She went first to the shared nursery, later her bedroom, two beds side by side.

Thomas? Would you read to me?

Go to sleep, I'm tired.

She retrieved Hastings from the bed, where he had remained untouched for years, and held him to her breast. 'We are going on a journey,' she murmured, 'and this time, old friend, you will come with me.' She walked through the house, up the stairs to the very top. She lifted the iron latch, opened the small oak door, and entered Miss Byrne's room. Leaning back on the old iron bed she could hear her parting words: Now always remember, my child, how exceptional you are.

She lifted the boards, placed the book inside, and her sister's shawl. She could just see the side of her sister's sketchbook. When it was done and the boards were closed, she stood beneath the crucifix. She prayed for forgiveness, not in this world but the next. She prayed for Charles Coram, for Lorenzo, for Miss Byrne and her family.

The following week her luggage was packed once more.

'Come with me, Mama, I can't bear to be without you,' she begged Lady Keyt, knowing it would be the last time she saw her.

'How can I leave?' she replied. 'What is left of my life is here. Your life is with your own family. Hold onto them, for they are everything. Teach the children what is right, but don't judge them harshly. We can't play God, my child.'

The carriage moved onwards, and Dorothy watched her mother's fragile form become fainter until it finally disappeared.

They reached the farmhouse; she walked along the flagged pathway, knocked upon the door. 'I would like to see my brother's room. Would that be convenient?'

'Miss Johnson hasn't moved in yet, madam, but under the circumstances I am sure she wouldn't mind. Do come in.'

'Miss Johnson?' she queried, her hand trembling.

'Sorry, madam, didn't you know?' the housekeeper said gently. 'He left her everything. Poor lass, she is inconsolable.'

Dorothy climbed the twisting stairs and opened the bedroom door. The room, though small, was light and cheerful. Elizabeth's drawings decorated the whitewashed walls. There were sketches of flowers and trees, of Letitia and of John, but she was drawn to one sketch in particular: a drawing of Molly, with laughing eyes and soft face. Her mother's words echoed in her ears. We can't play God, my child.

She was about to leave when she saw the letter. It had her name on the envelope.

Dorothy, I have little to say to you, for throughout my life you have had my love and my trust, and yet you have deceived me in every conceivable way.

Did you think I was your puppet? Was I not capable of living my own life in my own way? Your actions have proved fatal in the case of a young man, your nephew. They have proved fatal in the case of your brother. I am dying because you stole my reasons for living.

I hope that you will live and die knowing that I never forgave you.

Thomas PS I bequeath you my prayer book. Let it enlighten you, and let it heal your troubled spirit.

As she picked it up, opening the delicate pages, the brittle remains of the violets she had given him so many years before turned to dust in her hand.

57.

'Seventeen fifty-six,' Molly would later say, 'was the year the ponds froze over, and icicles like sharpened swords hung from the lintels.'

They were challenging times. Food was limited and wood was hard to come by, but Molly welcomed the hardship. Work remained her only distraction. Through Thomas's legacy, she no longer relied on work for money; rather, the hours bent over her stitching numbed her pain. At her lowest ebb she thought of ending her life. William had taken his destiny into his hands; it was tempting, but Thomas's final words prevented her.

'I love you, I've always loved you. You will go on for me and for the memory of our son. Everything you strive for will be a memorial to us both. Marry someone, Molly. Be happy. We have taken so much from you; if I have one last wish it is that you shall have a new life, a good life. Please do this, if not for me then for him.'

And so she had struggled on, day after endless day. At some point in those bleak, desperate months she started to look for her son. She could not stop herself. Any child was subject to her scrutiny, regardless of their age a a boy with curly hair, a boy in the village choir. Any mother would do the same, she told herself, but later she would chide herself for her stupidity. Had he lived, her son would have now been fifteen, no longer a child. But the search continued, and until she had proof of his death she would go on looking. In March of the next year she made arrangements to travel to the Foundling Hospital. They had been responsible for his welfare a surely they would know the details of his death. The journey was long and arduous, how well she remembered it, but on the fourth day the coach arrived in London. As she walked through the streets and avenues, avoiding the alleys, she remembered walking through these same streets heavy with child.

