Page 47 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
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At last, the tea arrived, and the storm which had flung her so unceremoniously into Lance’s cabin had moved off some way—so the steward said, depositing the tray upon the sitting room table.
The sea remained rough but, for now, at least, they would be able to walk from one side of the room to the other without risk of injuring themselves.
Nevertheless, Cecile’s inner turmoil tossed her just as ferociously as the waves had assaulted the ship. She’d made a fool of herself, and goodness only knew what Lance thought, but it had also been wonderful—to be held in that way, and kissed in that way. It wasn’t her imagination, was it—this connection between them? The way he’d looked at her?
Only his gentlemanly honour had intervened to make him turn her away, and she loved him for it, though it had mortified her at the time.
She’d told him that she valued her freedom too highly to think of forsaking it, and he’d made his own admission: of not wanting to tie himself to a wife and family until his life was more settled.
If she were to give up her independence, she would wish to be cherished, not become an encumbrance.
Lucrezia sipped her tea, eyeing Cecile over the rim of her cup. ‘You are lost in your thoughts,cara.’ With a sigh, she rested the cup in her lap. ‘You keep some secret from me, I can tell, and it makes me sad, for friends tell each other everything, do they not?’
It was true. She’d kept back from Lucrezia all that had passed between her and Lance in recent days—for she knew already Lucrezia’s stance. Her experience clouded her judgement too severely to allow for adjustment.
Cecile had thought herself of the same mind, based upon her narrow escape from wedding Lorenzo. Lance was the only man she’d encountered to make her rethink her position.
‘It’s Mr. Robinson.’ Cecile braved herself to speak honestly. ‘I believe I may be, that is, I cannot say for sure, but—’ Why was it so hard to find the right words? She took a deep breath. ‘I feel an attachment growing.’
Lucrezia’s eyebrows rose. ‘And he feels the same, our Mr. Robinson?’
‘I can only hope. I think perhaps.’ Cecile’s heart fluttered unsteadily. ‘If he has any intention of declaring his feelings, it will be today, I think.’
‘How busy you have been, while all about you were dealing with this dreadful weather—not to mention a murderer on the loose.’ There was an unmistakable edge to Lucrezia’s tone.
Cecile had known Lucrezia would be worried for her, and anxious for her own position. She could only hope Lucrezia would warm to the idea when she knew that she would never be cast aside.
If Cecile were to accept any proposal, it would be with the proviso that Lucrezia’s happiness be also taken into account. But, to voice such a thing required delicacy. Lucrezia was proud. She would not take well to the notion of being pitied, or accommodated from a sense of duty rather than love.
‘I’ve been wanting to speak to you about it.’ Cecile turned beseeching eyes upon Lucrezia. ‘Our friendship has sustained me through the most difficult times. I shall never forget that.’
A flash of emotion Cecile could not quite place passed over Lucrezia’s features but, quickly, she composed herself.
‘You don’t need me to tell you what to do,cara—and what I think shouldn’t matter. Not if you believe something in your heart.’ She appeared to consider for a moment, tapping her nail against her cup. ‘Only remember, sweet one, that no one can understand you as I—for they will never know what we witnessed in Scogliera. They can never share that same bond.’
Standing, Lucrezia approached the porthole. Though they’d evaded the worst of the storm, a torrent still lashed the glass. Misting the window with her breath, she drew her finger through it, tracing a curving line before rubbing it out with her fist. ‘This journey has been nothing but dull. The sooner we reach Rio the better. I am bored of this ship and the people in it.’
Cecile sighed inwardly. Only Lucrezia could characterize recent events as dull. Naturally, she didn’t believe a word of it. Though she couldn’t see Lucrezia’s face, she knew this peevish mood.
It was up to Cecile to take the reins, to steer them through what would come next. To prolong the agony of not knowing Lance’s mind was more than she could bear. ‘Please send a note to Mr. Robinson, inviting him to join us at noon.’
Replacing her cup upon the tray, Cecile rose.
‘I’ve read the book Maud lent me twice through. I’ll be only next door if you need me.’ It was an excuse of course, but returning the novel would give her a chance to leave Lucrezia to herself for a while.
Coming back, she hoped to find her in better humour.
* * *
Maud was looking somewhat pale, which was hardly surprising under the circumstances. They played cards, keeping their voices hushed—for Henry slept in the adjoining room.
At last, Maud broached the subject Cecile had tactfully avoided.
‘Henry will not speak of it, beyond what he thinks I absolutely must know, but I’m curious. Have they made progress in discovering who is behind these horrible crimes?’
Caught off guard, Cecile almost began to speak—but Lucrezia was right. It would do no good to share their fears over the presence of the man everyone assumed to be dead. Besides which, Cecile approved of Henry shielding his wife. Why not spare Maud unnecessary anxiety?
