The Seafaring Lady’s Guide to Love by Fenna Edgewood
Chapter 1
London, 1822
Rosalind Gardner had been skulking around the London docks all morning in a state of nervous anticipation.
Around her, the hustle and bustle of those who made their livelihoods from the seafaring trades carried on, oblivious to her mental quandary. Men—young and old alike, along with some no more than boys—scurried about, unloading and hoisting and carrying their rich cargos. Barrels full of wool and tobacco, along with more exotic items—coconuts, olive oil, sugar, cocoa, brandy, and spices—were carted across the docks to warehouses and wagons.
The air was filled with the salty scent of the seawater along with other, less agreeable smells of hard-working male bodies and fish.
Fish oil, to be exact. A few hours before—yes, she had been standing in one place for that long—a young dock worker had slipped and dropped the barrel he was carrying. It had smashed to the ground, bursting open in a ripe piscine puddle. An older man had loudly berated the boy, who had flushed with shame and run off to load himself up with another barrel—this time walking much more carefully until he reached the warehouse which was his destination.
The docks were fascinating, surely. But it was not dock life which most interested Rosalind, but ship life.
From these docks, she could travel to almost anywhere in the world.
She had already chosen her ship and her destination: Tortola, in the West Indies, via the Witch of the Waves.
Not only was the Witch a large and lovely galleon, it also bore the most romantic name she had seen on a ship.
Most of the ships along the quays were named pedantically.
The Lion—completely unimaginative. Half the ships on the quay seemed to be named the Lion.
The Mary-Rose, the Rose, the Primrose, the Rosemary. She was sure if she stood on the docks long enough, she would soon see a ship called the Rosalind. The names were pretty enough, though dull. They conjured images of captain’s wives and daughters—and with them dull, English life.
The Castle of Comfort—while a little bit better, the name was either overly optimistic (Rosalind knew enough not to expect a ship to offer the comforts of life on land) or pessimistically ironic.
But the Witch of the Waves—now that was a name that thrilled!
Not only was the sound of it wonderfully alliterative, but the carved creature who bore it was beauty and mystery personified: A bare-breasted mermaid with long streaming hair and a fierce expression on her lovely face. Her arms were folded just below her breasts, giving her an even more imposing appearance despite her lack of clothing.
Rosalind had shivered when she saw the wooden sea lady.
No one could feel unsafe aboard a ship led by such a fearsome female creature.
Now there was only the matter of purchasing passage.
The Witch of the Waves was not a passenger ship. Primarily, it transported cargo and sometimes was rented out as a packet ship for mail between England and the West Indies.
Rosalind knew this for she had not only been eavesdropping all morning, but she had also worked up the courage to ask a kindly-looking older sailor who she saw going back and forth between the Witch and the shore.
No, the Witch of the Waves was not a passenger ship, he had explained—and Rosalind had felt her heart sink—but seeing her expression, he had quickly added that there were a limited number of cabins, for both men and women, set aside for passengers. Although they were a pretty penny, he added, looking her up and down in a mildly appraising way.
Well, Rosalind had been saving her pennies. Pinned to various locations of her outfit were packets of pound notes sewn into watertight pockets. Although she truly hoped she never had the opportunity to learn just how watertight they were.
For three years, she had been saving. She would not say scrimping and saving, for she was really not badly off for a single young woman. Her eldest sister, Gwendolen, had married a duke, after all.
Her second eldest sister, Claire, had not done too poorly for herself either with her marriage to a country squire.
In the two years since Claire’s marriage, Rosalind had made her way to London and taken up residence with Gwendolen’s family. Never one to be idle, she had also worked as a governess—much to Gwendolen’s husband Angel’s amusement.
Oh, of course, she could have had a season—or more than one—if she had wished it. But Gwendolen’s experiences had not left Rosalind with a positive inclination towards the ton’s marriage market. Nor was she ready to begin the life of the settled, married lady.
To the rest of the world, Rosalind was practically on-the-shelf as she drew nearer and nearer to twenty-two years of age. But then, Rosalind had never cared all that much for the opinions of the rest of the world.
It was her life. Therefore, it was her opinions that counted. Although she was well aware that in spite of the relatively enlightened age in which they were living, many men would still find such a view shocking in a prospective wife.
So, it was fortunate she did not have to marry out of necessity.
