He had said the right thing. Given something so harmless to discuss, Sophie began to speak at length. She told him of her town and spoke of her neighbours with affection, but what was left unsaid was as revealing as what was said. As the youngest daughter of a large family, it was soon clear that she had been made to understand, though not unkindly, that marriage was the only honourable means of keeping herself from want once her parents died and that her choices of husband would be limited, as her parents could not provide her with much in the way of a dowry. She had accepted her situation but had still hoped that she would be luckier than her oldest sister, Charlotte, whose marriage to Mr Collins, it soon became clear, she could never view as anything other than a sham.

“Your choices are not so limited, I am sure,” he said, looking at her with unconcealed admiration.

But it became clear from her halting sentences that her fragile beauty had been largely unremarked upon in the environs of her parents’ house and that even the kindest neighbours had tended to see it as a waste in a child whose prospects depended more on fortune than merit.

“And that is when I met Mr Rotherham,” she said softly.

Paul waited, saying nothing, giving her the opportunity to order her thoughts and express them in a way she had not been able to before.

“He was very good to me,” she said, speaking of Francis Rotherham with a mixture of wistfulness and pain, telling him of the way Mr Rotherham had made much of her during the summer balls and assemblies. “He laughed with me and danced with me and made me feel that I was special.”

“And so you are,” said Paul sincerely.

She shook her head. “No. For not long after such hopeful scenes, Mr Rotherham abandoned me at a lakeside picnic in order to pursue…”

“A wealthy young woman?” he hazarded.

She dropped her eyes, unable to meet his gaze as she remembered the rich young lady who had arrived from London—remembered, too, how Mr Rotherham had transferred his allegiances publicly, with no thought for her feelings or the hurt and shame she must feel. At his callous treatment, her heart had shrivelled, and when she had recovered a little, she vowed never to give her heart to a man she did not fully know, and fully trust, again.

She felt Paul’s silent sympathy, even as her eyes came to rest on his hands. Paul Inkworthy had none of the artifices of Mr Rotherham. She had only to look at his paint-stained fingers and then lift her eyes a little to his rather worn shirt to see he cared little for society manners. The only time she had seen him animated was when he had discussed chiaroscuro one afternoon with Beth. It was art which stirred his passions, not fortunes. Even so, she knew very little about him, and although his admiration was gratifying, it was not enough to make her seek a romantic attachment again.

She made an effort to shake away the gloomy memories which were threatening to engulf her and reminded herself that she was lucky to have such good friends and to have been invited on such an interesting trip. She pushed her thoughts deliberately outward and, turning the feather in her hands, she said, “The wind is very strong.”

“Yes, it is,” he said, with a fervour which reflected his willingness to allow her to return to the safety of commonplaces, rather than the brilliance of her comment.

She smiled at his evident goodwill and, looking up, said, “It catches the sails as forcefully as it caught my feather.”

“Yes, it does,” he said, returning her smile.

“I do not know how the sailors can climb the masts in such a wind, but they know no fear.”

“No.”

Her eyes fell to the deck, where she caught sight of one of his sketches. It had caught the sailors’ activity admirably. She picked it up to study it further and remarked that he had caught their vitality with brilliance; and he explained, with no false modesty, how he had done it. Before long, they were deep in a conversation about art, and all the awkwardness of their former conversation was lost. It was one subject on which he knew no hesitancy or reticence, and she found his enthusiasm contagious.

“I wish I could catch the feel of the wind in the sails, but I am afraid I am no artist,” she said.

“It is easy when you know how,” he said. “Here.” He put a pencil into her hand. Then, putting his arm around her so that he could guide her, he took hold of her hand and sketched a few vital lines.

“Do you feel the flow of it?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Sophie.

She felt something else as well, a warmth and tingling at his nearness. She could feel the sweetness of his breath on the back of her neck, and the strength of his hand was exhilarating. She was just about to make another line on the paper when a cheery voice called out behind her, “Miss Lucas, how do you like the journey so far?” and she turned, startled, to see Mr Darcy’s cousin Edward coming toward them.

