Despite herself, Margaret missed Willy. Unlike Eliza, however, who was given to periodic fits of gloom and melancholy in the absence of her betrothed, Margaret could neither put her loneliness on display, earning clucks of sympathy from other women aboard the ship, both young and old alike, nor confide in anyone. Caroline was much too young to understand such things, and Thomas would be aghast. This forced separation was a blessing, she decided, holding her shoulders straight and head high. Under no circumstances could she be in love with Willy. To do so would destroy her sister.

And yet . . .

Margaret pressed her fingers to her lips and closed her eyes, imagining Willy's mouth on hers. "Curse you," she whispered under her breath, though she wasn't exactly sure if she was cursing Willy for kissing her in the first place, or herself for allowing it to happen.

"Deep in thought, are we?"

Margaret opened her eyes to find that Abigail had come to stand next to her at the ship's railing. The two had become friends, and watching the sun as it made its slow descent in the sky had become their mutual evening ritual.

"I suppose I am," Margaret said, letting her hand drop to her side.

Wisps of pale hair had escaped Abigail's braid and were blowing in the wind. Aside from Margaret, she was the only other woman on board who chose not to wear a cap. Both her parents had voiced their disapproval numerous times at this lack of propriety, but Margaret had never seen the point. She stretched her shoulders slightly, straining against the confines of corset and dress. How she longed for a pair of trousers and open fields on which to ride her beloved Artemis.

Abigail bent her pale head, the color of the moon, next to Margaret's dark head. "If you're troubled about something," she said, "perhaps talking about it will help."

"It's nothing," Margaret said quickly.

Abigail looked at her from the corner of her eye, brow raised. "All right. If you say so."

Several moments passed, during which neither girl spoke. The sounds of the sea and ship seemed to engulf them. "Can you keep a secret?" Margaret finally said.

"Of course," Abigail replied.

"There is a boy . . ." Margaret began, but said no more.

Abigail laughed through her nose, though with contempt, Margaret thought. "In my experience," she said, "there is always a boy. But, please, go on."

"I have known this boy—Willy—for as long as I can remember. He is one of the oldest friends I have. He may be the only friend I have. Aside from you," Margaret said, touching Abigail briefly on the hand. "You see, Willy has . . . feelings for me."

"And this is a bad thing?" Abigail asked.

"Perhaps it wouldn't be if he wasn't already engaged to Eliza."

She dared a glance in Abigail's direction to gauge her reaction, but she had no words to adequately describe the look on the other girl's face. Was she shocked? Amused? Margaret's cheeks felt flushed and her heart beat wildly in her chest.

"Do you think ill of me?" Margaret asked, fervently wishing she hadn't spoken at all. But the allure of having someone to speak with honestly had proven too tempting to resist.

Abigail pinched her lips together, but she was unable to contain her smile, which spread slowly across her face. "On the contrary," she said, her eyes practically twinkling.

The girl's reaction was not at all what Margaret had expected. She had expected Abigail to chide her, to proclaim her disapproval and renounce their friendship. Maybe that's what she had been hoping for. Not to lose Abigail's favor, per se, but to suffer some sort of reprimand for how she and Willy had been carrying on behind Eliza's back. Though if it was punishment she was seeking, all she had to do was tell Father. Or Eliza. No, she wasn't quite so desperate for atonement.

"Do you have feelings for this Willy fellow?" Abigail wondered.

"I do not," Margaret said. "Feelings are useless."

"Of course," Abigail said through a smile. "Perhaps you won't develop useless feelings for someone in America, either."

Margaret made a very unladylike sound from her nose and hooked her arm through Abigail's. "What will you—"

A piercing wail interrupted Margaret mid-sentence. Both she and Abigail turned in the direction of the commotion to find a woman clutching at one of the crew members, stumbling over her feet as she tugged the hem of his shirt, trying in vain to pull him to a stop. Everyone had ceased what they were doing to watch.

"What on earth?" Margaret asked.

"The bundle in his arms," Abigail said in an undertone.

Whatever it was, it was wrapped tightly in canvas. "What about it?"

"That is her child," Abigail said, sending a chill skittering down Margaret's spine. "My father said it was doing poorly. He sent me during the night to offer what comfort I could to the mother and the little darling, but he was already too far gone. I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did."

Margaret's eyes traveled back to the bundle. "That's her . . . child? What does that man intend to do with it?" Even as she asked the question, she knew. Her heart quickened once more, and she began to feel sick and lightheaded.

"Throw it overboard, of course," Abigail said without emotion. It was clear she had seen this kind of thing happen before.

"The poor woman," Margaret said. She looked around the ship, searching. "Does she not have a husband?"

"She did," Abigail replied. "He died, as well. Two nights ago."

"Of what?" Margaret asked, slightly alarmed. Perhaps her mother had been right to be cautious about spending too much time outside the confines of their small cabin.

"I would wager the same thing that took the baby."

Abigail continued to watch the scene, but Margaret couldn't bear to look. She turned and gripped the railing, squeezing her eyes shut, but it did nothing to blot out the almost indistinguishable splash of the bundle hitting the water or the mother's fresh screams, so filled with anguish Margaret could feel them in her bones.

"Could they not have given the child a more dignified burial?" she heard her mother say.

Margaret opened her eyes and went at once to her mother's side, wrapping her arms around her waist and burying her head in her chest as she used to do when she was a girl. She thought she would never erase this moment from her memory. Thomas placed his hand on her shoulder but said nothing.

"The child was cursed," her father whispered.

"Conrad," her mother hissed. "Do not say such things out here, in the company of others."

Overcome with grief, the woman collapsed. Abigail went immediately to her side and, wrapping her arms around her quaking frame, spoke in low tones. With Abigail's help, the woman rose, and together they walked away in the direction of Abigail's cabin.

"I do not like that girl," Margaret's mother commented, almost to herself.

"Miss Abbott?" Eliza said. "She has a kind heart."

When Abigail and the woman were out of sight, and the crew and passengers had resumed their business, Mrs. Abernathy turned to her four children. "Death is on this ship," she said. "Do not stray."

*****

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, please vote, comment, and recommend A Drop of Blood to others.