“The Mediterranean could not have been this rough.” Timothy looked out over the tossing gray-black water of the North Atlantic and the froth stirred by waves and the progress of the boat. His stomach flipped again, and he coughed.
Gordon grinned. “No, few passages are as rough as the North Atlantic in autumn. Except possibly the North Atlantic in winter.”
“No wonder you only come home every ten years.”
Gordon leaned against the rail. “My extended stay in America had little to do with the nature of ocean travel.” He glanced at Ella.
Timothy remembered his mother’s hurried explanation of Gordon’s return to claim his new baronetcy and title, deal with his new estate, and renew his relationship with the beautiful Ella, which had been forbidden to him by his father ten years before. While Timothy’s mother made it sound like the love match for the ages, his brothers had been more practical. Gordon, at two and forty, was the sole remaining male in his lineage. He needed an heir, and he had been lucky that his beloved Ella had remained single and was willing to travel with him to America, where most of his businesses and investments were based.
Then, again, Timothy’s brothers were a cynical lot. For them, love always took second place to practicality.
Not that Timothy blamed them. He had just spent an eye-opening season maneuvering through a plethora of marriage-minded missesand their mothers, at the behest of his own mother, Phyllida, the widowed Duchess of Embleton. This past January, she had been frustrated that none of her eight sons had married, despite all having reached their majority, and she was determined to change that. Her pressure-wrought campaign had led to two marriages during the season, with the promise of more to come.
Timothy, however, had no desire to be among them. His goal had long been to dally with less acceptable women whenever he could but to travel and explore instead of marrying. Nothing—and no one—he had seen during the past season had changed his mind.
Until this morning. The lady redhead would have been worth a second dance. But where would she be in five years? Ten? Married to some dolt who could not see the longing in her eyes for the horizon?
Gordon nudged him. “Do not think about her too much. It will make you insane. She is not Ella. She will not be around when you return. Focus on why you are leaving. Why you chose this.”
That was wisdom. He could not afford to look backward for any reason, and he remained grateful for Gordon’s guidance and the offered solution to both of Timothy’s major problems. So he and Gordon had struck a deal. By traveling with his cousin to America, Timothy removed himself from his mother’s aims and provided an avenue for his own path forward. Because his American businesses had proved to be exceptionally lucrative, Gordon Rydell was an exceedingly wealthy man on both sides of the Atlantic. Timothy would work with him for one year, after which Gordon would help him with whatever Timothy wanted to do next.
Overall, Gordon’s return to England, however brief, had been an unexpected but welcome blessing to several people.
“But you know your reprieve is temporary.”
Timothy swallowed hard, then glanced at Gordon before looking ahead again. His queasiness lessened when he faced the bow. “I am not sure what you mean.”
Gordon chuckled. “Your mother. When I arrived back in the spring, Phyllida confronted me on the subject of marriage before I was barely off the boat. Her relentless pursuit of Matthew on the subject sent him fleeing to a matchmaker. She will not abandon her campaign to see all her sons wed, even with you three thousand miles away.”
“She should be focused for a while on my brothers. There are five of them before me.”
“Not as long as you might believe. Phyllida Rydell can face a battle on more than one front at a time. She will not give up on you. You are family. And that is more important to her than you can imagine.”
Timothy gazed out over the waves, remembering a few of the times when his mother had discussed the importance of family at their daily meals, encouraging them to support and care for each other. He understood and appreciated that, but he simply did not believe he would ever have one of his own. Women were too... homebound... and his aims in life had wandered too far afield from polite Society.
His gaze lingered on Ella, her joy at traveling with her husband sparking a touch of hope in Timothy’s chest. A hope that had nowhere to land. “Unfortunately, there are not many women like Ella. At least none that I have met.”
Gordon paused, glancing back at the disappearing Falmouth shoreline. “No. There are not many women like Ella. And I waited a long time for her. Possibly her friend, Elspeth, but that lady will be long married before you return. Perhaps this time abroad will allow you to find such a woman.”
Timothy shook his head. “Even I did, she would not want a soft dandy who tosses his accounts at the first wave. Or cannot walk a gangplank without diving overboard.”
“Perhaps. But you will not be a soft dandy much longer. You may count on that. Exploration brings rewards far beyond wealth.” Gordon grinned. “And if not, there is always Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon.”
Timothy scowled. “Who?”
Gordon looked past Timothy to his wife. “Matthew’s matchmaker. Which is a story for another time, cousin. When the seas are calmer and our heads are clearer.”
The bow of theSwiftsurerose suddenly as the ship split a large wave, slamming down on the other side with a force that almost knocked Timothy off his feet. Even Gordon gripped the rail tighter, but at the very front of the ship, Ella laughed riotously as she finally grabbed a handhold, her hair billowing about her. The small crew of the vessel, only nine and twenty men, barely took notice as they rambled over the deck and scrambled about in the rigging.
Timothy gagged and leaned over the rail, but nothing remained in his stomach. As the ship settled, he straightened and turned his gaze forward again. Behind them, the port of Falmouth had slowly slipped below the horizon, the light of the sun a white glow behind the scattering clouds. Before them lay only what appeared to be an endless ocean, the vast distance seeming unconquerable to him, even though he knew the mail packet boats, with their light draft and sparse crew, usually reached America in about forty days. Some considered them the fastest ships on the main. Which is why Gordon had laid out the money for the expensive if miniscule passenger cabins. Mail packets were not intended for passengers or their comfort. Only five cabins had been set aside for them.
The deck pitched again, and Timothy swallowed the remaining bile in his throat. “I will never eat again.”
Gordon turned to face the sea as well. “You will. Stick to the water crackers for a few days. They are just water, salt, and flour, so they should not bother you too much if they come back up.”
“Encouraging.”
“This is what you want, is it not?”
