“As I said, my mother died several years ago. I can’t tell you for certain if she and your sister are the same person,” he told him.

“I realize this can’t be proven,” Mr. Snelling said, sadness touching his expression. “All you have is my word that you look very much like I remember her. But I don’t know that I can ever fully believe there’s no connection at all.”

Barnabus couldn’t argue with that. He felt the same way. There was no proving their connection, and yet the possibility pulled at him. And, if this man was, in fact, Barnabus’s mother’s brother, that made him . . . family.

Mrs. Simms was still in the room and had heard the entire exchange. She knew Barnabus’s mother’s history. She understood how it fueled his rescue efforts. He met her eye and silently asked the question she must’ve known was hanging his mind. She motioned him to join her on the side of the room, far enough away from Mr. Snelling to avoid being overheard if they kept their voices low.

“It obviously can’t be proven,” Barnabus said. “But it does feel possible.”

“Did your mother look a great deal like you?”

Barnabus nodded. “Enough that people commented on it.”

Mrs. Simms hummed in thought. “You’d do best to proceed with caution. Though I can’t imagine what he would gain by lying about any of this.”

“Life’s taught me to be wary, I’ll tell you that much.”

“Take your time and get to know a bit more about him. If he’s been your uncle these past years, he’ll keep being your uncle moving forward. Rushing won’t change that.”

Mrs. Simms was wise. He’d long ago realized as much.

Just as he was making his way to where Mr. Snelling stood, another knock sounded at the door. Barnabus was seldom this busy late into the evening. Mrs. Simms gave a quick nod, indicating she would see to it. She was gone only long enough for Barnabus to invite Snelling to have a seat. She returned with a note in hand.

“This arrived for you, Doc. The one delivering it seemed to think it was urgent.” She held it out to him.

He unfolded the note, then read silently.

We need to talk about Gemma. Come by as soon as you’re able.

—Brogan

It was too vague for his peace of mind. Brogan wasn’t one for brevity. There had to be a reason he wasn’t saying anything specific. Was Gemma in trouble? Ill? Maybe she was ready to come home. Or maybe she was leaving London early. The idea clutched at his heart.

But here, in his house, was a man who might be family to him, who might embrace that role long after Gemma decided to move on.

Two people. Two shaky futures. Two uncertain paths.