When you read this I will have passed to my maker and I go with the greatest regret that we will never meet again. When you first left my house, I was filled with rage, and discovering the shameful circumstances in which you took this step, my rage only increased. Despite knowing your whereabouts in the years that have passed, I fuelled my anger towards you.

But as my days are numbered, I see now the folly of not offering you forgiveness and allowing myself the honour of knowing my only grandson. I have made provision for you both in my will, and you and young Daniel will want for nothing in the years to come. I have been an unloving parent whose coldness drove my only child away and denied me the comfort of your presence in these, my last months. It is too much to ask for your forgiveness, only that in the years to come you think kindly of me.

Your father

Daniel Lewis

A sharp knock on the door made her start. She wiped her eyes and opened the door to Caleb. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

Adelaide held her breath for a long moment before she found the strength she needed.

‘He’s dead?’

He nodded. ‘Just before daybreak. Reverend Johnson was with him at the end.’ He shrugged. ‘In my heart I hope he found some peace.’ He glanced at the papers on the table. ‘Is that what Barnwell was carrying around with him?’

Adelaide nodded and handed him her father’s letter. He read it through and set it back on the table without comment. He held out a hand and Adelaide came to him, grateful for the solace he offered, solace that needed no words, just the comfort of human touch.

‘You look exhausted,’ she said, running her hand along his unshaven cheek.

‘Can’t rightly remember the last time I slept in my own bed,’ he agreed, releasing her and raising a hand to his whiskers. ‘You, on the other hand, look … different.’

Adelaide smiled and touched the soft curls that framed her face. Before she had gone to bed, Netty had tied her hair in rags, just as she used to do when Adelaide was a girl. The simple blue sprig cotton dress she wore had been lingering in the bottom of a trunk since she had left England. It had been made when fashion dictated much wider skirts so Netty had pinned the fabric up behind her in a makeshift bustle. It would do for the time being.

She smoothed down the skirts. ‘It’s a young girl’s dress,’ she said. ‘I’m not that girl any more.’

‘It looks lovely—you look lovely,’ he said and a rush of joy surged through her. Perhaps she was still that young girl after all.

His gaze did not move from her face. ‘We have to talk, Adelaide.’

‘What do you mean?’