After a moment Francis looks down. He grasps Roddy’s outstretched hand in both of his and simply holds it. His hands are warm.
Eventually Francis says, ‘Do come in. I …’ But he doesn’t finish the sentence, and they stand, motionless—Roddy’s hand still clasped—regarding each other with an odd sense of recognition.
‘Come in,’ whispers Francis, gesturing down the hall towards a living room. ‘Please, come in, by the fire.’
Roddy lets himself be ushered. Francis hangs Roddy’s puffer jacket on a hook next to a smart rain jacket and a navy patterned scarf that looks to be the softest cashmere. He finds himself in an exquisite sitting room. Velvet sofas are scatteredwith linen cushions in various checks and stripes and florals. Nothing matches, but it’s somehow harmonious. Woollen throws are over the arms of plush chairs, and lamps—one shaped like a hare and the other like a hound—throw a golden light of supreme cosiness.
‘Sit, sit,’ says Francis, his face a picture of consternation.
Roddy sits and Francis remains standing. He says, ‘Dorothea? You know her?’
‘I think I do. She goes by another name.’ Roddy hesitates, knowing he must tread carefully.
‘Are you … Australian?’ asks Francis, frowning.
Roddy nods.
‘Is she in Australia?’
He nods again.
‘Extraordinary,’ Francis whispers. ‘And Louis? He’s there too?’
Roddy grimaces. ‘I’m sorry, but he passed away.’
Francis deflates, a whooshing noise coming from him as he slumps onto the sofa. He presses his fist gently to his mouth. ‘When?’
‘Thirty years ago. Cancer. I’m sorry.’
Francis nods slowly. ‘Are you sure it’s them?’
‘Pretty sure. They arrived in Australia in 1975 from England. We found some papers.’
‘What has Dorothea told you?’
Roddy falters as Francis holds his gaze and smiles encouragingly.
‘Nothing. And I know she is still wanted by police here, so I’m mindful of that because I don’t want her to be arrested.’
Francis nods. ‘And have you asked her about her … life here? Her identity? Any of it?’
‘No,’ says Roddy, hesitating. He has no firm idea how to proceed, but his intuition tells him he should trust Francis Fitzhenry. ‘She’s quite sick and unable to communicate just now, but we found some letters she wrote to you but never sent, so then we did some digging. That’s how we know about you … but, we haven’t been able to ask her.’
‘We?’ Francis cocks his head.
‘Her granddaughter, Lottie.’
‘Oh?’
‘Her father was the man we think was Louis.’
Francis stares, then nods and looks away.
‘She …’ Roddy feels a precarious sense of diving in. ‘Lottie’s quite unsure about it all. She thinks she might be related to you and your family. But we have so little information, you see.’
‘Well, if she’s Louis’s daughter, she has a greater claim to this place than I do.’
Roddy says nothing although the statement is confusing. He senses a deep pain in Francis and feels a reluctance to probe his traumatic past, but the other man seems to shrug off the heaviness of the moment.