She had the security of her family—the knowledge that she would always have a place with her mother and Gracie, or with one of her married sisters—and that was something many single young women either did not have or did not wish to have. They wished to have their own homes and their own families.
Rosalind was fairly certain she wanted those things as well some day...but not just yet.
If she did not leave England at least once before she settled down, she knew she would never be able to live with herself.
Besides being laden with pound notes, she also carried something even more precious—letters of reference from her brother-in-law, the Duke of Englefield, commending her to some of the finest families in the West Indies, and another recommending her as a governess to a family he was acquainted with on Tortola.
Until today she was fairly certain he had not believed she would actually go through with what he had called her mad scheme. Well, when he and her sister opened the letter she had left them, they would see that she had finally followed her heart’s desire.
She looked down at the ground.
Her feet had been moving on their own, while her mind wandered.
She had reached the small wooden building which served as the ship’s office.
She straightened her back, raised her chin, and prepared to launch forward.
But abruptly, someone launched into her instead.
The door opened with a bang and a frowning man hurtled forward, straight into her. The door slammed closed behind.
With a wild gasp, she dropped her valise and began to tilt backwards. Her arms flailed wildly as she sought a handhold of any kind.
Meeting only air, she clutched hold of the only solid thing she could find: the man in front of her.
She grasped his coat with both hands and pulling herself upright again, stood there gaping up.
He had not even budged.
Which was no wonder, for he was the burliest man she had ever seen. She might easily have mistaken him for a dockhand were it not for his clothes, which marked him as a gentleman.
The combination of hefty strength and barely contained muscle filling out the finely tailored coat and trousers of an obviously-wealthy gentleman disconcerted Rosalind. There was something incredibly masculine and appealing about this man’s body, yet intimidating about his overall person.
She was momentarily thrown off course.
Apparently, the gentleman—if indeed he was—had been similarly struck for he had not even moved to help her.
Rather, she realized with a start, he was looking down at her from behind cold brown eyes almost as if she was something he had found on his shoe.
That in itself should have been off-putting.
Not to mention he had made no apology.
Yet in spite of his gross lack of manners and his imposing physique, there was something behind the surface of his expression that transcended her inclination towards dislike. Something surprisingly boyish and innocent and—just for the blink of an eye—even heartbreaking.
He had thick jet-black hair. She had always liked dark-haired men.
It was overly long and a lock of it had tumbled down and was blocking one eye, softening the hard, masculine planes of his face.
The glistening piece of hair beckoned to Rosalind like a moth to a flame. Before she could think twice, she found herself reaching a hand out and gently pushing the hair back into place.
The man’s hand shot out and caught her arm, firmly but not altogether roughly. His skin was darker than most Englishmen’s, she observed, almost olive in tone. Perhaps he was Italian.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, his gruff tone clearly implying he was doing no such thing. His voice was so magnificently deep and mellow it sent a thrilling chill through her.
But unintentionally captivating or not, Rosalind was not about to let this ox of a man try to give her a lesson in courtesy.
“Pardon you indeed,” she retorted tartly. “Do you always burst through doorways with the force of a tempest and without looking where you are going? You might have knocked me all the way into the sea!”
His eyes widened as she spoke, as if he were totally unaccustomed to being challenged.
“Of course, you need not ask,” she continued, smiling calmly in a way she could see infuriated him. “I shall forgive your terrible lack of manners, sir, if you will kindly step aside.” She crossed her arms under her breasts and pointedly donned an expression of aloof boredom as she waited for him to step past.
For a moment, her opponent stood as if frozen, uncertainty written over his face.
Then his jaw tightened. Without another word, he nodded and went by.
Giving herself a little shake, she opened the door to the office building. A clerk sat at a desk across the small room.
She went towards him swiftly, determined to brush the unsettling encounter from her mind.
“I would like to purchase passage on the Witch of the Waves,” she said, brightly. “I understand you have a number of cabins available.”
The man looked up at her, eyes bugging out in a rather fish-like fashion. Was her request really so strange?
“You do have cabins available,” she emphasized, sweetening her tone. “I was told so just a few minutes ago by one of the crew.”
“Well... y-y-yes,” the clerk stuttered. “But...”
“Excellent. How much will the passage to Tortola be?” She began to pull open her reticule.
“B-b-but...”
