The curtains had been drawn and a fire was burning in his sitting room. Soon, Hammond came in with a jug of water.

‘Will you be up late, sir?’

‘No, I will retire very soon.’

Hammond was tall and his face in the firelight seemed thinner now and softer. He moved towards the window and straightened the curtains, and then approached the fireplace to rake the fire in the grate.

‘I hope I am not disturbing you, sir, but this coal is most inferior,’ he said, almost whispering.

Henry was sitting in an armchair beside the fire.

‘No, please, go ahead,’ he said.

‘Would you like your book, sir?’

‘My book?’

‘The book you were reading earlier. I can fetch it for you, sir, it’s in the other room.’

Hammond ’s brown eyes rested on him, the expression friendly, almost humorous. He wore no beard or moustache. He stood still in the yellowish gaslight, at his ease, as though Henry’s failure to reply were something he had anticipated.

‘I don’t think I will read now,’ Henry said slowly. He smiled as he began to rise.

‘I feel I have disturbed you, sir.’

‘No, please, do not worry. It is time for bed.’

He handed Hammond a half-crown.

‘Oh thank you, sir, but it is not necessary.’

‘Please, I’d like you to take it,’ he said.

‘I’m grateful, sir.’

BY LUNCHEON the next day more guests had arrived to people the empty rooms and corridors of Lord and Lady Wolseley’s apartments. Soon, jolly noises and much laughter filled their quarters. The Wolseleys announced that they were to have their own ball, Lady Wolseley adding that those at the castle might benefit from a lesson in how a proper ball might be held so far away from home.

When fancy dress was mentioned, however, Henry demurred, stating that he was too old-fashioned to dress up. As he spoke to Lady Wolseley towards the end of the evening, she insisting that he dress in military costume, and he insisting that he would not, a young man, clearly one of the new arrivals, interrupted them. He was eager and confident and obviously a great favourite of Lady Wolseley.

‘Mr James,’ he said, ‘my wife wishes to go as Daisy Miller, perhaps you can help us design her costume.’

‘No one can be Daisy Miller,’ Lady Wolseley said, ‘the rule for the ladies is that we must be a Gainsborough, a Romney or a Sir Joshua. And I can tell you, Mr Webster, that I intend to outshine all.’

‘How strange,’ the man replied, ‘that is precisely what my wife said this morning. What an extraordinary coincidence!’

‘No one can be Daisy Miller, Mr Webster,’ Lady Wolseley said sternly, as though she were angry, ‘and please remember that my husband commands an army and bear in mind also that some of the old pensioners when roused can be very fierce.’

Later, Henry took Lady Wolseley aside.

‘And who, pray, is Mr Webster?’ he asked.

‘Oh he’s an MP. And Lord Wolseley says that he will go places if he can stop being so clever. He speaks a great deal in the House and Lord Wolseley says he must stop doing that too. His wife is very rich. Grain or flour, I think, or oats. Anyway, money. She has the money, and he has everything else you could want, except tact. And that is why I am so glad you are here. Perhaps you could teach him some of that.’

HAMMOND WAS Irish, although he spoke with a London accent, having been taken to England when he was a child. He seemed to like lingering over his tasks and talking as he cleaned. He apologized as he came and went. Henry made clear that he did not mind the interruptions.

‘I like the hospital, sir, and the old soldiers,’ he said. His voice was soft. ‘They’ve mostly been in the wars and some of them fight their wars all day, sir. They think the windows and doors are Turks and Zulus or whatever and want to charge at them. It’s funny here, sir. It’s half Ireland and half England, like myself. Maybe that’s why I feel at home.’

His presence remained easy and welcome. He was agile and light on his feet, despite his height. His eyes were never cast down, they looked ahead in a way which made their owner equal to what he saw, instantly taking everything in, understanding everything. He seemed to make calm judgements as he moved about.

‘Her ladyship told me I should read one of your books, sir. She said they were very good. I would like to read one of them, sir.’

Henry told Hammond that he would send him a book when he returned to London. He would send it to the Royal Hospital.

‘To Tom Hammond, sir, Corporal Tom Hammond.’

Each time Henry returned to his chambers from a meal or a walk in the grounds, Hammond would find a reason to visit. The reasons were always good. He never idled or made unnecessary noise, but slowly, as the days went on, he became more relaxed, spent time standing by the window talking and asking questions and listening carefully.

‘And you came from America to England, sir. Most people do it the other way. Do you like London, sir? You must like it.’

Henry nodded and said that he did like London, but tried to explain that sometimes it was difficult to work there, too many invitations and distractions.

At meals, amid all the talk and laughter and effort to amuse, Henry longed for the moment when Hammond first came into the room. That was the moment he waited for, the moment which filled his thoughts as he sat through dinner, Lady Wolseley and Mr Webster competing with each other in conversation. He thought of Hammond standing against the window of the sitting room listening. Once back in his chambers, however, after a few questions from Hammond, or after he had tried to explain something to him, he longed for silence again, for Hammond to leave him now.

He knew that everything he had done in his life, indeed everything he had written, his family background and his years in London, would seem impossibly strange to Hammond. Yet despite this, there were times when Hammond was in his chambers when he felt close to him, felt uplifted somehow by the talk between them. But then Hammond would begin to speak about his own life, or his hopes, or his views on the world, and a vast distance would appear between them, made all the greater because Hammond did not recognize it as he chattered on, honest and unselfconscious, and – Henry had to admit this – quietly tedious.

‘IF THERE WERE a war between Great Britain and the United States, Mr James, where would your loyalty lie?’ Webster asked him during a lull in the conversation after dinner.

‘My loyalty would lie in making peace between them.’

‘And what if that should fail?’ Webster asked.

‘I happen to know the answer,’ Lady Wolseley interrupted. ‘Mr James would find out which side France was on and he would join that side.’

‘But in Mr James’s story about Agatha Grice, his American loathes England and he has the most horrible things to say about us.’ Webster spoke loudly so that the entire table now paid attention. ‘I think he has a case to answer,’ Webster continued.

Henry looked across the table at Webster whose cheeks were reddened by the heat of the room, and whose eyes were bright with excitement at holding the table like this, managing the conversation.

‘Mr Webster,’ Henry said quietly when he was sure that the young man had finally finished, ‘I witnessed a war and I saw the injuries and the damage done. My own brother came close to death in the American Civil War. His injuries were unspeakable. I do not, Mr Webster, speak lightly of war.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Lord Wolseley said. ‘Well spoken!’

‘I merely asked Mr James a simple question,’ Webster said.

‘And he provided you with a very simple answer which you seem to have trouble comprehending,’ Lord Wolseley said.

AS LORD AND Lady Wolseley made preparations for their ball, consulting their guests about arrangements and details, and spending a good deal of time supervising decorations in the Great Hall, more friends began to arrive, including a woman whom Henry had met several times at Lady Wolseley’s. Her name was Gaynor, and her late husband had held some important rank in the army. She appeared with her daughter Mona, aged ten or eleven, and Mona, as the only child among them, became much admired and discussed because of her shy beauty and natural manners. She moved with poise and managed to seem happy not to speak much or make any demands, merely to be charmingly present.