“He didn’t seem too badly damaged,” Lydia said. “Judging by the way he was coming after you.”

“I’ve never gone for anyone like that. Do you understand? It was like sinking down to their level. I-I didn’t feel quite human anymore.”

Lydia bit back the retort that Marcus had often had that effect on her too. “If it’s any consolation, I doubt Marcus is worrying about the damage he did to you. What Marcus does has to be right. That’s article one of his personal code.”

He was staring at her. “You’re a strange mixture.”

“What you’re thinking is that I’m bitter,” she said. “I know it’s not a very endearing trait but believe me that’s what living with Marcus does to you.”

At that moment it struck her that this was the strangest conversation to be having at this time and place, and with a man like Rory Wentwood. But she didn’t care anymore, not about that sort of thing. She felt that she had earned the right to speak her mind. She thanked Marcus for that at least.

She turned away from Rory and examined her face in the mirror over the basin. After the events of the last few hours, she was surprised how respectable she looked. A trifle pale and a trifle shabby, she thought, but you could take me almost anywhere. Aloud she said, “I’d better go and tell Mr. Dawlish and Miss Kensley where you are. What’s the house number in Mecklenburgh Square?”

“Fifty-three. You’ll probably have to go down to the area door.”

It was a relief to be dealing with practicalities again. Lydia warned Rory about the danger of showing a light. She gave him a cigarette and left him smoking it forlornly on the lavatory.

At the front door, she knelt to look through the letter box. The street lamp on the other side of the road was already alight. The muddy golden aura around the bulb holder was streaked with rain, and the roadway glistened with moisture. No one was about.

She let herself out of the house and ran over to the wicket gate in Bleeding Heart Square. On the way, a puddle caught her unawares, soaking her shoes and ankles. In the square there were lights in the windows of her father’s sitting room and of the two ground-floor rooms-Mrs. Renton’s and Mr. Fimberry’s. As she approached the door of number seven, Mrs. Renton’s curtain twitched.

Upstairs, the sitting-room door was ajar, and she heard her father’s voice. He had a visitor. Marcus? She slipped across the landing and into her bedroom, where she opened the wardrobe as quietly as possible. She changed her stockings and shoes, found her umbrella and tiptoed back toward the stairs.

The sitting-room door opened.

“Lydia, my dear,” Captain Ingleby-Lewis said. “There’s someone else to see you. We’re having quite a day, aren’t we?”

The heartiness in his voice made her instantly suspicious. Marcus? Please God, not now, not ever. Her father’s articulation was clearer than it usually was at this time of day, which suggested that he hadn’t had as much to drink as usual.

“Mrs. Alforde dropped in. Come along.”

Reluctantly, she allowed herself to be drawn into the room. Mrs. Alforde was sitting in the armchair near the fire, bolt upright, prim and respectable, still wearing her hat.

“There you are.” She held up her cheek, inviting a respectful kiss. “And how are you?”

Lydia said she was very well but unfortunately she had to go out on an urgent errand. While she was speaking, she remembered the letter for her father this morning. So that was why the envelope and the handwriting had seemed familiar: the letter had been from Mrs. Alforde. In other words, there had been nothing accidental about this visit; it was by appointment. But what reason had Mrs. Alforde to get in touch with her father?

“Now, sit down, dear,” Mrs. Alforde said firmly, as though addressing a recalcitrant retriever. “I know you’re in a hurry but this won’t take a moment.”

“I really can’t stay long.” The oddities were adding up in her mind: the letter to her father, the cheek offered for a kiss, Mrs. Alforde’s abstracted, even unfriendly behavior on the drive back from Rawling the other afternoon.

“Captain Ingleby-Lewis has been very worried,” Mrs. Alforde said serenely. “He came to see me this afternoon and we put our heads together.”

“The thing is, old girl,” Ingleby-Lewis began, patting Lydia’s arm, “one has to think of what’s right and proper, eh? A woman’s reputation is above rubies. Isn’t that what they say?”