“My good sir, are you quite well?” Rosalind eyed him curiously.
The man sat down and put a hand to his brow.
When he looked back up at her a moment later, a glimmer of intelligence was returning to his features.
“To tell the truth—" he confessed. “—The gentleman who just left was quite...”
“Rude? Caustic? Abrasive?” Rosalind guessed.
“Yes, indeed. All of the above.” The clerk looked grateful. “You understand then.”
“I do, indeed.” Rosalind tugged at her gloves. Once she was aboard, she would stow the blasted things for the rest of the voyage.
The man’s expression had changed. Now he was the one looking concerned. She did not think it had anything to do with the gloves.
The clerk cleared his throat. “He also reserved all of the remaining cabins.”
Rosalind raised her eyebrows. “All of them?”
“Yes, all. There are eight in total, I believe. Although I believe he is traveling with just one other companion.”
“All of the ladies’ cabins? Not only the men’s?” Rosalind said, trying to keep the panic from her voice.
She noticed the clerk continued to use the word “reserved” rather than “paid,” but evidently, they were the same thing to him.
“Yes, all four of the ladies’ cabins as well. Though I believe he said only one would be occupied.” The clerk rifled through a stack of papers in front of him, as if searching for a list or set of instructions that would enable him to deal with the stubborn young woman before him.
Rosalind watched, her mind momentarily blank.
This would not do.
She had not stood for hours in the hot sun trying to come to a decision about her entire future, only to have her decision thwarted by a man too rude to apologize for his rudeness and so rich he could buy out an entire ship on a whim.
Well, it was not as if she was a pauper. She had the means to travel, did she not? Why should she not proceed as planned?
All that was required was a little gumption, a little creativity.
Suddenly, it all seemed perfectly clear. Her mouth was opening without hesitation and before her mind could fully catch up.
“Well, that is quite all right then,” she said cheerfully.
“It is?” The clerk’s head snapped back up. “Is it?” The dear man looked quite hopeful.
“Of course, of course.” She waved a hand. “I merely came in to make sure he had remembered. To reserve all of the cabins, that is—not only the men’s.”
“Not only the men’s...” The clerk spoke slowly as if trying to make out her words.
“Yes, my husband—” She emphasized the word. “—can tend to be a bit forgetful. I would not wish to bunk on the men’s side, of course.” She gave a cheeky smile.
Understanding was beginning to dawn on the clerk’s face. “Your husband...” He cleared his throat. “Yes. I see...”
She did not wish for the poor man to have to regret his earlier words.
“Yes, you must have seen us speaking outside just now.” She shook her head sadly. “He is abrasive, isn’t he? And demanding. Very demanding. You have no idea. He can be very difficult at times. Very difficult indeed.” She was sure that was no exaggeration.
“Yes, I can imagine,” the clerk said, looking sympathetic.
“But in any case, there is no harm done.” She tugged her gloves back on.
She would board the ship, track down the man, and pay him her passage.
There was no reason in the world why he would need four women’s cabins. The clerk said he was traveling with only one other person. Well, even if that person was a woman—and Good Lord, she could only hope it was not his wife—there were still six cabins between the two of them.
It would all work itself out.
“There is a larger cabin,” the clerk said, quickly, before she could go. “That you and your husband could share. I could consult with the captain and once he understands who it is for...”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” she said cheerily. “We prefer it this way, truly.”
She winked.
The clerk’s eyes widened. Then he slowly winked back. “Ah, of course. Well, safe voyage then, Madam...”
But she was already stepping out the door, and whatever appellation the clerk called her by was lost in noise of the docks.
Philip Calvert frownedas he leaned on the wooden deck railing of the Witch of the Waves.
She was his finest ship. A fully-rigged, beautifully-crafted galleon, refurbished after the end of the wars and updated with customizations according to his own design. Not only was the lovely lady swifter in the water than many of her size, but she had other fine qualities. Among them were larger cabins with reinforced portholes which could be opened for air circulation, wider berths, and removeable partitions to enlarge the cabins for the comfort of special passengers—such as the owner and his family.
His family. Now that was almost laughable.
He ran a hand over his face, removing it just in time to see a voluptuously feminine figure stepping out of the company office.
That outlandish girl! What business could she have had in there? He had made sure to remind the clerk that the remaining cabins were to be left empty by his pleasure.
