Five

Music was playing softly, and the dining table was covered with papers and photographs. Stephen leaned back and stretched, aware of tender amusement as he surveyed Zoe’s bent head, the intent expression on her face. Her skin made him think of Ireland and misty mornings, and it was impossible not to smile as he imagined its softness against his lips.

They had been working together for hours, and he was beginning to wonder whether she would go on all night, following every little item like clues in a treasure hunt. The handful of letters they had looked at raised more questions than they answered, generating curiosity and enthusiasm, provoking reactions that had already revealed more of their true selves than weeks of normal acquaintance might have done.

He liked her. Tremendously. No edge, no affectations, no artifice. Despite the perfect vowels and privileged background, she was no spoiled brat. And she was sharp and funny and oddly vulnerable, and – oh, be honest, Elliott, his practical self said, you want to go to bed with her, you know you do, you fancied her from the minute you first laid eyes on her...

She looked up, clear grey eyes wide and questioning, as though his thoughts had somehow reached her, changed the atmosphere between them. As perhaps they had. He did not look away and nor did she; he saw her expression change with a quick rush of blood to her cheeks. Awareness crackled between them like a sustained electric charge.

The letter she held trembled. She bowed her head and a fall of dark curls hid that sudden warmth, but did not obscure the sharp rise and fall of her breasts.

Breathless, tense with desire, Stephen forced himself to his feet. ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ he said, but could not resist touching her, very lightly, as he passed.

Leaning forwards against the sink, he took a long, deep breath and released it very slowly. Within moments he was once more in control, although his blood was still running hot, eager, after months of enforced abstinence, to grab at this prime opportunity. Which would not only be a mistake, he told his reflection in the glass, but a breach of good manners. Calm down, he ordered silently, take her back to the hotel, give her time; even if she leaves York tomorrow, she’ll be back, you know she will...

And anyway, he told himself as he returned with the coffee, it was always possible to suggest a meeting in London.

Before she could remark on the time, he said easily: ‘It’s late, Zoe – and you must be tired. Why don’t we have this coffee and call it a day? I’ll walk you back to Gillygate, and we can begin again tomorrow.’

She was instantly contrite. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve kept you – I wasn’t thinking.’

‘Not at all.’ With what he hoped was a disarming smile, Stephen took her hand and briefly squeezed it. ‘I’m a night owl — always have been. It’s you I’m thinking of – all that decorating you were telling me about. It’s a wonder you’re not on your knees.’

There was gratitude in her response and something of understanding. With confidence restored, it was easier, a few minutes later, to fetch her coat and make arrangements for the following day.

His hands lingered for a moment beneath her hair; then, as she turned to face him, traced the line of her jaw. She thought, for one breathtaking moment, that he was about to kiss her.

But all he said was, ‘I’m so glad we’ve met,’ before opening the door.

It was no more than a few steps to the place of that first, brief sighting. Through Bedern, beneath its dark archway, across Goodramgate, to the arch which led into Minster Yard. Sheltered from a searching night wind, they paused beneath the upper storey of a quaint half-house. Once, as Stephen said, it had been part of a long row, but since the demolition of its neighbours to one side, it stood somewhat redundant, with a new, wide access beside it.

There was an old photograph of that part of Goodramgate, framed, on Stephen’s sitting-room wall; even so, Zoe found it hard to reconcile image and reality. She turned her eyes to the Minster, its floodlit tracery framed by the night and the trees and the long, low building of St William’s College. There was no mist, nothing was moving, and apart from the faint sounds of revelry coming from a nearby public house, all was silent.

Sharing her memory of that night, he said again that he remembered seeing her as she hurried towards the mist; then she had halted, standing so still, so entranced, that he had been intrigued. ‘Then you turned suddenly, and came towards me. I didn’t want to be caught, like some sinister peeping Tom, so I moved out of the shadows here, and pretended to be waiting to cross the road.’

She chuckled, squeezing his hand. ‘I didn’t see you...’

‘No, you didn’t. Your mind was on something else. Tell me,’ he added, searching her face intently, ‘what was it that unnerved you?’

Startled by his perception, Zoe shook her head, looked away. ‘I’m not sure.’ For a moment she hesitated. ‘It’s hard to explain. Something – I don’t know what it was – in the mist. Like your children in Bedern, except I didn’t hear anything, it was more...’ Her voice tailed away. The more she sought for words to describe it, the more they eluded her. And although she wanted him to understand, she was afraid he would think her mad. ‘I can’t explain,’ she said finally, glancing up with mute appeal. ‘Perhaps I might try, when I know you a little better...’

