Danny glanced at his mother. ‘You haven’t opened your present, Mama.’

Adelaide sat on one of the chairs by the table and like her son, carefully unwrapped the slim box, saving the paper and string for another use. She lifted the purple and silver lid of the carboard box and gently pushed aside the tissue to reveal a lace collar. She lifted it out, her traitorous soul taking pleasure in its airy lightness and the pretty floral pattern.

‘Irish,’ Richard said. ‘I hope you like it.’

‘Thank you. That was very generous of you.’

Richard waved a hand at her sombre skirts. ‘Do you always wear black?’

‘You forget, I am a widow in mourning for my husband.’

‘But it has been ten years, Adelaide. Time to let the past go.’

‘Who’s this?’ Danny, preoccupied with the contents of his box, held up a miniature of the Duke of Wellington.

‘Supper’s ready,’ Netty said from the doorway. She set the roast chicken in the middle of the table. One of the precious hens had gone the way of the fatted calf.

Adelaide indicated the chair opposite Danny. Richard glanced at Netty’s place as he sat. ‘Someone else expected?’

‘Only Netty,’ Danny said.

‘You dine with your servant?’

Adelaide sensed rather than heard her friend’s sharp intake of breath.

‘Netty is not my servant,’ Adelaide replied. ‘She is my friend.’

Richard’s lips tightened. ‘Your father would never—’

‘My father is dead and this is not England.’ Adelaide glared at Richard. ‘Netty, would you say grace?’

After tea, Richard turned the full force of his attention on Danny, sprawled on the rag rug on the floor, helping him set up the soldiers and telling him about the Battle of Waterloo as he did so.

Watching the two blond heads bent together in mutual interest, Adelaide found herself warming to Richard. She could see glimpses of the young man he had been, the man she had loved. Perhaps there was enough still there to rekindle what had been between them.

The clock struck eight.

‘Time for bed,’ Adelaide said to Danny.

‘Surely—’ Richard began.

‘Danny has school and I have work, Richard.’

‘Ah. Of course. In that case, thank you for a delightful evening. I shall call on you tomorrow, Adelaide,’ Richard said as they parted at the front door.

She closed the door and stood with her hands on her hips, looking at Danny as he moved Napoleon Bonaparte on his fine black horse to the head of the French troops.

‘Bed time, Danny. Pack up your soldiers.’

With slow, deliberate care, Danny set the figures back into the box in proper order.