And in the morning I was up and ready for a busy day ahead. I was going to make the most of Princess Marina being occupied with fittings and greeting her parents. I didn’t wait for breakfast to be put out, but contented myself with a cup of tea and two digestive biscuits, then off I went. I didn’t often move about London at this early hour and soon realized that this was the time that people went to work. The Underground was packed. Crowds streamed out of London Bridge Station ranging from city gents with bowler hats and rolled umbrellas to typists wearing a little too much makeup. I was going the other way, out of the City, so the train I took to Deptford was quite empty. We rattled through one depressing row of backyards after another with gray washing hanging limply on clotheslines, narrow grimy streets with mothers scrubbing front steps or walking skinny children to school. It was horrid to think that some people lived in such drabness and grime. I had felt hard up sometimes myself, but I had never had to endure the ugliness of this sort of life. As Darcy had said, to some people my winnings would be wealth beyond their wildest dreams. I resolved that if and when I was a lady of means, I would do all that I could to help the poor.

I alighted from the train at Deptford Station, asked for Edward Street and was given directions. I followed a long high street on which shops were now opening, greengrocers were arranging vegetables and early housewives were shopping for the evening meal with toddlers clinging onto a pram. At last I came to Edward Street, a narrow backwater with two grimy rows of identical houses facing each other, and it was only then that I realized I had thought out no good reason for visiting Mary Boyle. I could barge in, asking questions about Bobo, but I’d appear rude and inquisitive and she’d probably tell me nothing. I could perhaps say I was looking for a maid myself and Bobo had recommended her. But that wouldn’t be fair if she was unemployed. I shouldn’t raise her hopes falsely. I could be from a newspaper writing an article on Bobo Carrington. . . . I toyed with that idea. Since Bobo had been featured regularly in newspapers and magazines this would not seem too strange. But then again she might decide to tell me nothing out of loyalty to her former employer.

As I stood on that doorstep and knocked on the door I decided to play it as safe as possible.

“Are you Mary Boyle, by any chance?” I asked when the door was opened. She was older than I had expected, with a fresh, distinctly Irish-looking face, and her eyes darted nervously.

“Yes, I am Mary Boyle. What might this be about?”