The Foundling Hospital had moved; the temporary home in Hatton Garden had long since closed. The new buildings were large and spacious, the result of Thomas Coram's dreams. She could see him showing her the architectural plans as if it were yesterday, and now his vision was before her, the new chapel, where her son would have sung, and the refectory, where he would have eaten. She smiled softly, remembering the kind old gentleman. If only she could turn back the clock, how different it would be. She steeled herself once more. She would not give up on her son. Reaching the end of the carriage way, she climbed the steps to the front door. No longer would she use the tradesman's entrance. Her courage faltered when she was ushered inside. 'I wish to learn the details of my son's death,' she requested.

'Come this way.'

The hospital secretary was solicitous. 'Forgive me, madam, only his death is recorded, but let me reassure you, mistakes in His Majesty's Navy are most unusual.'

Defeated, she had one last request. 'I wish to enter the chapel.' Inside the lofty chapel she imagined her son amongst the choristers who even now were rehearsing evensong, and she thought her heart would break for all the emotion crowding it. She dabbed at her eyes with her embroidered handkerchief, the same handkerchief she carried always, and paid her last respects to Thomas Coram, buried beneath the altar. As she stood and turned to go, a young man passed her in the aisle. He wore a naval uniform, the white ruffles on his shirt glowing against his black skin. He touched his hat in deference. She smiled at him, and he returned her goodwill with a broad smile that lit up his face. I wonder if he knew my son, she thought as she walked away, lacing the handkerchief between her fingers. She turned and looked back at the boy, but his broad smile had gone, and he stared at her with a puzzled expression. He made as if to speak, then thought better of it and returned to his prayers. Molly sighed and closed the heavy door behind her.

She returned to Gloucestershire immediately, and though the secretary's words should have reassured her, they did not.

Late March She was pinning a dress on the dummy when she heard the noise. She smoothed the folds of the unfinished skirt until the damask hung softly and, rubbing her raw fingers, blew out the workroom lamp. It was only a short distance to the parlour. She stopped and listened; there it was again, a tapping, rhythmic and constant in the street outside. Hurrying to the door, she opened it and peered into the dark. There was no one there. Returning to the fire, she threw her last remaining log onto the embers and lay down on the sofa. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and tried to sleep.

That night, lying on the cramped sofa, once again she dreamt of her son; she could hear his voice, see his eyes, blue as Thomas's, but as the day broke she woke to the reality of a cold, empty room and tears of despair.

Weeks later, when the town was shrouded in fog, she heard the tapping again. She was delivering a dress to a client, and as she hurried along with purposeful steps, the haunting sound stopped her in her stride. Her eyes darted around the gloom but could see nothing. She waited, her heart beating fast. Finally, the shape of two men emerged from an alley, one with a stick, which tapped against the cobbles, the other with a dark face. It was like seeing ghosts, the wraithlike creatures bundled in their coats, coming in and out of the vapour. She made to follow the men, find out who they were, but before she could the fog enfolded them, leaving Molly on the cobbles with a bemused expression and the new gown limp across her arm.

As the nights lengthened she made plans to move into the farmhouse. She visited the property occasionally and was surprised to see the vegetables sown and the garden tidy.

'A young lad tends to it,' the housekeeper told her. 'He says little, and won't take payment. He says he's a friend of the master and it's his way of thanking him.'

Molly smiled sadly; Thomas's kindness had touched many hearts.

When July came, Molly decided to take up residence in her new home. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and putting her cat in the basket, set off down the high street towards the Norton woods. She remembered the last time she had taken this route on the night of the concert, and her more recent visit to the ruins with Ruth. 'You can make it up to your lad; you gave him away with the best intentions. Now you can get him back.' Even after the fire there had been room for optimism and hope. Now all that was left was a legacy from the man she had loved.

