It was October 1836. The natives called it Aipassi. When she’d first disembarked the Royal Captain in January of that year, touching the hewn stone of Ceylon’s Port Colombo dock caused her to despair her reunion with Charles. How could she explain Hardy to a man who understood only the simple calculus of legal theory, calendar days, nautical distances? She’d spent the prior four months studying Bible verse and struggling to puzzle out her emotions in the impossible leaning of the sea. On the day of her arrival in Ceylon’s harbor, Julia had come to her cabin weeping that there was a body floating freely atop the waves. In another moment she’d heard its impact against the ship’s hull, like the hesitant knocking of a child at a parent’s closed door. That was Ceylon. Matters needed time, she’d thought. Charles had come in a solid, if ordinary, carriage piloted by the maid he’d written of in his letter, and so she’d looked this Mary up and down, searching for signs of the new life.
