She’d wanted to holler out an animal pain all the way there, but had kept her head down instead. In the stillness of the gallery it was harder to be quiet. She wanted to cry out and shout, she wanted to scream, but that would get her called mad too, and she’d never see him again. She was expected to behave reasonably and decently when her child had been ripped from her, as if any person who could stay calm should parent at all. To love and be still. Impossible.

Pat stared at the painting. “I love its eye. So wild. I’ve always thought Stubbs must have had a rather Catherine the Great sort of fancy.”

“How vulgar,” said Joan.

“I’m designed to think badly of everyone. You know that. It has the added benefits of leading one to a place of few disappointments.”

“You don’t think badly of me.”

Between them, hidden under their furs, Pat touched her hand to the small of Joan’s back. The gallery was quiet, there were few others there. A gentleman with two ladies following him, guide books in hand, stood before a Millais; a guard was seated by the wall; a couple, arm in arm, walked swiftly past into the next room.

“We could just go and get him,” said Joan.

“Of course we could,” said Pat.

“You know I’m not given to hysteria, but when this is over I’m going to tear her head off. When he’s home again.”

“He’ll come home again.”

“I can’t bear the thought of where he is.”

“Don’t think about it. Imagine it’s a game of Patience. You’re good at that. We hold the whole deck. She has nothing.”

“What about us?” She could feel Pat’s thumb tracing circles over her spine.

“She has no evidence.”

“Half of London knows.”

“The half that will be with us. No one will speak for her.”

Two men walked past, their hands clasped behind their backs.

“Let’s stay home tonight.”

“I promised Otty I’d partner her at bridge. We won such a lot last time.”

“I think I’ll stay home,” said Joan.

They left without taking tea. In the car, Pat said, “Drop me on Piccadilly, would you? I’ve shopping.” Outside Fortnum & Mason, Pat got out. As the Rolls pulled away, leaving Pat on the pavement, Joan was tempted to tell her driver to go to Evelyn Gardens anyway. Why hadn’t she gone straight there last night and grabbed him? Pat had talked her out of it; they couldn’t all appear unhinged. But Joan felt unhinged. The gate to her composure swung wildly from hatred to revenge. The former made her want to burn her sister’s house down; the latter, to see this through to its end, to punish her slowly, in inches, like death.