“Start small, with what you know. That’s how I tackle my cases, the complicated ones, I mean, a step at a time.”

“Or a brick at a time, in my case. Start with what I know? But the only thing I know is that I need money, and the only way I know to earn money is by writing, and—oh! Randolph, I think you might be a genius.”

“You only think!” he said indignantly.

“I could write a book of stories for children set in Five Points, with all profits being ploughed back in. I would have to paint a slightly sanitized picture, but actually children like gruesome tales. It won’t raise very much, but it will be a start, and the publicity can only help make more people aware of the true situation.”

“Will you include the noisy hen story?”

“What? Oh, Cluckalot! I shall write that one especially for you.”

“Wow! You really are serious!”

“I am indeed.” Margaret smiled suddenly. “I’m going to do it, because if I don’t, then no-one else will.”

“It could take years.”

“So be it.”

“Don’t let it become all-consuming. Leave room for other things.”

“I will continue with my writing and work at the mission.”

“I was referring to more personal commitments.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then the penny dropped. Appalled, Margaret sat abruptly down at her desk. The very last thing she wanted was for Randolph to propose. She had already rejected three proposals, and the memory of the last one still made her heart ache. The love Donald had declared so passionately had died, and now Miss Helen Blair held Margaret’s place in his heart. Reading the news back in January, her first reaction had been very far from the delight Julia had predicted. On the contrary, she distinctly recalled crying out no! It was wrong, impossible, for Donald to marry someone else, for Donald to love someone else. When her shock had subsided, she had set about rationally persuading herself that she was happy for him, but it had taken her much more time than it should have to accustom herself to the fact, and longer still for her to truly and honestly believe what she told herself she ought to feel.

Donald would probably be married now. Miss Helen Blair would be Mrs. Donald Cameron, a position Margaret had rejected and probably would again. Probably? Almost certainly. But it wasn’t Donald who was on the brink of proposing, it was Randolph.

Perhaps she had mistaken him? “Didn’t you tell me that you wanted to give yourself at least until you were thirty-five before you made any changes to your life? I distinctly remember you saying that there weren’t enough hours in the day as it is without—without any other distractions.”