IT WAS A STORMY day, and cold on the quay, with a strong wind whipping up whitecaps on the river and bent on whipping off their hats, as well. The tender had almost finished loading—its last load, bound for the cargo holds of the army transport Hermione, waiting at anchor.

“Have you ever been on a ship?” William asked suddenly.

“No. Just canoes.” Cinnamon was twitching like a nervous horse, ready to bolt. “What’s it like?”

“Exciting, sometimes,” William said, in what he hoped was a tone of reassurance. “Mostly boring, though. Here, I brought you a going-away present.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and drew out a small jar of murky liquid and a smaller vial with a dropper.

“Just in case,” he told Cinnamon, handing these over. “Dilled cucumber pickles and ether. In case of seasickness.”

Cinnamon eyed the gifts dubiously, but nodded.

“You suck a pickle if you feel queasy,” William explained. “If that doesn’t work, take six drops of the ether. You can put it in beer if you like,” he added helpfully.

“Thank you.” The wind had restored Cinnamon’s usual ruddy glow. “Thank you,” he said again, and seized William’s hand in a grasp of crushing earnestness. “And tell your sister—how much … how much …” The tide of rising emotion choked him, and he shook his head and wrung William’s hand harder.

“You told her,” William said, easing the hand free and repressing an urge to count his fingers. “She was happy to do it. She’s happy for you. So am I,” he added, patting Cinnamon affectionately on the forearm, as much to avoid being seized again as from the very real affection he felt. “I’ll miss you, you know,” he added diffidently.

He would, and the realization struck him like a blow behind the ear. He felt suddenly hollow, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Moi, aussi,” Cinnamon said, and looked down at his new boots, clearing his throat.

“All aboard!” The naval lieutenant captaining the tender was glaring down at them. “Now, gentlemen!”

William picked up the new portmanteau—a gift from Lord John—and thrust it into Cinnamon’s hand.

“Go,” he said, smiling as hard as he could. “Write to me from London!”

Cinnamon nodded, speechless, then, at another irate shout from the tender, turned and lumbered blindly aboard. The tender’s sails dropped and filled at once, and within a minute, they were in the middle of the river, flying toward the unknown future. William watched the little ship out of sight, then turned back toward Bay Street with a sigh, his sense of loss tinged by envy.

“Au revoir, Michel,” he said, under his breath. “Now who am I going to talk to?”

125

A Woman of the Second Type

Savannah

ONCE CINNAMON HAD GONE, William moved from the small house they had shared back into Lord John’s house, at his father’s invitation. Amaranthus, Lord John said firmly, needed company.