Free Miss Antiqua's Adventure by Fran Baker

sank upon the edge with a groan, her first utterance since coming up the gangway some minutes previously. From the moment she touched the deck, she had been turning a fine shade of green.
    Having known from the instant she had seen the state of the troubled waters, with the waves clawing for the sky, that Lucy would not make the crossing on her feet, Antiqua set immediately to work. She shed the detested pelisse, casting it carelessly upon a chair bolted to the floor, then collected a large ewer and placed it by the bedside in preparation for the worst. Next she removed Lucy’s cloak and forced her to lie back on the bunk.
    As she undid the first few buttons of Lucy’s gown, Antiqua felt the lumpish wad reposing there. With a swift, guilty glance toward the closed door, she drew the leather bundle out of her maid’s dress. Lucy, eyes skewered shut and lips pressed tightly together, paid her not the least attention.
    The ship heaved as they weighed anchor and Antiqua lurched in her progress to her cloak. With a smile of satisfaction, she slipped the packet securely within the lining of her muff. Fighting her own squeamish feeling by then, she weaved her way back to Lucy.
    She had no idea how many hours passed by as she contended with her maid’s misery and fought her own susceptibility to the wicked rolling of the ship. Sounds of furious activity floated faintly down to her, but it was not until a series of stamps and shouts was followed by a rushing clatter of chains that she had any notion of what was going on. Several jolts and then unbelievable stillness assured her that they had indeed anchored. They had reached England.
    Within minutes the cabin door opened. If Antiqua experienced a pang of disappointment that the figure standing there was Oliver Fawkes, she did not show it. She merely gathered up her pelisse, hat and muff while he gathered her maid, then followed him mutely up the companionway.
    A heavy rain was falling, but she did not seem to notice. She simply stood on the deck, gazing at the shoreline in astonishment.
    “But this isn’t Dover!” she finally exclaimed.
    “No, Miss,” Fawkes said. “The storm forced us to land south. This is Morcastle, Miss, and as ’tis well past noon, we’d best not delay.”
    As he steered her down the gangway, Antiqua looked back over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of rain-glistened dark hair clinging damply to Vincent’s forehead. He returned her regard without expression. Then she was whisked into a waiting carriage where Lucy, still wobbling drunkenly, finally regained her speech, vowing never to set foot off England again, no, not even if Miss was to marry one of them heathen foreigners.
    Some hot soup and the stability of hard ground did much to restore Lucy’s spirits, but Antiqua realized with a sinking heart that it would be impossible to keep to her plan of escape. Not only did Lucy need to rest before setting forth, but Antiqua reluctantly admitted that she did as well.
    They were settled into a small, but clean and cozy chamber of the Golden Lion Inn. Antiqua was too tired to either know or care where Vincent might be. Listening to the rain pounding the roof with the hammers of the devil’s anvil, she fell asleep. When she awoke, she learned he had bespoken an early supper in a private room belowstairs.
    When she entered this parlor some time later, Vincent had not yet arrived. Candles glowed, adding their light to that of the snapping fire, for though it was still early evening, the dark and stormy skies had necessitated the lighting much earlier than usual.
    Light and shadow entwined over the white of her gown. The dress was the same one she had worn the previous night, and it was her best. Poor Lucy had not felt well enough to refurbish it, and Antiqua’s attempts to do so had failed to entirely eliminate its rumples and creases.
    But Antiqua had no thought for the condition of her gown as she paced nervously before a rectangular table laid for two