Panicking, Margaret tore herself free, leaving him with a handful of sarsenet and organdie. A shout went up as she ran full tilt. Footsteps followed her but quickly died away. The man had taken her for a fallen woman. In the eyes of her parents, that was probably what she was. As she swerved to avoid a huge pile of planking, her nose assailed with the scent of resin and wood shavings, she tripped over a stone and tumbled into the mud.

The murky waters of the Thames loomed terrifyingly close. Heart pounding, she scrabbled back from the edge, having narrowly avoided falling in. Perhaps it would have been better if she had. It would be a suitably pointless and ludicrous end. Would a drowned daughter be less of a headache than one who had created a scandal by running away from her own betrothal party? Almost certainly. The result of a tragic accident rather than a self-inflicted mortal blow. Mama and Papa would consider themselves better off being rid of her. They’d probably be right. Vaguely aware that she was on the verge of hysteria, unable to contemplate going back the way she had come, Margaret’s only coherent thought was to reach the sanctuary of the railway terminus. Picking herself up, she plodded on through the timber-yard and into what was clearly a deserted marketplace, trampling on discarded cabbage stalks, sliding on rotting leaves, conscious that at least some of the rank odours assailing her were coming from her soiled clothes.

The terminus building was absolutely massive, but she could see no way of accessing it from the riverfront. Another freight train screeching past overhead, sparks flying, sent her stumbling backwards, muffling her scream with a gloved hand reeking of slime as the giant iron beast hurtled past, belching steam, pistons pounding. Cautiously, she began to edge her way around the walls towards, she fervently hoped, the main thoroughfare, where there were bound to be people in the environs of the station.

Her footsteps slowed. The journey back to Montagu House was no more than a few hundred yards, but away from the gloom of the riverside, she was acutely aware of her appearance. Although she was covered in mud, and she was convinced there were bits of shrub in her hair, her white silk dress with its layers of petticoats and lace and trimming was still very obviously a ball gown. Her gloves were ruined, but they were still unmistakably evening gloves. Would she be taken for a woman of the night again, one who had been involved, quite literally in a bit of mud-slinging? Creeping stealthily onwards, keeping her eyes fixed on the treacherous cobble-stones, Margaret stumbled into a solid mass.

A loud curse rent the air. “Watch it! Ain’t you got eyes in your head?” A grizzled man, who appeared to be slumped on the ground, glared up at her.