…tell,
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,
To act a lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky,
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?
So canted the words in Alice Munroe's head as she stared across the dark expanse of ocean to the distant shores of the New World. The journey had been treacherous, and her older sister Cora had spent most of the two months in their quarters, alternately retching from seasickness and moaning in pain from her migraines.
As guilty as she felt to admit it, Alice had been glad her sister was ill, as it gave her a respite from her sister's incessant ministrations. With Cora tucked miserably in her sweat-soaked bed, Alice was able to roam freely across the ship, slipping in and out of shadows like a ghost, barely noticed by the overworked crew and the wild urchin children from the lower berths. The rest of the gentlepeople were safely tucked in the ship's parlor, playing endless games of whist and gossiping about the latest society news.
Alice wisely stayed far away from the parlor, though she knew her sister Cora would be enraged to know she wandered the ship freely and without chaperone. However, while the oldest Munroe had no stomach for seafaring, the youngest Munore had no stomach for gossip, as she all too often had been the brunt of sharp tongues herself. Verily, that was the reason Cora and Alice were on the Queen Elizabeth II, hurtling towards unknown lands with just the barest amount of luggage and even less dignity.
Alice's cheeks burned in shame even as she stood alone on the cold and near abandoned deck. The memory of her past and the reason for their journey haunted her all over the ship, no matter how quickly and quietly she tried to move on her slippered feet. She put her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Oh God, I wish I was someone else, she thought desperately. I wish I had never been born. The black waves called out to her as they did night and night, and again, 'twas only the fear of eternal damnation that kept the slight girl pinned firmly on the deck.
"Better get below, Miss Munroe."
She heard the Scottish baritone of Captain Quilleran even through her tightly covered ears. She looked up with embarrassment.
"Docking is never an easy affair. The water will be most dreadfully choppy," he said, his brogue reminding her of her father's own. "Your sister will desire your company."
"Yes, Captain," said Alice dutifully, turning away from the railing with dread. She hated the stuffy quarters almost as much as she hated the constant reproach in Cora's hazel eyes.
He chuckled at her downtrodden tone. "Not many ladies enjoy the sea as much as you seem to, if I may be so bold as to say so," he said.
Her full lips turned up slightly. "Oh, I do," she said, her tone suddenly earnest. "It's wonderful to feel so free...to be in constant locomotion, at one with the tides and the stars."
Suddenly her gray blue eyes clouded, and she nearly whispered, "I do hate to think of being on land again. I shall feel a prisoner after this taste of liberty."
His eyebrows raised slightly. He wasn't expecting such an admission from a gentle-born woman, let alone one that carried such truth and pain. Ah, still waters do run deep, he mused thoughtfully, as he watched the girl with silver-blonde hair disappear into the bowels of his ship. He clucked his tongue sadly. She was well right to expect to find the New World just as confining as the Old. The rules didn't change for women, especially not gentlewomen, no matter how far they roamed.
"'Tis God's will," he murmured, and he thought wistfully of his own dear daughter back in Inverness, before turning and heading to his cabin.