Mercy patted the woman’s hand to reassure her before rising. Then, without wasting further time, Mercy fought the wind and rain and spray of the waves as she made her way down the deck, under the rope, and to the ship’s surgeon’s cabin.

She pounded on the door and then waited, her chest seizing with the sudden anticipation of coming face-to-face again with the kind, handsome doctor. Mercy hadn’t spoken with him since their meeting on the deck when he’d inquired after Sarah’s well-being.

Of course, she’d glimpsed him on several occasions when she and the other women strolled along in the roped-off area. Not that she’d been looking for him. Not in the least. It was difficult, however, not to notice his appearance, especially when the other women—mainly the wealthy middle-class ladies—stopped to fix their eyes full upon him.

These women in their fancy gowns and hats and parasols made a right pretty sight. In their roomier second-class cabins, they had trunks of clothing and books and other amusements to help them pass the time while at sea. One woman was rumored to have brought along a piano, another a treadle sewing machine, with both items stored safely away belowdecks.

The middle-class ladies protested the ropes that hemmed them into their small section of the ship just as much as the poor women had. But no amount of complaining had swayed Mr. Scott or Mrs. Robb from taking the barrier down.

Mercy wiped a strand of wet hair out of her eyes and lifted her hand to knock again.

“The doctor ain’t there!” shouted a sailor from farther along the deck. He was an older, burly man with a shaggy head of gray hair and an equally shaggy gray beard. His skin resembled cracked old leather, brittle and tough from the years spent at sea, and the few teeth he had left were of varying shades of gray.

During the few times she’d watched the barefoot sailors climbing the rigging far above the deck, she’d heard them shout out questions to the older man, referring to him as Gully. He wore an oilskin overcoat with a hood that appeared to be waterproof. Even so, seawater dripped from his face and beard.

“D’ye know where he be?” Mercy shouted above the crashing waves and roaring wind.

Gully nodded and motioned for her to follow him. She tried to imitate his even gait as she fought against the pitching of the ship and the waves that sprayed over the side and threatened to soak her. When they reached the quarterdeck, he crouched before a blackened hatch and lifted it.

A waft of foul air rose up to greet her. The stench was so overwhelming, she almost retched. She could sense Gully gauging her reaction, testing her. Did she have the stomach to enter?