“I’m honored, Lady . . . ?”

Alys did not volunteer the lady’s name, nor did she mention his. She stood, awkward and angry, looking at them both, as if she could deny the courtesy of an introduction and ensure that they would never meet.

“I am Sir James Avery, of Northside Manor, Northallerton in Yorkshire,” James bowed over the lady’s hand.

“Nobildonna da Ricci,” she replied. And then she turned to Alys. “That is how you say it? Da Ricci? I am right?”

“I suppose so,” Alys said. “But you must be very tired.” She glanced out of the window. “The carriage?”

“Ah, it is rented. They will unload my trunks, if you would pay them?”

Alys looked horrified. “I don’t know if I have—”

“Please allow me,” Sir James interrupted smoothly. “As a friend of the family.”

“I shall pay them!” Alys insisted. “I can find it.” She turned to the widow, who had followed every word of this exchange. “You’ll want to rest. Let me show you upstairs and I’ll get some tea.”

“Allora! It is always tea with the English!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “But I am not tired, and I don’t want tea. And I am afraid I am interrupting you. Were you here on business, Sir James? Please stay! Please continue!”

“You are not interrupting, and he is going,” Alys said firmly.

“I will come back tomorrow, when you have had time to think,” Sir James said quickly. He turned to the lady: “Is Robert with you, Lady da Ricci? I should so like to see him again. He was my pupil and . . .”

The shocked look on both their faces told him that he had said something terrible. Alys shook her head as if she wished she had not heard the words and something in her face told James that the ostentatious mourning wear of the Italian lady was for Rob, little Rob Reekie who twenty-one years ago had been a brilliant boy of twelve and now was gone.

The widow’s mouth quivered; she dropped into a seat and covered her face with her black-mittened hands.

“I am so sorry, so sorry.” He was horrified at his blunder. He bowed to the lady. He turned to Alys. “I am sorry for your loss. I had no idea. If you had told me, I would not have been so clumsy. I am so sorry, Alys, Mrs. Stoney.”

She held the baby, the fatherless boy in her arms. “Why should I tell you anything?” she demanded fiercely. “Just go! And don’t come back.”

But the lady, with her face hidden, blindly stretched out her hand to him, as if for comfort. He could not help but take the warm hand in the tight black lace mitten.

“But he spoke of you!” she whispered. “I remember now. I know who you are. You were his tutor and he said you taught him Latin and were patient with him when he was just a little boy. He was grateful to you for that. He told me so.”