The following week, I saw the letter on the table in our short hall. One letter and it was not for my father but for Abigail. I didn’t know what to do. My hand darted out to pick it up and slide it into my pinafore. It burned like a dagger there; I must hide it now, quickly. I knew that Abigail would not be in her room. She would be walking somewhere, I know not where. Entering our room, I wondered where I could hide it — in the trunk? My father might search it. I saw the mirror. I took the letter from my pinafore and slid it behind the mirror where it was made steadfast behind a clasp. Would God forgive me for this sly act? I knew it was wrong but I understood why Abigail needed to flee.

When Abigail finally came in, I put my fingers to my lips and crept in front of the mirror and took out his letter. Abigail snatched it from me, tearing it open, read it and then clasped the letter to her breast.

‘They have a position waiting for me in Virginia,’ Abigail whispered. ‘I am to work with a cook in a plantation house. They want me there in a month at the latest. I will go next week,’ she said.

I knew she wouldn’t.