Was she the clerk’s sister, perhaps? His wife?
He stared down as the girl walked along the quay, oblivious to his gaze upon her.
Perhaps he had been a tad unmannerly. But, in his defense, he had been rendered speechless when her soft feminine body had suddenly slammed into his hard and rigid chest, like a sparrow flying into a window pane—except in this case, he rather felt it was the window that had come away the worse for wear.
Her pretty doe-eyed face had looked up at him, at first so sweet and innocent.
His dark look was usually enough to frighten most people away—a sullen glower, or so he had been told.
Yet she had not looked away. Not that girl.
Rather, she had reached out a finger and actually touched him. Brushed his own hair off his own face. A strangely possessive gesture. As if she had any right at all to lay a finger on him!
And then she had opened her mouth and quickly corrected his first impressions.
What a little hoyden. What a little minx.
The devil of it was that she had called him unmannerly! After she had all but assaulted him!
It was behaviour completely unbecoming to a young lady.
Or was it too becoming?His nagging conscience prompted.
It had been a very long time since a woman had elicited such a strong reaction in him.
Not that the chit was so desirable. She was unfashionably short, for one. Many might describe her as too well-rounded, at a time when a slenderer silhouette was in vogue.
Of course, he rather preferred a figure of her type. Generously curved in all of the right places.
But she was short and plump, there was no question, and she would probably be a dowdy little matron in a few more years, with a baby bouncing on each hip.
Even with this drab image in mind, the picture was not altogether disagreeable. In his mind’s eye, he saw the girl smiling down at a chubby-cheeked infant, her lips bright as cherries, her cheeks soft and round as ripe apples, and her sweet-smelling hair falling over her shoulders like sheaves of wheat.
Much as he would like to deny it, she had glowed.
It was her overall person, not simply one particular feature.
There was something about her. She stood out. She shone.
She was not...altogether unpleasing in appearance, he concluded.
A motion on the shore drew his attention. The girl was still standing there. But now she had raised one arm.
Instinctively, his arm began to shoot up in mimicry, waving back.
Traitorous limb! Grimacing, he slammed it down on the rail again.
The young woman had lowered her hand, but was still smiling up at him—looking for all the world like a girl who had come to see her sweetheart off.
For God’s sakes! The office clerk had come out and was standing in the doorway, watching the entire interaction and looking exceedingly amused. What an insolent fellow.
There. She was leaving. Finally.
He watched her walk along the quay, her hips swaying pleasantly as she strolled.
There was no harm in looking, after all. And the more he looked, the more he decided she had an undeniable allure.
She would be a lush armful for some man, some day soon, he had no doubt.
Even if she did have the mouth of a harpy.
She appeared in no hurry. What an odd young woman.
Was she out for a pleasure walk? Were the London docks now considered a fashionable place for young ladies to stroll? Without a maid or chaperone of any kind?
He wondered what kind of family the girl came from if she was permitted so much freedom.
Well, it was none of his concern.
A hand touched his arm lightly and he swung away from the rail, forcing a smile to his face as he greeted the woman who stood there.
She was a dark and comely beauty, an altogether different style than the girl, with sweet brown eyes and thick, tightly-curling black hair, tucked under a blue-trimmed bonnet. Ordinarily, she was a slim woman, but right now her most noticeable characteristic was her bulging waistline.
She was heavily pregnant.
“Come below deck,” she urged him gently. “Shall we have tea before the ship departs? Captain Merriweather has invited us to join him in his cabin. I must say, it is much more spacious than those below.”
“It should be,” Philip grumbled. “I designed it.”
“With those beautiful windows, as well.” The lady sighed.
“You are wishing you could have the captain’s cabin, aren’t you?” He felt a grin spread across his face. Smiling came more easily when he was with her. He could almost pretend he felt truly happy again sometimes.
“Am I that obvious?” She smiled, then frowned and put a hand to her hip with a little groan of pain.
“Let me help you down,” he said quietly, and took her carefully by the hand, leading her to the steps as if she were the most precious cargo of all on the vessel that day.
Rosalind hoped shelooked calmer than she felt.
It was one thing to lie to a clerk—yes, it was a bold-faced lie, she would freely admit it; but a white one! After all, she had no intent to hurt anyone—but quite another to board the ship when her supposed husband was standing right there by the rail.
