Mercy wanted to tell the woman she didn’t need the charity. She wished she didn’t have to depend upon anyone else for her survival, that she could make it without help, that she had the means to protect everyone she loved. Yet in some ways she was as vulnerable as sweet baby Paul. She’d had to rely upon the charity of the baker, the doctor, Twiggy and Ash, and others for her survival. And if she stayed, she’d have to transfer her reliance either to a husband or the workhouse—neither of which she wanted.

She longed for the chance to finally stand on her own. This trip, this voyage, might be the only possibility she’d ever get to do that. If only she could find a way for Patience to go too.

“You said something about another group?” Mercy asked tentatively.

“Yes, the Robert Lowe is scheduled to leave by summer’s end.” Mrs. Dotta wrote something on a sheet in front of her. “But as we have a place for you now, Miss Rye wants you to be ready to leave in three days.”

“Could my sister go on the next ship?”

“The Robert Lowe?”

“Aye.”

“Is she single?”

“Aye, and she doesn’t have any children either.”

Mrs. Dotta didn’t look up from her paper. “Tell her to come to the office at the beginning of July, and we shall conduct an interview to see if she qualifies.”

“Her name is Patience Wilkins, ma’am.”

“Very well.”

Mercy suspected Mrs. Dotta wouldn’t remember the name in five minutes, much less in five weeks. Even so, Mercy wanted Patience to be on the next Columbia Mission Society ship. She had to be.

If Mercy didn’t find a way to get her sister out of the workhouse and onto the Robert Lowe, she suspected Patience wouldn’t last until she saved up enough money to send for her.

Mercy pressed the cool cloth to the babe’s feverish forehead. “Keep dipping it in the cold water and reapplying,” she said to the young mother.

The woman did as Mercy instructed without question.

Mercy crossed the room to the medical-supply chest and dug through it until she found the syringe she’d seen Dr. Bates use to inject fluids into the mouths of infants too young or too weak to drink for themselves.

After entering the Shoreditch Dispensary a short while ago to find a line of sick people stretching down the hallway and out the door, she walked directly to one of the vacant rooms and began helping as many as she could. With her limited knowledge, she couldn’t do much. But she figured she could at least pass out cool cloths and cups of fresh water.

Her stomach growled long and low, and she pressed her fist against it to keep the hunger from getting the best of her.