‘I hope so,’ he whispered; and in that least expected moment, Stephen bent his head and kissed her. It was very tender, very brief, but in that moment she felt she needed his strength, his solidity. Involuntarily, she clung to him, burying her face against the lapels of his coat. For a little while he held her very close, sheltering her between himself and the old oak timbers of the little arch. When his lips met hers again they were warm and sensual, seeking her response but not demanding it, until the touch of his tongue set her senses aflame, obliterating everything in a dizzying surge of emotion. Passion flared then, and she was aware of his hunger and her own desire to satisfy it. It was like a physical shock when he detached himself, standing back to grip her hands with painful force.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, ‘this won’t do, will it?’

Still breathing raggedly, he cupped her face between trembling fingers and kissed her forehead. With grim determination he led her on through Minster Yard.

She had difficulty keeping up with his long, rapid strides, but he swept on, regardless. In a state of shock, Zoe hardly knew what to make of him, still less so when he stopped before the south transept, and said tersely: ‘If you decide to stay another night, will you stay with me?’

She faltered at his abruptness, and could not immediately reply. Images of the recent past – fleeting but clear – flashed through her mind. Philip and his inexperience, the innate prudery which had left her wondering, ultimately, whether he really liked or approved of women. By contrast, Stephen’s masculinity was reassuring. Almost without thinking, she nodded gravely. ‘Yes, Stephen, I will.’

A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. ‘Good,’ he murmured, slipping an arm around her shoulders. ‘On a promise like that, I might just get some sleep tonight...’

But he did not sleep well. The stimulation of mind and body left him restless, his thoughts a jumble of Zoe the desirable woman, and Zoe his blood relation, descendant, as he was, of all those other Elliotts. Leaving her at the door of that house on Gillygate had given him the oddest feeling, as though he knew the place, and all this had happened before.

Deja vu, of course, as common as it was inexplicable, yet disturbing enough to set his mind running over the evening’s facts and suppositions, and the mass of detail still contained in that little trunk. As much as Zoe, he wanted now to discover the truth behind those birth certificates.

Waking early, with chores done and those old letters gathered together in their original order, he went to call for her just before ten. As Zoe paid her bill, he glanced into the guests’ sitting room with interest, an interest which prompted Mrs Bilton to ask whether he would like to look at the rest of the house, as his cousin had already done.

Agreeing, Stephen found it an extraordinary experience. His own people had lived here for more than twenty years, and, climbing the stairs to those elegant rooms on the first floor, he felt as he had when opening those boxes for the very first time: that here the past was a little too close, touching strange emotions and responses. Having thought of himself as a modern man, shaped by circumstance and environment into solitary independence, it was hard to come to terms with this new awareness, this feeling that he might be no more than a link in a very long chain.

And that chain had unexpectedly coiled back on itself, bringing him face to face with earlier Elliotts, people who shared the same name and the same genes, whose lives had been shaped in this house, this city; whose eyes had looked out on streets not immeasurably different from the ones he saw today. More personal, more immediate, was the awareness that at the crossing of the chain stood Zoe Clifford, a woman as much a part of the Elliotts as he was himself. The progression of that thought was daunting. So much so that he was glad to abandon it, sighing with relief as they said their goodbyes to Mrs Bilton and stepped out into the brisk morning.

‘What did you think?’ Zoe demanded as they rounded the corner into Lord Mayor’s Walk. All along the moat, beneath the high walls, daffodils were dancing in the stiff breeze, echoing her own lively spirits.

‘It was certainly interesting,’ he said cautiously. ‘Before you told me, I’d no idea they were in the hotel business.’

‘But how did you feel,’ she pressed, ‘being there?’

On a short laugh, Stephen squeezed her hand. ‘Later,’ he said, ‘when I know you better.’

Her eager smile turned into a grimace. ‘Oh, dear – bad as that?’

‘No, not bad, more – disturbing, I think. Difficult to explain.’

With a sideways glance, Zoe sought to reassure him. ‘It’s all right – I understand.’

Back at the flat, he was all practicality, setting bundles of letters on the table, together with notepads and pens. The albums were set out too, each with a sheet of paper inside the flyleaf, giving the approximate dates. Although the letters had been grouped by Louisa Elliott into years and correspondents, it was important, Stephen said, to be organized themselves, otherwise vital points could easily be overlooked. And surely, now that they had a fair idea of the family’s circumstances while they were living in Gillygate, it might be as well to turn to the earlier letters first, instead of reading haphazardly as bundles came to hand.

Listening, agreeing with every word, it struck Zoe that for a man who only yesterday had confessed his reluctance to invade someone else’s past, Stephen Elliott was being very efficient. Aware of her limited time in York, did his desire to help conflict with other, more personal needs? Remembering last night, she thought it must, but he was making such a concerted effort to give her a firm base for further enquiry, she had not the heart to distract him.

