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left land, to tell me that I’m an uncle once more.”
    “My felicitations.”
    “My sister had a daughter the day we sailed. She sent me this portrait of herself, too.” He reached into his pocket and produced a miniature painting of a woman.
    “She’s very pretty.” It was hard to believe the delicate, pale beauty could be related to Pendale. “Is she older or younger than you?”
    “Older by two years. I’m the youngest of the family.”
    Lardy Jack entered with fresh coffee, balancing as adeptly as a tightrope dancer, wished them a good morning and withdrew.
    Allen stowed the miniature away in his pocket, and paid great attention to the letter as though embarrassed that he had talked about his family. Clarissa pushed aside a pang of sadness. She had no family who cared enough for her to make sure a letter was delivered before she left England, possibly forever. She had not seen her own nephews and nieces for five years now she was a bad moral influence; would they find out they’d had an aunt, ever, and wonder about her?
    But things would change, she was sure of it, once she had endured her time on the island.
    She finished eating, gathered her cloak, and went back onto the deck, wondering how she would spend the day. She could always do some sewing—she had pieces for two gowns already cut, light muslins suitable for the climate of the island—or she could read the one, precious book she had brought, poems by Cowper. It was really too chilly to spend any time on deck and, certainly, if she tried to sew, the wind would snatch the fabric from her hands.
    Two figures, clutching at each other, staggered toward her—Mr. and Mrs. Blight, both looking extremely unwell.
    “Miss Onslowe,” Mrs. Blight gasped. “This is dreadful, indeed. I think I shall die.”
    “You look very ill,” Clarissa said. “I can speak with Lardy Jack and see if there’s anything he can prepare for you. I think ginger tea might help.”
    “Oh, do not speak to me of tea.” Mrs. Blight sagged against her husband, who looked scarcely capable of supporting her. “My dear, I must lie down again.”
    “Maybe the fresh air will do you some good,” Clarissa suggested.
    A heartfelt groan met her suggestion. The two turned and zigzagged across the deck to the hatch.
    Clarissa stopped by the hen coop on her way to the galley, and was pleased to see that the hens seemed to be unaffected by the ship’s motion. They approached the sides of their enclosure, feathers fluffed against the cold and heads cocked, as though expecting treats from her. She remembered what had happened here last night and a flush—of excitement, not embarrassment—rose in her face.
    In the small galley, Lardy Jack manipulated pans and hot coals like a juggler at the fair, and poured hot water over dried ginger root. “It may help,” he said with a shrug. “Folks usually feel better after a few days.”
    Clarissa shuddered at the thought of having to spend some days in such misery. With great care, the lidded mug swathed in an old piece of canvas, she managed to get across the deck to the hatch without spilling any.
    “Allow me.” Allen Pendale took the container from her. “What is this?”
    “Ginger tea. Mr. and Mrs. Blight are unwell.” She backed down the ladder-like steps and reached for the tea.
    “I’ll come to see if there’s anything I can do.”
    He clambered down, so close behind her he almost touched her. She went ahead, bumping off one wall of the narrow passage as the ship rolled, and opened the door to the cabin she shared with Mrs. Blight.
    No one was there.
    Meanwhile, Allen opened the door to the other cabin and recoiled. “I’ll get a bigger pot.”
    She peered over his shoulder at the stench and misery inside. “And a mop and bucket, if you please.”
     
    He watched Clarissa with admiration as she mopped the floor, held damp cloths to the sufferers’ foreheads, and handled the wretched situation with calm efficiency and kindness.