Andrew woke aboard the Aurora in Phileas Fogg's cabin. Katharine was nowhere in evidence; nor was Fogg. He was locked in. Passepartout, Phileas Fogg's valet, came in to give him food and drink. The man had a companion; one with a gun on them both while the serving was done. He asked if his wife was well. The valet told him she wasn't aboard.
"You are the only passenger besides the ones who forced us to sea," Passepartout said. "I am ordered to serve you."
Andrew nodded acknowledgement and ate his food. When he was done, the gunman led them both to the main cabin. The same man who gave orders in the hotel presided over the dirigible. He wasn't a tall man. His expression was still malicious and arrogant. He lounged in the wingback chair, as if he owned the ship.
"Your ship had much useful information aboard, but you must organize it for our use," he ordered. "You will show us the trade routes you use and all other information pertinent to our needs."
"What are your needs? And where are my wife and Mr. Fogg?" Andrew said.
"That is not for you to be concerned about, just yet. They are well and, on their way, to join us. For now, you are to concentrate on your tasks." The League officer turned from his prisoner to the observation window.
The gunman took Andrew into another area of the ship, which looked like a workroom. Eight boxes of papers and folders were stacked against a wall. He thumbed through the papers for a while without true purpose. They appeared to be new and old contracts for the Mediterranean routes. These came from the Mary Kate.
Andrew knew in a general sense where the ships went and when, but he didn't know what they picked up and left with. Shipping was a carry and tote sort of business. He left that part to Mary Kate. She had been handling that for five years before their marriage. He concentrated on the matters she ignored.
Maritime law and international trade rules and restrictions were a matter his wife was utterly ignorant of and uninterested in. He had gently teased her about acting as if the endeavor was devoid of rules and a governing influence. The captains and the fleet solicitor had been the only thing keeping her within legal bounds since she took over. The solicitor's job had become much easier since his addition.
What would these people want with these papers? Andrew turned to see the valet standing in attendance at the far end of the room. A source for help? Andrew called him over and demanded he bring the leader to him.
"Who made such a mess of this?" Andrew said. "When you removed this from the ship, you mixed the papers and folders. Everything is out of order. It's going to take a few days just to sort it all back to rights."
The League officer grimaced and gave a jerk of the head to Passepartout. "You help him."
Passepartout nodded assent and asked for directions.
Andrew gave the first instructions so any in earshot could hear. "Take that box; start laying the papers out by country west to east, starting with England. We will subdivide by ports, then by cargos."
They shuffled papers from boxes for a time until those looking on became bored. After an hour, the two men were given space to converse.
"Fogg seemed to know these people when we were accosted. Who are they?"
"They are League of Darkness," Passepartout whispered. "My master fighting them many times. Very dangerous."
"Have you heard where the others are?" Andrew said.
"We passing ship on way out of harbor. I hearing them talking of it. I thinking my master and your lady travel on it. We going to same place. Perhaps we must do this work before seeing them again?"
"Or do work that won't be done without Mary Kate's safety hanging over me," Andrew said. He checked the people in the main cabin through a narrow view around a cabinet. They were ignoring him. "We need to draw this out some so I can familiarize myself with the information. They can't just want the cargo. There must be more to it."
"Perhaps they have cargos to carry, too?" Passepartout said.
"Perhaps," Andrew said. Then he lit on an answer. "Quite likely… You may have hit on something there. Good thinking."
Taking over an established shipping line would be easier than establishing a new one. If they had cargo that needed smuggling, what better way than to add it to more mundane cargos coming and going on ships well known and above suspicion? He gave Passepartout's shoulder a squeeze and asked for another box.
Passepartout accepted the praise gladly and continued to shuffle papers as slowly as possible.
Phileas Fogg and Lady Katharine settled into a boring routine. The ship had steadily but slowly sailed on a northerly course for four days. They were never let out of their cabin, but were given their meals and any items requested. Katharine made an off-handed request for a book to read and was brought a small stack. They were old novels, with a seamanship manual added to the mix.
Every morning, she would re-don her petticoats when waking up, but dispensed with the hoops entirely. The cabin was too small to maneuver with wide skirts. They read and played cards with a deck Phileas kept in his coat for passing time. He had to teach her poker.
"I'm shocked," he said when Mary Katharine admitted she couldn't play. "The way your cousins play, I would have expected you to have learned long ago."
"Andrew's father didn't consider it proper for ladies to play cards," she said. "It was one of his restrictions the boys never disobeyed."
"Yet they taught you to fence? Let me add to your covert education," Fogg said.
Katharine was a quick study. By the fourth day, she was winning half the hands.
The imprisonment with a woman, not Rebecca, was uncomfortable, as this woman was who she was. He never ever expected to meet a woman who enjoyed fencing and shooting or who fished or rode horses as well as she did. Being raised with such a large family of men had a lot to do with it. She was nearly equal to Rebecca in spirit; but more subdued with, how would he put it… lady-like reserve?
Rebecca wasn't reserved about anything. She had no experience with limits of any kind.
Those thoughts led to Sir James McCollum's popping into London to see her of late. Fogg wasn't sure what he thought of the Scotsman's attentions. He felt vaguely uneasy about it, but the matter was none of his business. He had no reason to object to the man, but he did object to the thought of Rebecca being married and carried off to a small island up north. That was no life for his adventurous cousin.
The last time Sir James had shown up on Rebecca's arm, Fogg had been surprised. Phileas had seen them at a theater together. He rarely saw Rebecca in such social situations outside of her duties. He caught himself watching from across the room, slowly tensing up and not knowing why. Phileas left the play halfway through to return home.
Katharine napped. She still didn't have full strength. This confinement was not conducive to her regaining strength. She was tired of being tired. She paced the room for exercise until Phileas became restless watching her. Then he would take over the narrow floor space. It was a wonder they hadn't worn the deck boards through.
She had tried to enlist him in conversation, but he only answered her in the simplest of terms. He didn't seem to want to talk about himself or Rebecca. She had brought up Sir James's interest in his cousin and had been brushed off to another subject quickly. A little too quickly.
Rebecca and she had a great deal in common. Katharine wondered now if the love of one's guardian's son was one of those things as well. Hmm…
I might need to talk to James about not stepping on toes. If he had noticed and was courting Rebecca out of devilry… I need to talk with Andrew. James is awful about egging on rivalries. He thrived on competition. Andrew would know how to handle him.
On the sixth day out, the sea turned rough. Katharine's stomach rebelled against the movement. She got sick several times. It was just one more irritation to add to the rest. She lay down on her cot, trying to get control of herself.
"I was a splendid sailor for all the first weeks of our cruise. Why would a small squall put me out of sorts?" An explanation came to her, which she immediately squashed. This would be the poorest timing.