The cook, Mrs Flynn, opened the door to him. She had a pinched look about her, as though she had leaned too close to the stove and her face had become flushed from the flames. But as she habitually spent her time in the kitchen and he was very rarely in her presence, he presumed this to be her natural state.

‘Oh, sir!’ she said, and again he assumed this to be a natural thing she might utter. At any rate her hand went to her mouth and she stood back to let him enter, offering no further utterance. She seemed dismayed by his umbrella, by his dripping coat.

‘Mrs Dunlevy is here?’ he asked her.

‘Yes, sir. Upstairs, sir. In her room.’

Mrs Flynn had a way of opening her mouth as though intending to say one thing and then saying quite another thing altogether.

He left her contemplating his bags in the hallway and wondered where the maid was and what the implications were for lunch if the cook was playing at housemaid today.

Or had he missed lunch?

He went to the drawing room and sat down heavily on the first chair he reached and put his head in his hands. He had thought he was done with maids and lunches and cooks, with everything connected to this life. He had given it up; though his sacrifice, in the end, had come to nothing. Had been thrown back in his face. But to have come to that decision, to have reached that place, and now to find oneself exactly back in the spot one thought one had left forever was—

Beyond anything.

To lose her was—

But there was nothing, he realised, to compare it to.

After a time he lowered his hands from his face and sat calmly. And he did feel calm. For there was the present to deal with. There was Eleanor upstairs in her room and he would explain things to her. Explain some things, at least. Not all.

But he sat calmly and did not move.

The door opened and Eleanor came in.

Alasdair turned and looked up at her with his new calmness. He did not smile or offer a greeting but he did look up, he was calm. And now, at any rate, he could explain things to her.

But it was she who spoke first, and he remembered thinking afterwards that Eleanor did not once ask the reason for his early arrival home. But it was possible he had never shared his schedule with her or given her a date for his expected return. Yes, very likely that was it. Possibly it was no concern to her when her husband returned or even if he did. That was likely too.

But Eleanor spoke: ‘You are leaving then?’ she said.

And he saw that his explanation to her was going to be no easy thing.

‘No,’ he said.