The Bride Ship. Deborah Hale
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and charm are two potent weapons she cannot afford to neglect if she means to win.”
On other men, perhaps. But Governor Kerr? Jocelyn had never met a man less likely to be swayed by feminine charm. This had the bothersome effect of making her want to compel his admiration, however reluctant.
When she reached the lower deck, Jocelyn found her charges much subdued.
“Please, ma’am,” said Lily, after one of the other girls nudged her, “has anything been decided? Will we be allowed to stay in Nova Scotia?”
“Perhaps.” Jocelyn did not want to raise false hopes only to dash them later. “I am going to Government House, now, for more…talks with Governor Kerr about our situation.”
The girls looked relieved and hopeful, clearly trusting in her powers of persuasion. Jocelyn wished she could be as sanguine of her chances as they. The bravado with which she’d accepted Sir Robert’s challenge was ebbing rapidly.
Perhaps sensing her uncertainty, Lily asked, “Is there anything we can do to help, Mrs. Finch?”
“You can all maintain your best behavior during my absence.” Jocelyn surveyed the group, meeting the eyes of one or two girls capable of causing trouble. “Those of you so inclined might pray for my success.”
“Pray?” cried Louisa. “Is it as bad as that? Whenever folks fall ill and the doctor says to pray, you know it’s hopeless!”
Pulling out her handkerchief, she began to sob into it, joined in her lamentations by several other girls. A few more sensible among the group rolled their eyes at this display.
“It is not hopeless!” Jocelyn grabbed her hat and jammed it on her head, skewering it in place with a decorative but dangerous looking pin. “Now stop this blubbering at once!”
That only made the tearful ones weep harder. Jocelyn chided herself for not keeping her impatience in check. “Perhaps a turn around the deck in the fresh air might do you all good. I promise to do my very best for you.”
Clasping Lily’s hand, she muttered, “Try to keep them calm until I get back.”
With that, she fled to the deck as if something frightful were nipping at her heels. In truth, something was. The haunting specter of defeat and the daunting prospect of crossing the ocean so soon again in charge of forty young women in their present overwrought state. Before Jocelyn would let that happen, she would battle Governor Kerr with a sword or pistol!
Sir Robert could scarcely have felt more keyed up if he’d been going to fight a real duel. For the fifth time in as many minutes, he checked at the clock to the left of the drawing-room door. It did not surprise him that Mrs. Finch was late. In his experience, women cared far less about punctuality than men.
He might have strode over to the window to watch for Mrs. Carmont’s carriage but a cluster of men crowded in front of it, talking together. These were the same council members who had called on him this morning to express their support for Mrs. Finch and her bride ship. Sir Robert had invited them to witness the chess match to satisfy them that he was giving the woman a chance.
He hoped they would notice her tardiness, a small foretaste of the disturbances she and her shipload of marriageable women were likely to unleash upon the colony. To his annoyance, none of them seemed to mark the time. Neither did Will Carmont, who lounged in an armchair beside the hearth perusing the Gazette. No doubt he was too well acquainted with his wife’s dilatory habits to look for her an instant before she arrived.
All heads turned when Duckworth threw open the morning-room door to admit a young footman bearing tea. When they saw it was not the ladies after all, the gentlemen returned to their conversation and the colonel to his newspaper.
“Any sign of Mrs. Finch yet, Duckworth?” The governor made no effort to conceal his impatience.
“Not yet, sir. But the bish—”
Before Duckworth could get the rest out, Barnabas Power stalked in followed by the bishop. “What’s all this nonsense, deciding matters of colonial policy over a chessboard? What will be next? Cutting cards for land patents? Throwing dice for government appointments?”
Would that be so much worse than the present system of influence and patronage? Sir Robert wondered. For once he exercised enough tact to bite his tongue.
When he began to stammer his reasons, Power cut him short with another gruff question. “Why was I not invited to watch?”
“M-my apologies, sir.” Suddenly this whole idea seemed as frivolous a waste of time as he had condemned Mrs. Finch’s mission for being. “I assumed you would be occupied with more important matters.”
Power reached into his trouser pocket and jingled some silver. “I’m never too busy to make a little easy money.” He called out to the youngest of the council members. “Say, Brenton, would you care to lay a small wager on the outcome of the governor’s duel with Mrs. Finch?”
“With pleasure, sir!” Lewis Brenton beckoned him toward the window. “I was just discussing that very subject with Mr. Chapman and Mr. Sadler when you arrived.”
Grumbling under his breath, Sir Robert stalked to the middle of the room, where a small card table had been set up and his chessboard placed upon it. He made a few practice moves, nudging forward king’s and queen’s pawns. Will Carmont returned to his newspaper once again, while Duckworth fetched tea for the governor’s guests.
Finally, a full half hour after they were expected, a footman announced Mrs. Carmont and Mrs. Finch. Sir Robert quickly shifted all the chess pieces back to their original positions then strode forward to greet the ladies.
He bowed then gestured toward Barnabas Power and the others. “I believe you are already acquainted with the gentlemen, Mrs. Finch.”
This time she betrayed no embarrassment at being reminded of how she had gone behind his back. Instead, she acknowledged her allies with an elegant curtsy. “I have had that honor.”
The men, none a day below thirty, grinned at her like a gaggle of calf-eyed schoolboys. Though Sir Robert had an almost irresistible urge to box their ears, he could not dispute the effect Mrs. Finch had upon them.
She looked quite a different woman from the one who’d emerged from the Hestia’s hold earlier that afternoon. Her hair had been dressed in a different style—a very becoming one with wispy curls framing her face. A pale green gown showed her slender figure to advantage and made her look the embodiment of springtime, which was so keenly anticipated in the colony.
Lewis Brenton made no effort to conceal his admiration as he swept her a very deep bow. “The honor is ours, Lady Jocelyn.”
His words flustered her in a way the gentlemen’s stares had not. A flush mantled her cheeks and though the corners of her lips still curved upward, all the sparkle went out of her smile. “If you would be so kind, sir, I prefer to be addressed as ‘Mrs. Finch,’ in honor of my late husband.”
Sir Robert was familiar enough with forms of address to know that the daughter of a marquess could continue to be called “Lady” even after she had married beneath her. He wondered what lay behind Jocelyn Finch’s insistence on dispensing with her title. For the first time since learning of her lofty connections, it occurred to him to wonder what a noble-woman was doing chaperoning a shipload of emigrant girls.
Her remark seemed to dumbfound the rest of the party for a moment. Sir Robert rushed to fill the awkward lull with the first words that came to mind. “Of course we shall call you by whatever name you wish, Mrs. Finch.”
It was not a witty remark but, like him, blunt and to the point. Still, it served well enough. The tension in the room relaxed and in Mrs. Finch’s eyes he detected a flicker of gratitude.
It prompted him to continue. “Since these gentlemen have expressed some interest in our…disagreement, I thought they might care to observe its resolution.”
He wanted them all