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Sophie waited to pull Nelson up until they had reached a quiet stretch of the dirt track. She had discreetly moved Mr. Balfour’s letter to the pocket of her riding habit, hoping to read it at the earliest opportunity.

“I’d like to walk through the trees for a spell,” she called to her groom, who rode close behind. “Not far.”

Her pulse was hammering by the time she was handing off Nelson’s reins and securing the bustle of her train.

“Miss, I’ve been asked to remind you of an engagement—”

“Yes, the Bancrofts’ dinner,” Sophie interrupted her groom, already striding toward the black railing that lined both sides of the track. “I recall. I’ll not be long.”

A roll of thunder rent the air, and the horses’ tack jingled behind her. Maybe the heavens would open and pour. Then she could send her regrets to the Bancrofts, for the thought of smiling and chattering while visions of her too-real nightmare still echoed like cannon fire made her feel ill.

Besides, she did not wish to see Mr. Balfour, should he be there, clinging to Miss Penney’s side.

The beech trees had been planted a good distance apart, separated by wispy grasses and a sprinkling of spring blooms. Crocus and daffodil answered the push of the wind, their purple and yellow petals bowing. Sophie freed the letter from her pocket. There was a torn wax seal and beside it, a cheap wafer, which she sliced open with her thumbnail.

There was no additional message from Mr. Balfour to her. He had merely forwarded the letter directly from Vice Admiral Crofton, whose heavily flourished script made for slow reading.

Mr. Balfour,

Here is the information you requested. Mr. Barnard does not appear to have a known surname, but his service was documented in the Marine Society’s books and by Captain Willoughby.

Mr. Barnard answered a recruitment call the society posted in the papers in 1810, and was soon after accepted as a cabin boy aboard Iphigenia with hopes of learning a seaman’s duties. Marked fatherless and friendless. No living relations. Suspected to have been a pilfering boy on the streets of London prior to his recruitment, but his service was reported to be good. Currently twelve years of age or thereabouts. He was wounded at Grand Port in August 1810, with injuries resulting in the amputation of his left arm.

You spoke of the school—he is welcome to attend instruction while an In-Pensioner. But he must continue his duties as a cabin boy at the hospital, and is set to rejoin Iphigenia’s crew upon completion of the ship’s repairs.

Light rain pattered on the canopy of leaves overhead, lifting out the scents of live things and dust. The first drop trickled down her neck. A group of riders on the dirt track kicked their horses into canters, yelping and laughing as they passed. Sophie refolded the letter, her fingers fumbling as she put it away.

She had wanted to hear that Barnard had a home and people who loved him. That he might have a fractured chance at childhood still. Not that he’d been on the same ship as Edmund, that the world had taken from him and would keep taking still. A cabin boy was little more than a servant, and she’d already seen how the other men browbeat him, how he struggled to carry a single satchel.

She had hoped for better.

She had been a fool.

Hope, it was now more evident than ever, had no place in her life.

The thought of that sweet boy sailing out again widened the black pit of grief in her stomach, built the pressure behind her ribs to such a violent place that she had to lean against one of the beeches and clutch her chest.

More pain. I long ago quit measuring it. What was the use, anyhow, when she could feel it in her bones? Wore it around her neck?

She rode back at a mud-kicking gallop. Rain scalded her skin, penetrated her thick outer layers and soaked through to the muslin beneath, drenching flesh. She could scarcely breathe, scarcely see. Even after she dismounted and left Nelson safely behind, she continued to stare at the toes of her boots.

They peeked out from the hem of her skirt with every rapid stride down the sidewalk, pounding against the earth like the unseen thunder overhead. Part of her had known how grim Barnard’s circumstances must have been for him to end up aboard a ship at his age. It wasn’t the same as reading confirmation of the facts. He was a child, and he could have—

He could have died, just like Edmund. The sick voice in the back of her mind didn’t care for her delicate sensibilities.

The crack in the pavement told her she was at No. 34. She clasped the black iron railing and leapt up the first step.

“Woah there!”

Sophie gasped, nearly tumbling backward. Her grip on the railing doubled down. Standing in front of her, rain slipping from the brim of his hat in a sputtering waterfall, was a man she hadn’t seen in months. Not since Sussex. His long, pallid face and deeply bracketed smile delivered her back to the weeks following Edmund’s death.

Then again, that wasn’t a far distance to travel.

“Mr. P-price?” She hated herself for stuttering the word.

“Miss St. Quinton.” He bowed as though they were in a lavender-scented drawing room and not the middle of a London rainstorm.

His eyes shifted, and she followed his gaze to where a slick black carriage—and fast-soaking footman—waited in the street. The townhouse door groaned open, and she whipped back around to find one of the footmen gawping at her.