Nevertheless, with Stephen working in the other room, it was hard to concentrate. As it had last night, she found her mind going back over that intense moment of physical awareness. Warmth and liking had blossomed almost from the first, and had it been no more than that, Zoe would have been immensely grateful for this meeting with someone who shared not just her ancestry, but humour, outlook, and even certain reservations. He said he knew nothing about art, but he was interested in photography, so understood more than he claimed; and he was extremely well-read. What touched her most of all was his unprompted confession, that he too had always felt an odd one out.

To his immediate family, Stephen’s boyhood passion for ships and the sea had seemed an aberration; and his desire to travel the world for a living was viewed with a mixture of indulgence and mild disapproval. ‘My sister,’ he had said, ‘still treats me like an elderly Jim Hawkins – as though she’s constantly wondering when I’m going to get a proper job and settle down.’ Although he seemed to be amused, Zoe had sensed an underlying resentment. She knew it well, having experienced much the same with regard to her own chosen career. And not just from Marian.

But the sexual attraction had been something of a shock. She was glad the moment had not been pursued, that he had tried to give her time. Even so, recognizing his impatience, feeling its echo in herself, Zoe was still faintly aghast at her own reactions. In the past, such things had been very much a matter of time, and never, ever, had she fallen into bed with a man on the very first date; yet last night she had been more than willing. That kiss had shaken her, both physically and emotionally, exciting her in ways she could not recall since – well, since Kit. She had been in love with Kit, but never since. Fond of one or two, certainly – but not head over heels in love.

It was a little daunting to feel that it was happening again. But it was too late to back out, and besides, she wanted him. With an effort, Zoe forced her mind away from Stephen, and back to Louisa Elliott’s letters.

Deciphering the idiosyncrasies of other people’s handwriting was slow work, but after an hour of establishing names and dates, Zoe had deduced that in the move from Gillygate in the late 1890s, Louisa must have destroyed much previous correspondence. It was frustrating, because by that time the children were already born, and there seemed to be no reference to their parentage. The earliest letters were postmarked Dublin in the spring of 1899, all from someone called Letty, who seemed to be a friend of some standing. From her correspondence, which was full of gardening advice, Zoe deduced that the two women had shared a common passion, and that Louisa was at that time setting up her kitchen garden. Letty had apparently visited them, with a child called Georgina, because later missives referred to Louisa’s cottage and its delightful setting by the riverside.

Could that cottage have been the one in that group photograph? Zoe wondered. Needing Stephen’s opinion, she crossed the landing to the sunny room where he was sorting books from the larger trunk. Intent upon something, unaware of her presence, he was crouched with his back to her, sweater discarded, shirtsleeves rolled back over tanned and muscular forearms. Shadow made a deep indentation of his spine, a long, pleasing curve from shoulders to haunches, which the artist longed to record and the woman to touch. Something, perhaps the intensity of her gaze, made him turn.

Poised there, regarding her steadily, for a long moment Stephen did not move. When he did it was slowly, in one smooth movement, the little book which had taken his attention still in his hand. She felt its cover cold against her neck as he kissed her, and the kiss was quick and hard with suppressed desire, his breath coming short as he crushed her against him.

Lying in bed with him afterwards, warm with love and satisfaction, Zoe was beyond speech. They had come together so quickly, it made her heart race to think of it. Wanting to recapture something of that first touch, she ran a hand over his chest and the flatness of his stomach, seeing, through half-closed lids, the perfect lines of his body. After years spent working under a southern sun, he was lean and hard and bronzed, and beside him she felt soft and deliciously fragile.

Unprepared for the depth and range of her own responses, Zoe was also astonished by his. She had wondered, last night, whether a man so absolutely in control of himself would make love as though painting by numbers. That he had not only relinquished that iron control, but made love with such unselfconscious abandon, was something that brought a smile to her lips. And when he felt that little curve of happiness and drew back to look at her, she saw the same delight in his eyes. Wonderment, too. He looked at her for some time before he spoke.

‘I do believe,’ he sighed, ‘that for the first time in my entire life, I’ve been granted a reward for good behaviour.’ Enveloping her in a warm bear-hug, he chuckled softly and kissed her. ‘And at the risk of sounding like a philanderer, I have to tell you that this is the point where I’m usually apologizing and promising to do better next time!

‘But on this occasion,’ he whispered against her mouth, ‘I really do have the feeling that there’s no need to apologize at all...’

A little bubble of laughter escaped her, but as she gave herself up to his embrace, Zoe was thankful that he had not enquired as to her period of abstinence. But that had been a depressing encounter, and she would not think of it now...

