He tossed his seabag on the lower bunk, undressed, and toweled himself dry, kneading his new muscles just so he could feel them, hard and supple beneath skin that tingled from saltwater and his vigorous rubbing. Likewise, he delighted in the caress of dry drawers, trousers, and shirt. Carrying his wet clothes and the surviving shoe, he passed through the main cabin again, pleased that he now had to duck to avoid the brass gimbal lamp hanging from the center beam. Trajan, orange as a yam, had been liberated and had found a cozy spot to nap on a cushion.

Before going on deck, Nathaniel decided to peek into his father’s stateroom, behind the main companionway. He quietly opened the louvered door to the sanctum sanctorum. It was spacious for a vessel Double Eagle’s size, running the width of the ship, and it had the amenities of a room in a house without sacrificing nautical practicalities. Its teak wainscoting was burnished to the sheen of rubbed leather, its double bunk had lockers built into it. A small desk was bolted to the cabin sole. There was a bookshelf containing tide tables and the almanacs used for taking sights, and over the desk, a dramatic painting of the old man’s wrecking schooner, the rakish, white-hulled Main Chance, under full press on an ill-tempered sea. What Nathaniel was looking for was the old man’s dunnage. He didn’t see any. Maybe it was already stowed in the lockers, but opening them would be too great a violation of privacy.

“Ah, my good man. Trust you folded my shirts properly and laid out my dinner jacket. Mrs. Astor will be dining with me tonight.”

This from Eliot, leaning against the wheelbox as Nathaniel came up the companion.

“No dinner jacket. Used your shirts to wipe the head.”

He spread his clothes on the main cabin top to dry, weighting his shirt down with the shoe against an unexpected breeze.