‘And yet you want to be part of it?’

‘I am tired of a hand-to-mouth existence. If there is the remotest possibility of making enough from this claim of mine, then I would like to find a farm and settle to the land again. I think my father would approve.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I have lost track of the days. How can it be Christmas already?’ He looked up at the sun, high and bright above the tops of the hills. ‘In Virginia, it would be snowing. Do you ever get used to the seasons being back to front?’

‘I miss England at Christmas time. I miss the cold walk to church, the yule log on the fire. Although we didn’t always get snow at Christmas,’ Adelaide said. ‘Too near the sea.’

‘Where was home in England?’

‘Home?’ Adelaide could not disguise her bitterness. ‘I lived near Liverpool in the north of England. A grand mausoleum, a tribute to my father. I never think of it as home.’

His grey eyes were fixed unwaveringly on her face and she found her own sliding away. It was pleasant sitting in the shade in the easy company of this man. She had no wish to hurry back to a hot kitchen and a bad-tempered Netty, but they had much to do.

‘I have to go.’ She rose and straightened her apron. ‘I will retrieve poor Cholmondeley and see to his plucking.’ She paused, conscious that one formality had been left unconcluded. She felt a twinge of guilt that up until now, at his suggestion, Mr Hunt had taken his meals in the kitchen, leaving the family to dine in private. ‘I would be pleased if you would join us for our Christmas dinner.’

He smiled with what looked like genuine pleasure. ‘Thank you, Mrs Greaves. I would be honoured. It has been a long, long time since I partook of a proper Christmas feast.’ He waved a hand at his accommodation. ‘The good Lord and I, resident in a stable.’

‘Now you are being blasphemous.’

‘Not at all. I am just pleased for a roof over my head and an invitation for dinner.’ Mr Hunt waved a hand at the dead bird. ‘If you want me to deal with—what did you call him? Chumley?—bring me the hot water and I’ll do the deed.’

‘Would you? Netty will be extremely grateful.’

‘Call it my contribution to the Christmas feast, Miss Adelaide,’ he said.

Miss Adelaide? Her heart lurched. She hadn’t been addressed as ‘Miss’ since she had walked out of her father’s house.

‘Have I said something wrong?’

‘I am not a “miss”.’

Mr Hunt frowned. ‘I apologise. It is a term of respect for ladies in the South. My mother was always called Miss Margaret.’

‘Oh, then if you wish to call me Miss Adelaide, please do so.’

‘I’d consider it an honour if you would call me Caleb.’