When the last of the day had drained from the sky and it was past five o’clock and the river ran glinting in the darkness, a man rode up to the Swan and dismounted. The noise of the winter room was deafening, and before anyone noticed the door opening to let the man in, he had already closed it behind him. He stood for a little while, hearing his name in the general din, before anybody remarked on his presence, and even when they did see him, they failed to realize he was the one they were expecting. Those who had an idea what the older Mr Armstrong looked like – and the story was already being circulated that he was the bastard son of a prince and a slave girl – were waiting for a tall, strong and dark-skinned fellow; no wonder they did not recognize this young man, for he was pale and slender, with light-brown hair that fell into soft curls where it touched his collar. There was something of the boy still about him: his eyes were so palely blue they seemed nothing but reflection and his skin was soft like a girl’s. Margot was the first to spot him and she was not sure whether it was her maternal or her womanly instincts that stirred at the sight of him, for whether he was youth or man, he was pleasing to the eye.
He made his way to Margot. When he told her his name in an undertone, she drew him away from the public room and into the little corridor at the back that was lit by a single candle.
‘I don’t know what to say, Mr Armstrong. And you having lost your poor lady too. You see, since your father was here this morning—’
He stopped her. ‘It’s all right. I overtook your parson on my way here. He hailed me, guessing the reason for my direction and my haste, and has …’ He paused, and in the shadows of the corridor Margot supposed he was wiping away a tear, gathering himself to go on. ‘He has explained everything. It is not Alice, after all. Another family has claimed her.’ He lowered his head. ‘I thought it better to come anyway, since I was so near and you were expecting me. But now I shall take my leave. Please tell Mr and Mrs Vaughan I am very …’ – again his voice broke – ‘very pleased for them.’
‘Oh, but you must not go without at least taking something. A glass of ale? Some hot punch? You have come a long way, sit and rest for a while. Mr and Mrs Vaughan are in the sitting room and hoping to offer you their condolences …’
She opened the door and ushered him in.
Robin Armstrong entered the room with a gauche and apologetic air. Mr Vaughan, disarmed by this, had reached out and shaken him by the hand before he realized he was going to do it.
‘I’m sorry,’ both men said at the same moment, and then ‘Very awkward,’ in chorus, so it was impossible to know which had spoken first.
Mrs Vaughan gathered herself before either of the two men seemed able to. ‘We are so sorry, Mr Armstrong, to hear of your loss.’
He turned to her—
‘What?’ she said, after a moment. ‘What is it?’
He stared at the child in her lap.
The young Mr Armstrong wavered on his feet, then sank, leaning heavily on Margot, into the chair that Vaughan had just time to place behind him before his eyes fluttered to a close and he slumped.
‘Heavens above!’ Margot exclaimed and she dashed to fetch Rita from the sleeping photographer’s room.
‘He has had a long journey,’ said Helena, as she leant in kindness over the unconscious man. ‘In such hope – and to find that she is not here … It’s the shock.’
‘Helena,’ said Mr Vaughan, a note of warning in his voice.
‘The nurse will know what to do to revive him.’
‘Helena.’
‘She is bound to have some cloves or sal volatile.’
‘Helena!’
Helena turned to her husband. ‘What is it?’
Her brow was clear, her eyes were transparent.
‘Dearest,’ he said, and his voice shook. ‘Is it not possible that there is a different reason for the young man’s collapse?’
‘What reason?’
He quailed at the innocent puzzlement on her face.
‘Suppose …’ Words failed him, and he gestured in the direction of the child, who sat sleepily indifferent in the chair. ‘Suppose that, after all …’
The door opened and Margot hurried in, followed by Rita, who with calm assurance crouched at the side of the young man and took his wrist in one hand while she held her watch in the other.
‘He’s coming round,’ Margot announced, seeing his eyelids stir. She took one of his passive hands in hers and rubbed it.
Rita cast a sharp glance at the patient’s face. ‘He’ll be all right,’ she agreed without intonation as she put her watch back in her pocket.
The young man’s eyes opened. He took a couple of light, fluttering breaths, and raised his palms to cover his dazed-looking expression. When he lowered them he was himself once more.
He looked at the child again.
‘Reason says she is not Alice.’ He spoke haltingly. ‘She is your child. The parson says so. You say so. It is so.’
Helena nodded and she blinked away tears of sympathy for the young father.
‘No doubt you are wondering why I could so easily mistake another man’s child for my own. It is nearly a year since I last saw my daughter. Presumably you do not know the circumstances in which I find myself. I owe you an explanation.
‘My marriage took place in secret. When my wife’s family first learnt of the attachment between us and our plans for a betrothal, they placed obstacles in our path. We were young and foolish. Neither of us understood what harm we did ourselves and our families by marrying in secret, but that is what we did. My wife ran away to live with me, and our child was born less than a year later. We hoped – we trusted, even – that a grandchild would soften her parents’ resistance, but that wish was in vain and they continued as unyielding as ever. Over time my wife grew fretful for the many comforts that had accompanied her life in her earlier days. She found it hard raising a child without the benefit of a household of servants to make life easy. I did all I could to maintain her good spirits and encourage her to trust in love, but in the end she became convinced that the only way forward was for me to move to Oxford, where I had friends in positions of influence, and try my fortune there, where if things went favourably for me I might earn more and we might in a year or two be able to lead the leisured life she hankered after. So with a heavy heart I left Bampton and set up in rooms in Oxford.