So, she had merely waved and smiled, feeling like an utter fool, knowing that the clerk was probably watching the entire spectacle from his office.
She ducked behind the corner of a warehouse, then peered back out at the Witch.
The deck was empty. He was gone.
Was it too much to hope that she would not encounter the man until the ship had already departed? Surely, he would not demand she be thrown off, would he?
To be fair, he did look the sort of man who would demand exactly that.
But once she had given him her fare—and perhaps a little extra besides to smooth things over—they could steer clear of one another.
Go their own ways, as it were.
On a ship.
In confined quarters.
For the month or more it would take to reach Tortola.
Drat.
“Rosalind!”
She jumped ten feet in the air, and whirled around.
“Gracie!”
“Rosalind!”
“Gracie!”
This was ridiculous. Rosalind glared down at her younger sister, thankful she still had an inch or two on her.
“Stop shouting my name!” she hissed. “What are you doing here?” She looked more closely. “And why on earth have you brought a dog?”
“I’m not the one shouting,” Gracie said, looking grumpy. “And I might ask you the same thing.”
“I am setting out on a carefully planned voyage,” Rosalind said, lifting her chin and endeavouring to regain her dignity. “You know that this has been on my mind for years. Not that it is any of your concern. You should be back at the house with Gwendolen and Angel and the children!”
Gracie had been a house guest for the past month while their mother visited friends in Scotland.
“I’m not a governess or a nursemaid, nor do I have any wish to be. And I’m tired of visiting London,” Gracie complained, scuffing her foot in the dust. “I want to go with you.”
“Absolutely not.” Rosalind looked at her suspiciously. “And go where? Where do you think I am going exactly?”
“To Tortola, in the West Indies, like your letter said. Oh, please, let me come along, Rosalind! I won’t be any trouble!”
Rosalind glared. “You opened my letter? You read my letter? That was not for your eyes, Gracie. You had no right to do that. No right at all.”
“But I had to,” Gracie said, looking exceedingly mulish.
Rosalind raised her eyebrows and waited.
“So that I could slip my letter in beside yours,” her younger sister explained. “So that they could tell mother and not worry about me, now that they know I went with you.”
Rosalind groaned. “Oh, no, no, no. Please tell me you did no such thing. I am not taking responsibility for you, Gracie. You may not come with me. I am doing this alone. For once in my life, I would like to go somewhere where I am the only Gardner girl!”
“That seems a rather stupid reason to get on a ship and travel halfway across the world,” Gracie observed, scowling. “I should like to do it for the adventure. And to see pirates.” Her eyes lit up at the thought.
Rosalind scoffed. “As if that is any less stupid!”
“Besides,” she added, as an after thought. “I am doing this for the adventure as well, of course! How many times have I said that I would one day go off on a journey?”
Gracie shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Rosalind threw up her hands. “Only countless! This has been my dream for years. Since I was... Well, even younger than you are now, I suppose.”
She eyed her little sister.
The youngest of the four Gardner sisters, Gracie was ten years younger. Right now, those ten years seemed like a lifetime.
Gracie had always been a wild child. More interested in climbing trees and playing in muddy brooks than in needlework or pretty dresses.
Rosalind had always been rather proud of her for that. Gracie took after her. A little too much it now seemed. She did not wish to have a thirteen-year-old shadow the first time she set out to see the world. It would ruin everything.
She resisted the urge to stomp her foot petulantly. How could she possibly explain to her younger sister how confined she had felt these past years since her two older sisters had married? With no place of her own, betwixt and between—neither a maiden nor a spinster. Loved and cared for by her family and friends, but aimless, with no real purpose.
Worst of all was the feeling that life was passing her by and that time was running out to do what she had always dreamed of doing. That if she did not go now, she feared she never would—and would live a lifetime of regret and disappointment.
She had always prided herself in being the boldest and bravest of her sisters. But lately she had felt herself shrinking into herself, wilting away.
It was not a pleasant feeling.
“Please, Gracie,” she said, shifting her tone to a gentler one. “There is plenty of time for you to go adventuring, if that is what you wish to do. Perhaps I will even take you with me on another journey, if you are very, very good. And if mother permits it,” she added. “What exactly did you say in your letter?”
