“A sense of purpose. That would help.”

“Thank you for knowing so cleverly what I need.”

He managed a rueful smile. “You move onward. Outward. It’s what you do.”

“Perhaps ‘flee’ would be a better word.”

“A trip would do you good.”

I looked at him, some ember of hope in my hollow heart. “Together?”

He started to pace. “I know I’ve neglected you,” he said, “but only because of the worries pressing on me. If we could find out what happened to the silver, the lost ship—”

“Ellefsen’s ship?” His tight turns around the room made me dizzy. We knew the Maria and Margarethe had never arrived in Norway. There were reports that Ellefsen had unloaded the silver in the dead of night and then sunk the ship, or planned to; indeed, there were rumors of such a wreck near Arendal, all the treasure lost. But the ship had lately reappeared, battered, with no silver on it. Ellefsen had been arrested and released, awaiting a formal inquiry. By now I hated the whole crooked business.

“Our future depends on it,” he said, scraping a chair across the floor to sit across from me, our knees touching. He clasped his strong hands together. “A thousand pounds. That’s all. We’ll go to America. Be farmers—read, study, write—the way we planned. If you can just find where the silver’s gone.”

“You want me to find the silver?”

“I have to go back to France to track the other end of this business. And you hate it here. Think of it, the sea, the air, something to do—”

“And you, successfully dispensing with me—”

He pulled a folded page from his coat pocket. “I’ve already written the commission. It authorizes you, Mary Imlay, my best friend and wife, to undertake the sole management and direction of all my affairs and business in Scandinavia. You are my helpmate, my equal. The only person in the world I trust entirely.” He unfolded it and handed it to me. “If anyone can find what was lost, or make the case for restoration, it’s you.”

My eyes scanned the words, but my head was swimming. I didn’t understand why Imlay clung to the ship as our salvation, but certain words teased me: “trust,” “best friend,” “equal.” There sounded a future for us in it, the utopia I’d imagined for so long. Still, I didn’t know if I had the strength to take it on, to pack my things yet again and go.

“Then we’ll have a glorious holiday,” he said in response to my hesitation. “You, me, Fannikin.” He knew this would lift my chin. “To celebrate.”

“And you’ll give up your commercial venturing, your speculations? We’ll go to America?”