Mrs. Alforde quelled him with a glance. “The point is, dear, the Captain’s very worried about your staying here. He feels quite rightly that it’s not a suitable neighborhood for a lady.”

“I’m not going back to Marcus,” Lydia said. “My solicitor will be contacting him on Monday about a divorce.”

Mrs. Alforde’s eyes widened. “You don’t let the grass grow under your feet. Neither Captain Ingleby-Lewis nor I are saying that you should go back to your husband, even though let’s not rule out the possibility that perhaps in the long run you yourself may feel-”

“If I’m sure of one thing,” Lydia interrupted, “it’s that I’m not going back to Marcus. Ever. I thought I’d made that clear. And why.”

She stared at Mrs. Alforde until the older woman looked away.

“Seems a nice enough chap to me,” her father said. “Mind you, I’m not married to him, so I suppose I can’t say.” He smiled approvingly at Lydia. “You must do as you please. I like a girl who paddles her own canoe.”

“William,” Mrs. Alforde said quietly but with unmistakable menace. “Would you mind if I finished, as we discussed?”

“Of course not. Mustn’t let my tongue run away with me, eh?”

“We are agreed that your living here is simply out of the question,” Mrs. Alforde went on, with a hint of regality attached to her choice of personal pronoun. “But we accept that you don’t want to go back to your husband. However, there is a simple solution. You must come and stay with Gerry and me while this tiresome legal business is sorted out. There’s a perfectly good spare bedroom at the flat. It would be so much more-more comfortable for you. It’s not as if we’re strangers. After all, Gerry is your godfather and a sort of cousin too so it’s quite suitable.”

“But I’m living with my father,” Lydia said. “Surely that’s even more suitable?”

Mrs. Alforde stared at Captain Ingleby-Lewis, who sat up sharply, as though she had prodded him with a stick.

“My dear Lydia, Hermione-Mrs. Alforde-is quite in the right of it, I’m afraid. Much as I like having you here, it’s not really ideal for either of us.” He ran his finger around his collar. “I’m sorry, my dear-it’s all agreed: you have to go.”

Lydia stood up.

“What are you doing?” Mrs. Alforde asked.

“I’m going out,” Lydia said. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”

24

NOW YOU KNOW what it was like for Philippa Penhow. Now you know the real price that had to be paid.

Wednesday, 23 April 1930 Shakespeare’s birthday. I was quite sure that today would be the day. Yet here I am, sitting on a fallen tree trunk on the footpath at the bottom of the meadow. Scribbling & crying & it’s raining. This morning I gave Joseph a skirt for alteration to take to Mrs. Renton when he was next in Town, so he’d think everything was normal. But then a telegram came for him & he went out, saying he wasn’t sure when he’d be back & leaving the skirt behind. Lunch was late, & Amy brought bread & cheese in though I had ordered lamb cutlets & I’m sure I smelled them grilling. Amy said the master had eaten them last night. I KNOW that’s a lie. After lunch she carried the mirror from the spare bedroom up the attic stairs. When I asked her what she thought she was doing, she said the master told her that she could take it. I know what she’s up to. She wants to try on the finery he’s given her & prance up & down in front of the mirror & admire herself. I felt so angry I didn’t need to be brave. I put on my hat & coat, put my purse into my pocket & set off without giving myself time to think. I marched down to the barn & collected this diary. I walked across the meadow (not caring about the mud) & set off on the footpath to Mavering. I know the path gets there eventually-I remember Rebecca talking about it. But it has begun to rain, one of those violent April showers. I’ve a nasty blister on my left foot. I am sheltering under a tree. I took out my purse to count my money. I know I had thirty shillings in notes, as well as some change. But the notes & the silver have gone. All that is left is a handful of coppers-certainly not enough for the rail fare. That wicked, wicked girl has pilfered my money. I shall have to…