‘No, I still can’t hear anything,’ she said, and was just about to turn away when something caught her eye. Lying against one of the tall stone pillars was a tiny bundle wrapped tightly in a large blanket.

‘There is something here – you were right, Em’ly,’ she called to the wide-eyed maid, and as she bent to lift it, another voice wafted out from the hallway.

‘Where on earth is that wife of mine, Em’ly? Cook will be after us if she’s not allowed to serve the dinner very soon.’

‘I’m here, Tom.’ Gently lifting the bundle and holding it tight to her chest, Sunday hurried back into the warmth of the hallway while Em’ly quickly closed the door shut behind them to keep out the cold.

As Tom approached to see what was going on, Sunday’s heart flipped at the sight of him, just as it always did. Tom was now twenty-eight years old and the couple had been married for almost seven years, but she still loved him as much, if not more than she had on the day they had wed. With his expressive deep brown eyes and thick dark hair, he no longer resembled the skinny lad she had met so long ago. He had grown into a tall, handsome man and Sunday counted herself a very fortunate woman indeed. Her only regret was that, as yet, they had not had a child of their own. Still, the home for foundlings that they ran with the help of her mother, Lady Lavinia Huntley, ensured that she was never short of the company of babies and children, and as Lavinia often pointed out, there was still plenty of time for Sunday to give her a grandchild. She was only twenty-six years old, after all.

‘So what’s this that’s been left on the doorstep then?’ Tom twitched the blanket aside and they all gasped as they looked down into a pair of deep brown eyes. ‘My God … it’s a baby!’

‘Yes, another one,’ Sunday sighed, for this wasn’t the first infant they had found abandoned on the steps of Treetops Children’s Home.

‘But we ain’t got room fer any more, ma’am,’ Em’ly fretted.

‘Oh, I have a feeling we could fit just one more little one in,’ Tom told her, noting the dreamy look on his wife’s face. Sunday was busy crooning to the baby and drinking in the sight of the dear little bundle in her arms. ‘Run up and fetch Cissie from the nursery for me, would you, Em’ly? I dare say this little boy or girl will want feeding before very much longer.’

The young lass scuttled away and it was then that Tom noticed the edge of a large brown envelope protruding from the blanket. He plucked it free, noting that it looked to be very good quality stationery, and as Sunday looked on he tore it open and removed a single sheet of paper.

‘What does it say?’ she asked, so Tom obligingly began to read aloud.