signed cards, sent to Archer House each morning for the coming week. He informed Sir Trevor and Lady Vickers and Bertie that he would be away from town for up to a week. And he took his curricle and pair, his valet, and his groom and drove north.
The village was called Lilyvale, Simon Norton had informed him, and was thirty miles or so southeast of Brierley. Ginsberg lived there with his daughter and son-in-law on a tenant farm he had leased more than twelve years ago. The information was secondhand, even thirdhand, by the time it had reached Norton’s ears, but Gabriel had decided to trust it. If it proved false, he would have wasted a few days. It would not be the end of the world.
The information turned out not to be false. Ginsberg lived in a fair-sized house on what looked to be a well-run farm. There was a neat garden about the house, sporting both flowers and vegetables as well as an expanse of freshly scythed lawn. Two young children, a boy and a girl, were roaring about the lawn when Gabriel arrived, involved in some noisy game. An older boy, nominally in charge of them, perhaps, was stretched out on his side on the grass, propped on one elbow, his head upon his hand. He was reading.
The children stopped to stare, and the older boy looked up from his book. “Good morning, sir,” he said.
“I have come to call upon Mrs. Clark,” Gabriel said. “Is she your mother?”
The boy sat up and crossed his legs. “Who shall I say is calling, sir?” he asked.
But the younger boy, less concerned with the niceties of hospitality, had turned tail and gone dashing toward the house. He opened the door, crashing it against a wall inside, and yelled. “Mama,” he cried. “Someone to see you.”
The little girl went tearing after him.
The older boy laughed and scratched his head. “I do beg your pardon, sir,” he said as he pushed himself to his feet. “They are like a pair of wild animals today. It comes of having been cooped up in the house all day yesterday because of the rain.”
Gabriel knew all about the rain. He had driven his curricle through it.
“I am an old acquaintance of your mother’s,” he explained. And yes, he thought, the boy must be about twelve years old. “I am staying not far from here for a day or two and came to pay my respects. Ask her if she has time to see Gabriel Rochford, if you will.”
“Yes, Mr. Rochford.” The boy turned to lead the way toward the house.
Before they reached it, however, a woman appeared in the doorway. She was a bit on the plump side, noticeably older than when Gabriel had seen her last—she had been seventeen then. But she was still fair haired and pretty. The little girl was clinging to her skirt and peeping about it at Gabriel. The little boy came bouncing outside again, jumping two-footed down the steps.
“Penny,” Gabriel said, removing his hat.
She stared blankly at him for a few moments, and then one hand crept to her throat. “Gabriel?” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “Oh dear God, it is. I heard you were dead.”
“Who is he, Mama?” the little boy asked, jumping on the spot.
She looked down at the child and blinked, almost as though she had forgotten who he was. “You will mind your manners, Wilbur,” she said. “Make your bow to Mr. Rochford and go up to the schoolroom. Amelia, you go too. Kendall, take them up, if you please, and stay with them there until you are called.”
“Aw, Mama,” the little boy complained. “Can’t we just play outside?”
“You will do as you are told,” she said firmly.
“Come on, nippers,” the older boy said. “I bet I can beat you both at spillikins.”
“Cannot,” they both chorused together, and the little girl reached for his hand.
As the children made their way toward the staircase that was visible over their mother’s shoulder, an older man approached the door. He stopped abruptly when he saw Gabriel, and his gaze narrowed and then hardened upon him.
“Mr. Ginsberg.” Gabriel nodded to him.
“We heard you were dead,” he said. And then, with flared nostrils and barely leashed fury, “Would that you were.”
“Papa, please,” Penelope said. “Wait until the children are upstairs.”
None of them moved until a door closed and they could no longer hear the children’s voices. A flush moved up Penelope’s neck and into her face. Her