The family sat for their supper in the green-painted dining room. Plain food plainly done, a decanter of wine on the cloth for the sake of their guest. William Swann, from the head of the table, explained to Lacroix that the Jenny was a small brig that had seen better days but was strongly built with northern waters in mind and quite able to ride out a blow. He spoke to Lacroix with a respectful sense of the difference between their beginnings, but also with the confidence of one whose place in life was perhaps more correct, more assured. Certainly his place with God.

“Hopefully there will be no blow,” said Lucy. She was sitting between the children, picking spilled food from the cloth, wiping mouths with her thumb. The little maid stood by the door, still as a horse.

“I trust there will not,” said William. “But the Irish Sea is no millpond.”

“Was you ever in a storm before, brother? At sea, I mean?”

“Once,” said Lacroix, “and not long after I last saw you. In the Bay of Biscay on our way out to Lisbon. Waves such that we could not, in a trough, see the mastheads of any other ship, though we were in close convoy.”

“Did your vessel have a good master?” asked William.

“He remained in his cabin,” said Lacroix. “I saw him twice in the entire voyage.”

“Well, I am sure the master of the Jenny will do better for you,” said Lucy. She looked anxiously at her husband.

“Have no worry on that score,” said William. “Browne is a man of experience. He knows his work.”

“I suppose you had horses on the ship?” asked Lucy. “The storm must have frightened them.”

“It did. Men and horses.”

“How do they convey them?” asked William.

“How . . . ?”

“How do they carry the horses?” Both William and his wife had been steadily increasing the volume of their remarks as Lacroix’s deafness became more apparent to them.

“They are in stalls under the deck. Canvas slings about their middles.”

“Well, they are valuable animals,” said William. “I dare say a cavalry horse is worth more than . . . what? Twenty-five guineas?”

“You might have a three-year-old for such a price,” said Lacroix, “but such a horse is not fit for service for another year. A horse ready for service is closer to forty.”

“And many must be lost,” said William.

“Yes,” said Lacroix.

“Then I am astonished there is money enough in the country,” said William. “I am astonished it can be paid for.”

“John,” said Lucy, who had silenced her husband with a quick frown, who knew his views on the war, the profligacy of it, “you spoke of music in your letter. Of finding music in the islands.”

“Yes. I have some thought of that.”

“And I saw you had the old fiddle with you.”