Chapter Ten

in which neely makes a new friend ... maybe?

I am having a lovely dream. I’ve just awoken from a nap in a softly swaying swing. Mama and Papa are sitting just a few feet away on a large quilt spread out over the ground. They are enjoying sparkling lemonade and cake. Elizabeth and Rosemary are playing a game with Grady, who is motioning for me to come join them. I—

“Ace. Ace!”

I frown, and the gentle swaying turns not so gentle. It occurs to me in the blissful moment between sleep and waking that the lumpy mattress of a bed is not my own, and whoever is loudly calling to Ace is referring to me as Ace. No one in my household calls me Ace.

My eyes fly open.

The one who is calling for Ace is the handsome stranger Uly paired me with for the journey to South America to find Grady.

The journey to South America! It hits me all at once, and I remember that I’m on a ship currently traveling to said America. I am to be up early to help in the kitchens (or galley, as Holden has told me it is called) because said handsome stranger got me moved from the awful place I was sure I’d die in (enough with the dramatics, Neely, those are Rosemary’s remember?)

I sit straight up, smacking my head on the ceiling, forcing me back to my pillow. Stars float in my vision. Reaching up, I hiss when my fingers find the lump on my head.

“Easy there, Ace. You okay?” A warm hand reaches out in the murky moonlight and touches my arm.

Forgetting my bunk is practically suspended in the air, I roll out of bed and drop to my feet. I would have fallen and hit my head again had Holden not been there to steady me. It takes me half a second to realize that I’m still in Holden’s arms. I jump back, but as our room is only as big as a closet, my back meets the closed door.

Holden lifts his hands in surrender. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. Just trying to keep you on your feet.”

“Yes, well,” I huff, yanking my shirt further down over my trousers I’ve now lived in for the past two days. I try not to breathe my clothing’s scent too deeply. What I wouldn’t give for a hot bath and clean clothes. Mama would be horrified to see me this close to a strange man. Really, the entire situation would most likely put her into an early grave. But could Holden really be considered a strange man at this point? Uly seemed to trust him enough to let him escort me to South America. I’d consider Holden still a stranger, but not strange. “Thank you, Holden. So sorry you had to wake me—and… catch me.” My face warms. I’m glad the tiny room is lit only by the little moonlight streaming through the window.

“Don’t mention it. I need to report below. Also, I found your cat waiting to be let in.” He motions toward my bunk, I had just so gracefully (hmmp) left, and I see the lump I assume must be Sanderson.

Relief pours over me. I hadn’t realized how worried I had been about the cat. Seems my worry has been in vain since there he lies, undisturbed by my bumping and falling. “Thank you.” There are those words again.

Holden’s head bobs, yet he still doesn’t move to leave. “Do I need to report below with you?”

“No, but you are blocking the door.”

“Oh!” I step forward, but that only moves me face-first into Holden’s chest. My cheeks warm again, and I step back until I feel the solid door behind me. “I…” I don’t know what to say. It doesn’t matter which way I move, I won’t be able to get out of Holden’s way. Blast this tiny room! “I’m sorry I don’t…” I try again to no avail.

Holden’s hands reach out, curling around my arms as he pulls me to himself and then spins us, effectively switching us places in the room. “I’ll see you this evening, Ace. Please stay out of trouble today.” And then he is gone. Leaving me breathless.

Never had I been touched by a man (that wasn’t Grady or Uly) so much in such a short span of time. Not that any of Holden’s touching had been untoward, but still.

“Are you beginning to like our mysterious chaperone, my dear Neely?” The lump on the bed asks, and it sounds as if he’s chuckling! I assumed he had been asleep. Not witnessing the entire exchange.

For the third time already this morning, I feel my face flame. “Of course not.” I stoop to grab my boots from where Holden stacked them the night before. There isn’t anywhere to sit, and I’ll be loath if I sit on Holden’s bunk, so standing, I shove my feet into the boots.

“Mmm.” Is the only response I get from Sanderson.

My eye catches on something on the floor. Papa’s atlas, journal, whatever it is, must have fallen from my bunk when I so elegantly removed myself from bed. It lies flat, leaves exposed to the world. From this angle, it almost appears as if there are shadows of something written across the pages. I frown. When I flipped through it before, the book had been blank. True, I hadn’t the time to look at every page closely, but I would have at least seen the writing, wouldn’t I? Squinting in the dim light, I stretch out my fingers to curl around the book and draw it closer. What in the world?

“Neely, I don’t mean to hurry you along, but if you’d like to get in the graces of Cook, and keep the job transfer Holden has gotten you, you must hurry along to the galley before you’re late,” Sanderson slices through my concentration. “You wouldn’t want your handsome stranger disappointed in you, now would you?”

Squeaking, I toss the book on top of my bunk and promise to look more closely at it later. Grabbing fistfuls of hair, I twist it into braids to fit under my cap. “Also, Holden isn’t my anything. Don’t think you can make more out of the Holden thing than what it is.” I shove a pin into my hair, securing the braids in place. “Which is nothing.”

