Prologue

Portsmouth, England
June 1808

“Lionel, wait!” Jemima cried, her voice piercing the stillness of the dark night.
She trotted to catch up with him, but he was taller, and his legs were longer. Every time she got closer, just within reach, he would bound away again, laughing.
The full silver moon, the first official one of summer, shone down upon the tranquil beach. It cast a gentle glow on the waves, which lapped gently against the sand. The very air seemed alive with a symphony of crashing tides and whispering breezes, as if nature herself had conspired to serenade her. A faint aroma of salt mingled with the fragrance of wildflowers that clung to part of the boardwalk not far behind her. All of this – the smells, the sights, the very feeling of being with Lionel in this way – filled her body with a heady delight. Her very hands trembled with the giddiness at being so free. Running along the sand like this, she hardly remembered society and cared not for the opinions of the ton.
She stopped, her heart warm with happiness as she looked out at the vast expanse of the ocean, its dark depths stretching out. In the obscurity, the sea met the sky, and there was no telling where one began and the other ended. The only indication of some sort of separation was the glowing moon, which reflected upon the water. Lionel stood by her side, his strong arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her closer to his warmth. The sea breeze gently tousled their hair, causing strands to dance playfully across their faces.
“We ought to go in, don’t you think?” Lionel, ever the daring soul, led the way, pulling Jemima toward the lapping waves. His blue eyes twinkled with mischief.
“At this very moment?” Jemima asked, her hazel eyes widening in surprise.
“Pray tell, why should we wait?”
“If I return home with a wet hem, my maid will be sure to tell my mother, and that will be the end of me,” Jemima said lightheartedly, although there was a bit of fear to her words. Much as she loved her ladies’ maid, she’d learned that all servants loved to gossip, and she did not want her mother to find out about this secret affair with Lionel Hunt. He was a second son, after all –mothers never wanted second sons for their daughters.
“Then we shall fabricate a story for you. ‘Twould be a shame to not take advantage of tonight.”
His smile was so genuine she could not help but follow his lead. And… with him leaving so soon, it might be the last bit of fun they’d have for a while.
Lionel took Jemima’s hand, and the both of them waded ankle-deep into the cool embrace of the sea, their laughter mingling with the sound of the rolling surf. There was something about tonight that felt electric and magical. As the moon glowed on the water, each cresting wave brought forth a kaleidoscope of sparkling diamonds, as if the ocean was bestowing its own gift upon the young couple. Jemima watched, captivated, as the foam-tipped waves crashed against the shore, their frothy tendrils reaching out like delicate fingers, embracing the sand before receding back into the depths. The water caressed Jemima’s feet, sending ripples of delight up her spine. The sensation of the sea’s touch was both invigorating and soothing, a gentle reminder of the vastness of the world beyond the confines of her everyday life. With Lionel by her side, she felt as if the possibilities were endless, like the uncharted sea before her.
As the waves rose higher, Lionel took Jemima’s hand and led her deeper into the water. The cool liquid enveloped her legs, and she let out a playful shriek, clutching onto his arm for support. The sensation of Lionel’s strong grip and the weightlessness of the water beneath her feet filled her with a sense of security and freedom, as if they were the only two souls in the world, lost in their own private paradise.
Jemima’s laughter rang out, echoing against the vast expanse of the night sky. The sound seemed to mingle with the crashing waves and carry away all the worries and constraints of their society. At that moment, she felt truly alive, unburdened by the expectations and limitations imposed upon her.
Lionel twirled her around, their bodies moving in perfect harmony with the rhythm of the sea. The ebb and flow of the tide created a gentle sway, like a lover’s dance, as they glided through the depths. Jemima’s heart swelled with love and gratitude, knowing she had found her soul’s partner in Lionel. The ton be damned, she’d have this second son no matter what they said about it.
When he put her down, and they began to walk back to shore, a cold splash of water hit her square in the back. Shocked, she turned around to see Lionel grinning like a cat.
“Oh, you cannot get away with this!” she shouted playfully and crashed through the water, scooping up a handful and throwing it at him. And, of course, he retaliated. It was not long before the two of them were soaked, exhausted, and laughing; the horrors of Jemima’s wet hem entirely forgotten.
They trudged toward the shore, chests heaving as they collapsed on the solid, damp sand. In that moonlit embrace, their laughter turned to whispers, their gazes locked in a shared understanding. Jemima’s senses heightened, absorbing every detail — the taste of salt on her lips, the soft caress of Lionel’s hand on her cheek, the distant melody of a nightingale singing its nocturnal serenade.
