Regardless, his letter promised Jamie a place aboard a ship namedThe Minerva. Her brother simply needed to present himself and the letter on the date and at the place stated, and a position would be given him.
Her father died, believing that Jamie—and by extension, Eilidh—would be cared for.
But unbeknownst to him, Jamie had died the day before, taken down by the same disease, consumption eating him from the inside out. Her father had been too comatose and senseless to realize it, and she had not wanted to burden his final hours with the grief of Jamie’s death and terror for her future.
Eilidh curled her knees up to her chest and turned sideways in the chair, pushing back thoughts of Jamie’s brutal final hours, of her father’s slow slide into oblivion. Of the death knell of coughing, coughing, coughing echoing through the damp cold of their house. Of the clawing desperation of those final weeks . . .
Emotions clutched at her. Fear. Frustration.Panicpanicpanic—
She breathed in slowly, reaching for the numbing calm.
It rose up easily, an old friend, offering comfort.
She sat still for a long moment, allowing the numbness to fully engulf her.
This was the problem with her memories. They were a never-ending quagmire, lurking, patiently waiting for the right moment to pounce and pull her under.
How could she remember in frightening detail the horror of James’s death when her life after devolved into only a few vague snippets of scenes?
She remembered the morning after her father’s death, the terror of being so very alone in the world. No money and no respectable options.
She remembered contemplating MacTavish’s letter, promising employment for Jamie—did she have the courage to take her brother’s place? Poverty and desperation made one consider things previously thought impossible.
And then . . .
The sway of a hammock rocking her to sleep.
Dr. Whitaker binding her wound.
A crew member climbing the mizzenmast.
A flock of white cockatoos soaring overhead.
Hands pulling her out of the ocean, her head a blinding pulse of pain.
And then . . . waking up in the Gillespie’s hut on the island of New Caledonia, so disoriented, so confused as to how she had gone from Scotland to the South Pacific in the seeming blink of an eye. An entire year lost.
The unknown horror of what she had done caused terrifying fits of panic—her hands would shake and her lungs would tighten until she feared the tremors would stop her heart.
Even now, she shrank from the memories of those first awful months with the Gillespies, the bleak darkness of that time, the empty hollow within her belly, the agony of her shame. The endless recriminations: How could she have behaved in such a fashion? How could she have tumbled so far as to find herself shipwrecked andenceinteon the other side of the world?
Sheneverwanted to remember why she had assumed Jamie’s persona. To recall in excruciating detail why she had forsaken morality—the most precious gifts of character and gentility her mother had instilled in her—only to wake up face-down in an ocean half a world away.
Retreating into numbness had been the only possible solution. The fear of her uncharted memories was too much to bear.
It was better to feel nothing at all.
Therefore, she had spent the intervening years studiously avoiding thinking about her time aboardThe Minerva. Eilidh had waited upon Mrs. Gillespie, reading aloud as the older woman knitted stockings for the poor souls in the local workhouse. She had thrown herself into Reverend Gillespie’s charitable endeavors. All the while, hoping her good works might cleanse the stains on her own soul.
“Your past decisions cannot be changed, Miss Fyffe,”the reverend often said.“But such erroneous choices need not be carried into the future. Pledge now to do better. To be better.”
Eilidh had nodded and agreed with all her heart. Her past did not need to dictate her future, no matter how much pain lurked in her chest.
She was ready for a new life—to shed the last vestiges of her former self and reclaim her reputation as a lady.
A bright future had finally—finally!—arrived. One where she would thread her hand through Simon’s elbow and smile as he chatted with Mrs. Brown about her spaniel’s stomach ailments or discussed a mathematical puzzle inThe Gentleman’s Diarywith Mr. Potter. A simple, calm place where the dark tidal wave of her lost year could not reach.
Therefore, she would swallow back her anxiety, give whatever information she could to the procurator fiscal tomorrow, collect the rest of her new lavish wardrobe, and then be on her way . . .