Sanderson moves as if trying to get comfortable. “Whatever you say.”

“Sanderson, seriously. I don’t even know the man. We were thrown together only two days ago, and since then, we’ve barely had a conversation. He’s only saved me once—okay, twice if you consider him getting me a job transfer. I’m not sure I would have lasted the journey shoveling coal. He has been a complete gentleman the entire two days that I’ve known him and—”

“I’m not arguing with you, Neely dear, but you must get a move on,” Sanderson mumbles on his way to sleep.

Shoving my cap on my head, I stumble out the door, praying I can remember which way the galley is. Praying I don’t mess up this opportunity before I even begin.

---

“You’re late.”

Cook is a grumpy man who towers over me and is at least four times as wide as I am. His belly folds over the top of his pants, and he wears a dirty undershirt. From the looks of Cook’s shirt, the kitchen might not be any cooler than below. Heavy sweat spots mar the front of his shirt, staining it a dirty yellow.

Does anyone on this ship wear clean clothes? Not as if I could complain, wearing Grady’s shirt and trousers for the second day. The first thing I’d do when I got to South America, is find somewhere private to bathe…

“I’m sorry, sir.” I apologize, out of breath from running the whole of the ship (or so it seems). “I got turned around and ended up at the right spot, but the wrong floor.”

“Which is still the wrong spot,” Cook tosses over his shoulder as he turns back to the stove, where white foam is bubbling down the side of a pot. The strong scent of onions makes my nose twinge and my eyes water.

I hold my breath. This would be it then. I’d lose this respite before I even gained it.

“Stop standing there gawking, and go help Lee with peeling potatoes.” Cook nods his head toward a boy sitting on a stool in the corner, surrounded by potato peelings. How late am I for the boy to have that much work piled up?

I make my way over to the boy, collapsing on the empty stool next to him. Wordlessly, he hands me a knife and points to the stack of potatoes still needing to be peeled. There are so many.

Here is where I probably should make the confession that I’ve never actually worked in a kitchen before. Mona, our cook back home, never let anyone set foot inside her kitchen. Every once in a while, when Mona is in a mood, we are able to watch her make cookies or other sweets, but we are relegated to the other side of the kitchen — a safe distance away from the actual cooking.

I suppose I’ve watched Lee long enough because he looks up from the potato he’s peeling (the second one since I’ve sat now) and motions for me to get started. Glancing between Lee and my potato, I slowly pull the knife over the rough skin, revealing the white layer underneath. One long, brown ribbon of skin floats to the floor, and I giggle with glee.

Cook glances over from the stove, eyebrow cocked. I clear my throat and duck my head. A boy, Neely, you’re supposed to be a boy. I peek up at Lee, but my giggling doesn’t seem to have startled him in the least.

Lee is young. He can’t be more than fourteen at most. His face is smooth, and his skin is sun-kissed vanilla. His dark, chin-length hair is tucked behind his ears, but it keeps escaping, framing his face in shadows. Dark eyes are surrounded by thick lashes. I’d say his eyes are brown, but they are so dark they could be black. Lee works quickly, peeling another three potatoes while I study him.

His eyes dart to mine, and he sees the half-done potato still in my hands. He sighs and motions again for me to get back to work.

I want to talk, but I’m afraid I’ll give myself away again if I open my mouth. I go back to my work, dragging the knife over the rough skin. My mind wanders back to Papa’s atlas. I did see writing there. Hadn’t I? Or maybe my mind and body are more exhausted than I know, and I am now imagining things. Or maybe I want there to be something there. If there is something written in the pages, a map, a clue, anything, it would prove that Papa isn’t the crazy man everyone has made him out to be. That he’s still there, stuck somewhere in his mind.

“Ouch!” The knife and potato clatter to the floor, and I suck on my finger—which I have just sliced. Copper fills my mouth. Lee shoots up from his chair and pulls my finger from my mouth and up to his face. He tugs a rag from his pocket and tears a strip from it with his teeth. Before I can ask if it’s clean, he wraps it firmly around my finger before a drop of blood can hit the floor. After inspecting his work, I assume, making sure no blood seeps through, he picks up my dropped knife and places it back in my hand, along with the potato I had been working on.

“Is all good over there?” Cook’s rough voice asks. He wipes his hands on his pants and steps as if he is coming to inspect our work.

Lee steps in front of me, shielding my bandaged finger, and gives Cook a curt nod, stopping the giant of a man in his path.

Pausing and frowning, Cook turns back to his work at the hot stove. “See to it you two keep working. Those potatoes aren’t going to peel themselves.”

With shaky hands, I get back to work. Thoughts of the atlas and Papa would have to wait. If I don’t concentrate on what I am doing, I might not make it to South America with all my fingers intact.

And what a shame that would be.

Atlas of Neely Spencer is currently being released chapter by chapter as I write it. You can read all about why I chose this format in this post. Please forgive any errors in spelling, grammar, and punctuation since this is not professionally edited. Think of it like this: you’re getting to read my first-pass pages!