Taylor thought about the babies. Soon she would be able to hold them again. She wondered if she would recognize them. When last she'd seen them, they weren't even crawling. Now they must be walking and talking, and Lord, she could barely contain her excitement. She closed her eyes and said a prayer of thanksgiving because she was finally on her way, and then she said another prayer in anticipation of the new life she was about to begin.
She would collect the little girls as soon as she reached Boston, and then she would take them to safety. She would hide them where Uncle Malcolm would never think to look.
A glimmer of an idea came into her mind. Redemption. My, but she liked the sound of that. Could it be the sanctuary she was looking for? She let out a little sigh. Redemption.
Chapter 3
Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.
—William Shakespeare,
Lady Victoria Helmit was making a muck out of trying to kill herself.
She shouldn't have been surprised, for God only knew she had certainly made a muck out of her life, just as her parents had predicted she would. Oh, if they could only see her now. They'd have a good laugh all right, then purse their lips in satisfaction. Their wayward, no-account daughter was fulfilling their every expectation. She couldn't even stop crying long enough to get a good foothold and climb over the railing so she could hurl herself into the ocean. Victoria was everything they said she was and more. She was also proving to be a coward.
To outsiders, she appeared to be a woman who had it all. In appearance, she'd obviously been blessed by the gods. She was strikingly pretty, with deep auburn-colored hair and eyes as brilliant and as green as
Ireland's spring grass. Her coloring came from her mother's side of the family. Grandmother Aisley hailed from County Clare. Victoria's high cheekbones and patrician features also came from her mother's side. Her grandfather had been born and raised in a small province in the north of France. Since Grandmother's relatives couldn't even speak the Frenchman's name without giving into a round of lusty, loud vulgarities, and since Grandfather's family despised the no-good, never-could-hold-their-drink Irish with just as much intensity, when the two mismatched lovers married, they settled in England on what they called neutral ground.
While her grandparents were alive, Victoria was doted upon. Her grandfather loved to boast she'd inherited her flair for drama and her love of Shakespeare from him, and her grandmother was just as happy to claim she'd gotten her quick temper and her passionate nature from her.
Victoria wasn't the apple of her parents' eyes, however. They wouldn't have thrown her out on the streets if that had been the case. She had shamed and disgraced them. They told her they were disgusted and repelled by the very sight of her. They called her every vile name they could think of, but the one that stuck in her mind and played over and over again in her memory was the claim that she had been, and always would be, a fool.
They were right about that. She was a fool. Victoria acknowledged the truth with a low, keening sob. She immediately stopped herself from making another sound and hurriedly looked to her left and then her right to make certain she was still all alone. It was past three o'clock in the morning. The other passengers aboard the Emerald were fast asleep, and the crew was obviously occupied elsewhere.
It was now or never. The Emerald had been at sea for three nights now. The water wouldn't get any deeper, and if she was going to get the deed done, she believed this was the perfect opportunity, for she was all alone.
She was mistaken in that belief. Lucas stood on the other side of the staircase and watched her. He couldn't figure out what in God's name the daft woman was trying to do.
Then he heard another sound. It was silk brushing against silk. He turned and spotted Taylor making her way up the stairs. She couldn't see him, and he didn't let her know he was there, watching her from the shadows. He wanted to find out what in thunder she was up to, strolling up on deck in the middle of the night.
The sobbing woman drew his attention again. She was struggling to move a heavy crate across the deck.
Victoria was weak from crying. It seemed to take her forever to move the crate over to the railing. Her feet felt like lead. She finally made it to the top of the crate and then latched onto the railing. She was poised to leap over the side if she could get one leg high enough. Her hands were tightly gripping the rail now and her white petticoats were waving about her like a flag in surrender. She stood there for only a second or two and yet it seemed an eternity to her. She was openly sobbing now with terror and defeat. Dear God, she couldn't do it. She simply couldn't do it.
She climbed down off the crate, then collapsed to the floor and wept without restraint. What was she going to do? What in God's name was she going to do?
"Pray forgive me for intruding on your privacy, but I would like to be of assistance if I may. Are you going to be all right?"
The question came in a whisper. Victoria squinted against the darkness while she vehemently shook her head.
Taylor took a step forward into the light provided by the half-moon. She folded her hands in front of her and tried to act as calm as possible. She didn't want to frighten the young woman into doing anything drastic, because Taylor wasn't close enough to stop her if she tried again to jump over the side.
She watched as the woman mopped the tears away from her face with the backs of her hands. She took several deep breaths, obviously trying to regain a little of her composure. She was shaking from head to foot. The sadness Taylor saw in her eyes was heartbreaking. Taylor had never seen anyone this desolate, except her sister, Marian, she reminded herself. Marian had looked this defeated the morning she'd warned Taylor what Uncle Malcolm might try to do to her.
Taylor forced herself to block the image. "What in heaven's name were you thinking to do?" she asked.
"To be or not to be."
Taylor was certain she hadn't heard correctly. "I beg your pardon?"
"To be or not to be," Victoria repeated angrily. "That is what I was contemplating."
"You quote Shakespeare to me now?" Was the woman demented?
Victoria's anger over being interrupted vanished as quickly as it had come. She was exhausted now, defeated. "Quoting Shakespeare seemed appropriate," she whispered. Her voice was empty of all emotion when she continued. "I don't want to be any longer, you see, but I can't seem to gather enough courage to end my life. Please go away. I want to be left alone."
"I won't leave you alone," Taylor argued. "Tell me what I can do to help you."
"Assist me over the side."
"Stop talking like that." Her voice was sharper than she intended. She shook her head over her own lack of discipline. The woman needed help now, not a lecture. She took another step forward. "I didn't mean to raise my voice to you. Please accept my apology. I don't believe you really want to jump," she added in a rush. "You already made the decision not to end your life. I was about to stop you when you climbed down from the rail. You gave me quite a start, I'll admit. Turning the corner and seeing you perched up there so precariously." Taylor shivered with the memory. She rubbed the chill from her arms. "What is your name?"
"Victoria."
"Victoria's a lovely name," Taylor remarked. She couldn't think of anything better to say. She wanted to grab the woman by her shoulders and shake some sense into her. She didn't succumb to her urge, however, but would reason with her instead. "Please tell me what's wrong. I would like to help you."
Victoria pressed her back against the rail when Taylor took another step toward her. She looked like a cornered animal, waiting for the kill. Her eyes were wide with terror, and she gripped her hands together with such force, her arms began to shake.