‘Would you like me to walk you back to King Street?’ James Hindle asked Hannah. It was what she’d been hoping he would ask all evening. She wanted to accept and feel her hand in the crook of his arm, his body close to hers, but her concern for Mary was stronger. She didn’t want to leave her, knowing that she might never see her alive again.

She shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I think I’m going to stay here,’ she said. She knew she’d be in trouble with Cook, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t going to let Mary down a second time.

When the men had gone, Hannah helped Mrs Hall to change Mary’s bedding. It was soaked through with blood and Hannah carried it down to the kitchen, the ironlike smell haunting her nostrils as she put it to soak in a dolly tub in the scullery.

‘It’s worse than ever,’ whispered Mrs Hall when she’d climbed the stairs again. The landlady shook her head. ‘She’ll not survive this,’ she said.

Hannah said nothing. She knelt by the bed and took her friend’s cold hand in hers and prayed. Don’t die, Mary. Please don’t die. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to lose thee.

It seemed an age before she heard hooves in the narrow ginnel and a banging came on the door. Mrs Hall took one of the candles that they’d brought up so that the doctor would have a good light and hurried down to let him in.

Hannah got up from her knees as she heard Dr Barlow climbing the stairs. He was a man well past middle age with cropped iron-grey hair, but he was nimble enough on the steep steps. If he’d been roused from his bed, it didn’t show. His shirt was clean, she noted, as he took off his jacket and handed it to her.

‘What did she take?’ he asked, rolling up his sleeves. Mrs Hall showed him a small bottle with some brown pills in it. He tipped one on to his hand and sniffed it. ‘How many?’

‘Three at least,’ she said. ‘Happen more.’

Dr Barlow handed the bottle back. ‘Ma Critchley?’ he asked.

‘Aye.’

He folded back the bedding and asked Hannah to bring a candle closer. She could see that blood was seeping out from the fresh cloths between Mary’s legs already. Gently the doctor moved them aside and felt her stomach with the flat of his hand.

‘How many months?’ he asked.

‘She said two.’ He nodded. ‘Is there owt tha can do?’ asked Mrs Hall, looking dubious.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I need to pack her tight to stop the bleeding.’

‘What? Up her Mrs Fubbs?’

‘Right into the opening of the womb if possible,’ he said, taking out some lengths of lint from his pack. ‘I need some clean cold water and some vinegar please – and a basin – with all haste.’

Hannah held the candle as the doctor worked. She could tell by the juddering shadow on the wall that her hands were shaking, but the doctor exuded an air of calm authority, just as he had when he’d saved Jennet’s life. She trusted him. If Mary could be saved then he was the one to save her.