The judge scratched under his wig and sighed. “The thing that continues to nag at me, Mrs. Imlay, is Ellefsen’s claim that it was you who gave him his final instructions.”

“I did.”

“Why wouldn’t Mr. Imlay do it himself? Something so important.”

“Imlay trusted me to do it.”

“I can see that. But I wonder whether there was another plan, from the start, and Ellefsen was told to disregard yours.”

I felt my stomach churn.

“Think of it,” the judge said. “Most of the silver’s removed before Arendal, perhaps before it even sets sail, Ellefsen takes his agreed-upon share, but the plan to sink the ship goes awry, so now there’s a battered ship to contend with, cost of repair far exceeding what the ship is worth, and the silver unaccounted for. But if such a plan had gone right, one might recover the costs of the ship and the silver from insurance, and never have to produce either.”

My heart was pounding. “Imlay wouldn’t do that.”

“Perhaps not.” The good judge took off his spectacles, eyes full of sincere feeling. “But you might consider, if his only chance to recover anything from this debacle is an out-of-court settlement from the Ellefsens—the only characters in this drama with the means to pay—it is a stroke of genius to send Mary Wollstonecraft to lend her eloquence and reputation to the cause.”

Hearing him call me by my own name startled me. Not because it felt false, but because it felt true, and the central contradiction of the life I was living. Not wanting to be anyone’s legal wife or property, insisting on my independence, living by my principles, yet wanting the rights of a “Mrs. Imlay” to the point of desperation—the right to his strong hands, his first smile of the morning, last kiss. The right to need him, and be needed in return. But the thought that I had offered up my name, surrendered my own cause to nefarious dealings, rocked me.

“You’re wrong, Judge,” I said, my throat clutching. “It simply cannot be.”

“Certainly Imlay has more supporters than detractors. Quite an intriguing man, I take it. A sort of Daniel Boone type?”

“Did Ellefsen tell you that?”

“Perhaps you ought to go see Ellefsen for yourself.”

“I’d planned to. And I will.”

He took my hand warmly when I stood to go. “I hope I am wrong, Miss Wollstonecraft.”