“I know, I know,” Margaret said despondently, “but there are so many little ones in such desperate need of food and clothing. Sebastian used to say you can’t improve your mind if your stomach is empty. He also said there was no such thing as the undeserving poor, and he was right about that, too. Why can’t more people understand that?”

“But some people do. Like you.”

“And you.”

“Yeah, but I know when to give up on a lost cause,” Randolph said, his expression momentarily darkening as he recalled—Margaret had no doubt—his failure to return poor Emily’s little boy to her.

“There are always other causes to pick up, though,” she said.

“And always will be. Now, let’s enjoy our day out, shall we?”

A blast of the horn signalled the ship’s beginning to make her ponderous way onto the Hudson, and a cheer went up from the crowd of people on board.

“I’m really glad you came back early,” Randolph said. “I missed you.”

He had taken off his hat. The wind ruffled his hair, which he had allowed to grow longer on top than usual. There were shadows under his eyes, testament to the hours he put in to keep up with his work, not to mention the humid summer nights which made it impossible to sleep in the city. He had proved himself the kindred spirit she had hoped for, the friend she had needed and come to rely on more and more. As their eyes met, there was for the first time the prospect of something more than friendship flourishing between them. “I missed you, too,” Margaret said.

“I hoped you would.” And then before she could even begin to feel awkward, he quickly looked away.

JUST OVER AN HOUR LATER, the steamer berthed at Norton’s Point and the passengers surged ashore, armed with parasols and picnic baskets, small children holding on to their mother’s hands, older children running and shouting ahead.

“Headed for the beach,” Randolph said. “It’s just five minutes from here, though there’s actually three beaches. West Brighton is the nearest; then there’s Brighton, where the railway terminus is, and I guess it’s the most respectable; and then Manhattan is the farthest away. We can catch one of the conveyances if you want to do the full tour, but I reckon you’d rather walk?”

“Correct,” Margaret said, tucking her arm into his. “What are all these people sitting at tables dotted around the pavilion doing?”

“Sharking, mostly. Skin games—you know, taking money from greenhorns. Thimblerig, where they hide a pea under one of three cups—you must have seen that on Broadway? Three-card monte, which you might know as find the lady. Chuck-a-luck, which is a dice game.”

Margaret giggled. “It sounds like a character in a children’s story. Cluckaluck, the noisy hen.”

“Maybe you should write that one.”

“Maybe I shall.”