Jim—or Sir James as he was called after he was knighted—continued to hold a very special place in my affections. Once, when our paths crossed, he told me that the kindest thing I’d ever done was to not marry him. Perhaps because he was passionately in love with a woman who possessed the wisdom to adore him as he deserved.

When Sterling’s eyesight did finally fail him completely, we were up in years, content to sit in our garden and reflect on what a wondrous and exciting life we’d led. He did not see my hair fade into silver. For him it was always a vibrant red. I watched him age gracefully and with dignity. He leaned on me much more than he did his walking stick, which was how it should be, because when I needed him most, he was always there for me. Each day I thought I could love him no more than I already did—and the following morning I was always proven wrong, for I awoke loving him just a little bit more.

I’d never wanted to be part of the aristocracy, but I couldn’t deny that with him by my side, it was exactly where I belonged.

“Life is a journey, Frannie darling,” Feagan had once told me. “Choose well those with whom you travel.”

As always, I’ve followed Feagan’s counsel.