“I told her I was going with you and that you would take care of me. And not to worry.” Gracie pursed her lips together. “And now they’ll expect me to be gone for at least a month. Or more! So, there is really no point in sending me back.” She gestured to the sturdy cloth portmanteau that lay on the ground beside her. It looked stuffed to the brim, as if it might burst open at any minute.
Rosalind rolled her eyes. “They probably haven’t even opened our letters yet. There is still time for you to go back to Sweetbriar Hall and dispose of yours.”
She eyed Gracie’s luggage. “What do you have in that thing, anyhow? A dozen silk dresses?”
“Of course not!” Gracie appeared deeply offended. “What would I need with dresses? Well, I have the one,” she conceded. “But the rest are Henry’s old clothes. Don’t you think boys’ clothing would be more practical on a ship?” Henry was Gwendolen’s oldest son and was a year younger than Gracie.
“You do have a point,” Rosalind admitted. “I am not looking forward to climbing up and down between decks in a skirt.”
“Besides,” Gracie went on. “The rest is for Perita.”
“Perita?” Rosalind put a hand to her brow. “Do I even want to know?”
“Perita is the dog,” Gracie said, in a tone which implied Rosalind was a dimwit for having not immediately understood this.
“You packed for a dog. Yes, I see.” Rosalind’s eyes widened suddenly. “Is that one of Herc’s puppies? Did you take her?”
“I didn’t steal her, if that is what you are implying!” Gracie exclaimed. “Eliza gave her to me. She’s not a puppy really. She’s over six months old. Isn’t she lovely? She’s going to be as big as her mother.” Gracie looked down at the panting dog with pride.
Her sister was no better than Angel’s aunt, Eliza, Rosalind realized with amusement. Treating her dog like a person and loving it like a child.
Perita was an undeniably pretty pup, however.
“She does look quite large.” Rosalind and Perita eyed one another with curiosity. The young dog was a lovely chocolate brown with the typical black mastiff mask. “She has quite a big head,” Rosalind observed.
“Of course, she does.” Gracie sounded affronted by her sister’s ignorance. “That’s the breed. Her mother, Medea, was even bigger than Hercules, you know.”
Rosalind was impressed. Hercules was the size of a small pony. At least, that’s how it seemed when he was flying through the halls of Sweetbriar and came barreling unexpectedly around a corner.
“Why Perita? Don’t you mean Perdita?”
“Not Shakespeare, silly. Alexander the Great.” Gracie was looking disgusted once more. “Well, his was Peritas as it was male. I’ve feminized it. Did you know Peritas bit off an elephant’s face when it tried to charge Alexander once?”
“Bit it off?”
“Probably not completely off. At least, I hope not. But I suppose it would have been justified if Peritas was protecting his master from being trampled to death,” Gracie said, looking thoughtful. “I’m sure Perita would do the very same for me. Or you.” She rubbed the pup’s head affectionately.
“Yes. How lovely.” Rosalind decided not to imagine what a faceless elephant would look like.
“How did you get here, anyways?” she asked, changing the subject.
“I hailed a hackney.” Gracie stood up a little straighter and folded her arms across her chest—which was easy for she had no breasts yet to speak of.
She was at the liminal stage that came just after childhood but before true womanhood. In some ways, she reminded Rosalind of a young colt. All long awkward limbs and jutting angles.
Gracie would take after their elder sister Claire more than she would Rosalind or Gwendolen when it came to appearance. Except for her honey-brown hair, which was entirely Gracie’s own and a unique shade in their family.
“That is very impressive. Now please hail another one. Because you are not coming with me,” Rosalind said calmly but firmly. “Nor is darling Perita. You are both returning home. Immediately.”
Gracie looked at her in silence a moment before narrowing her eyes.
Rosalind braced herself.
“I hate you!” her sister screeched loudly. Then she spun around and ran off along the docks. Presumably back the way she had come.
Rosalind sighed. What an unexpected complication. Perhaps it was rather irresponsible of her not to escort Gracie all the way back to Sweetbriar Hall, but if her sister had made her way to the docks unassisted, she could surely return again. Especially with Perita to defend her.
Rosalind looked back at the Witch of the Waves. Miraculously, the coast was still clear. Sailors were loading cargo into the hold from a pile on the quay, but there was no sign of her faux-husband.
Her heart beating faster, she picked up her things and began to walk towards the ship.