“We met at Redwood House, didn’t we?” I take her hand. “How nice to see you.”

“Yes,” she replies, in the emphatic tone I remember. Her single expressive word.

“Hello, Vicar,” says the man who was speaking to William. “You know Mum from Redwood! My name’s Philip. Philip Moore.”

Philip and I shake hands. He’s a tall, rangy, freckled sort of man, somewhere in his forties. “How do you do.” I turn to his mother. “Nice to meet you properly, Mrs. Moore.”

“Yes.” One side of her mouth twitches into a smile.

“Philip’s a painter,” says Althea Brock. “He does the most marvelous portraits. He’s painted William, you know.”

“Mr. Kennet, I can see you would be a great subject.”

“It’s hanging in the lodge.” William nods, serious-faced. “Safe with Lady B. I can’t have it with me at Upton Hall. I couldn’t tolerate myself looking down at me. Especially in the evenings.” He looks at Philip. “No offense, Philip. It’s a fine quality painting.”

“None taken, Mr. Kennet,” Philip says. “I can’t look at my own self-portraits, either. Have to turn them to the wall!”

“I’m not surprised,” murmurs Althea. “Your work is, how shall I put it, very searching.”

Philip gives me an engaging grin. “What Althea means is, I’m a bit too realistic.”

I steal a glance toward the house. Mrs. Dennis is still speaking to Ellen. “Time for me to stagger inside,” says Althea. “William, could you possibly?”

He gives her his arm and they set off toward the house. Ellen meets them halfway across the lawn. William transfers Althea to Ellen’s care. Ellen looks toward me, waves, and mouths Thank you.

Wait! I nearly call out. But maybe it’s better like this. I could listen to her and look at her all day long, but I have absolutely no reason to assume she feels the same. So I wave back and smile.

Philip is bending over his mother, releasing the brake of the wheelchair. Something about the back of his head and shoulder strikes me. He was the man in the doorway of Redwood House, the day before the flood. I remember his figure silhouetted, the rain glistening on his coat.

“I believe I saw you, Philip, at the nursing home, about a month ago. You were on your way in, and I passed you.”

“Oh—well, I’m there every day.” He doesn’t remember me, not that I expect him to. “Sometimes twice. Depending where I am in a commission.” He smiles again—a natural smiler, I think. “I saw you talking to Ellen Parr. Do you know, I’ve been away for twenty years, but she’s hardly changed. Well, obviously she looks a little older. But I’m glad to see that widowhood hasn’t brought her down.”

“No,” I say. “She looks very . . . unbowed.”