We will arrive soon.
There will be plenty to eat off the ship.
It will not be cold.
We will not be sad forever.
As if to lash him for such idiocy, a suffocating pain bludgeoned his heart. His eyes stung against the salty wind. “Follow me.” Shouldering his way through the crowd, he kept his eyes straight ahead, focused on some unknown thing, as if feigning he had a purpose would make it so.
Had he ever had a purpose?
Twelve years ago, on these very wharves, he had forsaken his homeland in search of such an ambition. Somehow, he’d imagined leaving all this behind, braving a new land would satisfy that hunger in the pit of his being.
But the hunger was still there.
Near ravenous now.
And he was not certain he had enough inside himself to appease the pangs. Had Father been right all along? What would the man think to see his son returned—wearing the clothes of a low-class worker, toting along two motherless children, without so much as a farthing to his name?
“Sir, look.” The coat tugged.
Simon glanced to where his son pointed.
Several yards behind them, a woman lay on her back near a stack of weathered tobacco crates, her red cloak billowed around her like blood.
“Her is dead like Mama,” Mercy whispered.
Before he could move, a lean gentleman charged his way to the woman, bent next to her, and swung her from the muddy ground.
“Come on.” Simon nudged them forward again and marched faster, until they reached a cobbled street flanked on each side with piles of melting snow. He spotted a hackney in the shadow of an abandoned warehouse.
Muttering a prayer under his breath, he fingered the last cold coins in his pocket and started that direction. He hoped he had enough to get them to Sowerby House.
He hoped Father did not loathe the sight of him if they did.
“Are you certain you are well?”
Georgina pushed away the vinaigrette of smelling salts, the strong lemon scent increasing her nausea. With an unsteady hand, she swept back a curl in her face. Her hair was damp and gritty, as if she had—
“Pray, do not worry over your appearance now. It is far too irremediable for that.” The lady across the carriage reached into her beaded reticule and fluttered out a handkerchief. “This might be of some service, however.”
Georgina accepted the offering, glanced to the maid on her left, then back at the empty place where Mr. Oswald should have been. “Where is—”
“My brother is in frantic search of a doctor, quilts, and a second foot warmer. Though I daresay, the former is merely an overcaution. Indeed, every lady faints now and again.” A petulant frown formed. “I do admit, you might have done so in a more convenient place. I would never think of fainting had I no one near to catch me.”
“It was not my intention.” She worked to keep the sarcasm from her tone. Had she ever fainted before? A dull throb struck her temples. Yes, of course she had—once.
The night in the library.
“Forgive the lack of formal introductions, but I am Eleanor Oswald.” Tucking her reticule beside her, the woman burrowed her hands back inside her swansdown muff. Dressed in a deep purple dress, covered by a fur-lined mantle, Miss Oswald looked no worse for travel than if she had merely taken a half-mile stroll through Grosvenor Square—not a ship journey across the wintry North Atlantic.
Indeed, sophistication emanated from her being.
Tight black ringlets cascaded around her cheeks, her skin was fair, and her thickly lashed eyes were cool and intellectual. “And you are?”
“Forgive me. Miss Georgina Whitmore.” She managed a small smile, but a sinking dread rushed through her. She glanced out the frozen carriage window. Had she truly seen him?
She prayed to heaven it had been a mistake.
