The flickering candles cast distorted shadows. Unwilling to admit it, Hannah was unnerved by the wind in the trees, the darkness, and the idea that Merelita had suggested.

‘Watch out—the flames—’ Uncle Henry’s eyes shot open and he attempted to sit up. He blinked once, twice, then peered round the bedroom as if to reassure himself where he was.

Hannah dropped her sketchpad and charcoal to the floor before he could catch sight of them. ‘It’s all right, Uncle. You were dreaming.’

She took one of the candles from the chest of drawers and left the room, returning with a damp cloth. Carefully, she wiped the perspiration from his face, turned the damp pillow over, and straightened the crumpled sheet. ‘Is that more comfortable?’ she whispered, not wanting to disturb the household.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered in return. ‘Where is Mrs Stanton?’

‘Asleep, in my room. She’s exhausted. I made her rest, even though she didn’t want to.’

‘You should be asleep yourself.’ Uncle Henry frowned.

‘I couldn’t sleep anyway. I’ll stay.’ Her voice was firm. Aunt Constance would never forgive her if she abandoned her post.

He turned his head to look directly at her, his eyes burning feverishly in the candlelight. ‘Your father was good at this sort of thing.’

‘This … sort of thing?’ She could scarcely believe that he had, of his own violition, mentioned her father. It had previously been a tabu subject, except on the day of their big argument. But even then he had used reference to his brother as an insult.

‘Our mother died when we were young, and our father was never one for sentiment. So … William and I tended to look after each other.’ A small smile crept across his lips. ‘To be fair, more often than not, William looked after me, despite the fact that I was six years older. Have you ever had chicken pox, Hannah?’

‘No.’

He pursed his lips in painful memory. ‘Most unpleasant. You have blistery sores all over your body, and the itching drives you crazy. When I was sixteen, a sensitive age for an infant illness, I contracted chicken pox from a young friend. Your father sat with me night after night, reading to me, and he growled if I scratched. He told me I would scar horribly if I did, and he insisted I wear gloves.’

Uncle Henry sighed. ‘I’ve been angry with your father for years. Not because he escaped … but because I couldn’t.’

Hannah was flummoxed. What was he saying?

‘William was always popular. He had charm, wit, the ability to get on with people, to understand them, make them like him. Me? Every time I opened my mouth, I put my foot in it.’ He caught the expression on her face and added, ‘You can identify with that, my dear?’

She certainly could. She bit her lip, whether to stifle a smile or a sob, she wasn’t sure. Talking about her father was bitter-sweet.

‘William would have been a much better man of the cloth than I. But after he left, I had to do my duty. Years later I heard that he was in Australia.’

‘Did you fight? Is that why he went so far away?’

Uncle Henry slowly shook his head. ‘No. He simply vanished. William would have feared that I might persuade him to return and take up his God-given duties. So he kept a wall of distance between us, ceased all contact.’

He fell silent then, for so long that Hannah wondered if he had finished speaking. But after a while, he started up again. ‘He was right. I would have made him fulfill his duties. William was a tender soul, so a life of rigid duty, separate from his art, would have been torture—twisted him into the sort of person he was never meant to be. It took me a long time to realise that. Too long.’

Uncle Henry’s eyes clouded over, his speech became slurred. ‘We had a distant cousin, Jane, and I discovered William occasionally wrote to her. It became my custom to visit her once in a while, hungry for news of my brother. But she never offered any, and I never asked. It was not that I didn’t want to; I simply couldn’t. So, there we would sit, uncomfortably like strangers, sipping tea, gagging on crumbs of cake, and never mentioning the subject that was uppermost in our minds.

‘Jane died of consumption. After she was gone, I visited the house, hoping to secure the letters, only to find that her husband had burnt all her correspondence. If I had been just half an hour earlier. The ashes were still warm in the fireplace.

‘You are so like him, Hannah. When I first saw you on the beach, I knew it instantly.’ Uncle Henry sighed again. ‘William was … William! There was no changing him. And I, too, must remain true to my nature, a man of duty. I cannot escape it …’