Mercy stood, unsure whether to feel discouraged or elated. She hadn’t wanted to let Patience down by ignoring this opportunity. On the other hand, she hadn’t wanted to leave everything familiar and everyone she loved, even if they no longer wanted her.

At least now she could go back to the workhouse and tell Patience she’d tried but that it hadn’t worked out, that together they’d find a way to survive.

The woman rose from her chair, revealing the full length of an elegant gown. Smiling apologetically, she said, “I’m sorry . . .”

“Mercy Wilkins.”

“Mercy,” she finished. “I do hope you’ll find what you’re seeking elsewhere.”

What exactly was she seeking? Before Mercy could figure out a polite response, the front door opened. A petite lady bustled inside with rustling skirts and a swishing cloak, along with a pleasant scent Mercy didn’t recognize but guessed resembled a bouquet of fresh flowers—though she’d never smelled flowers before.

“Miss Rye.” The woman behind the desk dropped a curtsy. “You’re here early this morning.”

The newcomer untied a large ribbon under her chin and removed her hat to reveal sharply angled features made more severe by the tight pull of her plain brown hair into a coil at the back of her head.

“Good morning, Mrs. Dotta. It is early, but there’s a great deal to be done and such a short time in which to accomplish it all.” She hung her hat on a coat tree next to the door and slid out of her cloak, which was thick and velvety and begged Mercy for one touch of its fabric.

“The women need to be ready to go in less than a week, Mrs. Dotta. Less than a week.” The petite lady spoke just as quickly as she moved, as if she couldn’t bear to lose a single second of her day to idleness. “We must make certain every last detail is in order if we hope to send them successfully on their way.”

Miss Rye draped her cloak next to her hat and then spun. Only then did she see Mercy. “And who, pray, is this?” Her sharp eyes scanned Mercy from her head to her toes.

“This is . . .” Mrs. Dotta stumbled over her introduction, clearly having forgotten Mercy’s name again.

“Mercy Wilkins, ma’am.” Mercy bobbed a curtsy, doing her best to imitate Mrs. Dotta’s.

“She heard about our endeavors,” Mrs. Dotta rushed to explain, “and wanted a place among the women chosen to emigrate. As we are limited with how many spots we’ve been given on the ship, I’m afraid she’ll have to wait for the next group—”

“We have one spot left,” Miss Rye interrupted.

“We do?” Mrs. Dotta reached for the list on the desk and scanned it.