She tried to sit up, but Mercy eased her down, her chest swelling with compassion. She understood the girl’s plight all too well. “Of course we won’t be making you leave the ship. But you must promise you’ll be strong and that you won’t give up.”

Sinking into the bed and closing her eyes, Sarah nodded weakly. “I promise.”

“Good girl.” Mercy brushed Sarah’s loose hair away from her face. “The voyage’ll be right difficult, but we can’t forget what awaits us on the other side.”

Again Sarah nodded. “I won’t forget.”

Joseph rose and crossed the cabin to the drawers containing his medicines. He located what remained of the wormwood ointment he’d concocted during his last voyage. He opened the tin and breathed in the scent of mint that mingled with the ground wormwood, wine vinegar, and olive oil.

He’d been in a deep sleep when the knock awoke him. With a pounding heart, he’d jumped from the bed and was glad now he’d had the foresight to slide on his trousers before throwing open the door.

In previous voyages, he’d been disturbed only by sailors or the ships’ officers needing his services. Without any women aboard, he hadn’t needed to consider his own modesty or that of others.

But obviously he needed to be more careful now.

He glanced at Mercy, who was still kneeling next to Sarah. Her eyes had widened at the sight of his nearly bare body. He’d immediately recognized her blue-green eyes but hadn’t been able to place her until she’d started speaking. The kindness in her tone took him immediately back to the Shoreditch Dispensary.

The lantern light highlighted her hair, showing it to be a soft gold. Apparently, in the urgency of caring for the sick girl, she’d neglected to pin up her hair, which hung in thick waves down her back nearly to her waist. He didn’t recall such fairness from their previous meeting. Of course, he’d been overly tired at the time, and she herself had been harried. And the occasion had been clouded with grief over the death neither of them had been able to prevent.

He couldn’t remember the name of the child she’d brought in, but he did recall thinking what an incompetent mother Mercy had been, only to discover later from Bates that she wasn’t the child’s mother after all.

As though sensing his perusal, she looked up at him. He quickly shifted his attention to the drawer and drew out another medicine—this one a tonic. “So, Miss Wilkins, I must admit that when I first met you, I assumed you were the mother of the infant you brought to me.”

“I figured as much, sir.”

“And you felt no need to correct me?”

“I was more concerned about Clara than my reputation.”