But all good things must come to an end, and she was dreading the morning. Lionel was to ship out with the rest of the Royal Navy detachment. She hadn’t meant for such thoughts to manifest themselves on her face, but evidently, Lionel noticed.
“I hope that dour look is not all about your hem. I’m given to understand that ladies take several trips to the modiste. Surely it can be replaced,” he teased.
“I do like this gown, but it is not my hem about which I am worried. I am thinking about another garment…” she said, her voice drifting off.
“Do tell. You are so mysterious at times,” Lionel said, reaching out and tucking a wet strand of light brown hair behind her ear.
“Well, we ladies must have our secrets to keep us interesting,” she teased, but it did not sound nearly as flirtatious as she wished. “I was thinking of your naval uniform. And then… of course…”
She did not have to finish her sentence for Lionel to understand what she was talking about. Tomorrow was the day. The two of them had enjoyed their secret romps together for quite some time now. Jemima had valiantly staved off any potential suitors, much to her mother’s dismay and occasional outrage. She only had eyes for Lionel, but tomorrow, he’d be gone.
“It shall not be too long a voyage,” Lionel said, his voice uncharacteristically hushed. Even though he was trying to comfort her, Jemima sensed the nervousness in his voice. It would be his first official post with the Royal Navy, and even though it was just across the Irish Sea, that did not mean there wouldn’t be danger. Pirates had long been out of fashion, but that did not stop small, roving bands from terrorizing merchant ships, trying to cross that small body of water. His battalion was shipping out to put a stop to it.
“I know. But… it will still be dangerous,” she protested gently.
“Maybe.”
“You are not helping to assuage my fears,” she said, half-teasing.
Lionel shook his head, black curls framing his face.
“I, too, am worried. But I shall put on a brave face. It was either this, the clergy, or killing my brother, I suppose…” he tried to lighten their mood with a joke …”and as I do not want to kill him, and the clergy seems rather dull… I do not think I could survive as a man of the cloth,” he said, tongue in cheek.
“You are horrid!” she said with a laugh.
“Horace is a fine brother! And I do not desire the dukedom so much as to forcibly take it from him. No, he shall do his duty just fine. Perhaps Edmund will go into the clergy. He’s got the sniveling face for it.”
“Not all clergymen are bad,” Jemima chastened.
“No, they just live off the land of the people they claim to shepherd. Sometimes they might even grace your threshold and say a prayer.”
“Oh, and the Royal Navy does not exploit the English at all?” Jemima asked, an eyebrow raised. It was rare she engaged in political conversation, but sometimes, with Lionel’s penchant for sarcastic comments, she found herself having to reason with him and talk him down.
“An excellent counterpoint,” Lionel said with a sigh.
“Sometimes I wish you had chosen the clergy route, though,” Jemima said ruefully, snuggling closer to him. He wrapped a strong arm around her and kissed her temple. “I think you’d look very smart in that white collar. We could have lived in the countryside, had a little garden.”
“There would be nothing for you to be proud of, though,” he countered.
“Lionel,” she adjusted herself so she was looking directly into his eyes, “I am proud of you no matter what. You do not have to fight foreign enemies at sea for me to care about you. I see the man that you are, and you are noble, kind, and thoughtful. That is well enough for me.”
“I cannot break a promise. I have signed the contract already. I’d be seen as a coward if I broke it,” he said.
“I know. But that will not stop me from worrying about you every single day.”
“And I you,” he said, bringing her delicate hand to his mouth and kissing it gently. “When I return, this… sneaking about, you having to stave off suitors… it will be a thing of the past. We shall do things properly. I’ll ask for your hand, and we shall marry.”
“I will wait for you,” she said solemnly.
There was nothing either of them could add after that declaration of steadfastness, so they sat on the shore until the moon dipped back. Soon enough, the sun would begin to rise. Jemima didn’t want that; it would mean this little fantasy, this happy time, would end. And as confident as he tried to sound, it was still a dangerous posting, and she might well never see him again.
“We ought to get you back. I still hope you’ll be able to see me off at the docks,” he said, rising to his feet and brushing the sand off his breeches, then extending a hand to help her up.
She took it with a sigh, agreeing. If she were to get back home in time, she’d need to be quick about it.
