Unbeknown to Emma, however, Marlow did know of the girl-child born to Emma all those years ago! And because of it, he also wondered just how deeply Molly’s life was linked with his and Emma’s. Since Nelly had recently confided in him, he had been driven that much harder to find Molly, because in his heart he wanted to believe that she was his daughter. He prayed that it was so.

Because Nelly had begged to be the one who would tell Emma of the possibility that her girl-child might have survived that night, Marlow had kept his own counsel. Now though, in the light of Molly’s own child being here, under this very roof and in need of help from them, he felt that Emma should be told all there was to know. Not even one moment should be lost.

Marlow ushered both Nelly and Emma downstairs to the drawing-room. ‘There is much for you to know, Emma,’ he told her, the light of love as strong in his dark eyes as it was when they had first met: he just a boy, she a young and gently blossoming girl. The feelings that had stirred between them then were still as young, still as wonderful in both their hearts.

What he had to tell Emma now seemed to Marlow like a blessing from the good Lord, in compensation for having taken their son. Nothing was certain, though. When all was revealed, it might be that Molly was not their own flesh and blood after all. But even before Nelly had unburdened her heart to him, Marlow had been deeply disturbed by something he could not understand – a certain feeling about the infant that his dear sister had found and raised as her own. No, nothing was certain. But there was always hope. And that hope would bind him and Emma closer still.

With lighter heart, Marlow followed Nelly and his beloved wife into the drawing-room. Between the three of them, they would find whatever truths there were. In all of his distress following Emma’s illness and during the search for Molly, Marlow, like Nelly, had derived much comfort from their faith. It would have given Marlow so much joy to know that Emma’s own faith had returned. Perhaps one day soon, he thought, when the pain of losing their son was not so unbearable.

How much sooner that would be if, by the grace of God, their first-born was returned to them. Was it too much to hope for? Marlow asked himself now as he closed the drawing-room door.

It was some time later when the messenger came: an ill-mannered lout of dubious character bearing news that struck both fear and joy into the hearts of all present. There was nothing delivered in writing, but the fellow was obviously well rehearsed. ‘I’ve been sent by a certain gent,’ he addressed Emma, ‘a certain gent whose name I’m not at liberty to disclose, yer understand, but what I’ve to tell yer is this… the gent is in possession of a number o’ brats. I’m to tell yer that three of ’em are yer own grandchildren.’ When the colour drained from Emma’s face, he seemed momentarily surprised. ‘That’s right, lady… yer own grandchildren… an’ I was to make quite certain that yer understood that. The brats belong to a young woman by the name o’ Molly… your daughter.’