“It’s true,” said Mr. Brooks. “My wife has learned to drive and I have not. Feel free to be amused—most of our friends are—but it is an arrangement that suits us quite well.” He looked at Sarah. “I do not fit easily behind the steering wheel, do I, dear?”

“You do not fit easily anywhere, Philip,” Sarah said, laughing. “And the motorcar was not made for my stature either, but how I love it.”

Another pot of tea was drained, and barely a crumb of cake remained on the plate when Sarah insisted it was time to go.

“I must deliver these gentlemen to their homes before dark,” she said.

We all rose. But as each gentleman bade Beth farewell, she’d engage him in some small aside. After ten minutes Sarah was forced to clap her hands like a schoolmistress to get them to follow her out the door.

The sisters enjoyed hosting afternoon teas, and over the next month I became acquainted with more people than I had in all my years at the Scriptorium. Mr. Shaw-Smith was never seen again, but Professor Chisholm was a frequent caller.

“He magically appears on our doorstep whenever Mrs. Travis bakes her Madeira,” whispered Beth one day. “It’s extraordinary, really.”

Philip Brooks joined him once, and on another occasion Philip and Sarah came alone. Mrs. Brooks was quite plain to look at, and when she spoke she was often blunt. I suspected her intellect paled against those of the sisters, but she had a way of saying things that somehow highlighted the truth. She reminded me of Tilda.

When my belly became too difficult to hide, I began organising outings to coincide with afternoon teas. At first it was to Victoria Park or the Baths, and when it rained I would shelter in the Abbey and listen to the choirboys practising. But Ditte soon put a stop to this.

“You have an historian’s aptitude for investigation, Esme,” she said one evening over dinner. “Rather than having you wander aimlessly around Victoria Park tomorrow, I’d like you to visit the archives at Guildhall.”

“Edith, don’t forget the ring,” said Beth, taking another slice of beef and drowning it in gravy.

Ditte took off the gold band that she wore on her little finger and gave it to me. I knew what it was meant to do, so I slipped it on. The fit was perfect.

“I’ve never been able to wear it on that finger,” said Ditte.

“You’ve never wanted to,” said Beth. “But it suits Esme.”

The next time the sisters had visitors I was in London, searching the archives of the British Museum and spending a few days with Da. The time after that I was in Cambridge, staying with a sympathetic friend of Beth’s who never once enquired after my husband.