“Oh! I nearly forgot,” she said, fishing a small organza drawstring bag from her bodice. Lionel raised an eyebrow, and she stuck her tongue out at him.
Thankfully it hadn’t gotten too wet, tucked away between her stays and her chemise. When she held it out to Lionel, he looked at it curiously before he realized what it was.
“A lock of your hair?” he asked, holding up the little bag in the moonlight.
She nodded. “So that you keep a piece of me wherever you go,” she explained.
It was hard to tell, even in the light of the moon, but she could swear she saw his eyes tear up at the gesture.
“I… thank you, Jemima. I’ll treasure it always. I have nothing to give you…”
“Give me your cravat,” she said gently, even though the words were commanding. “Say you lost it in a night of drinking before shipping out, if anyone asks.”
He did not need telling twice. Lionel unfastened the rather stifling piece of clothing, still damp from their splash fight earlier, and handed it to her.
“What will you do with it?”
“Embroider your initials on it, then perhaps keep it as a handkerchief. I…I will remember you always, no matter what, but this… it’s you. It even smells like you.”
“That cannot be entirely pleasant,” he teased.
“It is to me.” Her voice was soft and sincere, with no time for jokes.
There was not a lot he could say in reply to that, and Jemima hated that she’d ruined the mood with such earnestness and worry. The walk back to her home was silent – though not from awkwardness or anger. They were happy just to be with one another, but each thought of the morning and how they’d be parted for some time once the sun rose.
Once they were back at Upton House, all windows still shut and black, all occupants presumably asleep, Jemima knew it was time to go their separate ways.
“I don’t want you to go,” she whispered. They were just out of sight of the house behind the back garden wall.
“I’ll be back. It will be so fast, Jemima. Like the blink of an eye. You’ll hardly even think of me when the Season starts.”
“You know I’ll always think of you.”
“And I you,” he whispered back. As if on cue, they melted into each other in a sweet, passionate kiss. If the night watchman had raised an alarm at that moment, Jemima would not have cared. It would almost be sweet relief to be caught in a scandal, to then have to marry Lionel.
But no one saw, and there was no noise – just the feel of his lips on hers and his hands on her waist.
When at last they stopped, the sun was just beginning to rise. Lionel would have to report for duty in a matter of hours.
“I’ll try to convince Mama to let us join everyone at the docks and see off the ship,” she said breathlessly.
“I’ll look for you in the crowd if you’re there.”
“I love you,” she whispered, so quietly even she was not sure she heard them.
“I love you,” he whispered back forehead pressed against hers. “Keep a weather eye on the horizon.”
After one more gentle kiss to her forehead, he disappeared into the streets of Portsmouth.
At that moment, she knew exactly what she’d embroider on the cravat handkerchief – a rising sun over the ocean waves, as a reminder to do just as he had advised.

Chapter One

July, 1810

Alas, she never had seen him off at the docks that fateful day.
Lady Upton, Jemima’s strict and imperious mother, had made sure her daughters’ days were full of activities during the social season. They’d said their goodbyes on the beach that night, but somehow, not seeing him off that morning, even in secret, felt like a betrayal on her part. The last time she’d seen Lionel Hunt was just outside the garden of Upton House in Portsmouth.
When they had said adieu, the dim light of the approaching dawn had cast a hushed atmosphere upon the silence of the house. Jemima’s gown, previously a lovely pale green silk, was drenched and clung to her like seaweed. The smell of it, and its disheveled state, suggested something wild and clandestine. Her skirts rustled with each movement, the soaked fabric whispering secrets of forbidden desire. The sun had just began to peak over the horizon. Usually, no one was awake at that time but the servants. Jemima had definitely overstayed at the beach with Lionel, so she had had to be careful when sneaking inside. She had tread carefully across the garden toward the rather imposing manor, both her sanctuary and, at times, her prison, with a mixture of trepidation and longing. The warbled glass window panes glimmered with a soft, golden light, a stark contrast to the darkness that had enveloped her outside. But she had not seen any figures moving inside, so she had decided to take her chances.
With a trembling hand, Jemima had reached for the white trellis fastened to the stone exterior. Her bedchamber was on the second floor, but there was absolutely no way she would have entered the house using the front door or any of the side doors, lest she risk being seen. Her fingers had grazed the cold metal, and she had hesitated, a wave of guilt crashing over her. Everyone in the ton thought of her as a graceful woman, conscious of manners, beautiful and polite. She had known the consequences that awaited her once her secret tryst was discovered – surely it was only a matter of time – but she had also known that a love like hers and Lionel’s could not be denied.
