Today's Reading

Well, now you're definitely too late to beat a hasty retreat on foot. Mina curled her gloved fingers around the railing to help maintain her balance. All was not lost, though. She had other magical means, courtesy of her Parasol Academy training, at her disposal to effect an escape.

As long as she could find Lord Fitzwilliam and avoid detection. That was her priority.

But where could the boy be? Locked in the captain's cabin or below deck in a cabin of his own or Sir Bedivere's?

There was only one way to find out.

As the City of Bristol slid past, Mina turned her attention to the "lay of the land"—or perhaps she should say, the "shape of the ship"? Unfortunately, her knowledge of all things nautical was rudimentary at best. A doorway bracketed by two sets of stairs leading up to the quarterdeck was directly ahead. The captain's cabin was usually at the stern of the ship not too far below deck—or so Mina thought—and the quarters for passengers and higher-ranking crew members wouldn't be too far from that, surely.

Mina started forward, making a beeline for the door...only to discover that there was no way on earth her umbrella was going to fit through such a narrow space, let alone the passageway—really a chute—with its ladder in lieu of stairs that led below. It would be akin to stuffing a whole Victoria sponge into a mouse-sized mouth—physically impossible.

Why, her skirts would barely fit.

Glancing about the deck, Mina made sure no one was looking her way, and of course, that no one was lurking below the ladder, before she drew a deep breath and in one smooth maneuver, turned neatly and balanced on the topmost rung. Then, she swiftly closed her umbrella, tucked it firmly beneath her arm, and gently drew the door closed.

Upon descending the ladder, she found herself in a low-ceilinged, shadowy passageway—deserted, thank goodness—that opened onto a relatively spacious cabin with a fine mahogany dining table, matching dresser, and several large chests. The officers' and gentlemen's mess perhaps?

So far, so good.

All she could hear—apart from the rapid tattoo of her own heart—was the creak of timbers, the susurration of waves, the muted calls of the crew above, and the occasional thud or clank or scrape. Dare she try her luck and call out to Lord Fitzwilliam? Surely most hands would "be on deck"—apart from those on duty in the galley.

What she couldn't afford to do was dither, flapping about like a faint-hearted flibbertigibbet. According to Chapter 3, Section 2, Subsection 4 of the Parasol Academy Handbook, a nanny or governess "must always act precisely and with assuredness. Dillydallying, or any form of shilly-shallying, can waste precious minutes, especially in a precarious situation where a child's safety is at stake. Assess, decide, take action. Above all, carry on."

No matter what.

And then Mina heard another sound beneath everything else like a soft, heartbreaking undercurrent.

The sobs of a child.

Mina's heart clenched. It was Lord Fitzwilliam. She'd know the sound of his weeping anywhere. Hadn't she provided comfort to the boy on numerous occasions over the past six months? Like the time he'd scraped his knee in Hyde Park. And when he'd badly cut his finger with a pen knife in the schoolroom of Fitzwilliam House. The occasion when he'd suffered from a stomachache.

And then of course, when his beloved godmother, Lady Grenfell, passed away but a month ago, and she, Mina, had been the one who'd had to break the terrible news to her charge.

She hastened through the mess, following the sound into another narrow passage. There, to the right—or should she say, on the starboard side?—were three wooden doors, perhaps leading to cabins; the weeping seemed to be emanating from the middle one.

Oh, my poor little lord.

Mina rushed over. "Lord Fitzwilliam?" she called in a hushed voice as she tried the polished brass handle—of course, it was locked, but she'd been expecting that. "It's me, Miss Davenport. Can you open the door, my lord?"

The crying ceased and the young viscount whispered through the keyhole. "Miss D-Davenport?" There was a sniffle then a hiccupped breath. "Is-is that really you?"

"Yes," Mina whispered back in the most reassuring voice she could muster. "'Tis I, my lord." She glanced about. The coast was still clear. "I've come to fetch you. Is there a key in the lock? On your side?"

Another hiccup. "No..." Another small whimper ensued. "Sir Bedivere locked me in. He-he said I had to stay down here where...where it's safe."

Mina's lips tightened as she scoffed inwardly. Safe? Who in their right mind wanted to take a child on a rough-sea voyage to such a far-flung and inhospitable place as the Northwest Passage? A notoriously treacherous, essentially uncharted sea route that had claimed the lives of many intrepid sailors. As Lady Grenfell had once put it, "Sir Bedivere suddenly fancies himself as a modern-day Sir Walter Raleigh. He's got it in his head that he wants to blaze a trail across the Arctic Ocean where no man has blazed a trail before. Come what may."

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