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on his tongue. “Mr. Joshua Fielding?”
    She felt a distinct flush of pleasure, even of pride. “Yes. Do you know him?”
    “Of course.” He smiled. He had excellent teeth, even and very white. They gave his face a power she had not appreciated before because it was so dominated by his eyes. “A fine actor,” he went on. “He has the ability to convey many moods, many types of people, and carry you with him while doing so. It is a rare gift. What are you to perform for these fortunate guests of Mr. Netheridge’s?”
    Now she was not so certain that telling him about the play had been a good idea, although if he were to be islanded here by the storm, as seemed inevitable, then he would know soon enough. Still, she felt self-conscious in answering.
    “An adaptation of Bram Stoker’s novel
Dracula
,” she replied, wishing she could have said it was a few scenes from Shakespeare, or even a reading from Mr. Dickens’s works.
    “Really?” His voice held no incredulity, and certainly no suggestion of disappointment. “I did not know such a thing had been written. That interests me greatly.”
    She felt even more embarrassed, but there was no way to avoid answering him.
    “Miss Netheridge has made an adaptation,” she said with as little hesitation as she could. “The work is not complete yet, but we are progressing quite well.” That was a massive overstatement. She knew that Joshua’s afternoon had been frustrating. He had said he felt even less hopeful now than he had when he made his promises to Charles Netheridge, and by implication to Alice, the evening before.
    She was saved from Ballin’s reply by the appearance of Netheridge himself. He introduced himself to Ballin and made him welcome, offering him hospitality for as long as he should need it. This included a change of clothes from those he was wearing, which were obviously soaked through. Small pools of water glistened at Ballin’s feet in the light from the chandeliers.
    Caroline excused herself and went to tell Joshua of Ballin’s arrival, and that he knew of Joshua and admired him.

    allin joined them for dinner that night. His clothes had been dried and ironed by Netheridge’s valet, and, ifhe was exhausted by his carriage ordeal, or his long walk in the snow, he showed no sign of it at all.
    “I hope you were not hurt, Mr. Ballin?” Eliza inquired with concern.
    “Not at all,” Ballin answered gravely, and yet a certain amusement flickered in his eyes. “Except my dignity, perhaps. To be riding in comfort, if also in anxiety, at one moment, and then scrambling to arise out of a drift of snow the next, makes one appear more than a little ridiculous. However, there was no one to observe me, except my coachman, and he was in no better circumstances than I.”
    “Where is he?” Lydia asked, her soup spoon arrested halfway to her mouth.
    “In the servants’ quarters, I imagine,” Mercy answered her. “Did you expect to see him in the dining room?”
    Ballin looked at Mercy with interest, his eyes searching her delicate, pretty face as if trying to observe something deeper. “Actually, he is staying at the wheelwright’s cottage, Mrs. Hobbs,” he answered softly. “He bruised his legs rather badly, and I fear this walk would have been distressing for him.”
    “Where were you hoping to go?” James asked. However, there was no interest in his face; it was clear that he inquired only to be polite.
    “To stay with friends on the farther side of Whitby,” Ballin replied. “I regret that it will be some time before that is possible, judging from the weather. No doubt they will have deduced that I was obliged to seek hospitality elsewhere, and they will not be overly anxious.”
    “Sorry.” Netheridge shook his head. “Can’t get a message to anyone through this storm. The snow is several feet deep in some places on the road. And if this wind gets worse, we could have trees down.”
    Even as he spoke the howling outside increased.