“My friend John—John Rafferty.” Mr. Markham smiled faintly. “He was an Irish boy, came over with his mother to look for work. John was small for his age, like so many of us, and often ill, but his sense of fun and mischief never wavered, and he was never one to give up hope, despite his own frailty. The rest of us would be sickly and frozen, and he’d take care of us, bringing in extra sticks to heat the dormitory and swiping bits of food from under Cook’s nose. He was different from most of us because his mother still lived. She had found work living in and, unable to take a child with her, left him at Crossed Keys until she found a better position. How we all envied the letters she wrote him, though his reading was not good. I’d read them for him. The last letter spoke of a new job with a cottage that would suit them both, and that is why it is difficult to countenance that, knowing he was so close to a home with his ma, he ran away before we left our work at Top Withens, leaving even his boots behind. But that’s what Mrs. Poole said, and her word was . . . is . . . law in this establishment.”

“John Rafferty.” Anne whispered the name, turning to her sisters, who were very quiet and very grave. It seemed likely that this was their child, anonymous no more: a boy with a name and a spirit, a mother and the hope of a better life.

“Can you be sure that, unable to wait, he didn’t run to his mother?” Charlotte asked.

“I’m afraid not.” Mr. Markham shook his head gravely. “Mrs. Rafferty never heard from him again as far as I know. I visited her once, after I was compelled to leave the orphanage upon turning twelve. I think perhaps I hoped for a little motherly comfort, but there was none to be found. I met a woman so out of sorts and vexed with worry that it was terribly sad to see. She told me she had to take in a lodger to make ends meet but was terrified that she would be found out and thrown out of her master’s cottage—she made me promise her not to speak of it, and I swore I wouldn’t. Truth be told, I was rather hopeful that she would ask me to stay with her, for I was very young and lonely, but perhaps it was better that I was disappointed. After all, making my own way in the world has served me well. I have often thought of her. If she had known for certain that John had died, she could have understood—she could have grieved—but for him just to vanish seemed impossible for her to fathom. It was soon after John vanished that the boys began talking of . . .”