‘Oh, look!’ She pulled some thick papers from the packet that had arrived. ‘That German has sent the pictures of his daughters. Oh, my goodness . . .’ She sheaved through them. ‘They’re all very . . .’ She gave a stifled giggle. ‘They’re rather stout! Margaret – I’ll show Eb when he comes in, but I know what he’ll say. Go and ask Caleb to come in, will you?’

‘Yes, Aunt.’

Managing to hide the envelope behind her skirts, she slipped into the hall, tore it open and quickly read the short letter inside as she went to the door.

‘My dear daughters,’ her father had written.

I am now of a mind that you should return home. You have imposed upon the hospitality of your aunt and uncle quite long enough. The situation is resolved here. Charles Barber has long been lodged once more with the Davis household and in any case will soon be installed in his new position. This unfortunate situation has been allowed to continue for long enough. I am, of course, disposed to forgive you for all that is past, as is Charles. He is confused and distressed at the idea that he caused trouble in some way. (See enclosed note.) It is time that we restore order to our household and that you both take up your work in the village again. The school needs you, certainly.

Please make arrangements for your immediate return. My thoughts and prayers are of course with you.

Your father,

William Hanson

With it, she found another sheet of paper covered in bold, copperplate handwriting. As she held this with trembling hands, her eyes raced to the signature and it was a shock to see the words, ‘With my enduring respect and affection, Charles’.

Standing behind the door, she scanned the letter.

My dear Margaret,

I hardly know what to say to you. During all these weeks I have been battering my memory, trying to recover that evening . . . Since childhood I have been subject to occasional fits and each leaves my mind in a numb and hopeless condition. I rarely mention this to anyone – even to you, my dear – as it is a cause of mortification to me. It is as the thorn in my flesh of which St Paul writes – I believe it to be a form of epilepsy which afflicts me, leaving my mind, for some hours after each crisis, with an irrecoverable absence of the time when it happened.

What I long to convey to you is the depth of my sorrow and shame. Whatever happened, whatever I did that frightened you so much, I write in humble and abject apology. Unwittingly, I have thrown into doubt all our precious friendship, our vision and pledge of a loving future together, devoted toilers in God’s vineyard. My soul aches with the thought of not having you by my side as you had promised, a promise which I considered sacred.