It was some time later that he felt for his shirt and the cigarettes which lived in his breast pocket. He smoked in silence, caressing her gently as he might have done a child. Zoe felt oddly separated then, as though his thoughts had abandoned her. Hesitantly, she ventured to ask what he was thinking, and was not entirely reassured by the wry smile her question prompted.

‘A great many things,’ Stephen said softly, ‘mostly concerned with you.’

‘What things?’

‘I should have thought it was obvious. In twenty-four hours, this little research project of yours has developed along lines neither of us could have envisaged.’ There was a long pause, and then he said: ‘But tomorrow, you’re going back to London.’

The statement hung between them ominously, a cloud heralding responsibility and separation, which should perhaps have been taken into account; yet all had fled before that urgent physical need, and Zoe could not regret its satisfaction. Tracing the line of her cheek, he ran a finger beneath her chin, making her look at him. The conflict she felt was mirrored in his eyes.

‘I don’t want you to go.’

‘But I shall have to. Sooner or later, if not tomorrow. My work’s there.’ For the first time she half regretted it. The work she had loved and striven to do, which had been all in all until a moment ago, was suddenly something she wanted to lay aside, if only temporarily. There had to be a way of resolving the problem; but it would take time and thought and planning.

‘Don’t ask me to think about it now,’ she begged, laying her lips against his shoulder, his cheek, his mouth. ‘I’ll try to work something out, even if I have to go back to London to do it.’

‘But you’ll come back?’

‘Of course,’ she promised with a suddenly wicked grin. ‘I haven’t got through those letters yet!’ She gave a little yelp as Stephen pinched her, rolled over and saw the time in red digital numbers on his bedside alarm. It was nearly one o’clock. ‘What time did you say your aunt was coming over?’

‘After lunch.’

‘Then I think we’d better get dressed…’

With a muttered exclamation, he agreed with her. ‘Joan’s a broad-minded lady, but I don’t think she’d appreciate finding us like this!’

Fully clothed, with her hair brushed and fresh make-up enhancing eyes that were perhaps too revealing, Zoe returned to the bedroom to pick up her watch. On the bedside chest was the little book Stephen had been holding before they undressed. Bound in scuffed black leather, it had the initials W.E. embossed in gold on the front cover. Curious, Zoe picked it up. It was a diary, dated 1916, each page closely written in tiny, copperplate script. The owner, she saw at last, had been one William Elliott, serving with a machine-gun company of the Australian Imperial Force...

William Elliott — Liam. Liam! His name ran through her like a shock, bringing startling flashes of memory: his face on a dozen photographs, that strange vision in the fog...

Stephen’s voice called to her as she sank weakly onto the bed. A moment later he appeared in the doorway, smiling, saying they had better eat before Joan arrived, and what would she like for lunch?

She looked up, seeing him as though for the very first time, knowing that smile, those eyes, recognizing the familiarity which had hovered on the edge of memory for the past twenty-four hours. In eyes, mouth, and shape of face, Stephen was so very like Liam Elliott. A modern man, older in years than the young soldier had been, but with two generations between them, the resemblance was still there. Was that what had attracted her to him? The possibility passed over her like an icy wave.

Alarmed by her expression and that sudden, violent shiver, Stephen went to her immediately, touching her cold face, kissing it, chaffing her hands. She was like someone in a trance. Then, abruptly, she pulled away from him.

He saw the diary and picked it up. As she rose and moved away, he said hesitantly: ‘I found this in the bottom of the small trunk…’ Stephen broke off, wondering how to describe that odd sensation. He supposed excitement must have caused that physical tingling, like a series of small shocks spreading up from his fingertips.

And then he had turned and seen Zoe.

Just remembering that moment, the look on her face, the feel of her as they embraced, was enough to make him want her again. Releasing a long, pent-up breath, he went to her and made her face him.

‘Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?’ She shook her head, but kept her eyes averted. Stephen held her close, nuzzling her hair, stroking the silky curls, touching his lips to her temple. ‘Then tell me what it is.’

She stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, burying her face in his neck in a negative, bemused sort of way. ‘I don’t know – I think I’m going mad.’

It was so ridiculous, he almost laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, why should you think that?’

‘The queerest things keep happening – I don’t know how to explain them, or even where to start. Just now, I suppose it was that diary, realizing whose it was – it gave me a shock. And then, seeing you....’ Her voice faltered, became even more muffled, so that he had to strain to hear the rest, something about the Minster and that evening in the fog...

The doorbell rang shrilly. On a low expletive Stephen gripped her shoulders, asked whether he should make some excuse, put off Joan’s visit until later.

‘No — no, I’m all right,’ Zoe said, straightening her shoulders and pushing back her hair. ‘We’ll talk later.’

‘We must,’ he insisted.