Molly walked on. She was luckier than most; she had a good house, Thomas's house. She skirted the gardens, refusing to look back at Norton, and continued down the track. Standing in the park she could see it below her, resting in the hollow, just as she had seen it on her first journey all those years before. The farmhouse was her future, and with the trees in leaf and life bursting through the ground she felt a glimmer of hope. Thomas had wanted her to be happy in his house, and as much as she could, she would be. Opening the small garden gate she walked up the path.

'Welcome, Miss Johnson,' the housekeeper said, coming to greet her. 'The young lad's working in the vegetable garden. I told him you'd be arriving today, and he's very eager to meet you.'

'Thank you, Mrs Parker,' Molly replied.

She walked around the house to the plot at the back, interested to see the young man who had valued Thomas so highly. He didn't see her at first, and as he dug the spade into the ground she watched him. His white linen shirt was open and there was something vaguely familiar about the line of the young man's neck as he leant over, tending the seedlings that pushed through the toiled ground. Something stirred in her memory a the way his shoulders sloped a little, and his hair, visible beneath his cap, curled at the ends. What was it about this stranger that seemed so intimate?

Her chest tightened. An extraordinary thought started to grow in her mind, but no, it was impossible. It was then that she recognized the walking stick propped against the wall. She stopped, unable to move.

The young man looked up and straightened. He stared at her and neither of them spoke. Around his neck hung a small medal; on it the number 171 was just discernable.

'Who are you?' she said, her eyes moved from the medal to his face. He took off his cap and held it in his hands.

'My name is Charles, miss.'

She gasped. 'Charles? Charles who?'

'Charles Coram,' he replied.

Molly was silent, the breath knocked from her body. She leant against the wall to steady herself.

'That can't be. My son is dead.' Every fibre of her being wanted to believe him, but her rational mind said it was impossible.

'But it's true, you have to believe me. Don't you recognize anything about me?' The young man was frantic. Doubt made him panic. Was the woman in front of him his mother; the woman he had searched for? If it was, would she accept him? His good leg felt weak and he worried he would fall. He was frightened, more frightened than he had ever been before. Moses had told him to come here, his dear friend who had seen the lady carrying the exact same embroidered heart that Charles Coram kept with him always. Perhaps he'd been wrong and the address he had found at the hospital was out of date. This was Sir Thomas's house a how could his mother live here?

'If you are my mother, I believe you made this for me,' he said, his hands clumsy as he pulled something from his pocket. He edged nearer to her. In his palm lay the small embroidered heart, grubby with years of handling, the edges worn and tattered. Molly stared at it, remembering again the moment she had handed over her child.

'It can't be true,' she whispered as the young man stared at her with steady eyes, blue eyes like Thomas's.

'But it is. It's me.'

They remained silent while she studied him. Was this some cruel trick?

'How?' she said at last. 'How are you here, when they told me you were dead?'

'I didn't die. My will to live was stronger a my need to find you.' The young man found his voice, and as he spoke she listened. She heard how the mast that had nearly killed him had ultimately saved him, keeping him afloat in the turbulent water; she learnt of the fisherman who had rescued him and taken him home to his family, splinting his shattered leg, nursing him back to health.

'And so,' he said at last, 'I worked my way home on a merchant ship. The thought of finding you saved me. It's what kept me going, but then I was scared you wouldn't want me and so I worked in the inn for my board, and I worked here in memory of Sir Thomas, the man who was most kind to me.'

They kept the truth to themselves; Dorothy must never know. Only one person was invited to share in their reunion and joy.

'If Lady Keyt ever hears, it won't be from my lips,' Ruth swore, her eyes dancing. 'Now where is he?' As Charles entered the sitting room, she was at a loss for words.

'Well,' she pronounced at last, 'you're a fine bonny lad if ever there was one, and as God is my witness, you're more like your father than he was.'

'This is Charles,' Molly said, her eyes shining, 'my son.'

