The boiling water tumbled over itself in great bubbles, and I submerged the soiled cloth in the pot with a wooden spoon. “My father used to call everyone useless, from the scullery maid to the dean of King’s College. You’re far from useless.” I stirred the pot, slowly, throwing glances at the castaway’s face in the candlelight. “How is he?”
“He’ll live.” Montgomery picked up a needle and a length of black thread. “If we’d found him a day later, maybe hours, he might not have been so lucky. I’d hoped this would have healed, but it got infected. Not a damn clean thing around here.” He pinched the skin around the scrape and punctured it with the needle.
I memorized his gestures as he stitched the wound closed. His movements were like a long-acquired habit, something he did so often his hands could practically think on their own. When he was younger, he used to build fires in my room’s small fireplace with the same certainty of action. For Montgomery, work came as naturally as an afterthought—it was keeping up his strong front that required concentration.
“Has he been awake?” I asked.
“Off and on.”
“Did he tell you what happened to him?”
Montgomery started on the next stitch, tugging the skin tight. He paused to toss me the old bandage, which I added to the pot. The billowing water turned a murky shade of brown. “He remembers a little more each day. Yesterday he told me he was a passenger on the Viola, bound for Australia, but it took on water from a cracked hull some twenty days ago.”
“Twenty days! Was he the only survivor?”
“He gets confused when I ask questions. But in his sleep, he says as much.” His eyes flashed. “He’s asked about you.”
I nearly knocked over the boiling pot. “Me? What did he ask?”
“Who you were. Where you were going. What a pretty girl was doing on this kind of ship. It seems you made quite an impression.” There was a flicker of jealousy in Montgomery’s voice that made me focus on the pot, studying the rising steam.
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth,” he said. “You’ve come to find your estranged father.”
“So you don’t think he’s dangerous?”
Montgomery tied off the last stitch and bit through the thread. “No, he isn’t dangerous.” He stood, wiping his hands on a rag, and came to the hearth. Steam made sweat bead on his forehead. I was suddenly aware of the intense heat in the small galley, and that we were, with the exception of the sleeping castaway, alone. “He’s the gentleman type. You saw the silver buttons. Probably never had a true day of hard work in his whole life.”
“Still, he survived a shipwreck.”
Montgomery brushed his hair back, studying me with those deep blue eyes. “What has you so interested in him?”
The tone in Montgomery’s voice made me stir the water faster, aware of the red creeping up my neck. Lucy would have said something coy. She believed the way to keep a man interested was to make him jealous, but Montgomery wasn’t mine to begin with, and he had no good reason to be jealous of a half-dead castaway, silver buttons or not.
“He had a photograph,” I said into the pot. “Did you find it?”
Montgomery reached to the shelf behind me, between the larder and block of salt. A trace smell of spiced brandy clung to his hands. He pulled down a scrap of crumpled paper and handed it to me. The photograph.
Waterlogged and torn beyond recognition, I could only make out an overcast brown sky, the vague shape of people. I glanced at the castaway. What had it meant to him?
“The helmsman spotted debris in the water this morning,” Montgomery said. “We’re getting close to the island. It’s just a matter of days now.” His voice held the relief of reaching home after a long voyage. But there was an undercurrent of worry. “I don’t like the thought of leaving him here, especially without a doctor aboard. That wound will get infected without treatment. And if he can’t convince the captain he can pay, once we leave there’s no telling what will happen. They don’t owe him anything.”
The castaway muttered something in his sleep and tossed around in the bed. I brushed my hair back, stealing a glance at the black stitches in his leg. “You want to take him with us,” I said, reading Montgomery’s thoughts.
His jaw tensed indecisively, but he shook his head. “No. Your father doesn’t allow strangers on the island. There’s nothing to be done for him.”
“He’s been in a shipwreck. Father will take pity on him.”
Montgomery shook his head harder. “It was a foolish idea. Forget I said anything.” He took the pot off the grate and set it on the cook’s table. “Watch him for a moment, if you would. I have to check on the animals.”
“What if he wakes?”
A corner of his mouth turned up. “Say hello.”
And he left me with the castaway, the wooden spoon, and my thoughts drifting in and out of the swirling steam.
A FEW DAYS LATER I stood on the sun-bleached deck, squinting into the rigging, chewing on a fingernail. I was studying the monkey. It studied me back. Bribing the captain to spare the monkey’s life had been easy—apparently he valued a few bottles of Father’s brandy over being right. But getting the creature down was now my problem. And with our arrival imminent, I was running low on time.
“Monkey, look!” I held up my father’s silver pocket watch. One of the crew had told me monkeys liked reflective objects, but I dangled the watch for the better part of an hour with no results.