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‘Mamma,’ she says, gentle. ‘Do as Enaid asks. There’s nothing for you down here.’

‘But there were people in the room,’ Lady Gwen replies, and takes a breath that sounds more like a sob.

‘Which room?’ he presses. ‘What people?’

‘They were calling him.’

‘Calling who?’

But she does not answer. Henry reaches out; the older woman allows herself to be turned. She looks up tearfully – eyes like pools of ink – before her gaze falls downward to his throat.

Her eyes widen. Before Henry can stop her she reaches for the collar of his nightshirt where it lies open at the neck.

‘No,’ she moans, pressing her fingertips against his skin. ‘No,’ she cries, louder now, and again she looks up into his face. Her eyes shine with unshed tears. ‘You’re marked! Not real. Not real! You cannot—’

But Mrs Evans is dragging her away, Linette at her other arm, concern and confusion etched across her face, and Lady Gwen says nothing more.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

He rises late, the sun already high in the sky, blinding-bright.

In front of the mirror Henry dips his razor into the fresh bowl of warm water that Powell brought up together with his clean clothes. He scrapes the blade across the plane of his jaw, sucks in his breath as a spot of blood blooms on his neck. Henry reaches for the towel, pats his skin to stem the flow.

When it stops bleeding he examines the birthmark that so upset Gwen Tresilian last night. He always made care to keep it hidden by collar and cravat, but the sight never particularly bothered him. In fact he found the mark fascinating as a child, perhaps was even the initial reason for pursuing a career in medicine. What made the skin produce such discolouration? What differentiated the anomaly from that of normal tissue? The notion was captivating.

Venous malformations was what the anatomist William Hunter called such marks, though Henry did not know the name in those early years. No, indeed, this information was imparted from a lecture he once heard the older man give during his apprenticeship, and Henry credits him for his own pursuit of the task at Guy’s. He stretches the skin with his fingers. The mark is livid purple in colour, like grape juice on linen. He runs his thumb over it – no raised bumps, no hairs … no change.

Satisfied, Henry reaches for his cravat.

He needs to check on his charge. Henry takes the stairs to the third floor and the vanilla scent hits him as soon as he opens the door, making his eyes water. The smell is not unpleasant but it is cloying, and for the first time he finds himself more than passing curious as to why Lady Gwen’s rooms are filled with the flowers responsible for that perfume. Is it another superstition? Or mere decoration only?

There is no answer to his knock. He tries the handle; the door opens easily. The rooms are, for once, flooded with light, the windows open wide, and the sound of birdsong trickles through them, taffeta curtains blowing gently in the breeze. Mrs Evans’ trestle bed is neatly made. He crosses beneath the floral overhang to the bedroom, but Henry can already see from the threshold that the bed is empty, its sheets pulled back for airing.

No one is here.

Henry looks about the room. In daylight it appears drab – threadbare carpets, moth-eaten curtains. Even Mrs Evans’ trestle bed seems, somehow, less. Henry regards the lumpy mattress with distaste. What way is this to live? He sighs, turns his head. A harp stands near the window and he goes over to it, plucks its strings. The sound is gentle, resonant, the mellow note lingering in the air. Thoughtfully he looks out over the grounds. The bedchamber faces the gardens; box hedges, a large pond filled with lily pads the size of dinner plates. And there, walking the paved footpath surrounding it, is Lady Gwen, a wraith in white.

She is alone. This, then, is an advantage. Henry told Linette that he could not deduce madness from one hysterical episode alone. Here is an opportunity to observe her without the eagle eyes of Enaid Evans to curtail him; always she has hovered like a stern sentinel, making Henry’s job damnably difficult. Even though the housekeeper’s reserve has begun to thaw these past few days, Henry has not missed the way she still looks at him as if trying to take his measure. If Henry does not speak to Gwen Tresilian now then his chance at finding her alone again is very slim indeed.

Outside, Plas Helyg is steeped in bright sunshine. The air is sweet, and a warm breeze lifts the curls at his crown. In the far distance he can make out the faint sound of the sea like a rumbling sigh upon the horizon.

Henry follows the gravel path around the side of the house in the direction of the ornamental garden, crosses the lawn in long fast strides. Lady Gwen is lingering now at the top of the pond under the shade of some trees, watching the fountain with a dream-like expression on her face. She is dressed in a flowing nightgown; from beneath the hem peek bare toes. Her long white hair is loose; it hangs down her back in thin rope-like strands, but the way they capture the glow of sunlight makes them look, almost, like spun silver.

How different she looks from the portrait, he thinks. How changed. Though her beauty is still etched into the thin plane of her face it pales in comparison to the loveliness captured in oil. The boldness Henry saw staring out of the canvas no longer exists, a mere watermark on silk.

‘My lady?’

Gwen Tresilian tears her gaze from the fountain. She looks for a long moment as if she does not know him, but then her face splits into one of recognition.

‘Bore da, Dr Talbot.’

Her voice is soft, quiet, as if that too has been watered down.

‘Good morning. How do you feel today?’

When he, Linette and Mrs Evans guided her back to bed last night she had cried the entire way. Henry wants to ask if she remembers what she said – such odd things – but then Linette warned him that her mother uttered many things which made no sense. Would there be any use trying to remind her of it?

She answers him now with a sigh, reaches up to rub her left eye. Gwen is not wearing the veil Linette mentioned. Perhaps, Henry thinks, she does not need one for the trees here provide plenty of shade. Still, it is bright outside, bright enough that it should cause her eyes discomfort of some sort …