Some months later, an envelope arrived in the post from his roommate at the Royal College. The British government sought qualified surgeons for transport ships and would pay handsomely. It was a particular challenge to find surgeons for the female convict ships because, “to be frank,” his roommate wrote, “the ships are rumored to be floating brothels.”

“A gross exaggeration, as I now know,” Dr. Dunne hastened to add. “Or at least . . . an exaggeration.”

“But you signed on anyway.”

“There was nothing left for me at home. I would’ve had to start somewhere new.”

“Do you regret it?”

The corners of his mouth turned up in bitter comedy. “Every day.”

This was his third voyage, he said. He spent little time with the rough sailors, the boorish captain, or the alcoholic first mate, whose excesses he’d already treated several times. There was no one he could really talk to.

“What would you do, then, if you could do whatever you chose?” she asked.

He turned to face her, one arm on the railing. “What would I do? I would open my own practice. Maybe in Van Diemen’s Land. Hobart Town is a small place. I could start again.”

“Starting again,” she said with a catch in her throat. “That sounds nice.”

“Ye should charge for your services,” Olive told Hazel on a rare afternoon away from her sailor. “People take advantage.”

“How’re they gonna pay?” Hazel asked.

“Not your worry. Everybody’s got something to barter.”

Olive was right. Soon enough Hazel was in possession of two quilts, a small store of silver pilfered from sailors’ trunks, dried cod and oat cakes, even a down pillow made by an enterprising convict who plucked geese for the officers’ meals.

“Look at all this,” Evangeline marveled when Hazel lit a taper in a small brass candlestick with a finger loop—another bartered item—and pulled out a sack she’d stuffed under her berth.

“Want something? Help yourselves.”

Evangeline sifted through the sack, with Olive peering over her shoulder. Two eggs, a fork and spoon, a pair of stockings, a white handkerchief . . . wait—

She snatched the handkerchief out of the sack and ran her thumb along the embroidery. “Who gave you this?”

Hazel shrugged. “Dunno. Why?”

“It’s mine.”

“Are ye sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. It was given to me.”

“Ah, sorry, then. Nothing’s safe, is it?”

Evangeline pressed the handkerchief on her bedtick, smoothing it, and folded it into a small square.

“What’s so special about it?” Olive reached for the handkerchief and Evangeline let her take it. Holding it up to the candle, she peered at it closely. “Is this a family crest?”

“Yes.”

“This must be from the cad who . . .” Olive gestured toward Evangeline’s stomach. “C. F. W. Lemme guess. Chester Francis Wentworth,” she said, affecting a snooty accent.

Evangeline laughed. “Close. Cecil Frederic Whitstone.”

“Cecil. Even better.”

“Does he know you’re here?” Hazel asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Does he know you’re carrying his child?”