Epilogue.

Time past and time future.

What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present.

The train sped on. Edward leant against the window, lulled by the comforting repetition of steel against steel. Through heavy lids he watched the landscape flash by, until at last his eyes closed. He was going home, returning to the house that had captured his imagination and his heart.

He remembered his first visit, that hot day at the end of summer, a boy propelled from childhood into a strange new world. His journey had taken him into the past, into a family torn by tragedy; he and his stepfather had pieced the story together until the jigsaw was complete. They had discovered the theatre, hidden for centuries in the undergrowth. They had found the name Thomas Charles Edward Keyt carved into a desk at Eton, and on a night he would never forget, he had crossed the line between the present and the past.

It was the night of the leavers' concert, his last performance at school, and as the windscreen wipers battled ineffectively against the driving rain, the school gates closed behind them for the last time. Conroy, Edward and his mother were silent, each lost in their own thoughts. When they arrived at the house, Edward climbed from the car. Pulling his jacket over his head, he ran across the courtyard, into the house and upstairs to his bedroom. With the wind rattling against the window panes he lay down and shut his eyes, the music from the concert still ringing in his ears. Some time later he opened them. The wind and the rain had gone, the air was balmy and warm, and he found himself in the upper garden. He felt no surprise to discover that the theatre was prepared for a concert, an audience in place. A hush descended, and the conductor tapped his baton on the music stand. The choir began. And Edward knew the music; it was the solo from Handel's Messiah, the solo from the leavers' concert. He stepped forward to sing.

When he awoke the following morning, Edward noticed a loose floorboard by his bed. He lifted it easily, finding a space below. There, hidden between the joists, he found a large, leather-bound book. Sitting down, the book cradled in his arms, he touched the crumbling spine, brushed the dust from the brittle cover. As he opened the first page, Miss Byrne's fairytales, hidden for so many years, came to light once more. If the stories were initially unfamiliar, he recognized the ending to each and every one.

When a delicate ribbon bookmark indicated a change of hand, he whispered the name to the silent, empty room. He knew with a certainty he couldn't explain that this was the girl he had glimpsed in the window: Elizabeth who had filled his dreams, the girl with the sea-mist eyes. In this book, through her selfless voice, the Keyt family were revealed. He was shocked, too, to read about himself: I believe I saw the strange young man again. Is he is a figment of my imagination? It doesn't really matter any more, because in my mind he is real.

And he came to her closing words: Dear loved ones, Do not weep for me. Open this book and I am with you. Look upwards in the sky and you will see me liberated from my chains. Look upwards, for like the kite, I will be free.

Edward gazed at the window uncertainly. He had seen her in this house. What did that mean? Had she found her freedom?

Then the writing changed again into a hand laden with suffering.

Death is everywhere: my brother, Ophelia, and now my sister, too. Is there any justice?

And Dorothy revealed her jealousy and anguish: I have to keep her out of our lives, for Miss Johnson would destroy us.

I did not give my brother the only letter from his son, for I am a coward, I have seen her sketches. They are visions of hell, but like Ruth I couldn't burn them.

Forgive me, Elizabeth.

There were letters tucked inside a letters from Eton, from Elizabeth, from Sir William on the eve of his death. These fragile testimonies of love and life remained. Edward read them all. One stood apart from the rest: the letter from Charles Coram, a foundling boy on the eve of battle. Edward read it slowly. Dorothy had manipulated the life of a young boy. By revealing her sins, had she hoped for absolution? He sank to the bed, his legs giving way beneath him. He felt sure that she was there in the shadows, begging forgiveness.

I have done my worst. Let those who find this, judge me as I should be judged. May God forgive me, for I am a sinner and I have betrayed them all.

He shut the book, then opened it once more, drawn to a single line: I have seen her sketches. He looked to the void beneath the floorboards, pulled towards an unseen yet certain goal. He knelt down, and with his torch, swept the empty space. The beam shone on a narrow opening. Just as he suspected, something was wedged there. Getting a screwdriver, he levered the board until it broke with a crack, releasing the contents. The pad was large and brittle; he lifted it out with care. For a moment he stood motionless. Dorothy had hidden it; perhaps it was best left alone. Then, holding his breath, he opened the cover.