Joan’s visit prompted discussion of births and deaths, intricate family relationships and house moves, past and present. She was in better spirits, having come to terms with the job they were doing, and although none of their suspicions could yet be confirmed, her attitude was one of rueful acceptance. Having had time to mull over the anomaly of her father’s birth certificate, various other things had apparently sprung to mind, like odd bits of jigsaw which suddenly slipped into place with ease. Those revelations prompted more questions, until the afternoon slipped away, and Zoe’s moment of disturbance seemed very much a thing of the past.

Fascinated by the older woman, at ease with her, Zoe was amused by the conspiratorial smile she gave Stephen as she was leaving.

‘I told you you’d like her, didn’t I?’ was uttered in a stage whisper, which left both Zoe and Stephen laughing and slightly embarrassed.

Afterwards, when she had gone, Zoe said: ‘I feel as though I’ve been adopted – as though I really am family, instead of a total stranger...’

‘But you are family, and she likes you,’ Stephen said simply. ‘So do I.’

But as though his aunt’s warmth reminded him by contrast of other, less generous family members, he went on to warn her about his sister. ‘If you ever meet Pam – and you may, she has a habit of dropping in when she’s in town — you must expect a very thorough going-over. She’ll disapprove on principle, I’m afraid, whether she likes you or not. My ex-wife was – and is – her best friend. It doesn’t seem to matter that I was the injured party – according to Pamela, it was all my fault in the first place for not buckling under, staying at home and taking a shore job...’ He sighed. ‘For all she’s my sister, we have very little in common.’

‘Have you never considered working ashore? Seriously, I mean?’

‘I didn’t in those days. Now, I think of it more and more. But,’ he shrugged, ‘I’m faced with the eternal problem of what does Jolly Jack do, once he swallows the anchor? Short of marine surveying, which would bore me to tears, I can’t think of a thing.’

‘You could always write your memoirs,’ she said wickedly, ‘I’m sure they’d be fascinating!’ Warming to the idea as he laughed and shook his head, she added: ‘And what about Joseph Conrad? He wrote some wonderful novels, didn’t he?’

‘Be careful, my love – you’re treading on my heart!’ And with that he fetched her coat and told her they were going out.

He took her to a small restaurant down one of York’s quainter back streets. Over drinks, Stephen’s avoidance of the subject begun before Joan Elliott’s arrival was, she felt, deliberate. As he regaled her with stories of his early life at sea, characters he had known, places he had visited, she forgot that unnerving moment in laughter; and the likeness which had seemed so uncanny, receded. He was himself, no other. Warm, vital, alive, and with eyes that told her she was beautiful and very much desired. Face to face, looking into those eyes, so blue against the gold of his skin, Zoe knew that it was Stephen she wanted, would have wanted, whatever his name, whatever his ancestry. The rest was just coincidence. In that context she felt she could deal with it and, when the time came, talk about it with some degree of detachment.

It was dark when they left, but not very late, the city quiet and left to itself in mid-week solitude. York was a different place at night, Zoe sensed it immediately, as though unrestricted by the crush of visitors, the city was breathing in satisfied calm. Old streetlamps cast gentle light on older buildings, which in their age and lack of vanity were immensely reassuring. Like old eyes, the windows dozed, having seen everything before. This city, she felt, could be neither shocked nor surprised, and current interest in all things past was simply another phase in a long and ongoing history.

Traversing a series of ancient alleys on their walk through town towards the riverside, Zoe was aware of feet which had trodden these paths before. She found herself wondering, at every turn, whether those other Elliotts had walked this way, seen that beautifully-turned corner, noticed a church’s perfect tower. And the river itself, reflecting lights, bridges, staiths: it was a view that could have changed little in the intervening years.

Saying nothing, Stephen simply drew her closer. She knew he felt as she did; knew too, that even without their shared ancestry, he would have understood her growing affinity for this place. With some reluctance and on a promise to return, they moved away.

Walking back up Stonegate, with the great central tower of the Minster illuminated above the chimney-stacks, Stephen pointed to a ship’s figurehead supporting a jutting upper storey; and a little further, paused to show her Coffee Yard, where Edward Elliott had once been in business as a bookbinder. Innocently said, it was a reminder of the return address in Liam’s diary; the quietness of separate thoughts descended in that short journey home to Stephen’s flat.

Stephen poured a drink for them both and lit the fire; found the tape of an old and very English film-score by Richard Rodney Bennett and slipped that into the stereo. For a moment he stood watching Zoe, framed against the window. The haunting, plaintive melody echoed something inside him, a tenderness for her that was impossible to put into words. Almost hesitantly, he placed his hands on her shoulders, laid his cheek against her hair; beyond them both, standing dramatically against the night sky, was the floodlit Minster.

