“More of her bits and pieces,” Luke said. “I’ll see that her things are stowed properly.”

Wyndham had already started in that direction, but Jennet didn’t try to stop Luke from leaving. She did try to stop her own sigh of relief, and failed.

From the privacy of Luke’s cabin—her cabin, too, now that they were wed, and what a strange idea that was—Jennet watched Port-au-Prince grow smaller. From this distance the town looked like a magical place, sapphire and emerald, gold and blinding white where the sun touched thick whitewashed walls. Around it the fields stretched out—coffee, sugarcane, cotton, indigo—and above it rose mountain ridges that ran the length of the island.

Once she would have loved this place, and the idea of exploring all of it, mountains and hidden glens and savannahs. Now the Patience—how poorly named was this ship—could not move fast enough to suit Jennet.

Seven days they had spent here, seven wasted days when she must submit to doctors’ examinations and interviews with the authorities, when all she really needed was to be moving west. But no one would hear of them rushing away, most especially not Luke’s mother.

Giselle Somerville Lacoeur, once of Montreal, took charge of Jennet and no one—not her son, or her husband, or even the governor himself—dared to interfere. Age had not mellowed Luke’s mother.

As a girl Jennet had loved Giselle and admired her, but now she found she had very little to say to this Mme. Lacoeur. For her part, Giselle did not seem to mind Jennet’s impatience, nor was she swayed by her moods. Giselle was far too involved with making sure that the steady stream of seamstresses and milliners and mantua makers did their best work, and speedily. She would have her new daughter-in-law properly outfitted before she sailed. There was no excuse for sloppiness, she told Jennet. No matter how dire the situation.

The Lacoeur home was spacious and cool, standing as it did in a great sea of palm trees at the crest of a hill. The veranda that circled the house was wide and deeply shadowed, with comfortable chairs and chaise longues piled with pillows. Jennet spent most of her time dozing there, though she never put foot on the marble terraces that ran down to the sea.

On Jennet’s third morning in Hayti, Giselle found her asleep when she should have been in her rooms, where the seamstresses were waiting.

“You may need to apply to the authorities anywhere from Pensacola to Mobile to New Orleans,” Giselle said. “You may have to dine with governors and generals and bankers. The clothes you wear will speak more loudly of your resources and connections than any letter of introduction.”

“I am so sleepy,” Jennet said.

Giselle was unsympathetic. “No sane man would go into battle without the proper weapons, and neither must you. This is a war you are embarking on, Jennet, and the prize is your son. You must be ready for a long fight.”

It was something they never spoke about directly, the fact that getting to Pensacola was only the beginning of the problems. They might not be able to get away again, if the war began in earnest along the Gulf coast—and Luke and all the rest of the male population of the island seemed to think that was exactly what was likely to happen. That would mean waiting, or traveling overland through territory that they didn’t know and that might be hostile. They would need every advantage they could claim.

And so Jennet stood still while others draped her in the light silks and gauzes dictated by the climate; while the women talked about color and embroidery, hats and stockings and stacked heels. They discussed the fashions in Paris and London, and the peculiarities of Americans. Her own thoughts moved in a very different direction. While they gossiped, she made long lists of questions to ask Giselle’s husband.

Anton Lacoeur was a sharp, doe-eyed man with a head for numbers and a talent for trade that had made him many fortunes. To Jennet’s surprise, he had been the one who seemed to best understand what would make her time in Port-au-Prince bearable. He drew up lists of names, men who might be of help to them, others they should avoid at all costs; he wrote letters of introduction and drafts on banks; he brought them maps and charts.

When he came to the end of his own knowledge, he invited others to his home. Naval officers and army engineers, merchants and traders and others whose business practices were best left unexamined, but who knew the Gulf well enough to talk for hours of tides and treacherous marshes, swamps, bayous. They spoke of pirates and profiteers and smugglers, things that would have delighted Jennet as a girl—things that would have delighted her even a year ago—but now left her only vaguely uneasy. Luke took charge in these conversations, and Jennet was glad to leave it all to him.

It was Anton who brought Luke and the man called Bardi together. Bardi, who had lost his ship in mysterious circumstances and needed a way back to the Gulf through the British blockade. He was presented to them as untrustworthy, a man without morals or scruples but one who knew the area where they were going as well as any man alive. It was worth his own life to stay out of both American and British hands.

“Pay him well and never take your eyes off him,” Anton had said. “And he’ll get you to Pensacola or wherever else you need to be, and then be shut of him.”

While Jennet’s time was divided between Giselle and her husband, Hannah was free to seek out other women, dark-skinned women who watched and listened but rarely spoke to white people of what they knew. These were women who worked in the kitchens and laundries and nurseries, and from them she collected names whispered in throaty Creole French.