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“But it is not a day for sad tales. You are here now. You will have your own much happier story to write, soon. Come, there is a portrait of her in the music room, if you would care to see it.”

“Yes, thank you.”

His aunt rang for a footman. “We’ll have refreshments in the garden, Matthew,” she said.

Then she and Lark passed into a pale green room with a piano against one wall. The nameboard with brass inlays declared it to be a Broadwood. Above the piano was a portrait of a girl in white muslin gown bent over the keys of the instrument. She leaned forward slightly, her back straight, her dark hair gathered in a knot from which a few curls dangled, her eyes cast down upon the instrument, her cheeks round and rosy, and the ringed fingers of her right hand spread to play some chord. There was no mistaking his mother’s hand or the garnet ring she wore. Lark could not resist touching his finger to the painted one. It was after all just a dab of pigment from an artist’s brush, but he felt that by touching it, he touched the past.

“I’ll leave you here, shall I?” his aunt said. “I will be in the garden with your duke when you are ready to join us.”

He heard the gentle swish of her skirts and the closing of the door. He sat at the bench and opened the instrument, laid his hands on it, stretching his fingers apart in imitation of his mother’s hand, and let the long-denied memories come. He had no explanation for why memories that had lain hidden in his mind should at last stir and parade before him.

He waited to see whether the memories would change him again. He had a name now and a lineage, not so grand a one as duke, but not a mean one, either. He would not take the name of Caperton. He thought briefly that he could take his mother’s family name, but he realized that the name he wanted was the one he’d given Viv that first day. He was Edward Larkin, the man who loved Viv Bradish. In the end it was the only name that suited him. He was impatient to go to her, but first he would free himself from all past claims.

Voices and laughter from the garden roused him from his thoughts. He closed the instrument and went to join the others.

They sat at a white iron table on a flagstone terrace above a sunken expanse of green lawn. He joined them, and his aunt poured him a cup of tea. “Now that you’re here, I wonder if you might stay a fortnight or so.”

Lark accepted the tea and glanced at Wenlocke.

“I can arrange for anything you need to be sent here,” Wenlocke said.

“Then it is settled?” asked his aunt.

“You know,” Lark said. “When I had no family, I invented an aunt for myself.”

“Did you? You must tell me what expectations you had for this imagined aunt. Was she to dote on you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Cake then?” said Aunt Bea, her eyes alight with merriment.

*

In the coolness of a May morning, three groups of passengers waited dockside to board the Arcadia. A stiff breeze blew off the Thames carrying the scent of the ocean, straightening the ensign and jacks flying from the stern and bow, and rattling lines and blocks on the masts and spars. Clouds tore by above the crisscrossed shrouds and rat lines. Crewmen moved about the deck while shoremen rolled barrels up a ramp and swung crane arms to lower dangling bundles into the hold. An officer on the upper deck oversaw the activity, while another officer and a clerk stood by at the ready to see the passengers on board.

Rook stood, stony-faced, among a group of single male passengers, easily a head taller than the others, wearing sturdy, serviceable clothes from the Fashion Emporium, which, Lark had learned, did a business outfitting those bound for the colonies. A bold woman or two from the raucous group of single women passengers called out, asking Rook his name. With laughter and shoving, the women pushed a freckled redhead in a blue bonnet to the front of their group. “Kitty wants ter meet ya, luv,” was the cry. Families traveling with children made up the third group of passengers, talking quietly among themselves and watching the necessary preparations for such a voyage. The Arcadia would stop at Plymouth and Tobay for water, and then on to Sydney. If they were not required to quarantine before landing, they’d make it by September.

Lark waited with Robin and a copper from the Force to see Rook safely aboard. The constabulary were taking no chances on letting Rook slip away. Rook steadfastly refused to look at Lark or speak to him, though from time to time, he mumbled in reply to Robin. Lark did not expect forgiveness. A betrayal was a betrayal. He had kept his arrangements on Rook’s behalf quiet. Rook knew only that he had a trunk full of gear and a place in Sydney with a wool dealer if he wanted it. Lark would do one more thing for his old friend and let him go.

The crane arm swung away from the ship, and the shoremen left her. Pipes sounded, and the crew scrambled into position, ready to cast off lines. The ship’s agent signaled to begin boarding, and passengers shuffled up the ramp to the deck, Rook’s group trailing behind the others. Lark removed his hat, slipped a borrowed cap on his head, and adopted a shambling gait to keep pace with the others. Where a little knot of men formed at the base of the ramp, Lark made his move, a quick dip into one of Rook’s outer pockets. He shuffled to the end of the line, doffed the borrowed cap, and faded into a small crowd of onlookers.

Rook reached the top of the ramp before he stuck a hand in that pocket. He jerked the hand out, drawing with it a wad of notes, which he returned as quickly to his pocket. He spun around, his astonished and uncomprehending gaze wildly searching the faces on the dock.