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He had not written to Mrs. Gordon Barstow first because how could he? Fleeing Iffley as he had, under such a cloud, as if he were the thief or ruffian they imagined him! He had wanted to write. Every day. Every hour.

But he had not.

Moreover, he tried to school himself to resignation. Iffley was lost, and he must put it behind him. Put her behind him.

Not that he had any intention of forgetting about Mrs. Sebastian Barstow.

About Sarah . Quite the contrary. But his wishes for her must wait.

Wait for the memory of his disgraceful exit to pass and wait for favorable opportunities.

One weighty French prize, with him receiving his allotted eighth, and he would be on the next coach to Oxford.

If only war would be declared! He had his appointment to the Gazelle (formerly the French ship Triomphe ) which lay already at Spithead awaiting the proper conditions, but even if hostilities recommenced that day and they had the good fortune to sail out and capture the first French ship which crossed their path, he would see no money until the prize had been adjudicated, which might take as long as a year.

One whole year.

And that was if Fortune favored him. Surely it must, however, when he considered his time as a prisoner of war. Must not Lady Fortune turn her wheel? Unless he was still on the downward swing and death or dismemberment awaited.

Just let it not be death , he bargained. If Mary Pence would take Captain Colley with his missing leg, Mrs. Sebastian wouldn’t balk at one, he was certain. And he could still serve with an arm or leg missing, if need be—look at Nelson!—until the necessary, large-enough prize was won.

Having made these determinations, he bore up and opened the letter, and it was well that none of the other Barstows knew how quickly he scanned it for portions written in a different hand. He would read it all, of course, several times, but first—

And there it was. “Mr. Langworthy, we remember you fondly and hope you have been well. Do write to us about whether you have succeeded in securing your next appointment. Mrs. S. B.”

It was not much, and yet it was everything.

After skimming the rest of the letter and reassuring himself that, whatever the scandal left behind in Iffley, at least no warrant for his seizure had been issued, Langworthy returned to the postscript, sitting through a second cup of coffee to ponder how much encouragement he might take from it.

He could hardly say she expressed anything more than her mother-in- law had, but still she had taken the time to say it.

Could her fondness be more fond than general fondness?

(It was almost disheartening that both Miss Barstow and Miss Maria also mentioned fondness in their notes.

Perhaps, uninspired, Mrs. Sebastian merely copied their sentiments.

..?) Well, what about her interest in his next appointment, then?

That might be a hint that she, too, wished him to be buried in prize money, enabling him to marry.

On the other hand, Langworthy admitted Gordy’s contribution had been, “Hope you get a first-rater!” beside a sketch of a rudimentary ship bristling with guns.

No, altogether he could not find anything of lasting comfort in Mrs. Sebastian’s two sentences beyond the fact of their existence and the thought that, if she had made such a beginning she must certainly go on thus. Every subsequent letter which came from Iffley might yield more.

He would march straight back to his uncle’s house in Nobbs Lane and reply to Mrs. Barstow, answering all her questions and asking a dozen of his own.

With any luck they might get up a regular correspondence before the Gazelle put out to sea and letters became long-awaited treasures dependent on time, tide, and passing ships.

Tossing a coin down, he rose and threaded his way through the tables toward the door, only to have it open just as he reached it and a voice call out, “Langworthy!”

It was Stolles, the surgeon of the Gazelle , sweeping in with a rush of fresh air and raindrops. “Are you going? Stay and have coffee with me, and I’ll tell you about my stroke of luck. I found us a new cabin boy, to replace little Lord Measles.”

Eager as he was to be on his way, news which so nearly concerned his future could not be ignored, though he convinced Stolles to accompany him back to Nobbs Lane.

“Little Lord Measles” had been the nickname bestowed on eleven-year-old Archie Lordmaison, the Gazelle’s cabin boy who was not, in fact, a lord, but rather the youngest grandson of one, and a most unpromising boy even before he was stricken with measles.

“You know we despaired of replacing Measles at the eleventh hour,” Stolles reminded him, as they strode up the High Street.

“The space allotted would have hardly held him, much less any small seaman we could press into service. Nor was there time to send to the Marine Society in London for a replacement. But fortunately I heard my landlady rating some lad for stealing something she had cooling on a windowsill, and he whined back that he was hungry and would be willing to work for it, if she had any work.”

“You have enlisted some unknown street waif who was robbing your landlady?” marveled Langworthy. “What will Captain Waller say?”

Perhaps because of his profession this behavior was not unprecedented in Stolles.

He was known for taking in strays of all kinds, though heretofore these had been of the animal variety.

A shade of uncertainty crossed the surgeon’s features.

“He’s really not so bad, Langworthy. A little rough-spoken, maybe, and no little gentleman like Lord Measles, to be sure, but he has other qualities.

He can read and write and even work figures!

He showed me.” But when the Gazelle’s second lieutenant merely raised a skeptical brow the surgeon’s confidence crumbled, and he bit his lip.

“I say—let us stop at my boarding house, and you can meet him. It is on the way to Nobbs Lane.”

“You’ve left the little thief in your room?” he laughed. “He’s probably made off with all your valuables and some of your landlady’s, to boot.”

“If he has, then I am no judge of character, and it is just as well,” insisted Stolles. “But if he has not, and you like him, you can join me in persuading Waller.”

Langworthy grimaced, remembering the letter he wanted to write and having no desire to stumble at the threshold with his new captain, but he gave in with a shrug. If the child was a disaster, better that he be sent on his way before the captain even knew he existed.

The child was indeed a disaster, but not of the sort Horace imagined.

For when Stolles led the way up the narrow staircase of his boarding-house (making sufficient racket, Langworthy guessed, to warn the boy if he was up to no good) and threw open his door, the two men discovered the urchin just where the surgeon had left him.

He sat on the wooden chair beside the fire, polishing Stolles’ boots to a respectable gloss, and from the looks of it he had already finished the buckles and brushed the surgeon’s coat.

“You see? I was right,” Stolles crowed, gesturing toward the boy with the air of a conjurer who had transformed his rod into a serpent. “ Voilà ! Is he not a happy discovery?”

Langworthy stared.

The boy stared back.

The boot dropped from the lad’s hands, and he swallowed audibly.

“Can it possibly be?” Langworthy croaked. “ Harry Barbary? ”