Rutledge finished the lines silently. “ ‘. . . I know secret places / Where toads rest, / And a child sits, / Mourning the passing / Of butterflies . . .’ ” O. A. Manning had written those in a poem called “My Brother.” He knew it well.

Oddly enough, he understood what this woman was trying to say. That this barren little stream here in the marshes, gone astray and all that was left of the once-broad harbor, was neither familiar nor safe. As she, too, had managed to wander from the comfort and safety of a life she had once lived. But with no offer of surety that either would find a way back again, the stream or her world.

There was no answer he could make to that. He had no sureties either. Only of Hamish being there, from waking to sleeping, and unwilling to let him go in peace.

She lifted her head to look up at him, and smiled. There was a wryness in her smile that he found attractive. “How terribly dreary that sounds! I suppose it’s because we’ve had nothing but rain until yesterday. A rusting of the spirit, perhaps?” As she turned away to walk back in the direction of the hotel, her profile was outlined by the sky, very patrician, pale as a cameo against the darkness of her hair and her coat. “Good night.”

The farewell was formal, indicating that the brief companionship here in the dark was happenstance and not at all an invitation to further acquaintance.

“Good night . . .”

The air seemed to grow colder, and he could hear the lonely rustlings of the marshes.

Hamish had fallen silent.

Rutledge let her continue to the hotel alone, and stood for a time by the quay, until she had gone up the stairs.

After breakfast the next morning, Rutledge made his way to the vicarage to speak to Mr. Sims. The sun was shining again, catching the sparkle of flint, the dark red of the brick window facings, and the almost Mediterranean warmth of the tile roofs of Osterley.

Water Street was busy, carts and drays maneuvering around each other to make early deliveries—cabbages and turnips for the greengrocer, a brace of ducks and a cage of live hens for the butcher, and lumber for the smith’s shop, where a new wagon was in progress. Behind the houses, Monday’s wash hung on the lines, blowing in the surprisingly soft breeze.