The chorus of singing came nearer. John listened more intently. He was sure, he was certain, he could hear Suckahanna’s voice. Reason told him that it was not possible, that he had heard her speak only once or twice, that he surely could not hear her voice among many; but still he felt his heart pound and still he leaned forwards, his ears aching with the effort to hear more clearly.

‘Suckahanna?’ he whispered.

The child, recognising the name, nodded, and then made a simple, graceful gesture to the door, and she was there, framed by the golden evening light, taller than he remembered, her face a little graver, her hair grown on both sides of her head but still braided away from her face on the right-hand side, wearing buckskin leggings and a little buckskin dress, and her arms and cheeks painted with red spirals.

‘Suckahanna!’ he said.

She stood before him and looked him over, unsmiling, and then she drew a little closer and put out her hand. John, hesitating, not knowing what he should do, put out his hand in reply, and then, as solemn as Parliament men, they shook.

Her fingers, warm and dry, closed on his and John felt an extraordinary sense of desire at that light touch. His eyes went to her face and he saw, only half-believing, the slow smile spread from her eyes to her lips till her whole face was lightened and joyful.

‘John,’ she said sweetly, her accent lilting on his name. ‘Welcome to my people.’

At once he stumbled into explanations. ‘I meant to come, I meant to come when I said. I didn’t plan to betray you. It was my intention to come to you. But when I got home my father was dead and my children needed a mother –’ He broke off as he saw her shake her head and shrug.

‘I knew you meant to come,’ she said. ‘But when you did not come my mother and I had to leave Jamestown and find our people. And then it was time that I should be married, and so now I am married.’

John would have withdrawn his hand but she held him fast. ‘This is my son,’ she said with a smile to the child in the doorway.

‘Your son!’

‘The son of my husband. His first wife died and I am now mother to this boy, and I have a girl-child of my own.’

John felt regret wash over him as painful as sickness. ‘I never thought –’

‘Yes, I am a woman grown,’ she said steadily.

John shook his head as if he would deny the passing of the years. ‘I should have come. I meant to come.’

‘Your hand is hurt? And you have been sick?’

‘The sickness was my own fault,’ John said. ‘I went hungry for too long and then ate the eggs you sent me – was it you?’

She nodded.