An office at the top of the house was convenient. Men calling on business could use a door from the alley that ran at the level of the upper storeys and so enter the office without disturbing Lucy and the children. William was at his desk, coatless, a pair of false sleeves tied by his elbows to guard against ruining a good shirt with ink. There was a map of the coast on the wall beside him, and next to it a lithographic portrait of John Wesley, preacher’s bands around his neck, one hand raised in a gesture of blessing or witness.

“The Jenny will not leave early,” said William. “They are taking on their cargo this morning, though you should make yourself known to the master.”

“Browne?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask what you have told him about me?” asked Lacroix.

“Only that you are family, and that you wish to travel to Glasgow.”

“You said perhaps I was on business.”

“He did not ask. I did not say. He is not an intrusive man. Nor will he overcharge you. You can have confidence in him.”

Lacroix was thanking him and might have tried to find out more about the Jenny, about Browne, the journey north, but there was a rap at the office door and a moment later a man came in, pulling aside the curtain that hung in front of the door. He had papers tied in ribbon under his arm. First caller of the day. Business to be done.

In the hall downstairs he took his leave of his sister. She did not cry but he thought she would do when he had gone.

“Find some beautiful songs,” she said. “Then come and play them to us.”

“I will,” he said.

“Do you have warm clothes with you? It is always cold at sea. Though of course you know that already.”

He embraced her. The children gazed up at him like the envoys of another world. He touched their hair again. He wasn’t sure if they would let him kiss them. He thought it might be wiser not to try.

Outside, descending the steps with his bags, he felt freer. Whatever was to become of him, whatever it was he would not be able to outpace, whatever form that took, he did not want it to happen in the presence of Lucy or the children. Better to be around strangers. Better, infinitely, to be around men. Men who did not know him, who would be—must be—indifferent to him. If he had to fall—and this was how he dimly imagined it, a sudden, passionate floundering through air—they would let him do so, they would not interfere . . .