Clorinda chose a time when the sun had gone and they could hear owls calling in the near-dark as they prepared for bed. As she brushed Aisling’s hair she said, ‘I have had a very kind request from the Misses McKinnon: that you stay here with them and with Iris until the summer ends. But you are under no obligation. I can return you to Dublin when I leave next week, and—’

‘Oh no!’ cried Aisling. ‘Please let me stay! Aunt Clorinda, I shall die if I must go back to Bishop Street. Please do not make me leave. What would become of Iris if I deserted her? Her bell would sound and I would not hear it. She would pine and die!’

Aisling now broke into tears. Clorinda put aside the hairbrush and held the girl close against her.

‘Never fear,’ she said. ‘The summer is long and you will be safe here while it lasts. And Iris will be safe.’

NEVER BEFORE SEEN IN BATH

The summer was indeed long and on an early September day hot sunlight was still falling upon Camden Street.

From the signs and awnings of all the shops along the whole length of the thoroughfare, bunting had been strung up and fluttered in the warm little breeze. Underneath the bunting, trestle tables had been laid out, covered with white cloths and piled with the choicest provisions, manufactured by the best cook shops in Bath. Champagne, punch and white wine had been chilled in silver buckets. Bottles of claret had been emptied into heavy decanters to inhale the warm air and let it amplify their dark perfume. The road had been closed to all horse-drawn traffic and in the very middle of it perched a string quartet, the musicians shaded by parasols attached to their chairs, playing some hastily learned bright airs from an Irish songbook.

And now the people began arriving. There were so many of them, it almost seemed as though everybody in the city had been invited – the whole of Bath crammed into one street on a hot September day! They pressed upon the pavement. The women fanned themselves against the heat. They stood by the trestles (trying to restrain themselves from snatching little tempting slices of game pie or galantine of veal) ready to applaud the arrival of a woman they had come to love and revere above many others in their crowded lives: Mrs Clorinda Morrissey. But she was no longer Mrs Clorinda Morrissey. This was her wedding day. When she emerged from the Laura Chapel and walked to Camden Street on the arm of her bridegroom, she had become Lady Adeane.

She wore a dress of cream and green silk, the over-skirt gathered up here and there by green satin bows, and a headdress that was a marvellous assemblage of feathers and ribbons, falling down to her shoulders. To her bodice was attached a beautiful emerald and diamond brooch and her eyes shone with unmistakable pride, for she had much to be proud of. She once toiled in a milliner’s basement; now, she was loved by the cream of Bath society. And today she had become the wife of the revered surgeon, Sir William Adeane, a man who had lost his wife twenty-five years ago and never thought to marry again – until he met Clorinda and lost his heart to her cooking and to her courage and to the music of her voice. As he led her towards the great gathering on Camden Street, his top hat crammed onto his still-abundant white hair, his cheeks boyishly pink with blushing delight, his nose a little scarlet in the heat, he, too, became a darling of the crowd and all along the street there was such clapping and cheering, it was quite as if Queen Victoria herself had anointed the scene with her presence.