“That’s a long trip. That’s going to be hard on—” She stopped, her face a little stricken.

Taking a moment to gather herself, she began again.

“Is his mother going to join you there?”

“Haven’t a notion where his mother is.”

“How careless of you. But then you’ve always been a little—” She flushed, seemed suddenly furious at herself, as if she had spent years composing and memorizing lines for this brief scene, which she was now massacring. She glanced at the boy, who was chewing on his hand. Then she frowned, noticing something: a constellation of dark spots on the rug beneath him.

“Oh, oh, oh!” she shouted and jumped to her feet. Gerard flinched, as if she might strike him. She picked the boy up by his waist. Brown streams braided his bare legs.

“Haig!” she shouted.

Haig, who must have been listening at the top of the stairs, thundered down.

“Take this. Put it in the bath.”

Haig received the boy gingerly, holding him at arm’s length, and ran out.

“What kind of man are you?” she screamed at Gerard.

Hurrying out, she returned a few minutes later with a bucket of soapy water and a cloth. As she got on her knees, though, something seemed to occur to her. Looking furiously up at Gerard, who had sat on the couch again, she flung the wet cloth into his lap.

“He’s your son. You clean it up!”

Helplessly, Gerard examined the cloth until Brenna, with a strangled squeal, snatched it back and began to scrub frantically at the rug.

The house’s front door opened and a girl’s voice called thanks to someone in the street. A clatter followed as she ran upstairs. A few seconds later, the sound of her sprinting down.

“Celia,” Gerard exclaimed warmly, standing as a girl in a gray and maroon school uniform entered.

“Ce-cilia,” she corrected, staring at him with unabashed curiosity and delight. She was as petite as her mother, her mousy hair tied back in a ponytail, but had a Travers face, blunter and more candid. Indeed, she resembled Gerard—strikingly so.

“Mummy, what are you doing?”

Brenna just continued to scrub furiously.

“We’ve had a bit of a spill, I’m afraid,” Gerard explained.

“You’re my bad uncle.”

“Suppose I am.”

“Is that boy upstairs yours?”

“Yes.”

“Did you adopt him?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Stepping closer, she took his hand. “Can I show Uncle Gerard my sea-glass collection, Mummy?”

Still Brenna didn’t respond. Cecilia threw Gerard an amused glance, which he returned, complicit, as she led him out of the room, the two of them stepping carefully around her mother.

LONDON
1949

RAJIV, A RANGY SEVEN-YEAR-OLD, JUST RETURNED from school, entered the sitting room and pulled up with a guilty look as he saw Brenna, who was on the phone.

“I am most dreadfully sorry,” she was saying. “I can’t imagine how this happened. I can only think that the bank made a mistake or that my husband somehow forgot to transfer the funds…. I quite understand, Mr. Osgood…. Yes, you will be paid tomorrow morning. First thing. Thank you.”