We fell silent again. Apart from the glimmers from little flames here and there, it was completely dark. Célia lay dead to the world, her head heavy on my legs. I stroked her hair, picturing her ascending the marbled staircase of matrimony, the heavy hem of her dress following her, an ebbing silken tide, through soundlessly closing double doors into an unseen chamber where Mademoiselle would become Madame. She had remained utterly innocent of the act in question, a pretty impressive feat in a girls’ school. Anyone who thinks it’s men who are preoccupied with sex should eavesdrop on the private conversations of any random group of well-brought-up young women. Their facts might not always be quite straight, but their interest is unparalleled. Célia, however, would place her hand, palm outward, in front of her averted face, saying, Please, I prefer not to know. When the time comes, I will pray to Sainte Julienne de Norwich. Although it caused her friends at the English Girls’ College to yelp like seals at feeding time, this remark moved me. Tout finira bien, Sainte Julienne had famously said. Everything will be all right in the end.

“James, do you know Sainte Julienne de Norwich?”

“Saint Julian of Norwich? Yes, I think so.” He pronounced it Norritch. “Didn’t she say, All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well . . . Why do you ask?”

“Célia.” I spoke automatically. “She’s not remotely prepared.”

“There’ll be plenty of time. The wedding’s not until three. And we’ll be out of here before dawn, I bet you.”

“Yes, of course. Of course.” In the darkness I blushed and blushed.

A soft, awkward silence. Filled, very slowly, by his understanding. Expressed by a small intake of breath. I was terribly embarrassed.

“Yvette, don’t worry.” He touched my elbow. “Peter’s not an idiot. He’ll look after her.”

I remember the gentle cup of his palm against my bare skin. When he took his hand away I still felt it.

THREE

A tall, tanned stranger is lying asleep on a bench outside the entrance to Southampton railway station. His head is pillowed on one arm, and both feet are stuck out over the end of the seat. His shirt is threadbare, his jeans ragged. He’s got his mother’s hair—dark brown curls, now almost shoulder-length. Thank goodness he’s sleeping, because I’m suddenly blinking my wet eyes like an old fool.

“Am I late?” I ask a few moments later, after rousing him with a touch on the shoulder.

Tom stands up, smiling. “I hitched. Been here since eight.” He envelops me in a bear hug.

“You look like John the Baptist,” I tell him when he releases me.