“I took the liberty of asking Mr. Tom Hackett, the Ambrosia’s boatswain, to join us,” the captain said, gesturing to the man beside him.

“Good evening, madam,” said Mr. Hackett. He was a broad man, thick as a barrel, with scowl lines carved so deep they didn’t budge when he smiled. “Your most humble servant.” He bowed.

I curtsied, but both Mr. Hackett and the captain kept smiling like they expected more, so I curtsied again, deep and slow, the hem of Miss Coates’s gown pooling on the planks and my feet sliding inside her mismatched slippers. The door swung open just as I’d finished.

A young man ducked through it and looked from me to the captain. He was lean as a spar, the very opposite of Mr. Hackett.

“Ah, good. We are all arrived,” said Captain Jansen. “Miss Coates, allow me to introduce Mr. Asa Lane, whom I have invited to join us as well. Mr. Lane is the youngest son of a highly respected Rhode Island shipping merchant.”

Mister Lane didn’t seem right. I didn’t put him a day above twenty, and he was bedraggled, his navy coat and waistcoat bagging, his ozenbrig trousers those of a common sailor. Even his hair was untidy, dark pieces slipping from the queue at his nape and falling into his eyes.

“Mr. Lane is a graduate of the prestigious Yale College,” the captain went on. “One of the finest in the American colonies.”

“Not quite, Captain,” said Mr. Lane. “I only attended for a year before I took to sea. And they are the United States now, as last month our Congress declared independence.”

The captain coughed in shock, and silence fell like an ax. I fidgeted with the flounces on the sea-green gown I’d changed into as I tried to make sense of his words.

Our Congress? Mr. Lane was an American rebel?

I didn’t understand. Why was he on a ship full of Loyalists—his enemies?

As the tense silence stretched on, a scarlet flush crept up Mr. Hackett’s thick neck.

Finally, Mr. Lane turned to me, resting a hand over his heart. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle Coates.” He bowed over an extended leg as his free hand swept out to his side. He peered up at me before rising, and more French words poured from his lips, his voice deep and musical. None of it made a drip of sense to my ears.

When he finished speaking, I pulled my lips into the most pleasant smile I could manage and dropped yet another curtsy. Then I threw myself into the nearest chair, ’cause surely curtsying wasn’t the answer to everything.

My breath raced as I stared at my plate. I knew ladies learned French. I’d heard them before in Nassau, twittering like birds, but it didn’t matter that I hadn’t answered, I assured myself. My traumatic muteness protected me.

Questions about Mr. Lane continued to dart through my mind as he sat across the table. What had he said in French? Why had he been invited to dinner? I pushed them away; I had more important things to find out.