“I am Mr. Whitstone.”

The man appeared to be in his early fifties. His hair was graying around the temples. He was thin, with pronounced cheekbones and slightly sunken brown eyes. It struck Ruby that he had probably been handsome once, though now he was somewhat frail, the skin on his face like a peach past its prime.

And then, as if observing an object under a microscope come into focus, she noticed his resemblance to her. The same wavy brown hair and eyes and narrow build. The shape of the lips. Even an unconscious gesture, a certain tilt of the chin.

“I am”—she put a hand to her chest—“Ruby Dunne. You don’t know me, but . . .” She reached into her purse and extracted the handkerchief. She held it out and he took it from her, examining it closely. “I believe you knew my . . .” She swallowed. She had imagined this moment many times in the past year. Contemplated every possible scenario: He might shut the door in her face or deny ever having known Evangeline. Or perhaps he’d died or moved away. “The woman who gave birth to me. Evangeline Stokes.”

Ruby felt him inhale at the mention of the name. “Evangeline.” He looked up. “I remember her, of course. She was briefly governess to my half siblings. I’ve long wondered what became of her.” He paused, his hand on the knob. Then he held the door open. “Would you like to come in?”

The house was gloomy after the afternoon brightness of the street. Mr. Whitstone hung Ruby’s cloak in the foyer and led her into a parlor room with lace curtains in the windows. It smelled musty, as if the windows hadn’t been opened in a long time.

“Shall we sit?” He gestured toward a set of well-worn upholstered chairs. “How is . . . your mother?”

She waited until they were settled, then said, “She died. Twenty-eight years ago.”

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry to hear it,” he said. “Though I suppose . . . I suppose it was quite a long time ago.” He narrowed his eyes, as if calculating something in his head. “I thought she left here around then, but maybe I’m mistaken. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

Ruby felt a prickle on the back of her neck. Was it possible that he didn’t know?

“Your accent is unusual,” he said. “I’ve never heard anything like it.”

She smiled. All right, then, they would change the subject. “I’m from an island off the coast of mainland Australia—Tasmania, it’s called now. Settled by the British. My accent is a hotchpotch of dialects, I suppose, English and Irish and Scottish and Welsh. I didn’t realize how strange that was until I came to London.”

He laughed a little. “Yes, in this hemisphere we generally stick to our own kind. Do you live here now?”

“Only temporarily.”

A plump, gray-haired housemaid in a blue dress and white apron materialized in the doorway. “Afternoon tea, Mr. Whitstone?”

“That would be lovely, Agnes,” he said.

When the housemaid left, they talked about the weather for a few minutes—how it had been miserably wet until a week ago, but now it was all sunshine and daffodils, and wisteria, even. The summer would probably be hot, given what a long, cold winter they’d endured. Ruby had grown accustomed to this English style of throat-clearing, but still found it mystifying. In Tasmania, conversation tended to be more straightforward.

“When do you return to Australia?” he asked.

“The ship leaves Friday.”

“Pity. You’ll miss the roses. We’re rather known for them.”

“We have lovely roses too.”

Agnes reappeared, bearing a silver tray with a teapot and two bone china cups, a platter with slices of currant cake, and a small bowl of jam.

“This household is quite diminished,” Mr. Whitstone said as the housemaid poured the tea into the cups and went through the motions of parceling out cake. “It’s only the two of us now, isn’t it, Agnes?”

“We get on all right,” Agnes said. “But don’t forget Mrs. Grimsby. Ye don’t want me messing around in the kitchen.”

“No, we can’t forget Mrs. Grimsby. Though I’m not sure how much longer she’ll be with us. I found her putting the eggs in the post box the other morning.”

“She has got a bit barmy.”

“Well, I don’t really care what I eat. And we certainly don’t entertain like we used to. It’s quiet around here these days. Wouldn’t you agree, Agnes?”

She nodded. “Quiet as a fly on a feather duster.”

