She stopped dead. She wanted to scream. She wanted . . .

She needed to get to Sybil before this night was out. Anything less and all of this – the secrets, the lies, the double life she had been living – was in vain. Anything less and she was not fit to be a mother.

She turned to face the river. The Palace of Westminster was above her, crowned in ice. If there were no more taxicabs, she decided, she would just have to walk. She took her first steps, felt the chill of the snow creeping up over her feet. She looked down. The snow was clinging in clumps to her dainty dancing shoes. She’d left in such a hurry that she hadn’t thought to take them off.

The snow hardened as she stepped out onto Westminster Bridge. High above, Big Ben began tolling out the hour.

Over the river, through the warren of Lambeth town, there was at least some shelter from the snow. From the taprooms she passed she could hear the sounds of music, of song and dance and cheer, and fleetingly she cast her mind back to the Buckingham and the Masquerade Ball. It would not have taken long for them to realise she was gone. She could imagine the panic that had ricocheted around the dressing rooms. She could imagine the way Nathaniel White’s face would have paled to think that his routine, his chance at glory, was being scuppered. But Hélène cared nothing for that. Better out here, the cold already deep in her bones, than quickstepping around the ballroom on the arm of one of Lord Edgerton’s cronies.

She was fighting her way down the Albert Embankment when she became aware of the headlamps behind her. She looked over her shoulder, uncertain what to expect, and saw the cab grind to a halt. Out of the window, a voice cried out, ‘Where are you going, love?’, and Hélène called back, ‘Brixton Hill!’

‘You’d best hop in then. You’ll catch your death out there.’

Hélène thought that was true. The fire in her heart still burned brightly enough, but her fingers, the tips of her toes, all of them were numb.

By the time the cab slid past the great grey churches of Brixton Hill, Hélène’s heart was beating hard.

Finally, they came to the corner of Sudbourne Road. There were lights on in the Archer place. She could see the silhouette of their Christmas tree up against the curtains. Was it really only a week since she’d come here, since she’d held her darling Sybil in her arms?

‘Is something the matter, love? Is it anything I can help with?’

Hélène froze. She would not look up.