Sapphire

19

By the time Sapphire woke the following morning, Blake was gone, as were the letters she had written to Armand and Aunt Lucia to be posted the moment they hit dry land. They had sailed to the mouth of the harbor in the middle of the night, and after standing on the bow together, watching as the few lights of the city grew closer, they had retired to their cabin. They’d made love, but Blake had remained emotionally distant from her, and that morning she rose and prepared for the day with great trepidation.

She drank the coffee Blake had left her but only nibbled on the bread, her stomach too nervous for anything more. She could feel the motion of the ship as it was towed to the docks in the harbor, but she did not go topside for fear someone might see her dressed in cabin boy’s clothes. Once she stepped foot off this ship, no one would know her or what had taken place this last fortnight. She intended to resume the life she had before Blake had carried her onto the ship in the middle of the night.

Retrieving Blake’s silver-handled hairbrush from the chest he had packed the previous day, she sat cross-legged on the bed and brushed her hair, waiting for the clothing Blake had promised he’d send for by dory first thing this morning.

Time seemed to drag. She could hear the rush of the water against the hull, the frenzied activity on deck and the excited shouts of sailors as the ship docked. She wanted so badly to be topside and see all there was to see in Boston Harbor, but she would not give in to her own inquisitiveness; she had to be dressed properly to go ashore as Lord Wessex’s daughter, rather than some dockside trollop.

At the sound of Blake’s familiar footsteps in the passageway, Sapphire dropped the brush and quickly drew her hair back in a simple knot.

By the time he came through the door, she was standing in bare feet, hands behind her back, waiting anxiously.

“We can disembark as soon as you’re dressed,” he said, tossing a bundle on the bed beside her. He had donned a pair of dark trousers and coat and wore a bowler-style hat on his head. With his creamy white shirt and scowl, he looked every bit the entrepreneur and respected businessman that he was, and nothing like the man who had held her in his arms a few nights ago, twisting her hair around his finger, than pulling to watch the curl bounce. “The carriage is already on the dock, as is my assistant.”

Sapphire turned to stare at the bundle of clothing that could not possibly be a lady’s gown and petticoats; it was too small. “Your assistant?” she asked, stunned by the parcel on the bed.

“Mr. Givens. He was my father’s assistant. Not a terribly jolly fellow, but a good worker. He’s very loyal.” He said this without any emotion.

Sapphire tugged at the string tied around the parcel and the paper fell away to reveal a woman’s plain gray woolen skirt, a long-sleeved cotton blouse that had seen better days and an apron. There were black stockings, a pair of worn black shoes and a mobcap, as well. Maids’ clothes—and not even clothing fit for a lady’s maid. This was the uniform of the lowliest household servant—the scullery girl. She stared at the clothes for a moment, then turned to Blake, her eyes blazing. “What is this?” she demanded.

“Clothes,” he answered plainly.

She gritted her teeth. “I can see that.”

“You ask for clothing befitting of your station, Sapphire.” He raised a hand. “And I have provided them, as promised.”

“You son of a—” She caught herself before the words slipped out and she could not take them back. Ladies did not curse, no matter how angry they might become. “I’m not wearing these,” she said stubbornly. “I am Lord Wessex’s daughter, I am not a maid, and I will not wear those clothes!”

“So wear what you have on.” He laid his hand on the doorknob.

“I can’t wear this!” She stepped back, spreading her arms. “I can’t be seen on the street in men’s clothing. I…I’d be arrested for indecency.” She indicated the transparency of the shirt by tugging on it. “I can’t enter your house, be seen by your assistant, your household staff in this. What will they think of me?”

“Sapphire, the carriage is leaving for Beacon Hill in five minutes, with or without you.” He opened the door and stopped, turning back. “Unless, of course, you’re just Sapphire Fabergine, a clever girl who has caught my eye.” He raised his brows. “My mistress.”

Five minutes later, Sapphire walked over the gangplank behind Blake and onto the dock dressed in the maid’s clothing, so angry that she thought the fire in her eyes might set the back of his fancy coat aflame.

“Good to have you back, sir,” greeted a man some years older than Blake who stood next to the large and obviously quite expensive carriage. He would have been pleasant enough looking had he not been scowling worse than Blake. He did not speak to her, nor did Blake make introductions.

Inside the roomy carriage, Sapphire sat as far from Blake on the leather bench seat as she could get. As they rode down the bustling city street, she looked out the window. Like London, the avenues were teeming with vehicles and pedestrians. There were fancy carriages like the one they rode in, but also simple wagons pulled by sway-backed nags and handcarts being steered by boys. There were common men and women dressed in simple clothes, carrying sacks, bags, sides of beef and buckets of coal. But walking beside them were men dressed like Blake in tailored black suits and women in elegant morning gowns, wearing bonnets and carrying parasols to protect their skin from the summer sun. Despite the fact that they were at the harbor—usually the poorest, most run-down district in a city—these Americans had a different air about them. The venders selling meat pies, the slave boy carrying a parcel of letters, even the dockworkers seemed less dirty, less desperate. There was none of the filth and stench of London. Pigs ran loose in the streets, as did chickens, and she even saw a nanny goat standing atop a pile of barrels, but the streets were relatively clean, and most of the boys chasing one another among the bales and boxes wore shoes. She hadn’t known what to expect in Boston, but the seemingly good conditions of the common people was a welcome surprise. She’d found London exhilarating but a little sad, and her first glimpse of Blake’s city revealed promise.

The skyline rapidly changed once they were away from the docks, and Sapphire found herself craning her neck, so fascinated that she pushed aside the brocade curtains to get a better view. The buildings were tall, beautiful and so clean compared to the soot-sullied structures of London. And the architecture was remarkable. Sapphire had never seen herself as a student of architecture, though Armand had insisted she be knowledgeable about a host of subjects women did not normally familiarize themselves with, and architecture had been one of them. “My goodness,” she heard herself say. “The buildings are so beautiful. That’s Greek Revival, isn’t it?” She pointed as they passed an institute of banking.

Blake and Mr. Givens had been talking about various matters of business. Now Blake turned to her. “Yes, it is,” he said, seeming surprised by her knowledge.

“And look at that.” Without thinking, she rose on her knees on the bench. “What is that? The gold dome is so exquisitely beautiful.”

“Our state house.” Blake pinched the pleat of his trouser pant leg and crossed his legs.

“Neoclassical?” she asked, turning her head as they sailed by the newly constructed building.

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Again, he sounded surprised. “The architect was Charles Bullfinch. He designed many buildings here in Boston. Fascinating man. You would like him. I could introduce you—he’s quite a conversationalist.”

Sapphire saw Mr. Givens give Blake a look, as if questioning why he would speak to a serving girl this way. She had half a mind to defend herself but decided she wouldn’t give Blake the pleasure of hearing her try to explain why she was wearing these ridiculous clothes. She’d let Blake win this game, but once they arrived at the house and he found her some decent clothing, Mr. Givens would learn the truth of who she was.

“I’d like to see some of those buildings,” she told Blake. “Armand had some sketchbooks on Greek Revival architecture, and I must admit I’m partial to that style.” She half smiled. “Perhaps because of my penchant to Greek tragedies.”

Again, Givens’s thin brows arched.