The women, jammed onto the waistdeck with their ratty possessions heaped around them, waited expectantly. Bella Jackson stood beside her two trunks wearing a full skirt of oxblood velvet, a beautifully fitted jacket in emerald taffeta, a very fancy bonnet with a black ostrich feather and her grey kid boots; her prison slops were nowhere to be seen. Her waist was tiny. Friday, Harrie and Sarah stood in silence, feeling unsettled and vaguely sick, even though they weren’t particularly surprised by Rachel’s news. Harrie held Rachel’s hand. Rachel was crying, upset that they weren’t as thrilled by her announcement as she’d expected. Mr Warren strode about, waving his arms and clearing a path between the door beneath the foredeck and the gap in the ship’s rail where the bosun’s chair had been rigged. There was already a great pile of luggage on the crowded deck, presumably belonging to the paying passengers, brought up from the hold this morning and in the process of being lowered into the wherry waiting below.