Unlike Paul, his wardrobe was immaculate, and his cuffs pristine white and innocent of a seamstress’s darns. But his face—she sprang away from Paul at once, but not before she had registered the surprise and disapproval in Edward’s eyes at her closeness to Mr Inkworthy.

Oh, why do men have to be so difficult, she thought, with a sudden flare of irritation with Edward and with men in general, for in one way or another they seemed to be forever disturbing her calm.

Edward simply bowed stiffly and moved on to speak to the captain, while Paul returned to his sketches.

Sophie returned to her seat to find that Meg had been joined by Elizabeth and that mercifully there were no men anywhere near. The little girl was regaling her mother with stories of Aahotep.

“My goodness, Aahotep had a very eventful life,” Elizabeth was saying, while Meg nodded before carrying on with her embroidery.

Sophie sat down and Elizabeth, turning to welcome her, said in surprise, “You are angry. What about?”

“You are mistaken,” said Sophie. “I am not angry.”

“Yes, you are. And I am glad,” said Elizabeth with satisfaction. “It is far better than seeing you looking so listless all the time. It is good to know that your spirit is returning; a little anger is a healthy thing. Was it something Edward said?”

Sophie shook her head. “No, not really. It is just that… oh, why are men so difficult?” she burst out. “You are lucky; you found Mr Darcy, but other men…”

“Believe me, my husband is just as difficult as the rest,” said Elizabeth, laughing.

“But you are happily married, whereas I…”

“Have that joy yet to come,” said Elizabeth firmly.

“I wish it might be so,” said Sophie, sitting beside her. “But after last year…”

“I understand. After your unfortunate experiences with Mr Rotherham, you feel that you do not want anything to do with men ever again. Believe me, I know how you feel. Did you really love him?” asked Elizabeth sympathetically.

Sophie said with a sigh, “I do not know. I thought I did, but now I am not so sure. I am not sure I know what love is.”

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. “Would you like to find him in Meryton when you get home? Would it make you happy if he came back for you?”

“No,” said Sophie without hesitation. And, after a minute’s thought, she added, “And in any case he would not do so.”

“Mr Bingley came back for Jane,” Elizabeth reminded her.

“But that was not the same.”

“How so?”

“Because Mr Bingley loved Jane. And she loved him.”

“And in your case it is different?” Elizabeth asked.

“It is a strange thing, but now that you put it like that, I can see that it is. I have spent so long regretting him that I did not think to ask myself if I really loved him. I was flattered by his attentions and I was excited at the thought of him proposing, and I was relieved that my family would not have the burden of an unwanted female on their hands. And so I thought I was in love with him. And then when he humiliated me by withdrawing his attentions, and in such a public way, I was too hurt to know what I really felt. But now that it is all over, and I am many miles away, I can see things more clearly. Perhaps I never loved him after all.”

“Affairs of the heart are never easy,” said Elizabeth. “I made a lot of mistakes when I was about your age. I judged my husband on an overheard conversation, and from that moment on I set out to tease and plague him because he had slighted my charms. I was so pleased with my own cleverness that I was blind to his good points and exaggerated his bad points, never stopping to ask myself if I was being fair or just. I am ashamed when I remember it. And not only was I wrong about my husband, I was wrong about George Wickham. He seemed handsome and charming, and he seemed to be suffering. I believed everything he told me without once seeking confirmation elsewhere, and all the time he was deceiving me. It was a bitter time for me when I discovered my mistake. I was devastated. I truly thought I would never be happy again. But love is so complicated that mistakes are inevitable, and you should not be afraid of making them. They are a necessary part of falling in love.”

“Thank you,” said Sophie. “It is comforting to know I am not the only person who has been foolish.”

“You must not let it worry you,” said Elizabeth kindly. She paused and then said, “Tell me, what do you think of the two young men on board? They are both decent men, I think, and they both seem very taken with you.”

“I am flattered, I cannot deny,” she said honestly. “But this morning I felt that I was nothing but a bone for them to fight over. Although…”