“Look, it’s not only food; you can purchase virtually anything here,” Margaret said as they passed a stall stacked high with china plates, beside it one bearing towers of wash-tubs and saucepans which were apparently freshly tinned, and next to that another stacked with handkerchiefs in every colour of the rainbow, and yet another with pairs of second-hand shoes and boots.

They made their way slowly from one end of the market to the other. When the stalls petered out at a crossroads at the far end, Lochiel steered her firmly around. “It’s getting late; best I get you home.”

If truth be told, Margaret was tired, and very much aware that he was far less entranced by the place than she. As they retraced their steps the aroma from a stall selling roast chestnuts caught her attention. Though she had never tasted them, the smell made her mouth water. It had been an age since breakfast, which she had barely eaten anyway, for Mama’s eyes were upon her and she had been nervous about meeting Mr. Scott again after all this time.

Her tummy rumbled. Letting go of her hold on Lochiel’s arm, Margaret pushed her way in, ignoring his shout of alarm, for the stall was only a few feet away. Heat belched from the stove where the nuts were roasting in a brazier, the stall-holder turning them with long tongs to stop them burning.

It all happened so fast. Desperate to sample for herself whether the taste lived up to the aroma, Margaret was about to ask for tuppence worth, hoping that Lochiel would lend her the funds, when a shout of alarm made her turn, and at the same time a woman clutching what looked like a skinned rabbit barged straight into her, knocking her to her knees on the muddy cobble-stones.

No-one seemed to notice Margaret’s plight as she scrabbled to get up, caught in the stampede of men, women, and children calling, “Stop, thief,” after the woman. Terrified, she was about to scream when a pair of hands caught her from behind, lifting her clear of the milling crowd.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe now.”

Expecting to hear Lochiel’s distinctive Scottish tones, the cultured English voice came as a shock. Margaret whirled around as he set her down and came face-to-face with a young man of about twenty-five. Beneath his hat, hair the colour of the chestnuts she’d been drooling over flopped endearingly over his brow. He was clean-shaven, his mouth curved into a gentle smile that was reflected in his warm brown eyes.

“Reverend Beckwith, at your service.”

“Reverend?” Lady Margaret exclaimed, eyeing his plain black coat and trousers.

“Fortunately, we Anglicans are permitted to reserve our cassocks for Sundays,” he said. “It’s not the most practical of garments.”