Well, what could she say to that? She pinched her mouth shut. I saw her throwing glances towards the door. Oh, she was anxious. He was right: she might have been happy to see him, but she was not happy to see him there. Two of her coils slipped their pins, running into little dark pools that hid her face. He grinned, and shrugged his shoulders, eyeing the mantel again and looking as if he would bite it. I saw nothing there to catch his interest, save for a spray of lilies in a vase that Linux had made up that morning, and wondered if he was staring at it simply not to stare at her. He had just crossed to the window bench and she was reaching up to tidy her hair when Benham walked in. The silence that unfurled then seemed a solid thing. Went up like a sail. She struck up some stream of nervous chatter but Benham shushed her, looking for all the world as if Laddie simply wasn’t there. He just looked around at each of them, and nodded. Though when he sat and swapped words with Hep Elliot, I heard his voice straining behind its leash of teeth.

Later, I went down to the empty parlour and sat on the window-bench to finish up the bit of white-work she wanted to lay on her mantel. It was in a spider’s web pattern, and difficult, with that laudanum-quiver in my hands. All that thread, and having to prick white violets onto white cotton. But she’d wanted violets, and I wanted her happy. She’d said Laddie had caught her by surprise, that afternoon; she was worried Benham might object. I pointed out that she’d been the one to write him, and seemed to be forever changing her mind.

After a time, I heard her and Benham in the hallway, him saying the boy was not welcome, her saying surely opening their doors to him was the best way to pour water on the rumours, then asking would he come inside and sit with her awhile. Trying to appease him, I thought. When they came together into the room, I looked down again, hoping to stay invisible, and kept on pulling the ant-bite stitches through the cloth. The drawn curtains sieved out some of the heat, left the room dark enough for them to want candles lit, which Pru came in and did for them. When she’d finished, Benham asked would she fetch him a plate of Linux’s almond cake, and then he sat sucking marzipan from his fork. His shoulders sloped like hillsides. For a time, it was quiet, but she sidled looks at him, the way you come at a bad dog sideways. She turned a page of her magazine and reached for a sip of brandy. I had a thirst for it too, but no one had offered me any.

Benham raised his head. ‘I see you are indulging again, wife?’

‘I am bored again, husband,’ she replied, thudding down her glass. I pricked the needle in and out through the fabric, drew in a breath. When I looked up from my stitching I came face to face with the painted, dying horses, their eyes bone-white and wide, their chests heavy as anvils. I wanted to pull aside the drapes, to the Devil with the hot air. I wanted him to leave, so I could have her to myself once again.