She had struggled with the latch on the window. It had made a little too much noise for her liking, and she had fallen into her bedroom with an ungraceful thump after the window had opened. But that wasn’t even the worst part – as soon as her body had hit the hardwood floor, her mother’s voice had cut through the darkness, sharp and demanding.
“Jemima!” Lady Upton had hissed, her face only half-lit with the small candle in the brass holder. She had been sitting in her nightgown and braided hair on the edge of the bed. Jemima had been utterly confused. Why was her mother in her bedchamber at this hour?
“Mama!” Jemima had said softly.
“Where have you been? And why are you dripping wet like some fishmonger’s wife?”
Jemima’s heart had sunk, her breath catching in her throat. The woman before her, normally a paragon of poise and elegance in the face of the ton, was a tempest of fury and disappointment.
“I-I…” Jemima had stammered, her voice barely above a whisper, as she had tried to conjure an excuse that might appease her mother’s wrath. But the words had caught in her throat, lost amidst the tumultuous emotions that had threatened to consume her–exhilaration, guilt, the anticipation of loss, love… all she had wanted to do was curl up and cry, but clearly, that was not going to happen.
Her mother’s eyes had narrowed, her gaze penetrating Jemima’s soul with an intensity that made her feel utterly exposed.
“Don’t even think about lying to me, young lady,” her mother had spat, her voice laced with disdain. “I can see it in your eyes, the guilt you carry like a scarlet letter.”
The weight of her mother’s words settled heavily upon Jemima’s shoulders, and she bowed her head in shame. The scent of wilted flowers mingled with the acrid taste of regret as tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill over.
“I-I was with Lionel,” Jemima had admitted, her voice trembling with the admission. “We had to say our goodbyes. He leaves with the Royal Navy at sunrise.”
Her mother’s eyes had widened, a mixture of shock and anger flickering across her face.
“You foolish girl!” she had exclaimed, her voice teetering on the edge of disbelief. “How could you jeopardize your reputation in such a manner? Lionel is a tar, Jemima. What future could you possibly have with him?”
Jemima’s heart ached at her mother’s words, the ache spreading like wildfire through her veins. She had felt the tendrils of societal expectations tightening around her, threatening to suffocate her hopes and dreams. But Lionel, with his black curls and eyes as blue as the open ocean, had stirred something incredible in her that she could not ignore.
“Mother,” Jemima had pleaded, her voice filled with a desperation that matched the pounding of her heart. “He’s not a tar. The Royal Navy is nothing to scoff at!”
“Royal or not, he’s still a second son. You are the first daughter of the noble house of Upton. You know you can do better. It is your duty to do better. And what if someone had seen you? Or heard you?!” Lady Upton had grown frantic.
Jemima had begun wringing out her hair with a towel she’d left hanging over the top of her Japanese screen.
“Mama, we are careful. We keep it a secret.”
“The ton has eyes everywhere. You are lucky I caught you before anyone else did!”
“I love him, Mama. I cannot fathom being with anyone else. Lionel is…” she had paused, her hazel eyes going misty as she struggled to think of a good analogy. “He is my anchor. Without him, I feel lost. Adrift at sea.”
Her mother’s stern expression had wavered for a moment as if caught between her duty as a mother and the realization that her daughter’s heart could not be swayed by societal expectations alone. Slowly, she had risen from her place on the edge of the bed and sighed with resignation.
“Jemima, I understand the power of love, but you must also understand the consequences of your actions. The world can be cruel, my dear, and it will not hesitate to crush you beneath its judgmental heel.”
Jemima had nodded, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. She knew that her mother had spoken from a place of wisdom and experience, her words etched with the scars of a life lived within the confines of society’s expectations. But even as the weight of her mother’s disapproval settled upon her shoulders like a winter cloak, she could not deny the flame that burned within her.
With a steadying breath, Jemima had met her mother’s gaze, her voice filled with a newfound resolve.
“I love Lionel, Mama, and I cannot deny that love any longer. If it means facing the scorn of the ton, so be it. I would rather be true to myself than live a life filled with regret.”
Her mother’s face had softened, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Slowly, she had reached out, her hand trembling as it cupped her daughter’s cheek.
“Oh, my dear Jemima,” she had whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I can only hope that love will prove stronger than the storms that lie ahead.”

