The walk to the churchyard took Adam past the vicarage.

He did his best not to think of Miss Miller, though his eyes did not obey the same scruples, and automatically darted to the window in the hope of finding her silhouette there. But there was nothing — only the bent head of the Reverend Miller, no doubt poring over the draft of his next sermon.

He thought of her, as he walked past. He thought of her and prayed most earnestly that she was happy, though he could not be by her side. Not yet.

It did not take him long to find the grave that he was looking for. There were not so many people in the parish that the new graves could not be spotted easily, and the people he was coming to pay his respects to had been sleeping in their final resting place for only one year.

He knelt before the small gravestone that simply bore the words, Frederick Warwick, and the dates - a date of birth and death date, a mere five years later.

It was not unusual for children to die, of course. Tragic though it undoubtedly was, Adam heard of children dying all the time. Indeed, his own mother had died bringing a child into the world, and the infant had followed its mother only hours after.

Yet, Adam had never known the particular pain of being close to the death of a child, particularly one that had survived its infancy, that should, by all rights, have grown into a man.

But what a life that would have been.

He reminded me so much of the way that you were when you were his age - so lively, so inquisitive. How can I look you in the eye, knowing that you were responsible for snuffing out that precious light?

He understood now why his father had rejected him so completely. Had he been in his father’s position, Adam believed that he would not have reacted any differently.

He felt a terrible pain for his brother, the one he had never known and never would know. By law, of course, the child was not his brother at all, merely the incidental result of an unfortunate encounter between a wealthy man and a poor and disgraced woman. By law, the child was no relation to Adam at all.

Had Freddie lived, he would have gone his entire life under the shadow of illegitimacy. He would have been despised and ignored, never permitted the freedom nor the acceptance that Adam had taken for granted until it was taken away.

In short, he would have lived as a social pariah, the way that Adam was living now.

And yet — and yet — it was still such a terrible pity that he had never had the chance to live at all. Never to know the happiness of becoming a man, of falling in love, of growing old. Little Freddie had been denied a chance for a meaningful life as is the birthright of every child, and Adam found himself filled with an emotion that he had not previously expected.

He was seized, with the burning desire to obtain justice for Freddie. He needed to know why his brother had died and to bring the person who had caused his death to justice, whatever that justice might be.

He arose and reached forward to touch the little headstone. It was made of Italian marble, and he realized abruptly that his father must have paid for it.

The headstone of Mary Warwick stood alongside her baby. Her headstone also bore her name, the date of her birth, and the date of her death.

But there was another inscription, too. A few lines of rhyming verse, which made Adam’s breath catch in his throat as he read them.

There is a lady sweet and kind

Was never face so pleased my mind

I did but see her passing by

And yet I love her till I die.

There was nothing to say, nothing to even think in response. There was only the thought of Mary Warwick’s sweet face and the sound of her voice ringing out like a bell when she sat at the piano.

Adam left the graveyard.