Page 115 of Two Wars and a Wedding
Aside from kissing him. Twice.
But the first kiss had been on the cheek. And the second—Betsy had been in the grip of strong emotion. He’d be a cad to refine too much on it. Or remind her of it. She’d been distressed and exhausted and lonely and he’d been there. That was all there was to it.
If he’d just handed her the letter last night and left, he’d be standing next to her now. She’d be looking up at him with the tilt of the head that was so uniquely hers, depressing his pretensions with a pithy remark. Holt missed that. He missed her. Maybe it was odd to miss someone who was standing right there, but he was missing her in advance, missing all the future hours that could have had a Betsy in them and wouldn’t.
Holt hung back as Betsy got her passengers organized. Colonel Anderson, the scoundrel, kissed her hand. Not to be outdone, Colonel Yermsloff kissed both hands.
Captain Dowdy assisted Kit Carson, thin and pale, all freckles and nerve. She gave Holt a long, speculative look as she passed, and Holt felt himself reddening.
The launch bumped up against the dock, a very crowded dock, thronged with people being ineffectually shooed away by police officers. Around the edges of the crowd, newsboys were hawking papers. “Read all about it! Voyage of horror on hospital ship!”
The World, the Tribune, the Sun—they were all there. All with bold black headlines.
The Seneca was front-page news.
The reporters and curiosity seekers thronged forward, shouting, pointing, craning their necks, barking questions at the passengers as they stumbled off the launch. On Captain Dowdy’s arm, Kit gave a jaunty wave and called back, “You want to hear all about it? Read my feature in the St. Louis Star Ledger!”
Only Betsy and Holt were left.
Betsy and Holt and a hundred onlookers.
He wanted to say something, to apologize, but even an apology felt like an imposition, a way of forcing her attention to him, to his feelings, to the emotions she didn’t return. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t meant it all: he did. Every word.
So he just said, “Go on.”
Betsy looked silently over her shoulder at Holt. For a moment, he thought she might say something, but she dropped her head and stepped up on the side of the boat.
A huge cheer rose from the crowd, deafening in its enthusiasm. The crowd thronged the boat, men pushing forward, hands outstretched, fighting over whose would be the hand to help Betsy onto dry land.
Betsy stood there, frozen, staring in bewilderment at all the shouting mouths and waving hands. Some of them were waving papers. There was a very poor line drawing of Betsy, depicted as a cross between an angel and Florence Nightingale, in Grecian robes, holding a lamp.
“ANGEL OF THE SENECA!” blared the headline.
“They’re here for you,” Holt said quietly. “You’re a heroine.”
Betsy looked horrified. “But I’m not.”
Holt smiled wryly. “Don’t tell them that. The world needs heroes.”
Betsy scowled at him. “Is that right, Hold ’Em Holt?”
Ignoring all the hands, Betsy stepped down herself, wobbling just a little.
The crowd parted in front of her. It was the most extraordinary thing Holt had ever seen. They fell back as courtiers might have at the court of Louis XIV. One by one, the men bared their heads as Betsy passed. A little girl darted forward and pressed a posy of flowers into Betsy’s hand before ducking back into the crowd. Holt could have sworn at least one woman dropped a curtsy.
“Miss Hayes! Did you know they’re calling you the Angel of the Seneca?”
“Miss Hayes! Is it true there was no water on board?”
The reporters were canny. They’d ranged themselves right at the end of the crowd, just before the carriages, blocking Betsy’s path.
“Miss Hayes! How does it feel to be a heroine?”
“I’m not.” Betsy turned and raised her voice to be heard above the crowd. “I’m not a heroine. I’m just someone who did what was needed.”
The crowd adored it. Everyone loved a heroine who claimed she wasn’t a heroine. The reporters were scribbling busily away. As modest as she is kind . . .
“I mean it!” Betsy said shrilly.
