Deus Israel conjungat vos in matrimonium et ipse sit vobiscum qui misertus est duobus unicis…

Jennet woke fully and finally in the last of the evening light at the sound of the door shutting and a step on the floorboards.

She said, “You needn’t sit here with me all day.”

“I’ve brought supper.” Luke’s voice, steady and calm, his tone unremarkable. Jennet opened her eyes and saw him sitting beside her. He had spent the day in the sun and his skin still glowed with it.

A beautiful boy, him, with a smile like his papa’s, like your man’s.

He helped her sit up and arranged the pillows for her back, sat by and watched her drink the tisane Hannah had sent up with the dinner tray, and smiled when she pulled a face at its bitterness. While she spooned soup Luke did the same, telling her between swallows about his day. The repairs to the Patience were moving along and she would be ready to sail tomorrow, if nothing else went wrong; he had hired a crew member to replace Bardi, a free man of color out of Mobile who could get them past the British and American navies to New Orleans by a back route.

“Bardi has left us?”

Luke told her the story, one with no real surprises: Bardi had taken off in the night. Jennet felt a vague relief.

“As long as we can leave here tomorrow,” she said.

There was a small and uneasy silence, undercut by the sound of a man’s voice raised in tuneless song to the rhythm of a scythe. The smell of fresh-cut grass came to them and Jennet was struck with an unexpected surge of homesickness for Scotland, green and damp, where her mother must be waiting for news. Jennet had yet to find the words to write the letter her mother must read.

“Do you feel strong enough to walk?” Luke’s voice brought her out of her thoughts.

“Now?”

“It’s cool out, and it’s still light. You needn’t worry about running into Poiterin. He sent a note saying he’s away on business for a few days.”

“Did he.” Jennet summoned a smile. She wasn’t ready yet to discuss Honoré Poiterin with Luke, and neither did he seem eager.

“Hannah thought it would be good for you to get out,” Luke went on. “If you feel strong enough. And if you finish the tisane.”

It was good to hear some of Luke’s old teasing tone. She finished the dark, cold tea in two swallows and let him help her dress.

Where the dirt lane turned to run parallel to the harbor, an old woman sat in the window of a shack overgrown with a riot of flowers that glowed like a scattering of burning stars in the gloaming. She was an Indian of a tribe Jennet could not name, her hair hanging limp over rounded shoulders. The woman watched two naked children with skin like tarnished copper who looked up from their game and only blinked at Jennet’s greeting. She felt their eyes following her. She would have liked to talk to them, but most likely they would have no language in common beyond her small bit of Spanish.

“I have seen some poor villages in the last year,” Jennet said. “But I expected more of Pensacola.”

Many of the cottages that lined the lane were abandoned or collapsing in on themselves. More pigs and goats roamed the lanes than people. Their owners had made themselves scarce, most probably because soldiers or sailors loitered on corners or lounged, half asleep, under trees. A few men greeted Luke, but most pulled caps down over their eyes and pretended not to take note.

“The Spanish can’t manage this place,” said Luke. His voice trailed away while his mind turned to trade, and to the concerns he had left in other men’s hands in Canada. He was thinking about returning to Montreal, whereas Jennet could hardly imagine that such a world still existed. She tried to conjure up the house on the rue Bonsecours, to see herself at the dining table or her son playing in the garden, but the only picture she could manage was the rough shed she had lived in with Hannah in the garrison followers’ camp on Île aux Noix.

Jennet tightened her grip on Luke’s arm and slowed her pace. She kept her gaze on the bay, scattered with ships that rocked in a good wind. The sky had already faded into a colorless night. Beside her Luke went very still. Jennet had let go of his arm to wrap her shawl more closely around herself, but she imagined she could still hear the tension humming through him.

“What?” She followed his gaze out into the bay. “What?” Though some part of her understood already.

“She’s gone? The Patience?” Jennet found she could not catch her breath.

“Bardi,” said Luke. There was no particular emotion in his voice, not anger or surprise. “And here is the harbormaster, come to report the obvious.”

They waited while the man rode up. Luke took Jennet’s hand, and that simple act flooded her with courage as no words could have. The Spaniard slid to the ground, his expression so studiously serious that his jowls, blue-bristled, drew up in pleats all the way to his cheekbones.

“M. Scott.” He bowed. “Madame. I come to report—”

“The sailing of the Patience,” Luke finished for him. “We can see that ourselves, Señor Uribe.”

The harbormaster blinked at them and then turned to look out into the bay. The rising moon cast a path across the water like a curl of silver ribbon.

“The Patience has sailed?”

Luke didn’t try to hide his irritation. “Unless she sprouted wings and flew off like a bloody gull. You hadn’t noticed?”

“I have been otherwise occupied.” He bowed again, not so much out of politeness, it struck Jennet, as a way to hide an inappropriate half smile. He was a man who enjoyed delivering bad news, but knew enough to be ashamed of this in himself.