***

This is unfair, Jemima thought, glowering at her mother, who sat in the corner with a glass of lemonade, all smiles and kind words for the modiste. How can she pretend all is well? How could she do this to me?
Most young ladies looked forward to their wedding for their entire lives. All their training, lessons, balls, and parties led up to that moment. Jemima felt anything but elated. She felt repulsed. Indeed, her stomach turned at the thought of even holding the Marquess’s clammy hand at the altar. And to think her mother and her eldest brother Ferdinand had orchestrated it all! Really, after being caught sneaking home, Jemima thought her mother understood some of her pain. But no. The moment the scandal hit, any ideas of the strength of love in the face of a cruel society were tossed out the window. If there was one thing that Lady Upton could not abide, it was a poor self-image.
Apparently, a maid had been passing through the hallway outside and heard Jemima and her mother talking that fateful night. She spread the juicy bit of gossip about the secret affair with Lionel Hunt to the rest of the Upton servants, and it was not long before it reached the upper echelons of the ton. It was all anyone could talk about for weeks. The Upton House had received many “sorrows, prayers” cards from friends as if a secret affair were worse than illness or death.
Jemima had thought nothing of it until suitors stopped calling at the house–not just for her, but for her younger sister as well. The guilt was eating her alive, so when the Marquess of Kingsbury offered his hand in marriage, her brother Ferdinand and mother pounced, forcing her to accept. There was nothing to be done. The banns had been published and read for the past three weeks at church, and the marriage license had been procured. Jemima’s fate was all but set in blood.
All of this she recalled as she stood in front of the grand mirror in the modiste’s opulent salon. She barely recognized the woman in the mirror – hollow cheeks, dark circles under her eyes, and a thin frame – not at all the blushing bride one might expect. The gown itself, resplendent in ivory silk and adorned with delicate lace and intricate beading, hung from a nearby screen, awaiting its final adjustments. The room was filled with the scent of fresh flowers and the gentle rustle of satin as the seamstresses bustled about, their nimble fingers weaving magic into every stitch.
Evidently, such thoughts were revealed in her countenance.
“Jemima, darling, why such a sour face?” Lady Upton pressed. “Are you not happy to marry?”
“Mama, you very well know the answer to that,” she said through gritted teeth.
“The Marquess of Kingsbury is an honorable man with a distinguished lineage. The alliance will secure our family’s position and ensure a prosperous future for you and Sophia, especially after your carelessness,” Ferdinand said, not even looking up from his newspaper. He was only here because he held the purse strings. After their father’s death, he’d assumed the family title and all the duties. Jemima also suspected he took some sort of perverse pleasure in torturing her this way.
Jemima turned her gaze toward her mother, completely ignoring her brother, her eyes filled with a mix of defiance and sadness.
“But what of love, Mama? What of my own happiness?”
The rustle of the paper told Jemima she’d really caught Ferdinand’s attention.
“Your own happiness?” he asked incredulously. Even his dark sideburns seemed to tremble as he spoke. “Very bold of you to think you deserve such a thing when you plunged our family into scandal.”
“Ferdinand, that’s enough!” Lady Upton scolded her son, then she sighed, her tone softened by a hint of sympathy.
“Love, my dear, is a fickle companion. It often dissipates with the passing of time. Without support – financial, societal, familial – what else is there? You must learn to put your own desires aside for the greater good of your family. You have seen the ugly side of love, now, have you not?”
“Indeed. When was the last time you even heard from Lieutenant Hunt?” Ferdinand asked in a mocking voice.
Jemima’s hands balled into fists at her sides, and had they not been in a public place, she would have flown at him and walloped him.
“It has been a while,” Jemima admitted, her teeth still gritted. “I’m sure it is difficult to receive mail whilst aboard a ship.”
“For two years?” Ferdinand asked. “There are special ships that deliver correspondence. And the Irish Sea is not so wide. On a clear day, you can practically see Cork from Truro.”
When Jemima looked as if she might cry upon hearing her brother’s words, Lady Upton touched Ferdinand’s hand with her fan and shot daggers at him with her eyes.
“My dear,” her mother said, “I think what your brother is trying – and failing – to say is that we all have our part to play in this grand dance of society. Our duty is not always easy or fair, but it is what is expected of us. The Marquess of Kingsbury will provide for you, protect you, and ensure the family’s prosperity. You must think beyond your own desires. You want your sister to have excellent matches, do you not?”