The two of them sat in silence for a moment after Agnes left. Ruby looked around the room at the gilt-faced grandfather clock in the corner, the faded brocade sofa, the filigreed bookshelves. To the right of their chairs was a curio chest filled with figurines: porcelain ladies in pastoral settings stepping over turnstiles, leaning against trees, swooning over pastel-painted flowers. “My stepmother’s collection,” he said, following her gaze.

Twee tributes to a mythical past, Ruby thought but did not say.

His father and stepmother retired to the country a few years ago, he told her. Beatrice, his half sister, had gone off to New York City to become an actress but ended up in Schenectady. His half brother, Ned, married an older heiress and moved to Piccadilly, where he dabbled in . . . something. Real estate? “I regret to say that we’ve fallen lamentably out of touch,” he said, pouring more tea through the strainer into Ruby’s cup. “So. Perhaps you might tell me what happened to Evangeline.”

She took a sip. Lukewarm. She put it down. “I’m not sure where to start. How much do you know?”

“Very little. She worked here only for a few months, as I recall. I went off to Venice on holiday, and when I returned, she was gone.”

Ruby gave him a sidelong look. “She was accused of stealing the ring you gave her.”

“Yes, I do know that.”

She felt a pit of anger in her stomach. “You never . . .” She pressed her bottom lip with her teeth. “You never told the authorities that you gave it to her?”

Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck. “My stepmother knew. Of course she knew. Before I left for Italy, she’d warned me to stay away from the governess. But then . . . apparently Evangeline flew into a rage and pushed Agnes down the stairs. So it wasn’t even about the supposed theft, in fact; it was a charge of attempted murder.”

“Agnes. Your housemaid?”

“Yes. Still here, after all these years.”

Still here. Alive and well. Ruby shook her head. “Did you ever try to find Evangeline, to hear her side of the story?”

“I . . . didn’t.”

Ruby remembered how Olive had described Evangeline in prison, holding out hope that this man would come, and felt close to tears. “She was in Newgate for months. And then sentenced to transportation for fourteen years and locked inside a slave ship. She was murdered by a sailor on the voyage over, an ex-convict.”

He breathed in quietly through his nose. “I did not know. That is truly . . . unfathomable.”

“She was a woman alone, with no means and no one to speak for her. You might’ve at least vouched for her character.”

He seemed a little startled at her nerve. She was surprised, herself. It occurred to her that Dr. Garrett’s bluntness may have worn off on her.

He sighed. “Look,” he said, “I was told in no uncertain terms to let it be. That it was not appropriate to get involved. That I had narrowly avoided bringing scandal to the family, and they had taken care of it, and I was not allowed to make a mess of it again. If it’s any consolation, I felt wretched about it.”

“Not wretched enough to defy your stepmother. You were an adult, were you not?”

He gave her a faint smile. “You are quite . . . direct, Miss Dunne.”

All at once Ruby felt an almost physical aversion to this man sitting across from her. Opening the clasp of her purse, she pulled out a small disk on a faded red cord. Holding it up, she said, “The prisoners were required to wear these around their necks on the ship. This was Evangeline’s. It is all that I have of her.” She dropped it into his open palm. “Except your handkerchief, I suppose.”

He rubbed it with his finger, and turned it over, squinting to see the number, 171, etched faintly on the back. Then he looked up. “What do you want from me?” His voice was almost a whisper.

Ruby listened to the tock tock tock of the grandfather clock in the corner. She felt the metronomic beating of her own heart. “You are my biological father. You must realize that by now.”

He gazed at her in the honeyed lamplight, his hands on his knees, rubbing the fabric of his trousers.

“You knew she was pregnant,” she said. “And you did nothing.”

“I didn’t really know. No one ever said it. But I suppose if I’m honest I must admit I . . . suspected.” He took a deep breath. “There’s a deep moral cowardice at the root of the Whitstone family character, I’m afraid. I hope you haven’t inherited it.”

“I have not.”

Silence spiked the air between them.

“I was lucky enough to be taken in,” she said finally. “I have parents who love me, who fought for me. I don’t want anything from you.”