From Chapter 1
By unspoken signal, Cassandra and Helen clasped hands. They’d already said their goodbyes in Surrey. No one else was at the docks to see them off.
“Ready?” Helen asked.
Yes. It was time. Time to be brave. Every feeling in her chest seemed to cry out that this was wrong, but Cassandra took a bracing breath and tamped down her emotions. She moved forward, and so did Helen.
Before Cassandra made it two steps, however, a tall man in an impeccable wig and fine coat of green velvet strolled past them, cutting off their path. Behind him trailed a short, portly servant. The nobleman paused, allowing the servant to trot ahead to the ship’s crew.
Helen cast a sly look at Cassandra. They had had enough of society for Cassandra to know immediately what her sister meant. While a man that handsome and obviously rich would have had every eligible girl in Surrey vying for a dance, this popinjay was sorely out of place on the docks.
He had yet to notice — or care — that he had cut them off. Helen rerouted around him and Cassandra followed her. Honestly, Cassandra might never understand how the nobility could be so blessedly ignorant of anyone but themselves at times.
Cassandra gathered her courage again, and she and Helen approached the gangway. For Cassandra’s part, she was striving to stride forward and not turn back. They were going to make the best of their reduced situation. At least they would if Uncle Josiah proved as generous as he seemed in his letter.
Taking them in at all was generous. They might have to be grateful he fed them. It was more than Lowell was willing to do now.
But first, they had to get across this ocean.
As they reached the base of the gangway, however, the nobleman’s servant held up a hand to stop them. “Pardon me, ladies. One moment.”
Cassandra and Helen halted abruptly. Would that same nobleman hold them up a second time? Were they supposed to observe precedence in boarding a ship?
Apparently so. The nobleman finally deigned to approach, staring down his Roman nose at them. His expression could best be described as a simper, but noblemen surely did not simper.
He did not bother to address them, as if they were so beneath his notice, he had no need of acknowledging their existence.
Had they been at Heartcomb, he would have given their father his respect. He would have wanted to know their names. He would have danced with them, were he lucky enough to find them unengaged.
Instead, he saw them as less than the sailors hauling his trunks up the gangway for him.
“Why on earth would such a nobleman travel to the Americas?” Helen murmured. They both glanced at the servant, but he didn’t seem to have heard them. He paid a crew member and marched back to his coach.
The sailor gestured for them to pass, and Helen and Cassandra nodded their thanks. At least they had been taught how to treat people beneath them. There was no excuse for such ill-breeding.
On deck, the rocking of the boat, even anchored, was not the only reason Cassandra felt unsettled. The crew seemed to watch them with suspicion. Surely there were other women making this voyage. They could be the only ones making the journey alone, however.
Or perhaps it was their attire. Their habits and hats had to betray their class. Yes, moving across an ocean was hardly a thing ladies of good breeding did — unless they had been orphaned and impoverished.
Perhaps the clothing on his back — and the contents of his multitude of trunks, still making their way up the gangway — were the popinjay’s last possessions left in the world. His wig might have been freshly powdered and his valet might have just taken care of his business, but if he were that well off, why would he be making such a journey? They weren’t crossing an ocean willingly, that was certain.
A throat cleared next to Cassandra and she turned. There stood the nobleman in question, and at a closer range, she saw the fine detailing of the gold braid along his coat. Perhaps he was not quite so reduced in circumstances as she’d imagined.
The nobleman pointed at her, then flicked his wrist, as if he were too good to use words to command her to move. Cassandra checked behind her. A carrier bearing yet another heavy trunk stood behind her, waiting to pass.
“Pardon me,” Cassandra said, quickly sweeping out of his path.
The coxcomb practically snorted. “I should think so.”
Cassandra glared at him with such heat he should have withered. Helen took her arm, as if cautioning her from unleashing her tongue.
Instead, Helen did the honors. “Dearest, do you remember what they said at Heartcomb about men in ditto suits?” Although Helen clearly addressed Cassandra, no one could be ignorant that she referred to the popinjay’s matching coat, waistcoat and breeches.
“Oh, yes. They haven’t the imagination to coordinate any other ensemble.”
The nobleman laughed, a single syllable entirely through his nose. “How very low.”
Before Cassandra or Helen could defend themselves, the coxcomb strutted away.
Both of them turned away in disgust, approaching the ship’s railing. “What a peacock,” Helen muttered.
Read more of A Gentleman’s Daughter now!