A little breeze fluttered the skirts of Mama’s parasol, and I dared not look at her, afraid of what I might see there. Instead, I leaned against the back of our seat and closed my eyes for a spell, listening to the wooden oars scrape against the iron oarlocks as though the boat itself hummed to our progression. I heard drops trickle off the tips of the flat blades as they hung above the water between strokes, and Mr. Cutting tapped his feet to keep himself in time. Farther and farther we went into the harbor, the four oars speeding us toward the breakwater.

“Isn’t this lovely.” Mama sighed.

The men rowed in silence. Mama and I sat in silence. The morning waters were placid. The boat. The women in white and shade. The men’s strong arms revealed. Here we all were.

Save Papa, I thought, and opened my eyes. Save Papa and Nell, and all the Granges—and Bart. There were too many missing from this boat. I stared at Mr. Cutting bending and leaning, his mustaches perfect. And Jonathan, behind him, saw me watching, and he smiled at me.

“Shall we turn round?” I said to him directly.

“As you wish!” he answered, happy to take my request of him as a sign of our connection.

But when we pulled back into the dock, I grabbed hold of the landing ring and swiftly climbed out with the boat’s line in my hand, eager to tie it up and flee.

“Thank you, Mr. Cutting,” I said while they all three still sat in the boat. “Thank you, Jonathan,” I cried to him also. And then I turned and made my way up the gangplank, aware of the stunned silence I had left behind me.

“Maisie!” Mama called at last when I had reached the top. I looked down. Jonathan and Mr. Cutting had climbed onto the dock and were preparing to hand Mama up.

“I must speak to Cook,” I said to her quietly. And then I turned and did not look round again. But her voice on the air and the certain tilt of her head as she had called my name made me a child again. And in my sore heart, her words—I do not know who you are—pealed a vast, repeating sorrow. The gap between us had widened as surely as the swath of water grows between a boat departing and the shore. She was going from me; yet it had been I who cast her off. Up the lawn I walked, then climbed the stairs to the verandah, then across the shady, breezy station and into the House. I sought Cook now—myself shattered into pieces—no longer frightened of her fury.