About an hour before dawn, Philip nudged her awake. He was a military man, so he always sensed the approach of sunrise, and Iris slept deeply because she trusted him to know exactly when to wake her.

By now, four weeks into the affair, they had established a comfortable habit. Philip would kiss her forehead and say something like Rise and shine, my beauty—to which Iris just snuggled a little deeper. So he’d tickle her and she’d laugh and roll on his chest and press some kisses on his face. The room would be dark still—his face just shadow. She would kiss them all, shadow eyes and shadow nose and shadow chin—precious shadow scars—kiss lower—he’d sigh and take hold of her hips—well. Afterward, they had time enough to lie for a few decadent minutes, skin against skin, stunned and panting, before Iris would crawl from his arms and out of the stately bed, across the worn rug to the bathroom—gather her clothes—steal downstairs hand in hand so Philip could walk her back to Honeysuckle Cottage while the first green streaks colored the eastern sky.

SOMETIMES, AS THEY WALKED back to the cottage, Iris thought about the reverse—the night she had first walked to Highcliffe from Honeysuckle Cottage, the courage it had required of her. The strangeness of walking to a man’s house with the fixed intention of committing adultery with him. In the end, it was easy. Philip had made it seem perfectly natural to climb the stairs to his grand-shabby bedroom, hand in hand—almost ordained. But there was more to their affair than bed. Philip came down to the cottage every day. He led the children to the stables where they took turns riding the three ponies. They had picnics and walks by the sea, sometimes swimming when the sun was warm enough. Just yesterday they’d all gone sailing in Philip’s schooner—a glorious sun-filled afternoon—even Aunt Vivian laughed her head off. Philip had pointed out all the battleships and the French coast in the distance, had shown the children how to make proper knots, had caught a few fish that Mrs. Betts fried for dinner. When Iris had tucked the boys into bed, sunburned and exhausted, Jack looked at her earnestly and asked if Mr. Beauchamp could please stay with them in Honeysuckle Cottage instead of his big lonely house with all the empty rooms.

Iris had reported this to Philip last night, as their fingers tangled in the lazy aftermath of intercourse. Philip reflected for a moment or two and said that it was a logical question, and Jack was plainly a bright and sensible lad.