Elizabeth Keyt. The name was scrawled across the page, black charcoal scored onto white paper, as if the very act of writing was a declaration of misery. He lifted another page and gasped. The gentle face he'd seen in the window masked a tormented soul. Sketch after sketch of desperation devoured the pages. Elizabeth had not accepted her plight; privately, she railed.

Taking the sketchbook, he went downstairs. Checking to see if he was alone, he walked quickly towards the old kitchen garden. Pushing open the door he could smell the remains of yesterday's bonfire. Hens pecked behind the high brick wall, and in the distance a car clattered over the cattle grid. He stood beside the dying embers, hesitant, holding the pad in front of him like a sacrifice. Before he could change his mind, he hurled the pad into the middle of the bonfire. There it rested amongst the rotting vegetation until, with new kindling, the flames took hold. Edward felt a heavy burden drop from his chest as the paper blackened, flared up and finally reduced to a pile of ashes. Walking back to the rose garden, he felt certain it was over. 'It's finished, Elizabeth,' he whispered to the sun-filled silence. 'I've finally set you free.' In the window above him, only light moved across the irregular glass.

At Conroy's suggestion, they visited Coram Fields. Only a playground remained, a green oasis amongst the traffic. Leaning against the solitary yew tree, Edward closed his eyes. Children filed through the gardens before him, wearing brown uniforms with red trim. When he opened his eyes, the cars hooted once more, and the children had vanished. In the Hospital Museum, amongst the inventories, the billet books, the petitions by mothers, the accounts, the rules and more rules, he saw the keepsakes, the tokens of love and of desperation, of hope and of hopelessness. They found an entry in the register, Charles Coram no. 171, admission date 10th November, 1741.

Edward woke as the train pulled into Moreton-in-Marsh station. He had reached his destination. He picked up the worn copy of the Four Quartets from the seat beside him, a present from Conroy on his twenty-first birthday, put it carefully in the breast pocket of his jacket and rummaged in the other pocket for the car keys. After stepping down onto the quiet country platform, he went to find the car. He passed through Chipping Campden, his eyes seeking the corbels and elaborate capitals that dressed the simple village houses. Some of the stonework was charred, some was a little broken, for it had been plundered from the ruins of two much grander houses: Campden House, the seat of the Gainsborough family, burnt by its Royalist owner Lord Noel in the civil war; and Over Norton House, burnt by Sir William Keyt. Two men, both involved in the destruction of their houses, and in the death of their dreams. As he drove on past the almshouses, the gatehouse, and through the Norton entrance pillars, he reflected that in some way the dreams of these two men did live on, though not as they may have imagined. These relics were testimony to their lives.

His mother opened the door. 'You have some letters in the hall,' she said, hugging him. He collected them and, taking a jumper from the peg, retreated to the wild garden. Sitting on the bench beside the dry, empty pools, he looked at the large brown envelope: Edward Coram James.

Burnt Norton.

Chipping Campden.

He opened it, drawing out a letter and a piece of copy paper. He put the envelope on the bench beside him and read the first.

Dear Edward, I live locally and I've heard you are searching for information on the Keyt family. I am enclosing the copy of an entry from a diary that has been passed down through my family for generations. My grandmother gave it to me before she died. Apparently it was found amongst the possessions of Dorothy Paxton-Hooper and now eight generations after my ancestor's death, I believe it may be of particular interest to you. I am reluctant to send the diary itself, so will call by in the next few days. I believe for the obvious reasons you will wish to see it.

Regards, Helen Keyt.

Edward shivered and his heart lurched uncomfortably. What would this hold?

In the distance a motorbike roared through the country lanes. He waited until it had passed, then unfolded the second page.

Many years have passed, but still our story continues.