Page 42 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter

“William,” he rasped. “He’s dead.”

Bile rose, burning in my throat. “But how? Why?”

Jacques scrubbed his face, as if he could wipe away the horror and make sense of it all. “I don’t know, Nella. William was an honorable man. What trouble could he possibly have had with sailors?”

None. Except . . .

Guilt riddled my heart.

It was all my fault.

If I hadn’t insisted on going out at night, they wouldn’t have accosted me.

If they hadn’t accosted me, William wouldn’t have had to embarrass them.

If William hadn’t embarrassed them, they wouldn’t have sought revenge.

Jacques cupped my cheek with his hand. My tears rolled down, dampening his palm.

“Oh, my dear, you are so pale. I know, this is a terrible shock. But I am here. And I am unharmed. You are safe. Tell me, what can I do to help put this horror behind us?”

“Nothing,” I whispered. “There is nothing.”

First, the news of Silas.

Now William . . .

I stood unsteadily and stared out the porthole of our cabin. I felt frozen, the tips of my fingers numb.

Jacques announced he would fetch some tea. It was good he left when he did.

The moment the door closed, my stomach heaved. I retched into the chamber pot until only air was left, the tears coming then—hot, fast, and ceaseless.

I poured out every bit of me.

For William.

For my brother.

For my shame.

For what could have been.

Death had been right about life and loss.

If it felt like this, I didn’t know how I would survive.

Present Day

Savannah, June

Twelve

The couch dips as Sebastian inches closer.

Thunder growls outside, and it’s like I’m back on the ship to Paris, huddled in moldy-smelling sheets in that dank cabin, as the walls pitch up, waves slapping the hull. I pull the coverlet closer, breathing in the fabric softener.

I’m here. I’m safe. It was a long time ago.But it doesn’t feel that way. I’ve locked all the memories away for a reason.