Margaret was writing out invoices which was not too demanding. Soon the work became quite mechanical and she could not still her mind. Her father’s letter, the pain and fury lashing out from his words, had cut deeply into her and she was in turmoil. All her life she had worked to earn his approval. It was she who had felt tender towards him even though he was often severe. But since their mother’s death he had become more rigid and dour by the year and now he had betrayed her, taken her for a liar by the word of someone he had known only a few months.

Her thoughts swelled in her mind, overwhelming her. She was filled with a terrible ache of anguish at the rift with him, that he had so easily thought the very worst of her. Tears blurred the address she was trying to write and she got to her feet before any could spill on the ink, hurrying from the room, her head bowed.

‘Margaret?’ She heard Aunt Hatt’s voice. She had hoped her aunt had not noticed her emotion but she heard her follow.

Margaret longed to go somewhere alone and weep until she could gain control of herself, but all she could think of doing was going into the back room. Her body shaking, she stood, arms folded, facing the fireplace. She heard her aunt hesitate at the door, then come hurrying in and close the door, as Margaret’s sobs burst from her, uncontrollable.

‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Aunt Hatt was beside her, guiding her to a chair. ‘My poor dear – you come and sit down. That’s right – now, you sit there and we’ll have a nice little chat. Shall I ask Mrs Sullivan to make some more tea?’

‘No, Auntie! You’ve got too much work to do!’ Margaret sat trying desperately to control herself, but the tears kept coming. ‘Just let me sit here a moment or two and I’ll be back to work, I promise.’

But Aunt Hatt wasn’t having it. ‘You just sit there, wench,’ she said firmly.

Margaret, while mortified at having made such a spectacle of herself, was overwhelmed by her aunt’s kindness. She obeyed and Aunt Hatt pulled up another chair beside her, as if she had all the time in the world. Margaret could see that she would at least have to tell her aunt something.

‘When he first came, I felt sorry for him.’ Margaret spoke, leaning forward, her arms resting on her knees, looking down at the rug by the fire. ‘And . . . I don’t know. I had been ill for so long and the need to look after someone else, someone who was suffering, seemed to make me stronger.’

‘How old a man is he?’ Aunt Hatt asked tactfully.