Adelaide looked from one to the other. ‘What would you have me do? Leave him in the less than tender care of Mrs Chauncey?’

The Chaunceys ran the Australis Hotel, a rundown establishment that attracted little regular patronage. Mrs Chauncey, who claimed to have been a nurse during the Crimean War, earned extra from boarders and for caring for the injured coming out of the mines. The survival rate of her patients was not high.

Adelaide fixed a smile to her face. ‘I shall be in attendance with my family and friends,’ she said. ‘The passing of last year must be marked.’

Mrs Russell raised her eyebrows. ‘Indeed? Is there some news to impart?’

‘No, but the turn of the year always presents us with a blank slate on which to write, does it not?’

‘It does indeed.’ As Adelaide turned to leave, she added, ‘I do hope Miss Redley will be bringing her cheese pastries.’

‘Of course. She was up at dawn. Good afternoon to you, ladies.’

The sound of the town’s brass band warming up drifted down the road as Adelaide stood on the verandah outside the post office, waiting for her household to make an appearance. She greeted other townspeople, all dressed in their party clothes and heading in the direction of the Mechanics’ Institute.

Caleb limped around the corner from the yard. He was immaculately dressed in one of his bright waistcoats, with a dark cloth tied around his neck. He looked her up and down and smiled. ‘Miss Adelaide, you look like you’re being led to your execution, not a picnic.’

Adelaide managed a smile. ‘I dislike social occasions. Too many people, too much noise.’

‘That’s true, but that’s the fun of it,’ Netty said, slamming the post office door behind herself and Danny. She glowed with excitement and had gone to a great deal of trouble with her appearance, her hair arranged in mouse brown ringlets around her face and tied up with the blue satin ribbons Caleb had given her. They perfectly matched the pretty blue floral dress that she had made with Adelaide’s help.

For the first time since she had adopted the persona of the widow Greaves, Adelaide felt dowdy and inappropriate in her black dress. Save for a few items from her previous life that probably didn’t fit her and were outmoded, everything in her wardrobe was black, not even the grey or lilac of half-mourning. Just unrelieved black.

As a sop to her own vanity, she had allowed Netty some licence with her hair and it had been dressed in curls to frame her face.

‘You look very nice, Mama,’ Danny said loyally.

Caleb offered his arm. ‘Mrs Greaves?’

She cast a glance at the other well-dressed townsfolk and shook her head. She had no wish to give the ladies any further fodder for their gossip. ‘I think not, Mr Hunt.’