“Just tell him what’s happening here,” Alinor advised. “Tell him Livia’s here, and what she’s doing. Tell him she’s got your mother wrapped around her little finger and she’s running us into debt. He’ll know what should be done. Once you find him, he can decide what is best.”

“I don’t have to bring him home?”

Alinor laughed. “A little thing like you? No. He’s a grown man. He must decide what he wants to do. All you have to do is see him. So I know that he is alive. And take this…” She picked up a worn red leather purse from the table. “I don’t know if it will be any use to you. But you should have it.”

“What is it?” Sarah asked, thinking that it could not be more money, though coins chinked inside the red leather.

“Little tokens, tiny old coins that I used to find when I was a girl at Foulmire. Rob would know them at once. If he doubts you come from me, or doubts your word, show them to him.”

The girl said nothing; she thought with pity that her grandmother’s senses must be failing, to send her to the wealthiest city in the world with a purse of clippings to look for a drowned son, as if she could buy him back from the underworld. “And, Grandma, if I don’t find him?” the girl suggested hesitantly. “If I find that it’s true and that he’s drowned?”

“Ah, if he’s dead and buried at sea then bring something back that he owned, if you can,” Alinor said, her face suddenly haggard. “I’ll have it in my coffin when I’m buried so that something of his can be buried on land in Christian ground, so his soul doesn’t wash around the world in dark tides. And if I’ve just been a foolish old woman who can’t bear the truth and makes up a stupid story, then bring back that to me—as hard and true as it is, Sarah. I’d rather have a hard truth than a soft lie. If he’s drowned, then take a boat out to where they say he went down, and throw some flowers on the water and say a prayer for him. Say his name. Tell him that I love him.”

“I will,” she whispered. “If I can do nothing else, I can do that. You can tell Ma and Livia that I’ve gone to honor his grave.” She paused for a moment. “What flowers? Any flowers especially, Grandma?”

“Forget-me-nots.”

* * *

Livia, with Carlotta, the nursemaid, trailing unhappily behind with the baby in her arms, walked the length of St. Olave’s Street to London Bridge. She elbowed her way through the teeming crowds on the bridge, snapping over her shoulder that Carlotta should keep up. Porters carrying trays on their heads or sacks on their backs pushed into the two women, wagoners bellowed for people to make way, shopkeepers shouted bargains at them, and beggars plucked at their skirts. Often the press of people was so great that they could make no way at all but just had to stand, crushed in the crowd, and wait for everyone to move on.

“This is unbearable!” Livia exclaimed as Matteo wailed unhappily in Carlotta’s arms; but there was no avoiding the queues of slowly moving people.

Halfway over the bridge the crowd thinned at the disused church; but then the way narrowed again and the women had to push along the drawbridge, and finally spill out onto Thames Street.

“Follow me!” Livia ordered, and led the way for a mile up Thames Street, struggled through the smoke-stained half-ruined City gate, over the Fleet Bridge into Fleet Street, and elbowed her way around the half-built Temple Bar to emerge with a sigh of relief into the paved way of the Strand.

It was a long way to carry a baby, stepping over the filth in the road, ignoring the stares of more fashionable people, avoiding the impertinent poor. Beggars had to be sidestepped, street sellers with everything from eels to posies of flowers and fruit from the country had to be refused. Carlotta was flustered and upset by the time they got to the steps of Avery House and Livia impatiently pulled the huge iron doorbell.

“Why did we not take a boat?” Carlotta hissed. “What do all these people want us to buy?”

“We have no money for a boat.” Livia spat her reply, and then turned a smiling face to the door as Glib silently opened the double-height door to the two of them. “Is Sir James at home?” Livia asked coolly, walking past him to the mirror and taking off her hat, pausing briefly to see the reflection of her perfect face.

“In his study. Am I to show you in?”

“I’ll go in,” Livia said. She nodded to Carlotta to sit on the chair in the hall and rock the fretful baby. “Keep him quiet!” she snapped.

Glib did not warn her that Sir James had a visitor: but when he threw open the door for Livia she saw a stranger in the room. She hesitated on the threshold before stepping forwards with a charming smile. “Forgive me, I thought you were alone. I did not mean to intrude.”

“No, come in, come in. I know this is your time to come for your letters.” Sir James beckoned her in. “Indeed, this is someone who can advise us. I have shown him the statues in the gallery already, my brother-in-law, George Pakenham.”

Livia extended her black-mittened hand, curtseyed, glanced up at the gentleman from under her dark eyelashes. “I will not disturb you. I will take my letters and leave you to your discussions.”

“Not at all, please take a seat. We were just going to have a glass of claret, weren’t we, George?”

George, a rotund man of about fifty, lifted a chair from the side of the room and placed it near to the table. “Please, won’t you sit, ma’am?”

“Lady Peachey,” she corrected quietly.

“Your ladyship.”

“I will sit,” she said, sinking into the chair and smoothing her black silk skirts. “But I will not delay you. I only came to make sure that we were all ready.” She turned to George Pakenham to explain. “It is to be an exhibition tea, for those who want to see the statues again.” She put her head to one side. “Do you like them? They are said to be among the most beautiful in Venice, in Italy.”

“I’ve seen them,” George said pleasantly. “And I must say I thought they were remarkable.”

Livia clasped her hands together at his praise and smiled at Sir James.

“Some of them are modern copies, of course, and some original pieces cobbled together. But one or two are the real thing.”

She froze. He saw the convulsive little tremor of her throat as she swallowed. Then she turned to Sir James. “They’re not copies,” was all she said, her voice unsteady.

“George is something of a connoisseur. He’s a diplomat, he’s been all over. He was in Venice and Florence, and he saw some wonderful statues at the Dutch courts and the German courts, didn’t you? They’re great collectors there, he tells me…” James blundered into silence.

“My antiquities are not copies,” she repeated flatly. She turned to George. “You cannot have looked closely, sir. I have nothing but what is ancient and beautiful. This was my late husband’s collection, and he was famous for his good taste. This is my dower. You do me a great disservice if you speak against them.”

“I would as soon slander a lady’s reputation, as speak against her antiquities—not that I have ever met with a lady selling antiquities before!” He gave her a knowing smile, he almost winked. “I well understand that it is a question of value.”