With Liam still on his mind, Stephen wondered what she was thinking, and whether she really wanted to tell him what the connection was between the diary and that night in the mist. Her very quietness seemed a prelude, as though she was trying to marshal thoughts and words for something evanescent. Then, as though it was vital to explain all that had happened to her that evening, she began by describing her walk and the sky’s intense, remarkable blue. Her voice was low and clear, a lyrical counterpoint to the music. But as the melody strengthened, building up to a storm, her words became shorter, sharper, describing that battlefield in the mist with staccato clarity.

He almost wished she had not told him. The strangeness of it chilled him. He remembered the shock of touching the cover, reading random pages of Liam’s meticulous script, written amidst the mud and horror of the Western Front. And he recalled with acute intensity that sense he had had, of holding someone else’s life in his hands.

He drew Zoe closer, breathing in the scent of her hair and skin; and then, so strongly that he almost uttered the words, he wanted to tell her that he loved her. Overcome by the unexpected power of those words, he struggled for mastery, telling himself that love was the last thing he wanted to feel. Love meant involvement on a total scale, the pain of parting, the dread of betrayal; love meant anguish, jealousy, and the heart-chilling certainty that it was a word of variable meaning.

It passed. The words left him. Shaken, he buried his face against her hair, looked out at the floodlit pinnacles above the silhouette of Goodramgate, and told himself not to be a fool. He wanted her companionship, yes; and the pleasure her body offered was enticing; but the rest he was willing to forgo.

She turned, clinging for a moment before drawing back to search his eyes; he did not look away, but on a slow release of breath, said: ‘Come to bed now – I need you.’

With that first, feverish disrobing in both their minds, they undressed each other slowly. Lingering over the fragrance of her skin, his hands tenderly explored every curve and hollow, lips teasing, reaching down to the fullness of her breasts and the soft, rounded curve of her abdomen. He wanted to appreciate her, to take his time, despite urgent need, to please them both to the full. And she knew his intent, he could see it in her eyes, in the parting of a smile; feel it in her touch. Desire and acquiescence, and a constant, flickering excitement which found its echo in himself.

They embraced and held apart, touched lightly and gripped with passion; explored each other fully until it was impossible to hold back. With urgent satisfaction they came together; and thrusting deep into the soft moist heart of her, he rolled, bringing her over until she was astride him, and he could feast his eyes on the sight of her. Winter-pale skin, almost translucent in the lamp’s glow, and rosy-pink buds of breasts shadowed in a dark fall of curls as she shook her head. He touched her gently, reverently, entranced by the different textures of hair and skin, by his own bronzed hands against her breasts; and then she smiled and began to move against him, and all else was forgotten in that deep, seductive, obliterating rhythm.

It was as astonishing as the first time. Better, he decided; and finding unexpected reserves in himself, Stephen took her again, this time pushing every response to the limit. Only afterwards, as she lay exhausted against him, did he wonder why. What was he trying to prove? That she was bloody good in bed, or that he was better than all the other men she must have slept with? Or was it simply that he was trying to eradicate, with sex, the powerful emotions she aroused?

If any of that was true, he thought painfully, then it would appear to be something of a pointless exercise. Caressing the smoothness of her back, listening to the gentle sighs of her breathing, it seemed to Stephen that each encounter drew them closer together. She was exciting and beautiful and generous, and he wanted all that she could give. A moment later he found himself considering what the cost might be to her.

It was probably as well, he reflected sadly, that she would soon be on her way back to her life in London. Once she had gone, perhaps it might be better not to encourage too speedy a return.

It was one thing to reach that decision in the dark hours of the night, quite another to implement it. Although Zoe stayed another day, when it came to the point, Stephen could hardly bear to see her go. At the very last moment, with laughter and kisses and the knowledge that they were both acting crazily, he stuffed a few things in an overnight bag while she grabbed bundles of letters and photographs, and they set off for London in the Jaguar.

An atmosphere of truancy pervaded that journey; they laughed a lot and played rock music very loud, arriving at Zoe’s flat just as dusk was falling. The air, as she opened the door, was pungent with new paint, and, apologizing for it, she rushed across to raise the tall sash windows and disperse the smell. Books were stacked all over the floor, ornaments and photographs on a long white table, while a draughtsman’s drawing board rose at an angle beside it. Obsessed by the chaos, for a few minutes she dashed about, beginning one task and then another. Stephen caught hold of her, told her to pour them both a drink, and then he would help her to straighten things out.

But with the drink only half consumed, she remembered Polly. ‘I must go and tell her I’m back – she’s been keeping an eye on things for me, and she must be wondering why I was away so long...’

