They had met at a dinner party. He had been afraid that she saw into his mind, her eyes seeming to read his thoughts. It was his own fear, he realized later. But she had a way of understanding people that was unexpected in one so young. And he had been drawn to her against his will.

Their coffee came. Rutledge waited until the young man serving them was out of earshot. Then he said as she passed the sugar bowl to him, “Why did you stay?”

He’d intended to keep his voice level, but it had taken an effort to achieve that. Hamish had set up a deafening roar in his head from the moment he’d recognized her motorcar.

She was playing with the silver spoon in her fingers, paying excessive attention to it, twisting it so that it caught the light and then went dark. Bright again in the lamplight. Dark again. He watched it too, thinking that it was very like their relationship, fragmented by too many shadows.

“Ian,” she said finally, not looking at him. It was a warning not to open that door.

He drank a little of his coffee. It was bitter in his mouth. “I’ve been in Sussex,” he went on. “Do you know Hastings? The water there is worth seeing.” He swore to himself. It was hardly an exciting conversational opening, but it was the best he could do in the circumstances.

“Is it? No, I’ve never been there.” After a moment, as if she too was struggling to find common ground, she added, “I’ve always liked the sea. But I’ve never been fond of sea bathing. I’m content to sit and watch the tides.”

He searched for something else to say. “How is your shoulder?” It had been dislocated a few weeks earlier when a train traveling north to Scotland had derailed on a curve, killing or injuring more than a score of passengers. He had been among the first on the harrowing scene.

“Quite well, actually. I thought at first—but the doctors were very good. And I stayed with friends in order to be near their surgery. I quite fell in love with Dr. Anderson. He must be sixty-five, at the very least. He has a way with patients. I wished many times that he’d been with us out in France. I trusted him, and did the exercises he prescribed to please him. But I missed London. I always come back here.” Her voice changed on the last words.

Rutledge took a deep breath, toying with his cup, shutting out Hamish’s warning. “Do you know what shell shock is?” he asked.

She met his gaze. “I’ve seen it,” she answered. Warily, he thought.

He couldn’t go on after all. He couldn’t tell her. He finished lamely, “My sister knows a doctor who treats it in much the same way. By gaining the trust of his patients.”