“Yes, I can imagine that the two of you would have hit it off. At least with Lewis, you know where you are. He makes no pretence. Wingfield, on the other hand—he is the sort of man who should have remained a bachelor, and that is all I am prepared to say on the subject. Now, we must gather our things, Margaret, for we are about to arrive in Queenstown and the terminus is actually on the quay itself, I believe. Stand close by me, and allow me to deal with officialdom. Keep your hand on your purse and your wits about you and we will be fine.”

TWO HOURS LATER, MARGARET STOOD on the deck of the Cunard line’s most prestigious paddle steamer, watching the tenders bring the final passengers on board. The decks of the RMS Scotia were crowded with people vying for a space at the ship’s rails to wave farewell, though their loved ones assembled on the quay were no more than a sea of indistinguishable faces. Smoke billowed from the two funnels at the centre of the ship, and the massive sails on the two masts were being unfurled in preparation for departure. The steamer, which had won the much-coveted Blue Riband for the fastest westbound transatlantic crossing four years before, was a luxury liner, with no steerage class, the vast majority of the passengers travelling in first class with only a few in second. All the same, as Margaret leaned on the guard-rail clutching her thick woollen cloak around her, she couldn’t help thinking of the thousands of Irish poor fleeing the Great Famine in years gone by, taking their chances in the New World. Breda’s uncle had been one who, with his wife and three children, had embarked at this very quay fifteen years before. Though there could be no comparison between those brave, desperate souls and herself, save the determination to make a new life for themselves, the enormity of what she was doing struck her forcibly as the last tenders emptied and the ship’s engines developed a more determined rumble. She was committed now. There was no going back.

Several blasts of the ship’s horn made the crowds push further towards the rails. Aunt Marion appeared by her side, miraculously bearing two glasses of champagne, handing Margaret one of them. On the quay, handkerchiefs were waved, hats were raised, tears began to fall, and the decks shuddered beneath their feet.

“I thought a bon voyage toast was in order. I expect you are feeling trepidation. It is my experience that one always feels that way at the point of departure. A natural enough emotion, when one is leaving friends and loved ones. If one did not feel it, it would mean that one had nothing and no-one to regret leaving behind.”

“That is a very positive way of looking at it.”