Diane Gaston - Shipwrecked With The Captain

‘Oh?’ The Captain’s brows rose. ‘Of course. Was about to make that order.’ He called one of his men over. ‘Tell the passengers to remain below.’

Lucien shook his head in dismay and strode away. He traversed the deck and, out of habit, took notice of the seamen preparing for the storm. He scanned the sails and the ropes. All seemed well enough. Shipshape. He glanced back at the Captain who held a hand to his chest and seemed to be studying his coat buttons.

Lucien expelled a frustrated breath. He’d better get below himself before he began barking orders.

He walked to the companionway and opened the hatch. At the bottom of the stairs stood two women, both in grey cloaks. Which was the woman with the captivating laugh? He could not see the face of one, but the other was a beauty. An expensively dressed beauty. He might have spoken to them and hoped to finally see who had uttered such a lovely laugh, but it was clear he’d intruded on them. They stepped aside.

He nodded and passed them, but turned back. ‘You ladies should stay in your cabins. The sea is rough. Do not fear. A seaman will bring your meal to you.’

At least he hoped such an arrangement would be made—if the Captain thought to order it.

Lucien continued to his cabin.

* * *

Claire Tilson had quickly averted her face when the tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered gentleman opened the hatch and descended the stairs. Her heart was already beating fast; this encounter—this lady—had been disturbance enough, but she’d glimpsed the man on deck and he was every bit as handsome as she’d suspected, with thick brows and eyes as light brown and as alert as a fox’s.

What was wrong with her? Taking notice of any man. She’d just fled from the country house where she’d been governess to three lovely little girls, because their father had tried to seduce her—practically under the nose of his sweet wife. He’d sworn his undying love. As if she could trust a man who so ill-used his wife.

Claire shook herself. She need not be distracted. She needed, instead, to address this lady standing next to her, this lady she’d met a moment ago.

This lady who looked exactly like her.

Same brown hair. Same hazel eyes. Same face.

What do you say to a stranger who looked like your twin?

Lady Rebecca Pierce was her name, she’d said.

Claire waited until the handsome gentleman disappeared into one of the cabins near the end of the corridor, but she debated whether it was her place to ask for explanations.

‘We should do as he says, I suppose,’ she said instead. She went to a nearby door and opened it. ‘My cabin is here.’

What she wanted to say was, Wait. Talk to me. Why do you look like me? Where are you from? Are you a relation?

Claire would love to have some family relation to claim her.

She ought not to push herself on a lady, though. She took a step across the threshold.

Lady Rebecca called her back. ‘I would like to speak with you more. I am quite alone. My maid suffers the mal de mer and remains in her cabin.’

Claire glanced down. ‘The sea has never bothered me. I suppose I have a strong constitution that way.’

‘Will you talk with me?’ Lady Rebecca asked. ‘Maybe there is some sense to make of this.’ Her hand gestured between them.

Claire gazed into her cabin, perfect for a poor governess, but unsuitable for a lady. ‘You are welcome to come in, but there is very little room.’

‘Come to my cabin, then,’ the lady said. ‘We may be comfortable there.’

Claire followed Lady Rebecca to her cabin, which included a berth larger than the one in her cabin and a table and chairs that provided a view of the sea through a porthole. As the gentleman had said, the sea was rough, with choppy waves and white foam.

Lady Rebecca waved towards a chair, inviting her to sit. When they were both settled across from each other at the table, Lady Rebecca asked, ‘Where are you bound, Miss Tilson?’

Claire would have thought she’d ask the obvious question, the one that burned inside her— why do we look alike ?

‘To a family in the Lake District,’ she responded. ‘Not a family, precisely. Two little girls whose parents were killed in an accident. They are in the care of their uncle now, the new Viscount Brookmore.’ And with any luck at all, the Viscount wouldn’t often be in residence.

‘How sad.’ The lady frowned sympathetically.

Yes. The little girls were alone in the world. Claire knew how that felt.

But she did not wish to dwell on gloomy feelings, not when her life might improve. ‘And you, Lady Rebecca? Where are you bound?’

‘To London,’ she replied.

‘London!’ Claire smiled. A city of shops, palaces, theatres and town houses in picturesque squares. The Tower. Westminster Abbey. Hyde Park. ‘How exciting. I was there once. It was so...vital.’

‘Vital, indeed.’ Lady Rebecca, looking like Claire herself, appeared scornful.

Claire peered at her. ‘You sound as if you do not wish to go.’

The lady met her gaze. ‘I do not. I travel there to be married.’

Claire’s brows rose. ‘Married?’

Lady Rebecca waved a hand. ‘It is an arranged marriage. My brother’s idea.’

There were worse things than an arranged marriage. ‘And you do not wish to marry this man?’

‘Not at all.’ Lady Rebecca straightened in her chair. ‘May I change the subject?’

Claire blinked. She’d forgotten herself and had spoken out of turn, as if they were equals. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.’

Lady Rebecca shrugged. ‘Perhaps I will tell you the whole story later.’ She leaned forward. ‘For now I am bursting with questions. Why do we look alike? How can this be? Are we related somehow?’

The same questions Claire longed to ask.

They discussed possible family connections, but came up with none that connected them.

It would have been more of a surprise if they had been relations. Lady Rebecca was the daughter of an English earl whose estate was in Ireland and Claire was the daughter of an English vicar who’d rarely travelled out of his county.

They had both grown up in English boarding schools, however, although Lady Rebecca’s was a rather progressive school in Reading and Claire’s Bristol school had catered to girls like her, who would eventually have to make their own way in the world. It was through her boarding school that Claire had procured the governess position in Ireland.

Lady Rebecca blew out an exasperated breath. ‘We are no closer to understanding this. We are not related—’

‘But we look alike,’ Claire finished for her. ‘An unexpected coincidence?’

Lady Rebecca stood and pulled Claire towards a mirror affixed to the wall.

‘We are not identical.’ Claire was almost relieved to find some differences. ‘Look.’

Claire’s two front teeth were not quite as prominent and her eyebrows did not have Lady Rebecca’s lovely arch, and Claire’s eyes were closer together. Still, the differences were so minor as to be easily overlooked.

‘No one would notice unless we were standing next to each other,’ she admitted.

‘Our clothes set us apart. That is for certain.’ Lady Rebecca turned from the mirror and faced Claire. ‘If you wore my clothes, I’d wager anyone would take you for me.’

Claire admired the travelling dress Lady Rebecca wore, a vigonia-wool confection with ribbon trim at the hem. She’d also admired Lady Rebecca’s cloak, grey, like hers, but of a much finer wool. ‘I cannot imagine wearing fine clothes like yours.’ She sighed.

‘You must wear them, then.’ Lady Rebecca’s eyes—so like Claire’s eyes in colour and shape—brightened. ‘Let us change clothes and impersonate each other for the voyage. It will be a great lark. We will see if anyone notices.’