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For his next words undid any semblance of calm.

“Iphigenia is here. They’re unloading the last of the prizes and prisoners now.”

six

“Miss St. Quinton!” Mr. Balfour’s call echoed in the narrow space between the two buildings, but Sophie refused to slow her stride. She had come all this way to see Iphigenia sailing by, but it was here. Docked. Close for inspection, perhaps even near enough to touch, bringing home the men who had been at Grand Port with Edmund.

Those were the ‘prisoners’ Mr. Balfour had meant—Napoleon’s ex-prisoners, British seamen who had survived the battle that so many had not and were finally returned. He had barely spoken his explanation before she’d burst out the door and headed in the direction she hoped would take her to her brother’s final resting place.

“Miss St. Quinton.” This particular repetition was hissed; he was growing nearer. “You cannot just run about—”

“Oh do keep up, Mr. Balfour, if you care so much what everyone will think!”

She had to keep going. Because if she didn’t, if she paused even for a moment to indulge the tempest of thoughts that plagued her—What condition will the men be in? The ship? Did they know Edmund? Were they with him when he died?—she would collapse.

And Sophie St. Quinton might cry and rage and grieve, but she never, ever collapsed.

She stopped when she reached the corner of the building, her eyes assailed by afternoon sunlight. Before her was a sprawling, grassy courtyard with walking paths lettered out in the shape of crosses. The gilt weathervane she’d glimpsed on arrival tugged in the breeze, and she realized there were two of them, two of everything—a mirror image and an architectural feat.

Domed buildings laid in broad stone block exuded classical elegance, and behind their stalwart columns were shaded porticos that traced the hospital’s edges. There were people everywhere. Laughter erupted over a game of cricket. A couple in ordinary dress, presumably visitors, smiled as they ambled past. It was all terribly … normal.

Mr. Balfour’s black-clad elbow entered her line of sight. “To the dock, then?”

He was thoroughly put out, his face flushed and scowling. Sophie took his arm, unable to formulate a tart reply of her own, for the moment they turned left she saw the Thames.

Iphigenia. It had to be; it was the only ship in sight, the gangplank still down, and she remembered enough of Edmund’s working model ships to recognize it for a fifth-rate frigate. Her pulse doubled in force, beating hard enough that she felt like her body was rattling right down to her skeleton.

They approached the river’s edge without speaking. The ship loomed now; Sophie had to shield her eyes with a hand as she looked up at the orderly tangle of sails and rigging clinging to the masts.

“Did y’see Cap’t Willoughby go by?” A small group of blue-coated men stood nearby, watching and chatting as Iphigenia’s supplies were unloaded.

“I did. Proud of ’is prize to be sure, but t’won’t fix what’s under that eye patch now, will it?”

Someone snickered. “Sure enough not. Big ol’ splinter took the whole thing right out!”

A hot wave of nausea ascended from Sophie’s stomach. Focus. She scanned what part of the hull was visible above the water, but whatever damage had been sustained must have been well hidden beneath caulk.

“Which eye was it, again?”

The strangers’ voices continued to reach her. Edmund, Edmund … She wanted to feel his presence. To find traces of him lingering still. To clarify the sound of his voice gone foggy in her brain.

“No, I tell you ’twas Cap’t Willoughby’s left eye! Bloody mess. Happened at Grand Port, and he wailed like a lad. I ought to know, I seen it happen myself.”

That was it. Her chin jerked in the group’s direction. The man who had just spoken was talking still, gesticulating wildly. Dirt stained the white of his stockings, but he looked nothing like her imaginings of a recently released prisoner: relaxed, well-nourished, and evidently comfortable reliving the devastating battle he’d bore witness to.

It made no sense; it made her nearly furious! Of course she hadn’t hoped to find pain and destruction here, but it seemed the entire universe had moved onward, leaving her, utterly alone, in August 1810.

Nineteen months. The reality was like the twist of a knife. Doubtless time was what had allowed this seaman to move on, this vessel to regain functionality. Heavens, it had been nearly two full years.

Iphigenia might have been any vessel for men and guns, for King George or Napoleon or whoever stumbled on the good fortune to claim her. What she was not was a vessel for memorial. There was not a trace of Edmund among the timber, tar, and pitch—it could have been anything. She had been an utter fool to hope for anything different.

“I should like to leave.”

Mr. Balfour responded instantly. “What? Already?”

“Yes, already.” She began to turn away, but their arms were still linked, and his stillness forced her to look back at him and the blue coats and the ship. “Every second that passes is another too long. If you please, Mr. Balfour.”

He didn’t yield but studied her with a furrowed brow. “You wanted to study the ship. I—”