A sharp-looking woman with angry red cheeks and a drab hat was striding toward the trains, dragging her tiny daughter by the hand, proceeding at such a pace that the child was all but lifted off the ground. The little girl, who couldn’t have been more than four or five, clutched at her rag doll and whimpered as she struggled to keep up. The child, out of breath, was falling behind, and the mother yanked her arm, making her drop the doll. The girl let out a squeal and a sob, lunging but failing to grab the doll as she was carried onward. Genevieve hurried to retrieve it for her but was elbowed in the stomach by an old woman with an umbrella. The old lady began to complain loudly and breathily, and when Genevieve disentangled herself and looked up, the child and her mother had vanished. For a second, she thought she heard cries in the distance, but it was impossible to distinguish them clearly from the general hubbub. The abandoned doll had wool hair, a grubby white face, and expressionless blue felt eyes. Genevieve sat it on a bench.

At a station bar, she drank a small black coffee, savoring every tiny pungent sip and reflecting that this was the last good cup she’d have for some time to come.

Back to England then. But not the England she’d left behind, she reminded herself—not the England of hushed whispers, rattling teacups, mildew and disapproval. No, they were headed for London. The theaters, the department stores, the grandeur…You could escape disapproval in London. You could merge with the crowd, you could lose yourself….

Not that they would be losing themselves, of course. It was vital that Paolo rose rapidly to prominence. After a week or two in a hotel (she fancied the Connaught), they’d find the right business premises—Bond Street, possibly—and a smart flat, perhaps one of those lovely white Georgian buildings in Kensington, with large windows and balconies and a view over Hyde Park. Yes, that would be most acceptable. Her smile snagged slightly at a creeping worry about how they’d pay for all this. They hadn’t exactly taken the time to consider that small issue…but surely Zachari must have pots of money. He certainly didn’t fritter his earnings away on the art of living. Anyway, they only needed enough to get a good start. Once he was designing again, with her at his side, their shared future would be assured.

She imagined Robert reading her note. He’d be out of his mind. Perhaps he’d go to the shoe room, start pulling boxes down and hurling the shoes about. He might hack at them with knives and scissors or heap them up into a pile and set fire to them!

A shudder.