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I am a man upon the land;
I am a selchie on the sea
and when I’m far frae ev’ry strand,
my dwelling is in Sule Skerry.
—Traditional Orkney ballad
ONE
He had not come.
Emma March drew a quick, relieved breath. Or as much of a breath as she could manage. The steerage passengers squeezed together against the ship’s rail. Like so many sardines in a tin, she thought with a flash of humor. The stink of wool and unwashed bodies mingled with the reek of the harbor, overwhelming the salt breeze running up the river from the sea.
On the Liverpool dock, a ragamuffin gang of boys whistled and waved their caps at the departing ship. A gray-haired matron sank into the stout, supporting arms of her companion like a tragic music hall heroine. Emma almost smiled. And then she glimpsed a gentleman’s tall hat and cane descending the straight stone steps, and her heart knocked uncomfortably against her ribs. Her breath caught in panic.
Paul.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Against her closed lids, an image burned: Sir Paul Burrage, adjusting his gray top hat in the cloakroom’s spotted mirror.
Tumbled among the students’ boots and umbrellas, Emma had watched him, stricken, her body aching and her heart sore.
His gaze had met hers in the glass. “The first time is always a disappointment, I hear.” He’d turned to her then, flicking a careless finger down her cheek. “Next time will be better, I promise you.”
She had slapped his hand away. “Next time? Do you think I would marry you now?”
“Marry?” Paul had stared at her, stunned.
And then he’d thrown back his handsome head and laughed. “Good God, I never intended to marry you.”
Standing at the ship’s rail, Emma trembled with rage and a deep, remembered shame.
She forced her eyes open to search the crowds again.
But the gentleman in the hat was not Paul Burrage. He had not followed her.
She was glad.
Paul would not hesitate to denounce her to the steamship line’s recruiting agent. The papers she had signed in return for her passage to Canada stipulated that she was of “strong constitution and good character.” And her character was ruined, as Paul knew very well. He had ruined her. The bastard.
He was a governor of the school. She was merely a teacher. Had been a teacher. If he exposed her, if she were thrown off the ship by an irate matron, what choice would she have but to do as he demanded and become his mistress?
She shuddered again.
The large woman beside her turned with a sympathetic smile. “Cold, ducks?”
Oh, dear. Emma ducked her head. She was less in control of her emotions than she thought.
“I—yes, a little.”
The woman pursed her lips at Emma’s educated accent, but her expression remained friendly. “It’s this wind, I ’spect.”
“Yes,” Emma agreed gratefully.
The woman continued to regard her with eyes black as currants in her pale, doughy face. “Mary Jenkins,” she announced. “That’s Mr. Jenkins with the children over there.”
Emma glanced at the harassed-looking man in the brown coat pulling a boy down from the rail. She smiled. “Emma March.”
