She turned. Caleb Hunt leaned against the door jamb. He carried a stout staff and had somehow managed to shave and dress himself, donning an outrageously bright satin, diamond-pieced waistcoat. Dark brown hair, badly in need of a trim, curled around his lean face.

Leaving the Reverend Johnson and the two girls standing dumbfounded in the middle of the room, the matrons directed all their attention on Mr Hunt as he limped into the office space. Adelaide lifted the counter to let him through, and he took Mrs Russell by the hand, bowing over it.

‘Why, Mrs Russell, you look mighty fine this afternoon. I hope you have recovered from the rigours of your journey?’

‘What are you doing—’ Adelaide began but Mrs Russell cut across her, her hand fluttering to the high neckline of her dress.

‘Oh, Mr Hunt, yes, quite recovered. How good to see you have not been badly injured in yesterday’s mishap. Mildred, this is Mr Hunt, the charming American. Mr Hunt, my friend, Mrs Jervis.’

‘Ladies, if you have your mail, I have work to do and Mr Hunt needs to rest,’ Adelaide snapped.

As if to prove the truth of her words, Mr Hunt sank on to the bench.

The two women left with promises to Mr Hunt of dinner parties and afternoon tea, when he felt up to some genteel company.

‘Mr Hunt.’ The Reverend Johnson approached him, holding out his hand. ‘Let me shake your hand, sir. By all accounts you were lucky not to be more seriously injured. Allow me to introduce myself: Reverend Charles Johnson. I am the minister of the Church of England and you are most welcome to attend our Sunday worship. Of course, if that is not your preference …’

Mr Hunt reached up and shook Johnson’s hand. ‘Forgive me not rising. No offence, Reverend, but I have no preference. The good Lord and I parted ways many years ago.’

Johnson frowned. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, perhaps we can talk …?’ Caleb’s narrowed lips answered that question and the clergyman turned back to Adelaide. ‘Now I have quite forgotten why I came in. Oh yes, a penny stamp, please, Mrs Greaves.’ He smiled at Adelaide. ‘Mrs Greaves is a stalwart of my congregation. She plays the organ every Sunday.’

Caleb Hunt quirked an eyebrow. ‘Does she indeed? Well, that is a fine thing, Mrs Greaves. And these lovely young ladies?’

Sissy started as if she had not expected to be addressed. She straightened, her chin jutting. ‘I’m Sissy and this is Jess,’ she said, adding, with a quick glance at the Reverend Johnson, ‘we’re dancers at Lil’s Place. We’ll come back later, Mrs Greaves. When you’re less busy.’ As she passed the Reverend, she stopped and looked the man in the eye. ‘Thank you for sticking up for us, Mr Johnson.’

The vicar doffed his hat and held the door open, following them out into the street.