Free The Birthright by T. Davis Bunn Page A

around.”
    She did so. Emily’s not saying anything caused Nicole to demand in a hushed voice, “Well, is it awful?”
    “Awful? My dear…”
    Then a knock came at the door, and a gruff voice said, “The captain is descending, ma’am.”
    “We are ready.” To Nicole, she said, “Slip on your shoes. No, not those. The light blue ones there by the bed.”
    They were the same type as the darker blue that she had already tried on, but when she pushed her feet into this pair, her right foot made contact with something bundled into the shoe’s toe. Nicole removed her foot, lifted the shoe, and pulled out yet another paper-wrapped package. “Not more ribbons.”
    As she opened the paper both ladies gasped in unison. In Nicole’s hand lay a slender gold necklace from which hung a pendant and large square-cut green stone surrounded by tiny diamonds.
    Again Emily unfolded the note and read it. “ ‘This belonged to my mother. I am certain she would be delighted to see you enjoy it.’”
    “This is not for me,” Nicole protested.
    Emily lifted the necklace from Nicole’s trembling fingers. “Turn around,” she said.
    “I cannot possibly—”
    But she was silenced by a second knock on the door, sharper this time. “Hurry, dear,” Emily said. “We mustn’t keep the ship’s company waiting.”
    Before Nicole knew it, Emily had strung the necklace, and her hands were plucking at Nicole’s shoulders, straightening a strand of hair, pulling at a sleeve. Then she quickly opened the door and started pushing her forward.
    Nicole had no choice but to enter a great room now filled with officers in glittery uniforms and lit by more than a dozen candles. In the flickering light she caught sight of a stranger, looking at her from across the room where a silver platter was mounted on the wall. The plate was polished to such a brilliant finish that it reflected better than any common mirror. The stranger was bedecked in the finery of fables, a dress of softest blue, with cascading hair and eyes green as the glimmering pendant hanging around her neck.
    It was only when her hand reached up to touch the gem that Nicole realized she was looking at herself.
    In a voice full of pride and excitement, Emily Madden announced, “Gentlemen, may I present to you the Lady Harrow, viscountess of Sutton.”

Chapter 8
    Nicole climbed two of the stairs leading to the quarterdeck. She spread out what had once been her best shawl and then settled herself on top of the hogshead lashed to the stair’s railing. The great oak barrel was two-thirds her height and broad as a table. Its top made a perfect stool from which to look out over the sea, read, and reflect.
    Two weeks into the voyage, the days had fallen into a carefully structured routine. Mornings she spent taking lessons with the midshipmen. These four lads were aged anywhere from fourteen to her own nineteen and were generally drawn from the families of officers and their close friends. Most vessels carried two to six middies, who had learned navigation and sailing lore while serving as cabin boys. The sailors called them “dogsbodies,” for there was no duty too low for a middy. And Mrs. Madden had taken it upon herself to teach them what she referred to as “proper parlor etiquette.” Nicole was only too happy to attend, though the rules seemed absurd and the lessons endless: Sit up straight and at the edge of the chair, feet and ankles and knees always touching, chin just so, never allowing oneself to rest against the back of the chair. And there were the table manners and the proper use of cutlery.
    “Your pardon, Miss Harrow. A word, if you please.”
    Nicole turned with a start and found the captain poised on the third stair, his head a little higher than her own. She began to rise from her perch. “Most certainly, sir.”
    “No, no, stay where you are. This won’t take long.” But the captain seemed unable to find his course. Then his eye caught the volume in her lap.