“Would you mind, my lady, if I took the opportunity to visit my mammy while you are taking tea?” Breda asked. “It’s not far, and I’d be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. I wouldn’t ask, only she’s a bit poorly at the moment.”

“Goodness me, of course you must go. You should have said sooner, Breda, rather than traipsing about after me.”

“Well I couldn’t leave you on your own in a strange city. I’ll come with you to the bookshop and on to the Shelbourne, and then—”

“You will do no such thing. You will go straight from here to your mother’s and I will come with you.”

“Oh no, my lady, it’s a rough oul area, I wouldn’t dream . . .”

“I have probably seen worse, when I did voluntary work in the Lambeth district of London, so lead on, unless you think your mother is too ill for uninvited visitors.”

“Mammy will be delighted to meet you, for I’ve told her all about you in my letters. If you are absolutely sure, my lady, it’s just across the river.”

AS THEY APPROACHED THE RIVERFRONT, the Georgian buildings wore an air of neglect, the streets becoming shabbier and the people a little more grubby. The ground-floor shops sold second-hand clothes and boots, and every third frontage seemed to be a tavern. Margaret became conscious that people were studying her, but she was accustomed to brazening that out, and Breda’s fierce defiant glare was acting as an excellent deterrent.

On the corner of the street leading to the bridge sat a little flower girl. Barefoot and filthy, she was unkempt, with knotted brown hair and huge brown eyes. Her tentative smile tugged at Margaret’s heart. “What have you for sale?” she asked.

The girl tilted her basket, which contained a few slightly limp pink roses. “Perfect,” Margaret said, fishing in her pocket for a shilling. “Is that enough?”

“That would buy the basket, too,” Breda cautioned, but Margaret shushed her, taking the flowers and handing over the shilling. The little girl stared at the coin for a moment, as if she was afraid it wasn’t real, then grabbed her basket and fled.

“They will be lucky to last more than a couple of days,” Breda pointed out, eyeing the roses disparagingly.

“But they have a sweet perfume, and I couldn’t go empty-handed to your mother’s. I know perfectly well I paid over the odds,” Margaret added, “but the little girl doesn’t know I know, and now she can go home and tell her mama how clever she was.”

“You have a good heart,” Breda said, shaking her head. “Mammy will appreciate them anyways.”