The Bride Ship

The meal ended with optimism restored. Everyone seemed in an excellent mood and so excited about their journey, the sights they’d see along the way, the hopes they had for their destination. But as the evening wore on and groups formed to read aloud, talk or play cards, Allie began to feel a change in the ship. Saltcellars slid from one side of the table to the other. Pots clanked in the galley. When she stood, she had to put out a hand to steady herself before taking a step.

One by one, the other women grew quiet, turned ashen. Some dashed up the stairs to the deck, and Allie caught a quick glimpse of them leaning over the railing before the door swung shut behind them and cut off the light. Others retired to their bunks. Clay helped more than one to the kitchen in search of hot water or empty bowls.

Allie was only thankful she, Maddie and Gillian were spared the bouts of seasickness. They retired a short time later and passed the night listening to the dishes clatter against each other in the galley. More than one woman called out that the ship must be sinking. Gillian clung to Allie with a whimper.

Allie had been that afraid many times—when she’d realized her answer at the ball had driven Clay out of Boston, when Frank had marched away to war, when Mrs. Howard had advised her in that cold voice that Allie’s only choice was to marry Gerald. Now she could not fear. Despite Clay’s comments about medical care in Seattle, she knew she was on the right path.

“The ship isn’t sinking,” she assured Gillian, stroking her daughter’s silky hair in the dim cabin. “Captain Windsor is very wise, and every sailor we’ve met is strong and able. They’ll see us safely through this storm.”

“But it’s so bumpy,” Gillian said, huddling closer.

“Think of it like a carriage ride along a country road,” Allie advised. “Just a few bumps and then we’ll be at our destination.”

“Seattle?” Gillian piped up hopefully.

“Seattle,” Allie promised. “But not for a while yet. We must be patient.”

Just then someone pounded on their stateroom door, and she recognized Mr. Debro’s voice. “Mrs. Howard! Mrs. Howard! Come quick! It’s Mr. Howard, and he’s in a bad way!”

* * *

Clay couldn’t remember being so miserable. He kept his eyes tight shut as the ship bucked and rolled. With a whoosh, a wave heaved up over the bulkhead and doused the door of his stateroom. An answering slosh told him that some of the seawater had forced its way under the door and was spilling across the hardwood floor.