“Kasi grew up in my house,” Gabby said. “I assure you that he is as Christian as little Phoebe.”

“An unfeasible comparison,” Mrs. Sibbald announced. “No Indian could be as Christian as an English child.

“It is teatime,” she announced. “Miss Jerningham, your hair has fallen again. I advise that your coiffure receive immediate attention.” And on that lowering note, Mrs. Sibbald left the cabin.

Gabby sighed and sank into a chair, realizing that there did seem to be a large number of wispy curls hanging about her face. Then she felt a tug on her gown.

“Miss Gabby, she forgot me. Do you think I ought to remind her?” Round blue eyes stared worshipfully at Gabby.

Gabby pulled Phoebe’s leggy little body up onto her lap. “I swear you have grown half a head on this trip,” she said.

“I know,” Phoebe replied, looking with disapproval at the hem of her gown. She stuck out a booted leg. “My dress has become so short that my pantaloons are beginning to show!” Her eyes were round with horror at that idea.

“When you reach England, I’m sure that you will have a new dress.”

“Do you think she’ll like me?” Phoebe whispered into Gabby’s shoulder.

“Will who like you?”

“My new mother.”

“How could she not like you? You are the sweetest five-year-old girl aboard this whole ship,” Gabby said, rubbing her cheek against Phoebe’s soft hair. “In fact, you may well be the sweetest five-year-old who ever sailed from India.”

Phoebe pressed closer. “Because when I had to say goodbye to my ayah”—a farewell that seemed to have traumatized her far more than the untimely deaths of two parents she scarcely recognized—“my ayah said that I must be very, very good or my new mama will not like me, since I don’t have any money to bring her.”

Gabby silently cursed Phoebe’s ayah—and not for the first time. “Phoebe,” she said as firmly as she could, “money has nothing to do with whether a mother loves her babies or not. Your new mother would love you even if you arrived in your nightdress!”

And she devoutly hoped it was true. From what the captain had told her, there had been no answer to the letter sent to Phoebe’s only living relative, her maternal aunt.

“Miss Gabby,” Phoebe said, her tone hesitant. “Why did you tell Mrs. Sibbald that your story was of Jonah and the whale? My ayah told me never to tell an untruth—and especially never to a hired person. And Mrs. Sibbald is a hired person, isn’t she? She was hired to accompany me to England.”