She dashed off, leaving Stephen bemused. Where she had begun to replace books on shelves, he thought he would continue, trusting that the stacks corresponded with certain places. If he was wrong, he reflected, then Zoe would have to re-organize them; but in the meantime, they would be off the floor. Intrigued by her taste in literature, and enjoying the task, he was startled by the asthmatic buzzing of the doorbell. For a moment he wondered what it was. Having established its source, he was then faced with operating the ancient intercom.

‘Yes?’

A woman’s voice answered. ‘Philip? Is that you?’

‘No. This is Zoe Clifford’s flat.’

‘Well, yes, I know it is.’ There was an anxious pause. ‘Is she there?’

It seemed odd to Stephen to be conducting a conversation like this, so he explained Zoe’s momentary absence and invited the woman in. Wondering who Philip might be, he pressed what he hoped was the door-release button, left the door to the flat open, and returned to the books.

He felt rather than heard Zoe’s visitor enter, and turned to see a young woman whose bold, fashionable appearance sat oddly with the look of uncertainty in her eyes.

‘Why don’t you sit down? She shouldn’t be long. I’m Stephen Elliott, by the way – Zoe’s cousin.’

‘Oh. Thank you.’ Her glance flickered over him and away before wandering nervously back again. ‘I’m Clare,’ she said, ‘an old friend of Zoe’s.’ There was another pause in which Stephen read suspicion, thought processes casting back for any mention of male cousins.

Sensing the unspoken demand as to why he was there, he continued placing books on shelves.

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of her for days.’ It was almost an accusation.

‘She’s been in York.’

‘Oh. York... ?’

‘Chasing up some family history. I’ve been helping her.’

‘Oh, I see...’ And with a quick glance, Stephen saw that she did, that the topic suddenly answered many questions and opened a slot into which he might fit. Suspicion was replaced by hostility.

Seconds later, he heard Zoe’s voice, light with laughter as she called her thanks to Polly. He wanted to warn her, although he could not have said why. Seeing her change of expression as she came in, he wished he had been able to.

Greetings between the two women were cool, despite Clare’s explanations and the halting apology for some row they had evidently had over the telephone. Embarrassed, Stephen asked whether he should disappear for an hour.

‘No – no, Stephen, there’s no need for that.’ But Zoe was embarrassed too, torn between different loyalties.

‘In that case, perhaps I should make us all a cup of coffee?’ And with that he escaped to the kitchen, leaving the women to settle their differences alone. Although he closed the door firmly, it connected with the sitting room, and he could still hear what was being said. He ran the cold tap, clattered a few items of crockery, turned the gas up full, and lit a cigarette, but in his mind’s eye he could see Zoe’s face, closed and still, feel her restraint in the pauses. Whatever the other woman had done, it had managed to upset Zoe mightily, and she was not ready to forgive, that much was clear. It seemed to him that she was accepting the apologies in order to get rid of Clare.

But Clare was bent upon confession, admitting to certain problems with someone called David and begging Zoe’s understanding. Zoe seemed ready to go along with that, even to the extent of suggesting another meeting so that she and Clare could talk things over. That was agreed, and the voices faded a little as they moved into the lobby; then he heard Clare say something about Philip. Clare felt sorry for him, she said, and still felt Zoe had behaved badly; she supposed it was because of this new man, and thought she might at least have been a little more honest, instead of blaming David for everything...

Zoe’s voice faded to a murmur, as though they had stepped out onto the landing. It was frustrating: he would have liked to hear her reply to that. If the demise of this man Philip was as recent as it seemed, he wondered whether Zoe would feel able to admit that she and Stephen had only just met.

Initially, he was not unduly concerned, although as the minutes ticked by he did begin to wonder why she had omitted to mention it. Had it been some months past, he could have understood, but something so recent?

He shrugged, told himself that he preferred not to know. He had told her, briefly, about Ruth, and she had told him, with equal brevity, about the married man she had met at college, some mad artist with a passion for women and booze. A fiasco, apparently, but it had been important. And with a similar time-span between those relationships, they were relegated to their proper place. It struck him that just as he would never think of giving her a list of his previous affairs, so he would not want a list of hers. But still...

Who the hell was this Philip, anyway?

Zoe came running up the stairs, upset and apologetic. Waiting for her to calm down, he handed her a cup of cooling coffee and lit another cigarette.

‘I suppose you heard most of that?’

‘I did, yes. Hard not to.’

‘And I suppose,’ she went on heavily, ‘you must be wondering what on earth it was all about?’

With a dry smile, he nodded. ‘But only if you want to tell me – don’t feel you have to.’

That she did feel he merited an explanation was something of a mixed blessing. Stephen discovered far more about her relationship with Clare – and by association, her fiance, David – than he did about Philip. From what she did say, he thought the man sounded spineless, but he refused to comment. Or to probe. She was young yet, and women were often attracted to the oddest of men. Whether she had slept with Philip, whether there had been emotional involvement, was something he preferred not to know. She told him it had been over even before he spoke to her on the telephone. And he believed her. Nevertheless, it bothered him.

