Lady of the Veiled Vale

The Colonies or Bust

The sailor eyed the lovely woman who stumbled down the corridor. Well dressed and delicate, she had obviously never been asea. She walked with her feet splayed, knees ever so slightly bowed: an amateur's attempt at a sailor's stride.

   He shook his head, hiding a smile. No, he couldn't be looking for her. Perhaps 'twas the other sister he sought.

   She lost her balance then, smacking into the wall with a shoulder and hip. Rogue though he was, he reflexively reached to steady her.

   Hands none-too-gently clamping her arms to her sides, he growled "Whoa thar, lass! 'Tain't nae garden y're strollin' through! Ye've got tae put yer hands o' tha walls like, see?" He dropped his hands to her wrists and propped one hand on either wall. "Keeps ye from fallin' on yer arse."

   The little lady stiffened at the familiarity with which she was handled, but stood firm. "Thanks," she gurgled. He knew that sound!

   There was a bucket on a hook not five feet behind him. He lurched back in one long stride and nabbed it just in time. The lady spun too fast in her haste and just barely made the "slop bucket".

   The sailor stood awkwardly, holding the pail while she relieved her stomach of its contents. Eventually, she coughed and spit, propriety momentarily suspended.

   "Are ye done yellin' a' Cook?" 

   A shaky chuckle echoed around the pail's edge.

   At length she straightened, adjusted her netted cap, and said "Under different circumstances, I might have told you to let me fall next time. I am, after all, an unescorted, single woman." Propriety had returned.

   Gwinneth glanced blearily up at the rugged sailor. For a brief flash, she thought he doesn't look like a seaman; but before she could get more than a vague impression, her vision cleared. There before her was a thick-set Irishman with arms as big as her waist. Well, as big as it used to be...

   "Tha's a'right, miss" He doffed a shapeless wool cap that had seen better days. "Allus happy te help a lady in d'stress." His accent was as thick as his brawny chest. It looked like he'd bob his knees in respect, but then another wave rocked the large, keel-heavy boat. She was sure she invented a new shade of green, and positive that he turned another shade of white.

   He backed up, gesturing lamely with the bucket. "I'll toss o'er th' side for ye. There's anuir i' th' bunk for ye." Then he beat a hasty retreat.

   It would have been amusing, except she was tottering equally quickly in the other direction.

   The seaman strode from one end of the ship to the other, but the only other passengers on the freight vessel were a foppish dandy and his female companion. They looked utterly out of place, strolling the dimly-lit corridors as though they were on a well-appointed pleasure cruiser. He thought briefly about asking if they'd seen the Lady, but propriety intervened. He was supposed to be a lowly sailor, after all.

   When they'd gone a goodly distance from him (the "lady" making sure not a thread on her expensive gown so much as brushed his wave-soaked clothes), he slipped into the shadows and followed them. He could make himself so small and stealthy that the darkness fair swallowed him.

   "...don't know why she bothers," the lofty lady was saying. "Everyone knows what she is, and no one wants to see her." The pair laughed, but it was an ugly, mocking sound. The seaman seethed at their callous treatment of the lovely Lady he now knew to be the one he sought, but he had the information he needed.

   Gwinneth was curled in a ball of misery. It wasn't the scorn of Darién and her sister. It was the stomach-roiling combination of storm, sea, and the ever-present nausea. She hoped the warmer climate of the Colonies—and its oh-so-firm ground—would make her body settle down. As much as it's going to, anyway...