Marrying Christopher Read Online Free

now. A few more hours and she would be aboard the ship.
    A smiled curved her lips as she followed the others toward the Elm Tree Inn, an ivy-covered building that boasted two large windows up front. She had slept much of the morning away but now felt rejuvenated and looked enthusiastically forward to new experiences and a life free— for a few weeks, at least— from the burden of constant labor.
    Just outside the inn door Marsali paused, wondering if there would be anything on the menu she might purchase with the little money she had left. Deciding she might at least be able to afford a cup of tea, she tentatively entered the pub, allowing one of the gentlemen who had shared her coach to hold the door for her. A woman traveling alone could not be too cautious and had reason to be wary. Her aunt and uncle might have easily offered her the use of their coach and servants to accompany her, but then, that would have been a kindness— a word unknown in their vocabulary or lifestyle.
    Inside, the light shone nearly as brightly as it had outside, streaming as it was through the two southern-facing windows. Seating herself near one of these, at a tiny table with only one chair, Marsali felt a little more of the tension leave her.
    I am away from them. I am this much closer to America— and Charlotte. To a new home.

    Christopher emerged from the hackney, paid the driver, then waited as his trunk was unloaded from the back. After two consecutive days of traveling, it felt good to be standing on solid ground, though that feeling wasn’t to last long. But acquiring sea legs had to be easier than sitting cramped inside a coach for hours on end.
    He took in the scene about him at the Liverpool docks, lively with midmorning activity, men loading and unloading cargo, ships leaving anchor, and a friendly bustle of commerce all about. The brick buildings lining the waterfront advertised all manner of merchant ships and services, from coopers to sailmakers. Men— many of them with the hardened look of sailors— loitered about, likely looking for work. Christopher eagerly scanned the names on the weathered shop signs, hoping to see one proclaiming “Thomas and Gower, Steamship Service,” but there was no such sign.
    Not yet, anyway. But in years to come— maybe even next year— there will be. He was excited at the prospect of steam travel and especially being able to make the trans-Atlantic journey in nearly half the time it took the standard sailing vessels.
    A long line of people snaked along the boardwalk and up the gangway of the large sailing ship to his left. Babes in arms cried, and tiny children clung to their parents’ legs or peered warily from between them. A group of young boys skipped about in some sort of game. The older youth and gentlemen near his own age wore expressions of cautious optimism, while the older adults stood tiredly, many looking defeated already.
    And their journey has yet to begin. From their thick accents, Christopher guessed they were Irish. From their poorly patched and threadbare clothing to the baskets and bundles in which they had secured their meager belongings, he guessed them to be even poorer than he.
    And all heading to America as I am. She does not care that we arrive without wealth. Though he was to be fortunate in his travel, crossing the Atlantic under considerably better conditions than most. Christopher’s gaze slid to the smaller, yet good-sized vessel docked beside the immense sailing ship and felt an almost palpable excitement. History was about to be made. And I am to be a part of it.
    The coachman and driver had succeeded in retrieving his luggage. “You sailing on that newfangled ship?” Both men looked toward the vessel attached to the nearest gangplank.
    “I am,” Christopher said, proud rather than concerned, as the men seemed to be.
    “I hear they’re calling her a steam coffin ,” one remarked.
    “Steam and the speed that comes with it do not necessarily equate with