‘Did you … did you know them?’ He picked up a book that was lying on the shelf nearest to him and gazed at the title, unable to make out the words.

‘You must have felt great grief.’

It was an understatement. Tom couldn’t even begin to describe the gulf that had opened up inside him. Sometimes it was like standing at the edge of a great blackness, a drop that he knew would never end.

Jack, maybe sensing this, said, ‘We shall have time enough to talk about them.’

Tom smiled gratefully and placed the book carefully back. ‘How long – how long do you want me to stay?’

‘As long as you like, my dear boy,’ said Jack, laughing. It was a deep laugh. ‘As long as you like. You know, I was never blessed with children. I was married once …’

Jack trailed off, his eyes growing distant, picked up a paperknife and began slicing open some envelopes. It was as if he had suddenly forgotten that Tom was there.

After a moment, in which Jack glanced through some papers and Tom stood awkwardly examining an odd-looking brass ornament that might have been a camel or some kind of horse, Jack focused on Tom.

‘Ah. Thomas Swinton. Yes. Go and join the others now, there’s a good boy.’

He had just reached the door, when Jack spoke once more. His voice was different, a little flatter.

‘Before you go – I would that you do something for me.’

With his hand on the doorknob, Tom turned to look at Jack, who was holding the paperknife point down.

‘Sure. I mean, of course.’

‘My … domestics. Kit and Zita. You have met them.’

‘I … yes, I have,’ said Tom, confused.

He slit open another envelope. ‘Watch them.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That is all. For now. I shall see you tomorrow. Kit will explain what you must do.’

He went back to his papers, muttering to himself, and Tom closed the door gently behind him.

Chapter 6

18th April, 1846

Sometimes I slip into another place entirely. One that no thinker has ever dreamed of. And then I smell the Suffolk earth, and feel the Suffolk sun on my face, and I am back at home, and Ethel is at the door, telling me the curate is here to see us.

— From the diary of Margaret Ravenswood

Clouds were passing over the afternoon sun, drifting fast. Tom made his way back downstairs through stripes of light and shadow. A smell of chicken stewing and mint and potatoes greeted him as he passed through the hall.

Zita was standing, arms folded, gazing out of the kitchen window. By the kitchen door were racks of boots and oilskin coats. When Tom came in, she half-turned, then dolefully picked up a brush and set to scrubbing a pan.

Kit was cleaning some boots. He coughed. ‘You took your time.’

‘I was talking to my uncle.’