“Shall we sit?” He gestured toward a set of well-worn upholstered chairs. “How is . . . your mother?”

She waited until they were settled, then said, “She died. Twenty-eight years ago.”

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “Though I suppose . . . I suppose it was quite a long time ago.” He narrowed his eyes, as if calculating something in his head. “I thought she left here around then, but maybe I’m mistaken. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

Ruby felt a prickle on the back of her neck. Was it possible that he didn’t know?

“Your accent is unusual,” he said. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

She smiled. All right, then, they would change the subject. “I’m from an island off the coast of mainland Australia—Tasmania, it’s called now. Settled by the British. My accent is a hotchpotch of dialects, I suppose, English and Irish and Scottish and Welsh. I didn’t realize how strange that was until I came to London.”

He laughed a little. “Yes, in this hemisphere we generally stick to our own kind. Do you live here now?”

“Only temporarily.”

A plump, gray-haired housemaid in a blue dress and white apron materialized in the doorway. “Afternoon tea, Mr. Whitstone?”

“That would be lovely, Agnes,” he said.

When the housemaid left, they talked about the weather for a few minutes—how it had been miserably wet until a week ago, but now it was all sunshine and daffodils, and wisteria, even. The summer would probably be hot, given what a long, cold winter they’d endured. Ruby had grown accustomed to this English style of throat-clearing, but still found it mystifying. In Tasmania, conversation tended to be more straightforward.

“When do you return to Australia?” he asked.

“The ship leaves Friday.”

“Pity. You’ll miss the roses. We’re rather known for them.”

“We have lovely roses too.”

Agnes reappeared, bearing a silver tray with a teapot and two bone china cups, a platter with slices of currant cake, and a small bowl of jam.

“This household is quite diminished,” Mr. Whitstone said as the housemaid poured the tea into the cups and went through the motions of parceling out cake. “It’s only the two of us now, isn’t it, Agnes?”

“We get on all right,” Agnes said. “But don’t forget Mrs. Grimsby. Ye don’t want me messing around in the kitchen.”

“No, we can’t forget Mrs. Grimsby. Though I’m not sure how much longer she’ll be with us. I found her putting the eggs in the post box the other morning.”

“She has got a bit barmy.”

“Well, I don’t really care what I eat. And we certainly don’t entertain like we used to. It’s quiet around here these days. Wouldn’t you agree, Agnes?”

She nodded. “Quiet as a fly on a feather duster.”

The two of them sat in silence for a moment after Agnes left. Ruby looked around the room at the gilt-faced grandfather clock in the corner, the faded brocade sofa, the filigreed bookshelves. To the right of their chairs was a curio chest filled with figurines: porcelain ladies in pastoral settings stepping over turnstiles, leaning against trees, swooning over pastel-painted flowers. “My stepmother’s collection,” he said, following her gaze.