Jemima’s heart sank as she listened to her mother and brother, their words like an iron cage slowly closing around her. Unfortunately, they were right. She had permanently stained the Upton reputation. Even if the scandal had broken two years ago, no amount of scrubbing or cleaning could completely erase it. People would always whisper. Poor Sophia did not deserve that. And neither did her mother, image-conscious as she was.
Jemima did not have a chance to reply, as the modiste approached at that moment.
“Lady Jemima, it is time for your final fitting. Let us see the gown in its full glory.”
Lady Upton beamed and clapped her hands.
With a heavy sigh, Jemima approached the mannequin, her fingers tracing the delicate lace that adorned the bodice. The gown shimmered under the soft glow of the salon’s chandeliers, its intricate details capturing the light and casting a mesmerizing spell. Jemima followed the modiste and two of the seamstresses behind the screen, where they helped her out of her light pink muslin day gown and into the confection that was her wedding gown.
As the modiste and her assistants worked to fit the gown to Jemima’s form, the weight of her predicament settled deeper within her. Each delicate pin prick was a painful reminder of the life she was being forced to embrace. As they laced up her stays, Jemima could only think that this was some way of sealing her fate – of tying her into something she wanted no part of.
When the gown was on, the modiste led her back out into the parlor, where Lady Upton let out a cry of happiness, and Ferdinand nodded approvingly. With the veil and the small jeweled headpiece, she looked like a princess – all the prettiness with none of the power.
“Oh, Madame LaBleu, you have outdone yourself!” Lady Upton exclaimed.
“She will be the most beautiful bride of the season,” one of the seamstresses beamed.
“You look very fine indeed,” Ferdinand said, nodding in approval.
Even other young ladies and their mothers in the modiste shop chirped and showered her with compliments. Weddings were fairly common at the end of every Season, but it was still thrilling to see a young woman in her bridal gown outside of the church – it was like a beacon of hope for other young ladies. The girls eyed Jemima with awe and wonder, and she had a feeling they were thinking that if she could find a husband, so could they.
And then Jemima caught her mother’s eye. A warning flashed behind it – not another outburst about true love, she seemed to say.
So Jemima swallowed back the tears and the biting comments as Madame LeBleu fussed over the details of the gown. She drowned out any words about the wedding, having heard enough of that for the past few months. When the party needed to view the dress from another angle, she turned dutifully. There were little side conversations going on amongst the other shoppers, the usual gossip, discussion of lace versus silk, nothing that really piqued Jemima’s interest. Honestly, it all sort of blurred together in a dull hum, akin to a swarm of bees inside a hive. That was fine with Jemima, for it allowed her to brood. Ferdinand was right, unfortunately. Lionel had ignored her letters for the past two years. At first, she thought her worst fear had come true – that his ship had been attacked by pirates and he’d been killed. But at dinner parties and balls, she’d heard his mother speak of correspondence they’d recently received from their swashbuckling son, and she knew then that he was avoiding her.
As much as she wanted him to swoop in and rescue her at the last minute, preferably before she arrived at the altar, she knew such a thought was foolish. Besides that, she was angry at him. He’d abandoned her when she needed him most, and it had taken months for her to heal. She still did not feel fully healed, he wound just less raw than before. Marriage to the Marquess of Kingsbury threatened to reopen that wound, and Jemima did not think she could handle that feeling again.
As she contemplated throwing herself in the harbor or falling out a window to avoid marriage, her ears focused on a whispered conversation between two ladies’ maids nearby, entirely by accident.
“Aye, the ship just docked last night, so it did. He won’t be here for too long,” Jemima heard a lilting Irish accent say.
“Is he looking fer work?” a different female voice asked, sounding strongly of Cornwall.
“Aye. There’s nothin’ here but the Navy, unfortunately. Seems he’ll have to go back to Ireland at this rate.”
“Oh dear, that do be a shame.”
“If he doesn’t find somethin’ in three days, he’ll board the Navy ship back to Dublin an’ then find another to take him to the Caribbean.”
A ship? Heading to Ireland and then possibly the Caribbean? Well. That was just what she needed. Her aunt Eliza lived somewhere in the Caribbean, led an eccentric life, and was the black sheep of the Upton family. If anyone could understand Jemima’s situation, surely it would be Aunt Eliza.
As Madame LeBleu and her mother fussed around her, Jemima began to plot her escape.

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