“You would know,” Hester replied, cutting off her argument. “But if you come with me, then no one would, except perhaps Bessie. I think I would rather rely on you to rescue me.” She smiled to rob the remark of sting. “But I promise I shall be careful. I have an idea which, even if I don’t learn anything, could be of benefit to us. A little more in the way of funds, anyhow. And even a spoke in Mr. Jessop’s wheel, which I would dearly like.”

“So would I,” Margaret agreed. “But not at the cost of danger to you.”

“There’s no more danger than coming here every night,” Hester assured her, with something less than the truth. But she thought the risk was worth it, and it was slight, all things considered. She stood up. “Tell Bessie I should be back no later than midnight. If I’m not, then you can inform Constable Hart and send out a search party for me.”

“I shall be here myself,” Margaret retorted. “Tell me where you are going, so I shall know where to begin looking.” She half smiled, but her eyes were perfectly serious.

“Portpool Lane,” Hester replied. “I have an idea to see a Mr. Robinson who keeps an establishment there.” She felt better for telling Margaret that, and as she put on her shawl and opened the door onto Coldbath Square, it was with more confidence than she had felt a few moments earlier. She turned in the doorway. “Thank you,” she said gravely, then, before Margaret could argue, she walked quickly along the footpath in the rain and turned the corner into Bath Street.

She did not slacken her speed even when she was out of sight of the square because it was better for a woman alone to look as if she had a purpose, but also she did not want to allow herself time to reconsider what she was going to do, in case she lost her nerve. Margaret had an extraordinary admiration for her, especially her courage, and she was surprised now to realize how precious that was. It was worth conquering the fear that fluttered in the pit of her stomach to be able to return to Coldbath Square and say that she had gone through with her plan, whether she learned anything or not.

It was not entirely pride, although she was forced to admit that that did enter into it. It was also a gentler thing, the desire to live up to what Margaret believed of her and aspired to herself. Disillusion was a bitter thing, and she might already have brought about a little of that. She was aware of having been abrupt a few times, of a reluctance to praise even where it was due. The knowledge that Monk was keeping from her something that hurt him had driven her into an unusual sense of isolation, and it had touched her friendships as well.