Richard Barnwell, the love of her young life, had been eight years her senior when he had chosen her from the crowd of simpering debutantes at her coming out ball. They had danced together three times that night. He had trodden on her new blue satin dancing slippers and torn the lace on her hem, but he had made her laugh, made her feel special and, at seventeen, with no experience of men beyond the narrow world of her father, she had fallen hopelessly, foolishly in love with this blond-haired hero of every Walter Scott novel she had read made real.

Her Ivanhoe would be in his mid-thirties now. The years had thickened his torso and lessened his hair. He now wore a neat, waxed moustache and there were lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

She wondered what he saw: a thin, angular woman with her once glossy curls of dark hair, drawn severely back in an uncompromising bun at the nape of her neck, only relieved by the few stray locks she now allowed to soften her face.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Barnwell. What is it I can help you with?’

‘Adelaide.’ Richard smiled and held out his hand. ‘Come out from behind that desk.’

She hesitated and, with the greatest reluctance, lifted the counter. She stood out of his reach, her arms wrapped tightly around her body. Her eyes remained on his outstretched hand but she found herself unable to touch him. If she took his hand, maybe he would disappear again? Vanish from her life just as he had done ten years ago.

‘Addy …’ His voice cracked.

In a high, tight voice, she found the carefully chosen words she had rehearsed in the dead of night vanished. ‘You’re dead!’ were the only words that came out.

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, tousling it and bringing back the man she remembered, the man she had loved.

‘Where do I start? Is there somewhere we can talk?’ He cast a meaningful glance at the door to the residence.

The bell on the door tinkled, making them both start as Mrs Jervis bustled in. She stood looking from one to the other, her eyes bright with curiosity. The tension in the room positively crackled.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Jervis,’ Adelaide said, returning to her place behind the counter.

‘Are you serving this gentleman?’ the bank manager’s wife enquired.

‘No,’ Adelaide replied. ‘He is waiting on me to finish sorting the mail.’

‘Is there anything for me?’ Mrs Jervis asked.

Adelaide indicated the mailbags. ‘As you can see, I have barely started. Come back in the afternoon.’

Not one to depart without some tidbit of gossip to impart to Mrs Russell, the lady held out her hand.

‘Welcome to Maiden’s Creek, Mr …?’

Richard smiled and took her hand. ‘Barnwell,’ he said.

‘It is good to see a gentleman of evident quality. Are you just passing through?’