Mama caught me staring at my tree, and gave me the eye. But when she turned to attend to James and give instructions to the cook, I reached down to stroke Betsy’s head, feel her brindle fur through my fingers. It was then that Eliza swept past to press a letter into my lap. I thrilled at seeing my own name in Jane Arden’s fine curling hand, and half turned my body to gently break its seal. Just as I did, the door opened and slammed shut, signaling that Father’s workday was done, such as it was. He fancied himself a “gentleman farmer,” though his true penchant was for failing at it. (He spent what money we had to hire others to do the work, then barked orders at them.) My life to that point had been an ever-shrinking circumference he drew for us, dragging us from Spitalfields to Epping Forest to Barking to Walkington—whatever his diminishing inheritance would allow—to get far away from his own father and the silk weavers of London’s Primrose Street. He was ever in search of a living off the land, or at least a place we might pretend to be a small, genteel family (we were neither small nor genteel). Someplace near a pub and a racecourse suited him best. He sought erasure of his past in each new place, but who he was went with him everywhere. And we went with him, a household ever in thrall to his whims and deficits. Suffering for his mistakes.

Betsy lifted her head, alert to his presence. We were all alert to him, but it was better not to look, not to draw his attention. There was no pretending he wasn’t drunk already. Henry hummed in the corner, tracing raindrops on the window with his finger.

“What’re you singing about, Henry?” But he just kept on humming.

A worn-out Betsy, ever the optimist, lumbered to standing and went to greet Papa. When he slapped his chest, inviting her paws, and rubbed her head and ears, our cottage sighed and let down its guard.

“Ah, pup, how was your day? What a good dog, a good dog, yup.”

Mama appeared from the kitchen to gauge Papa’s mood. “Give us a hug, why don’t you, then?” he said, walking toward her. She shook her head with a wilted smile and let him pull her to his unbuttoned waistcoat.

When he trained his eyes on me, I looked into the fire, my letter tucked safely between my dress and the seat of the chair. “What’s Mary done now?” he asked, still in a good-enough mood.

“She stole my spiders!” said Ned, standing from his seat with that pouty face.

“I know where the spiders are,” said Henry, half singing it.

“What’s this about spiders?” Papa looked to me for an answer.

“She’s not to say a word, not one word, for one hour more,” said Mama.