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It’s the Georgians you need to question. I’m a
law-abiding Pennsylvania man.”
    Alyson called for more brandy. Heron pushed away his glass, said, “I have a letter to write,” and walked from the room. I glanced at Fischer. “Do you care to join the ladies,
sir?”
    “Indeed,” he said, abandoning the brandy almost untouched. “And I think I might have another attempt at persuading you to join us in Philadelphia.”
    “I believe – ”
    “No, no,” he said in good-humour. “Don’t give me an answer now. Later.”
    I searched for a diplomatic answer. And heard myself saying: “I’d be interested to know more about this book...”

5
    Marriage here is a flexible institution; as long as the partners in any affaire d’amour are married, no one cares much if they are not married to each
     other.
    [Letter from Retif de Vincennes, to his brother Georges, 10 August 1736]
    The ladies are always said to be eager to see the gentlemen after dinner. The ladies were not pleased to see Fischer and myself. Mrs Alyson was standing by the fireplace,
straightening ornaments on the mantelshelf – she gave us a cold hard stare. Another lady was slouched back in her armchair, rubbing her distended stomach; she sat up suddenly with a grimace
and assumed a look of polite boredom. An elderly dowager dozed over a book of drawings; two middle-aged ladies were laughing over an anecdote.
    “Patterson,” Mrs Alyson said, as if I was a servant. “Play some music.” She jerked her head towards the harpsichord in the far corner of the room.
    A dozen gazes turned to me. Well, this was what I was here for, after all; time to start earning my money. I excused myself to Fischer and went to open the harpsichord.
    The room was so small there was hardly space enough to edge round the instrument; the stool was hard up against the wall and I suspected I’d bang my elbow every time I played the lowest
notes. I knew too, by the dust when I lifted the lid, that the instrument would be out of tune. Nor was there any light to read music by; only one candle burned on the end of the mantelshelf and
was worse than useless, casting my shadow across the black keys.
    Fortunately, any musician worth the name knows a hatful of tunes by heart. I launched into a minuet, wincing at the out-of-tune notes. Playing by heart did at least give me leisure to look
about. I spotted Esther at once, seated behind the two gossiping ladies. She was staring at me expressionlessly. When she met my gaze, she coolly returned her attention to her book.
    What in heaven’s name brought these people here, I wondered. Only the two middle-aged ladies were gaining any pleasure from the gathering – and Fischer, who was browsing along the
pictures on the wall. The hostess was making no effort to entertain her guests – Mrs Alyson was restlessly moving backwards and forwards, glancing into the glass of pictures as she passed,
putting up a hand to push a stray strand of hair back into place.
    The gentlemen came in at last, and crowded us out, jolting the harpsichord as they pushed past. I carried on playing, though I was sure not a note could be heard in the hubbub. Close by, Alyson
accosted Fischer at the corner of the mantelpiece.
    “A sword and a book,” I heard Alyson say, smiling.
    “Alas,” Fischer said. “A sword only. The book seems to have been sold.”
    I played a wrong note, and saw Esther glance at me sharply. No one else appeared to notice.
    “It was in the family’s possession ten years since,” Fischer mused. “But two or three years back, a correspondent of mine came across it in a bookshop in Newcastle. A
shop owned by a man called – Chartwell?”
    “Charnley?” Alyson asked, smiling. He could apparently get names right when he chose.
    “Indeed,” Fischer said. “My friend asked the shopboy to put the book aside until he could write me about it. But the boy forgot and it was sold.”
    “You don’t know the purchaser’s name?”
    “No