Dinner was served early in the polished walnut dining room, and soon enough Bantry was alone as the Lockwoods dressed and a cab pulled up the carriageway. David did not keep a carriage and horses, though the coach house and stables remained at the side of the house. From the French windows Bantry watched them leave. He was stretching stiff muscles, listening to the crackle of his spine and shoulders, and relishing an evening of peace.

It was the first taste of solitude he had enjoyed since boarding his ship in Shanghai. He dispatched Ranjit for coffee and brandy and retired to the library. The shelves were bowed under the weight of books — volumes of medical theory, Phoebe’s music, a good selection of classics and readable fiction, from Mrs. Gaskel to Dickens. Bantry settled in a winged armchair with The Cricket on the Hearth, and by ten he was dozing.

At midnight the grandfather clock woke him with strident Westminster chimes, and he surrendered to the seduction of a feather mattress. Maids had set the hearth in his room. He lit a taper at the lamp on the mantel and held it to the kindling. The fire took the chill from the air as he undressed. He owned several linen nightshirts, none of them worn much, since he had never developed the habit of dressing to go to bed. But the house was strange and he was a guest. After a moment’s consideration he pulled one over his head.

It was odd to sleep in a real bed, on a surface that did not roll with the sea and thrum with the drumbeat of steam engines. The very quiet kept him awake for a time, but when sleep came he did not even dream.