'You have a servant? I've not seen one.'

'Not at present,' she conceded. 'But the attic is not at all comfortable.'

'After the ship, it will seem a palace.'

The two soldiers hoisted their bags onto their shoulders. Colonel Whalley was plainly a gentleman by birth: polite, accustomed to deference, not easy to deny. She hesitated, but lacking the inspiration for any fresh objection, she felt she had no choice but to lead them out onto the landing and up the narrow staircase.

The attic ran the length of the house. Its ceiling sloped according to the angle of the roof, and Whalley was tall – perhaps a head higher than his son-in-law – so it was only in the central section that he could stand upright, and even then he had to duck as he walked to the window, to avoid striking his head on the cross-beams. He unfastened the latch and leaned out, looked this way and that, then withdrew.

'This is perfect. We shall be most content up here, shall we not, Will?'

'Indeed. And at least, Mrs Gookin, we'll be somewhat out of your way. We do so much regret this unexpected imposition.'

She glanced doubtfully along the cramped, narrow space. There was a single wooden bed they would have to share, with a straw mattress, too short for Whalley – his feet would hang over the edge for sure. In the gloom at the far end were various items of furniture, no longer used. There was an old chair among it all somewhere, and a chest. She surrendered.

'Take what you need. I'll have the girls bring you linen and blankets.'

'Most kind.' Colonel Whalley was already back at the window. He took a small telescope from the inner recesses of his coat, extended it, adjusted the focus, and scanned the river. 'That bridge will make the journey from Boston much quicker. There must be thirty men working on it. When will the job be done?'

'They say another half-year.'

'So, January then.' The answer seemed to satisfy him. 'Perfect,' he repeated. He snapped the telescope shut.

Daniel Gookin was in their bedroom, lying on the bed with his arms flung wide, his eyes closed, sound asleep. He hadn't bothered to take off his boots. She leaned over and studied him for a moment. He was forty-eight, thinner than she remembered. The greying at his temples rendered him more distinguished. She felt a surge of love. The colonels were not the first men in need of help he had taken pity on, and would surely not be the last. They had even had local Indians sleeping under their roof before now. Daniel was dedicated to the cause of teaching them the Scriptures. Such faults as he possessed came only from a good heart. She knelt at the foot of the bed and began to unlace his boots. He felt the movement, opened his eyes and raised his head to look at her.

'Leave the boots and come and lie beside me.'

'Hold your impatience, Mr Gookin.' She finished the unlacing, grasped the heel and worked the boot off, then did the same to the other. The climacteric had come upon her while he was away. There would be no more children, for which she thanked God. Fifteen pregnancies had been more than enough. She lifted her skirt and climbed onto the bed.

Ten minutes later, there was a thud above their heads, followed by another, and then the scrape of a heavy object being dragged across the floor.

He looked at the ceiling. 'You have lodged them in the attic?'

'It was their choice. Do you disapprove?' She climbed off the bed and searched around the floor for her underclothes.

'No, not if they are content with it.'

'If you like them so much, they may sleep in here with us if you prefer.'

He laughed and made a grab for her, but she twisted away and finished dressing.

Another thump came from the attic.

'How did you come to know them, Dan?'

He swung his feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. 'You remember Reverend Hooke of New Haven, who returned to England some years ago?'

Excerpted from Act of Oblivion by Robert Harris. Copyright © 2022 by Robert Harris. Excerpted by permission of Harper. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.