“Really, miss?” Eamon smiled tentatively. “We come from Antrim, but have not been home for a long time. There was no work for me in Ireland after the British . . . Well, I was sent as apprentice to Paris, where I met my wife. We wanted fresh air and open country for our children, and. well, things are bad at home, so we took our chances and came to England. It’s been a hard road. . . .” The shadow that crossed his face, careworn beyond his years, told a story of a little of that hardship. “But the Heatons are good to us. They pay us fair and give us a roof. My family is not hungry, and I am grateful every day for that, even if there are some hereabouts who would rather see us gone.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Charlotte said, “and that you and your family have found a home here. My father has been parson some twenty-six years, and there are still some who see him as an outsider.” Charlotte brought the medallion out from where she had kept it in her glove. “Mr. Riordan, I am wondering if I might ask you a question—about your faith.”

“There’s no law against my faith,” he told her, worried. “Every man has been free to worship as his conscience dictates since eighteen twenty-nine. We worship at St. Anne’s in Keighley, as is our right.”

“So you are of the Catholic faith?” Charlotte asked rather tentatively. It felt so intrusive to enquire, yet who else could she ask? Certainly not the Tempests of Skipton or the Middletons of Ilkley: fine families of good standing, but Charlotte couldn’t risk her questions escaping into polite society.

“Aye, we are. We don’t want any trouble, though, miss. . . . I know some are against us, afraid of us even. . . .”

“Some, perhaps, sir, but not I nor my family,” Charlotte promised him. “Rather, I was wondering if you might be able to tell me something about a Catholic medallion I have discovered. It seems covered in meaning, but I am blind to its symbolism.”

“I will if I can.” Eamon nodded, but it was clear that he was still suspicious of her interest.

Charlotte handed him the medal, and he seemed to recognise it at once, crossing himself and bringing it to his lips almost unconsciously. Somehow she found it comforting to see the medallion brought to its proper purpose, almost as if it had been restored to goodness by his simple gesture of faith.

“It’s a miraculous medallion, miss,” he said, smiling as if she’d shown him an old friend.

“What does that mean?” Charlotte asked. “Why is it miraculous?”