“That girl, Hazel, with her witchy powders and potions . . . ,” the surgeon said irritably to Evangeline as she stood at the railing late one afternoon. “I’m afraid she’ll only make things worse.”

“You have plenty to do. Why should you mind?”

“It gives the women false hope.”

She gazed out at the water. It was clear and green, as smooth as a mirror. “Surely hope isn’t a bad thing.”

“It is if they forgo proper medical treatment.”

“The sailor who fell from the yardarm is much improved. I saw him shimmying up a mast.”

“Correlation, causation. Who’s to know?” His mouth tightened. “There’s something about that girl. An insolence. I find it . . . off-putting.”

“Have pity,” Evangeline said. “Imagine being her age, condemned to this.”

Giving her a sidelong look, he said, “The same could be said about you.”

“She’s much younger than I am.”

“How old are you, then?”

“Twenty-one. For another month, at least.” She hesitated, not sure whether it was appropriate to ask. “And you?”

“Twenty-six. Don’t tell anyone.”

He smiled, and she smiled back.

“Hazel’s life has always been hard. She’s never seen . . .” She struggled to find the words. “The . . . good in the world.”

“And you have?”

“Of a sort.”

“It seems to me you’ve had a rather rough go of it.”

“Well, yes. But the truth is . . .” She took a breath. “The truth is, I was rash and impulsive. I have no one to blame for my misfortune but myself.”

The wind was picking up. Sunlight splintered brightly in shards across the waves. For a few moments they stood silently at the railing.

“I have a question,” she said. “Why on earth would anyone choose to be on this ship if they don’t have to?”

“I’ve wondered that many times myself,” he said with a laugh. “The easy answer, I suppose, is that I’m restless by nature. I thought it would be an interesting challenge. But if I’m honest . . .”

He’d been a shy only child, he told her, raised in Warwick, a small village in the Midlands. His father was a doctor; it was expected that his son would join the practice and take over when he retired. He’d been sent to boarding school, which he loathed, and then to Oxford and the Royal College of Surgeons in London, where he discovered to his surprise that he actually did have a passion for medicine. On returning to the village he purchased a charming cottage with a housekeeper and set about expanding and updating the practice. As an eligible bachelor, he became a frequent guest at banquets, balls, and shooting parties.

Then disaster struck. A young lady from a prominent landholding family was brought in complaining of stomach pains and shaking with chills, and had a high fever. His father, having never seen a case of appendicitis, diagnosed typhoid, prescribed morphine for the pain and fasting for the fever, and sent her home. The heiress died in great agony, vomiting blood in the middle of the night, to the disbelieving horror of her family. Their heartbreak required a villain. The doctor and his partner-son were shunned, the practice ruined.