Perilous Journey of the Much-Too-Spontaneous Girl by Leigh Statham Page B
Authors: Leigh Statham
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feet.
Marguerite knew the woman was right. The law of the skies was not the way of things on land. All that mattered up here was your title according to your captain, and neither of her captains was interested in promoting her anytime soon.
She had no choice.
She bent over and picked up the basket. Louis put down the brush and climbed out of the pen. Fifi mooed again.
The rest of the day was much the same. She cut her hand trying to learn to peel carrots; she stubbed her toe while carrying a pot of potatoes and water from sink to stove, and she ended up covered in grease when the ship lurched to starboard and a pot of lard tipped and tumbled off a shelf.
She had to admit that the meal was quite good, considering they were several leagues above ground and even farther from civilization. However, the after dinner clean-up nearly did her in. Even with Louis running circles around her, helping in any way he could, she felt beaten and bloody and even more determined to make Jacques’s life a living hell if she was ever to see him again.
She made her way back to her bunk in low spirits and with a bedraggled appearance. She heard voices coming from all the rooms she passed. Some had doors open, some closed. Some were merry, most sounded tired. It was a crew of mostly women and boys. The Henrietta was a galley ship, which meant it prepared food and carried extra supplies for the rest of the convoy. This saved space for the other vessels to carry larger weapons and more men for battles. At supper each night, the Henrietta coasted over the other ships and dropped food from a parachute system. In the morning, the ships floated over her deck and returned the shoots and empty containers.
Marguerite hadn’t ever spent much time in the kitchens of the estate where she’d grown up. She took for granted the fact that hot meals showed up on her dinner table and at her bedside at regularly scheduled times. Even at the school, she didn’t think much about where her food came from or whose hands had prepared it. She looked at her own hands. They were white and shriveled like ghostly prunes. Nicks and scrapes here and there lent shocking peeks of blood. To add insult to injury, three of her nails had broken to the quick. She felt wretched.
Ahead of her, the door was open to her bunk. Merry voices drifted down the hall and met her ears. She hesitated; worried that she hadn’t arrived soon enough. What would they say about her underthings? Just when she thought the day couldn’t get much worse, she was now convinced it would.
She decided to meet the problem head on.
Marguerite marched up to the open doorway; head held high and mangled hands on her hips. Their laughter and chatter stopped suddenly when Marguerite appeared. She looked them over carefully before speaking. The three girls sitting on bunks before her were a mixed bunch. Two were mousy with thin watery-brown hair and upturned noses; obviously sisters, but not twins. One sister was broader through the forehead, looked a bit more care worn, and even while sitting down was a head taller than the other.
The third girl was sitting on the bed Marguerite had claimed earlier. She had tight black curls falling in lovely ringlets to frame a creamy brown face. Marguerite was instantly jealous of her hair. When she saw Marguerite, her soft brown eyes grew wide at first, and then narrowed in mischief. “Oh, good! Our roommate is finally here,” she purred.
Marguerite instantly identified her as a new pain in her side. One of the many girls her age whom she could not abide but would have to endure. A troublemaker, a bully, a nasty heart in a pretty package. She bristled as she realized the girl was holding her now dry pink satin underclothes up to her own body and smiling like a cat with a mouthful of canary.
“I’m ever so grateful for the gift you left on my bunk. I haven’t had pantaloons so fine since I left Paris. Ooh la la!” The girl posed and threw her
Marguerite knew the woman was right. The law of the skies was not the way of things on land. All that mattered up here was your title according to your captain, and neither of her captains was interested in promoting her anytime soon.
She had no choice.
She bent over and picked up the basket. Louis put down the brush and climbed out of the pen. Fifi mooed again.
The rest of the day was much the same. She cut her hand trying to learn to peel carrots; she stubbed her toe while carrying a pot of potatoes and water from sink to stove, and she ended up covered in grease when the ship lurched to starboard and a pot of lard tipped and tumbled off a shelf.
She had to admit that the meal was quite good, considering they were several leagues above ground and even farther from civilization. However, the after dinner clean-up nearly did her in. Even with Louis running circles around her, helping in any way he could, she felt beaten and bloody and even more determined to make Jacques’s life a living hell if she was ever to see him again.
She made her way back to her bunk in low spirits and with a bedraggled appearance. She heard voices coming from all the rooms she passed. Some had doors open, some closed. Some were merry, most sounded tired. It was a crew of mostly women and boys. The Henrietta was a galley ship, which meant it prepared food and carried extra supplies for the rest of the convoy. This saved space for the other vessels to carry larger weapons and more men for battles. At supper each night, the Henrietta coasted over the other ships and dropped food from a parachute system. In the morning, the ships floated over her deck and returned the shoots and empty containers.
Marguerite hadn’t ever spent much time in the kitchens of the estate where she’d grown up. She took for granted the fact that hot meals showed up on her dinner table and at her bedside at regularly scheduled times. Even at the school, she didn’t think much about where her food came from or whose hands had prepared it. She looked at her own hands. They were white and shriveled like ghostly prunes. Nicks and scrapes here and there lent shocking peeks of blood. To add insult to injury, three of her nails had broken to the quick. She felt wretched.
Ahead of her, the door was open to her bunk. Merry voices drifted down the hall and met her ears. She hesitated; worried that she hadn’t arrived soon enough. What would they say about her underthings? Just when she thought the day couldn’t get much worse, she was now convinced it would.
She decided to meet the problem head on.
Marguerite marched up to the open doorway; head held high and mangled hands on her hips. Their laughter and chatter stopped suddenly when Marguerite appeared. She looked them over carefully before speaking. The three girls sitting on bunks before her were a mixed bunch. Two were mousy with thin watery-brown hair and upturned noses; obviously sisters, but not twins. One sister was broader through the forehead, looked a bit more care worn, and even while sitting down was a head taller than the other.
The third girl was sitting on the bed Marguerite had claimed earlier. She had tight black curls falling in lovely ringlets to frame a creamy brown face. Marguerite was instantly jealous of her hair. When she saw Marguerite, her soft brown eyes grew wide at first, and then narrowed in mischief. “Oh, good! Our roommate is finally here,” she purred.
Marguerite instantly identified her as a new pain in her side. One of the many girls her age whom she could not abide but would have to endure. A troublemaker, a bully, a nasty heart in a pretty package. She bristled as she realized the girl was holding her now dry pink satin underclothes up to her own body and smiling like a cat with a mouthful of canary.
“I’m ever so grateful for the gift you left on my bunk. I haven’t had pantaloons so fine since I left Paris. Ooh la la!” The girl posed and threw her
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