“I think I’ve known for a long time,” she continued. “I feel as if I have been pretending that everything would be all right for so long. When inside, I knew it never would be again.”

“Oh, my darling,” he said, stepping closer and pulling her into his arms.

She leaned against him and he felt her shaking as she wept.

“He was a good man,” she whispered. “He did not deserve to die so far from us. All alone.”

“Not entirely alone, thanks to Martin,” Philip reminded her, touching her hair gently and feeling the dark curls spring up as he moved his hand. The gesture reminded him of something he could say—nothing that would quell her grief, but something that would perhaps comfort them all through the next weeks and months.

“Charles will always live on—in Philippa Rose. Look at her, Cherry. She is the best of both of you. Right down to her hair. Your curls and Charles’ coloring.”

“She does not have all of Charles’ coloring,” Cherry corrected.

“No,” he admitted. “She has your lovely complexion. Do you wish she did not?”

“I wish for her life to be easy, brother,” Cherry said, quietly. “As easy and as good a life as can be. Would you not wish the same for your own child?”

“She will have a good life, Cherry,” he reassured her. “You may live wherever you please and however you choose. Everything will be provided for. She will never want for anything.” He hesitated, then added, “Rosalind wishes for us to visit her family when we return to England. They hail from a small country village. Would you like that, Cherry? She says her mother would be very eager to meet you.”

“As well as her daughter’s new husband, I’m sure,” Cherry said, smiling a little.

“I admit I keep nearly forgetting that I am someone’s husband again,” he said, giving a small laugh. He wiped the smile away. “It feels wrong though, to be considering celebrating a marriage when...”

“No,” she interrupted, hushing him. “That is where you are wrong. If it was not for you and Philippa Rose, what happiness would there be? At least now I know that—” She took a deep breath. “—that I will come through this. Not right away. And I do not believe I will ever marry again. But...some day. I will not always feel this way, some day.”

She sighed and pulled away from him to sit on the bed where Philippa Rose lay sleeping. “But for now, I do feel this way. And I would like some rest. We will see you all in the morning.”

“Of course. Goodnight.”

He wanted to say more. To say that he loved her and treasured her and wished he could heal her aching heart.

It was terrible to think that she was going through what he had, two years before.

But at least Cherry had the comfort of knowing that her husband had died loving her faithfully, and perhaps not even knowing what had happened to him. Martin had said Charles had not died in pain.

Well, perhaps it was true, perhaps it was not. But certainly, it was what any family member wished to be told of their loved one.

He ran his hands over his face and leaned back against the door.

“Philip,” Rosalind said, coming up to him. “I’ve ordered a light meal. Will you eat with us?”

“I have a better idea,” he said, slowly, letting himself look at her—truly look at her—for the first time that day.

She looked tired and concerned. Her hair was damp with sweat from the tropical humidity. Small curling tendrils hung around her neck and over her ears like natural jewels, adding to the sweetness of her appearance.

Rosalind Calvert. His wife.

He had thought her attractive the moment he first saw her.

But now he thought her much more than that.

She was exceptionally lovely.

Her figure was full, curving, altogether womanly and desirable.

But her face was what held his attention now. Strong and soft at the same time. Pretty as a rose petal—but not a rose without thorns.

Intelligence shone from her bright amber eyes, and her mouth had the firm set of a woman who would not back down easily from anything or anyone.

He loved that about her.

If she had backed down, after all, they would not be here now, together.

“I think Cherry would like to leave Tortola, as soon as possible. She will visit his grave tomorrow, but she does not wish to have him moved.”

“How soon?” his wife asked, stroking his cheek, and sliding her other arm around him.

“Tomorrow or the day after. As soon as the Witch can resupply, and take care of any small repairs that are needed.” He shook his head. “The men may be disappointed to have their shore leave shortened, but we will compensate them well for the trouble. But you—you have come all of this way, only to be leaving again so soon. Will you visit the family you were to governess for? Or write to them?”

She gestured to a letter on the table, folded and sealed. “I have explained everything as best I could. They are friends with my sister’s husband.” She blushed. “I am not sure if I have mentioned him before. The Duke of Englefield?”

“No, you have not,” he said, wryly. “A duke, is he? I believe I was one myself for a few hours. Perhaps I won’t mention that fact when I meet him, however. What will your mother say when she learns you have only found yourself a simple mister with a shipping company?”

“She will be pleased I have found a gentleman, no matter whether he is titled or not. Believe me, all she cares about is our happiness. Not our wealth or our status. Although,” she noted. “None of us have done too poorly for ourselves. I think you will like Claire and her husband. They live quite near to Orchard Hill.”

“I will love all of your family, for they are yours,” he promised, holding her closer.

God, he needed her. Desperately. Her warmth, her love. She was all that was good and he was rich because he had her.

“Come with me now? If you can go without supper,” he said, nibbling at her ear gently.

“I am not all that hungry,” she admitted. “Though it seems you are.” She smiled impishly.

They left the hotel and walked through the streets. Road Town was not large and the docks were not far. Philip led the way back towards the quay.

“Are we going back to the Witch?” Rosalind asked, with surprise, as she noticed their direction.

“No, but quite close.” Now it was his turn to smile mischievously.

He had an idea in his mind. Perhaps what one might even call a fantasy. He wondered what she would think of it.

He drew her past where the Witch lay anchored, to the end of the docks, down a flight of stairs.

And then, a few steps further, and the town disappeared from sight behind them.

They were alone, on a pristine sandy beach. The moon and the stars reflecting off the water provided ample light. On the shore, the wind was stronger than it had been in the center of town and kept the insects at bay.

The breeze caressed them like a warm lover’s hands, while the smell of the salty waters mixed with the rich scent of the island’s lush vegetation.

They walked hand in hand quietly along the shore. Companionable and happy.

“I should like to travel more,” his wife said, finally breaking the silence. She let go of his hand and paused to pull off the slippers she had worn. She tossed them in the sand and pulling her skirts up around her ankles, walked a little closer to where the water lapped at the shore. “I should not like to think this will be the end of our travels together. Promise it will not be?”

“I promise,” he said solemnly. “Should you like to live on a ship, do you think?”

Her eyes widened. “Live on a ship? As if it were a house?”

He shrugged. “Well, for part of the year, anyhow. If you would like it. The Witch could be made much more comfortable for a couple, you know. Or a family. Or, there are other ships. Many in fact.”

“Many ships,” she breathed, holding her hands together in front of her. “And where should we go?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, lightly. “Italy. Egypt. The Americas. Anywhere you like.”

“How do you feel about monkeys?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.

He raised his eyebrows. “Thinking of cultivating a menagerie, are you?”

He shucked off his own footwear, dropped the light coat he had been wearing onto the beach, and stepped towards her, digging his feet into the cool wet sand. He put his hands on her hips, enjoying the feel of her curves.

“If a menagerie of monkeys is what you would like, so you shall have. To tell you the truth—” He smiled a little bashfully. “I should like nothing better than a ship full of life,” he confessed. “Children and animals. Would seven be too many?”

“Monkeys or children?” She asked innocently.

“Children,” he emphasized. “Seeing Philippa Rose...” He swallowed.

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Rosalind said softly. “I should like one exactly the same.”

She looked up into his eyes and touched his brow. “But Philip, even if we have no children of our own, there are always children out there in need of homes. Would you consider that? Please?” She looked so sincere and heartfelt that he nodded.

“I had not before, but I will now,” he said, truthfully.

She had let her skirts drop and looking down he saw the waves had soaked the hem.

“Would you like to swim?” He asked, innocently.