“It is not so old for a fiddle, Lucy. I think Father bought it new in seventy-something. A maker in Salisbury.”

“And you studied,” said William. “Was it in Bath?”

“Banks,” said Lacroix, thinking he had been asked the name of the maker. “Benjamin Banks.”

“John studied in Wells,” said Lucy. “He was several years at it. He played beautifully and I am sure he still could.”

“I never played beautifully.”

“I would say it was so,” she insisted. “And I had a thousand times rather see you with a fiddle in your hands than a sword, John. A thousand times.” She too had her views on the war. She flushed a little as she spoke. The children looked up at her.

William Swann put a piece of beef into his mouth, laid down his knife and fork. He had noticed that his brother-in-law was not entirely clean. His hair. His neck. “But won’t the army miss you?” he asked. “Does your regiment not want you back?”

“In time,” said Lacroix. “When I am fully strong again.”

He was given his usual room at the top of the house, the same floor as William’s office. The room was small but had a good view over the quay and the water. Bristol looked better at night. A rich scatter of lights, some of them on ships. And at night you could not see the kilns and furnace chimneys that all day poured their filth into the air.