Erik paced the Calais wharf, the wind tugging at both cloak and mask. He pulled out his watch and looked at it again; five thirty-seven in the morning. The ferry left for Dover at six. They could not miss it.
Just a few minutes later, the carriage arrived. Zareh leaped down from the driver’s bench and opened the door. Claire emerged from the landau holding the cat’s basket; Pierre howled his protest from within. Gilbert came out of the carriage last, leaning on his walking stick. He took the basket from Claire. At Zareh’s gesture, a porter came forth to load the family’s trunks onto the ship.
Claire patted the carriage horse’s nose gently and offered her a sugar lump. The Friesian had been Claire’s precious pet for many years, and she was not happy about leaving her behind.
“So, my friend, we say good-bye again,” Erik said to the Persian.
“No, we say farewell,” Zareh replied.
Claire offered her hand to her husband’s friend, who kissed it gently.
“Look after my Josephine,” she said, referring to the mare.
“I promise,” Zareh replied with a bow.
The parting was necessarily a brief one, for the ferry was leaving.
Erik settled their belongings and watched Claire and Gilbert as they stood together at the rail. From the ferry terminal at Dover, the family would take a train to their new home in London. He was pleased with how well the move had gone.
Claire, on the other hand, felt a desperate sort of terror as she watched her homeland recede in the distance. She tucked her hand into Gilbert’s elbow and sighed heavily as he escorted her inside.
“I hope,” Erik said to his wife, “that you are a good sailor. This crossing can be rough at times.”
Pierre meowed loudly in his basket, as though he had understood Erik’s words.
“I don’t know, Erik. I rather imagine we will know soon enough.”
Gilbert stood up again, his walking stick tapping on the deck as he walked away from the couple. He took off his hat and ran his gloved fingers across his fashionably cropped golden hair before donning the topper again. Like Claire, he was not happy to see France recede in the distance.
The wind whipped up a bit and he went back inside to join his employers.
“Just think,” Erik was saying. “You will be a lady of leisure now, spending your day paying calls and taking luncheon with new friends. You won’t have to work ever again.”
If those words were intended to comfort Claire, they failed. She took a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed away the tears. Some of the happiest days of her life involved training horses; Josephine’s haute ecole work was a source of particular pride. To while away her days doing nothing held little appeal. She was determined, nevertheless, to put on her bravest face for Erik.
“I am sure,” she replied, “that it will be wonderful.”
She tucked the little cambric hankie back into her bag and took out a book with which to distract herself. She had decided to read an English novel.
“Allow me, my treasure.”
Erik took the book from her. He knew how much she enjoyed listening to him read aloud, and he hoped it would be a distraction.
“What an appropriate choice,” he murmured. Then, in his finest theatrical voice, he began to read. “The personal history, experience and observation of David Copperfield the Younger of Blunderstone Rookery, which he never meant to be published on any account. Written by Charles Dickens. Chapter one. I am born.”