“Understood,” Chase said, clasping his shoulder. “Send word if you’re delayed.”
“I won’t be,” Nicholas said. His friend’s look told him Chase wasn’t nearly as confident.
The jolly boat, one of the ship’s small rowboats, was lowered; Nicholas would have preferred the stability of a longboat, as well as the help of the additional hands required to man it, but this would suit them fine—it wasn’t so long of a distance for him to row alone, and both had transferred their few possessions to bags he’d sewn from excess sail, rather than haul their trunks.
Once Nicholas was situated, the girls began their careful descent into the jolly boat. Sophia looked ready to spit on him should he try to help, but he did reach up and grip Etta by the waist as she stepped down, bracing his legs against the pitch and bob of the boat. He felt where she had held on to his shoulders long after he sat down and picked up the oars.
Nicholas looked back up to wave a farewell to the crew just as Chase leaned down and whispered something in Jack’s ear.
The boy brightened, whispered something back, and jumped up onto the rail.
“How ’bout a kiss, hey?” Jack shouted down.
Etta laughed and obliged, blowing a kiss. With one last dry look up to a guffawing Chase, Nicholas drew the oars back and began the first long stroke. A good burn coursed through his stiff muscles as he eased into the steady motion. He kept his mouth shut as he rowed, even as Sophia grumbled, “Can’t you go any faster?”
The mist began to burn away as the sun rose higher. Birds called from where they hovered above the water, and he didn’t mind in the slightest when the sweat soaked through his shirt, not when there was fresh, cool air in his lungs. Sophia closed her eyes, drumming her fingers against the sack in her lap impatiently. Etta fixed on a point past Nicholas’s shoulder. He craned his neck and followed her gaze toward the dark outline of the trees lining this deserted stretch of beach.
Nicholas had read Cyrus Ironwood’s description of the meeting spot to Flitch, and they’d worked to match it to the coastal charts and maps. But he didn’t feel confident they’d done a good job until Etta said, “I think I see a light.”
Nicholas saw it now, too. A lantern cast a faint glow into the gloom that clung to the rocky beach, and as they grew closer, the dark form behind it took shape. Nicholas drew the oars in, letting the tide do the bulk of the work, until the bottom of the jolly boat struck sand. He jumped out, splashed into the cold water, and dragged the boat ashore.
Before he could reach in to steady her as she stepped out, to warn her about the strange hollow feeling that crawled up your legs as they settled themselves to the stillness of land, Sophia had jumped out and crumpled on the loose sand.
It was manners, the legacy of the saintly Anne Hall, that made Nicholas reach down and offer her a hand. The expression on Sophia’s face, the flush of embarrassment, made her look like the young woman she was, not the wasp she insisted on being. For a moment, he might have even detected what Julian had once found appealing.
But then he saw her remember who he was.
What he had done.
Her face went as hard as flint, and her fingers curled in the sand as if she might throw a handful of it into his eyes. When she stood again, it was by her own strength.
Etta placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she stepped out of the belly of the boat. Together they watched Sophia stagger toward the waiting coach and driver.
He ought to tell her that there were yet more rules about touching, about the propriety this century demanded.
But…perhaps not yet.
“If you can believe it, that’s actually an improvement in her mood,” Etta whispered. “This morning she threw half of her trunk at me when I came in to wake her up.”
“Ah, the Ironwood charm,” Nicholas said. “I suppose she then made you pick it all up for her as well?”
“Actually, I threw the water from the basin on her to cool her off.” A dark look passed over Etta’s face as they watched the carriage rock with the force of Sophia’s entry. “Should have grabbed the chamber pot instead.”
He barked out a sharp, surprised laugh.
“Thank you for showing that measure of restraint,” he said, still struggling with his smile. “I wish I could say that you’ll have a more welcome reception when you meet Cyrus Ironwood. But be warned—if he scents fear in you, he’ll take particular delight in tearing you to pieces.”
Etta set her shoulders back, starting ahead of him up the hill.
“Well, you’ll have nothing to be afraid of,” she told him, a little smile on her face. “Because I’ll be with you.”
Nicholas shut his eyes, and took in one last breath of the sea-kissed air.
If only that would be enough.
THE SMOKE ROSE TO GREET them miles before they reached the Brooklyn Ferry.
“What is that?” Etta asked Nicholas. “Some kind of battle?”