The Two Mrs. Carlyles by Suzanne Rindell

Author:Suzanne Rindell [Rindell, Suzanne]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2020-07-28T00:00:00+00:00

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It was not the send-off I’d hoped for. And when we departed, at first, all I wanted was to turn back. The ocean voyage was rough, as I did not take kindly to the motion of the ship. It reminded me, I think, of the earthquake. But Harry proved his husbandly devotion, holding my sick-pail and reading novels aloud by my bedside.

When I began to feel better, we took a tour of the ship. It was a 3,000-ton iron steamer, and we were personal guests of the Spreckels family, which accorded us accommodations far grander than anything I’d ever known: our cabin was the largest on board. I remember being afraid to touch the taps in the bathroom: everything was plated in real gold.

We did not consummate the marriage at sea. Perhaps this was on account of my being so ill. Instead, we lived as a pair of passengers, keeping company with each other and slowly growing accustomed to each other’s small habits and nocturnal noises as our ship chugged away across the Pacific. Unexpectedly, I found the experience intimate in a different way, for I soon knew the sound of Harry breathing at night, and the warm smell of his skin in the morning. I grew used to him glimpsing me in my nightgown, my hair cascading in a long tangle down my back. Even at my most ill, he gently touched my flushed cheeks and called me beautiful.

After a few days, I found my sea-legs, and we began to stroll the open deck.

At first, the view was all the same: blue, blue, blue, and more blue. Choppy blue, calm blue, blue with foamy white caps. The ocean stretched on longer than I ever imagined it could; the horizon was so empty it terrified me. Eventually, I noticed that, slowly but surely, the exact shade of blue was changing. Then, after a while, I realized I no longer needed my shawl to keep me warm while we were above deck. The trail churned up by the ship’s propellers transformed from navy to vibrant turquoise. Finally, jagged teeth of land sprang from the horizon, emerald green and astonishing.

When at last we steamed into the bay near Honolulu, I was already enchanted. The sand was punctuated by tall, waving palm trees, and farther in the distance were those jungle-green mountains we had sighted from sea. A warm breeze caressed everything like a happy sigh. The clouds moved idly overhead, puffs of cotton without a care in the world.

Once our ship had docked, we were brought by a motorized limousine to the Moana Hotel, a lovely white-columned palace with a short circular drive. A flock of bellhops took our bags, and once inside, I was awed by the hotel’s gracious interior, its lovely rugs and furnishings as stately as anything I could imagine we’d have encountered in Europe. A courtyard revealed an enormous banyan tree, its roots hanging down from its canopy in ropey vines.

The air smelled sweet and strange—a scent almost like jasmine mixed with lemons and brown sugar.

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