In truth, Zoe was ashamed. She would have given almost anything for Stephen not to have witnessed the scene between herself and Clare. It was so hard to explain old ties, harder still when any sympathy she might have felt had disappeared in the face of Clare’s blatant tactlessness. In retrospect, of course, she did feel sorry for Clare, and was more convinced than ever that her engagement to David was a mistake. But it was impossible to say so. The most she could do was to stay in touch occasionally, and hope against hope that Clare saw the pitfalls for herself.

But because of the connection with Philip, Zoe did not feel able to explain her suspicions to Stephen. To say, yes, I slept with Philip, but he was pretty hopeless in bed, and to be honest, I think the person he really fancies is David, except he’s not aware of it, was too crass. What would he think of her? She thought pretty badly of herself. Could not imagine how blind she had been, not to see what appeared so obvious now. But if her suspicions were correct – and there was no way of proving them – then he was more to be pitied than judged. What a situation! For long enough, Zoe had thought it was simply lack of confidence. She had tried to wean him away from the abominable David. But that, it would seem, was the last thing he wanted.

She was appalled by her own arrogance. And her mother would never understand: Marian had liked Philip, knew his family in Sussex. But Stephen was a different matter altogether. Zoe felt that she had behaved both badly and stupidly, and somehow damaged her standing in Stephen’s eyes. Oh, if only Clare had stayed away, or telephoned, then they could have met privately, and saved all this fuss.

Awake in the small hours, with Stephen asleep beside her, she castigated herself more severely than ever he would have thought to do. She prayed with anxious fervency that this incident would cast no further shadows. Her mood this evening had been abstracted enough to concern him, and while he asked no questions, she knew he was wondering.

Zoe’s answer to anxiety had always been work. Needing a similar distraction now, she slipped out of bed and lit the lamps in the sitting room. With a hot drink and a bundle of Louisa Elliott’s letters, she settled down to read. As ever, more questions were raised than were answered, but she jotted them down in a notebook, occasionally breaking to look at photographs, particularly those of Liam. Having now seen pictures of Stephen as a young man, she was more than ever struck by the likeness between them; but her studiously casual comment the other day had caused no apparent surprise. Almost nonchalantly, he said his grandmother, Sarah, who had known Liam as a boy, had often remarked on it. But Zoe thought that light response as careful as her own. Stephen’s interest in Liam’s diary was now as great as her obsession with the letters.

Amongst Louisa’s photographs was a head and shoulders portrait of a young nurse, probably taken during the First World War. Although her hair was mostly covered by a winged white headdress, Zoe was convinced she was the young woman who also appeared in the group photograph, taken perhaps a year or so earlier. From the later correspondence, Zoe had deduced that she must be Georgina, Robert Duncannon’s daughter.

And Robert Duncannon was now identified positively as the young officer photographed in Dublin before the turn of the century; almost certainly he was also the man at the centre of that much later family group. In a dark civilian suit he was older, greyer, heavier, but the strong lines of nose and brow and jaw were unmistakable. Relaxing on a garden seat, smiling at the camera, he dominated the picture as he had probably dominated the people in his life.

To one side of him sat Louisa, her expression sweeter, softened by life and experience into kindliness; and on her other side was Edward, less relaxed, frowning against the light. He had been more difficult to identify, having abandoned the beard of earlier portraits. For all the passing years, he was still remarkably handsome, his features fine, the mouth gentle. In his younger days, Joan had said, Edward was something of a poet; an image which suited him better, Zoe felt, than that of a bookbinder with a business of his own.

Before them on the grass was a girl in white, a girl with rounded cheeks and slanting, dark-fringed eyes. Zoe’s own photograph of Letitia showed a sophisticated young woman in her twenties, but there was no mistaking those eyes, nor the thick, unruly hair that Zoe herself had inherited.

On Robert Duncannon’s right, sat the young woman now identified as his daughter, Georgina. She sat straight-backed, hands folded neatly into her lap, smooth blonde hair swept back from a delicately-boned face. The posture, the simple, dark dress, made Zoe think of a nun. A very beautiful nun. No wonder Liam gazed at her so attentively. She would turn heads, Zoe decided, wherever she went.

Yes, they were all there, with the exception of Robin, and as Stephen said, he was probably the one taking the photograph. The Elliotts and their wealthy relatives from Dublin, the Duncannons. A happy family group, captured in the garden of a pretty cottage on a summer’s afternoon. But Zoe wished she could establish the exact relationship between them.

It really was too bad that the Irish records were lost.