It is easy, in the immense quiet that seems to have fallen in this room, to imagine the streets of Upton in wartime. A child playing, beloved, and then gone.

“Who came?”

“Her father. He was wounded at sea. He found Pamela with us and took her to his sister in Ireland.”

She says Ireland with great finality, as if it were some distant alien land, barred by mountains and violent seas.

“You didn’t keep in touch?”

She shakes her head. “This sister, who Pamela went to live with—she thought it best if we cut off all contact. Gave her a new start in life. And her father agreed. Even Selwyn could see why they did it. But nobody asked Pamela.”

“And nobody asked you.”

“I didn’t count. I really didn’t. Only Pamela mattered.”

I am silenced by this awesome cruelty.

“Yes, I know,” she says, catching my expression. “But things were different then. It was such a long time ago. I don’t suppose Matilda even remembered her name.”

I remember Matilda’s wonderings, her distant, wrinkled little eyes. Where’d she go, that child? What was she called?

“It’s ready!” Tom calls from next door.

I study my clasped hands, clear my throat.

“I would wager,” I say slowly, “that the people who care about you, William, and Althea, and Lucy, remember Pamela. I bet they haven’t forgotten a thing. Her looks, her games. Her favorite foods.”

“And her extremely annoying habits.” Ellen laughs loudly, her eyes suddenly wet. “You’re right. Of course they remember her.” She gazes at me. “I like hearing you say Pamela. That’s all I need, I realize. For people to say her—”

“Dad, for goodness’ sake,” calls Tom from the kitchen. “Come and let me feed your guest!”

SIXTEEN

All the rooms are equally awful,” Tom explains as we sit down to eat in the kitchen. “But this one is slightly warmer. Anyway, you’re dressed for the vicarage, Ellen.”

The range, bolstered up with coal, is doing its best. Ellen glances down at her warm dress. “Don’t worry, I’ve been here before.”

Tom smiles and takes the lid off the pot in the middle of the table, liberating a smell so delicious that I could be satisfied with it alone.

“Mr. Blakemore always held a tea party with carols to mark the beginning of Advent,” Ellen continues. “We all vied with each other to hand around the mince pies. Treading on each other’s feet, jabbing each other in the ribs. Lucy had the sharpest elbows, so she usually won.”

“Was it a great honor?” I ask.

Ellen shakes her head, highly amused. “It was so we could sneak a few into our pockets.” She turns to Tom. “This dish is lovely, Tom.”

Chunks of sausage are mixed in with the chickpeas. The result is delicious. “I think you’d better start sending me recipes,” I tell him.