“It’s only natural that you’d have such a response,” Dr. Garrett said. “You were a child taken from her mother.” She patted Ruby’s hand. “Your understanding of what it’s like to feel abandoned is yet another reason we need qualified doctors like you, Miss Dunne, working with vulnerable populations in far-flung places like Australia.”

Now Ruby was scheduled to return to Tasmania two days hence. Before she departed, there was one thing left to do. Here she was, in front of the house of the man whose monogrammed handkerchief had made its way to Australia twenty-eight years earlier. She’d walked through the neighborhood half a dozen times in the past few months, trying to summon the courage to seek him out.

The creamy white paint of the residence was patchy in spots and peeling from the eaves. Its vermillion front door was chipped; the hedges on either side of the front gate were pocked with brown. Weeds sprung from between the bricks of the walkway.

Ruby pushed the bell and heard it warble inside the house.

After an uncomfortable delay, the door opened, and a man winced into the light. “Yes? Can I help you?”

It was too late to turn around. “Does a Mr. Whitstone reside here, by chance?”

“I am Mr. Whitstone.”

The man appeared to be in his early fifties. His hair was graying around the temples. He was thin, with pronounced cheekbones and slightly sunken brown eyes. It struck Ruby that he had probably been handsome once, though now he was somewhat frail, the skin on his face like a peach past its prime.

And then, as if observing an object under a microscope come into focus, she noticed his resemblance to her. The same wavy brown hair and eyes and narrow build. The shape of the lips. Even an unconscious gesture, a certain tilt of the chin.

“I am”—she put a hand to her chest—“Ruby Dunne. You don’t know me, but . . .” She reached into her purse and extracted the handkerchief. She held it out and he took it from her, examining it closely. “I believe you knew my . . .” She swallowed. She had imagined this moment many times in the past year. Contemplated every possible scenario: He might shut the door in her face or deny ever having known Evangeline. Or perhaps he’d died or moved away. “The woman who gave birth to me. Evangeline Stokes.”

Ruby felt him inhale at the mention of the name. “Evangeline.” He looked up. “I remember her, of course. She was briefly governess to my half siblings. I’ve long wondered what became of her.” He paused, his hand on the knob. Then he held the door open. “Would you like to come in?”

The house was gloomy after the afternoon brightness of the street. Mr. Whitstone hung Ruby’s cloak in the foyer and led her into a parlor room with lace curtains in the windows. It smelled musty, as if the windows hadn’t been opened in a long time.