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His jaw would drop when he saw her in the pink silk.

Lavinia scooped the peeled egg onto a plate. A sorry, mangled-looking blob, yolk peeping through where the white had come away with the shell.

The twins would have to make do.

Lavinia and Emmeline had a party to plan. The first and last ball of the Kyncastle Season.

—

“What do you reckon they’ve been doing?” Davy sat back on his heels and wiped his forehead with his shirt cuff. Neal threw his rag onto the dock and shook his head slowly.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” He rolled his left shoulder, easing the tight muscle, then crossed his arms behind his head and flopped onto his back.

Not a cloud in the periwinkle sky. Yesterday’s storm had blown by and taken with it every scrap of moisture. The air over the bay was still and bone-dry.

He’d pay a pound sterling for a breeze.

It was hot work, repairing the hole in the hull of the Strouts’ battered seiner. He and Davy had been at it for hours. The sun had crept west and come down from its heights, beams slanting with diminished intensity. But that was only a small mercy. He pulled damp cloth away from his chest, used his shirtfront to fan himself.

Sweating like a furze bush on a dewy morning. That was what his father would say. What else would his father say if he could look down from heaven, as Curnow had suggested?

Tell me, my boy, are those my father’s Hessians you’re wearing?

They are. Tomas brought them down from the attic. Maybe you missed it—I had to kick off my own boots yesterday to facilitate an unexpected swim.

Missed it? Bollocks! I interceded on your behalf. Why do you think it stopped raining?

Why—what a Romish idea. You can’t be serious.

Of course I’m not serious. The dead mustn’t have a sense of humor?

What I hear the dead have is a bird’s-eye view. If that’s the case, you might help me find that dandelion, the one I’m naming for Mother.

Your mother wants you to settle down, do you know that?

She told me.

I want it too. You’re too reckless. You need to keep your feet on the ground.

Well, you’ll both be happy to hear I’ve found my future wife.

Is she happy to hear it? Your future wife?

I don’t know. I haven’t told her yet.

Reckless and presumptuous. What will I ever do with you?

Watch over me, I suppose. Rejoice but on a farther shore.

You always had a smart mouth. I’ll rejoice on your wedding day if you find a woman who can get the upper hand of you.

Neal sighed and lifted a leg to inspect the big black boot, a Regency relic, the sound of his father’s deep, amused voice echoing in his ears. The memory of his voice was stronger, clearer somehow than the memory of his face. Enough daydreaming.

He sat up. “There they are again.”

Muriel and Emmeline were coming along the street that fronted the harbor with their heads together, apparently locked in conference.

Davy grunted. He’d returned to his labors, using pitch to fill in the seams between planks in the boat’s hull.