When I finally came downstairs for breakfast, the entire Sutherland clan was waiting for me – even Bridget, who was alive and stuffing toast into her face as though she hadn’t eaten in a fortnight. Except for a slight paleness to her complexion, it was impossible to tell that she’d nearly died the night before.

Everyone turned and gasped as I approached. Apparently, I cut a different figure from the hero in shirtsleeves the night before. With freshly polished fine Italian shoes, neat trousers, a new clean shirt and a borrowed jacket Winfield had sent up for me, I was every inch the gentleman. I’d even washed my face and combed my hair back.

‘Cook made you some grits, if you like,’ Mrs Sutherland said, indicating a bowl of gloppy white stuff. ‘We don’t usually indulge, but thought our Southern guest might.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ I said, taking the empty seat next to Bridget and eyeing the spread on the large wooden table. After my mother passed away, Damon, my father and I made it a habit to dine casually with the men who we employed on the plantation. Breakfast was often the simple stuff of workers, hominy and biscuits, bread and syrup, rashers of bacon. What was laid out at the Winfield residence put to shame the finest restaurants in Virginia. English-style toast in delicate wire holders, five different types of jam, two kinds of bacon, johnnycakes, syrup, even freshly squeezed orange juice. The delicate plates had blue Dutch patterns, and there was more silverware than I was accustomed to seeing at a formal dinner.

Wishing I still had a human appetite – and ignoring the fire in my veins that thirsted for blood – I pretended to dig in.

‘Much obliged,’ I said.

‘So this is my little sister’s saviour,’ said the one woman in the room I didn’t know.

‘Allow me to introduce the eldest of my daughters,’ Winfield said. ‘This is Margaret. First married. And first with grandchildren, we’re hoping.’