A soft rap came at his study door. His housekeeper peered in. “A person to see you, sir. Says her name is Mrs. Ashworth.”

“The telegram,” he said, tapping the paper. “It arrived an hour ago. Dated next week.”

Outside, the January wind howled. And Arthur poured two glasses of sherry, knowing that for the first time in twenty-two years, the promise would not be broken.

Eliza stepped inside, still wearing a traveler’s dust cloak. Her eyes were the same storm-grey he remembered. “You came,” she whispered.