As Stanley had never been accused of this before, he was taken aback. Was she right? Instant appraisal, instant dismissal? Had he been wrong about Alessandro? Was he really just like his father? Lashing out with his thoughts, if not always his tongue? Was he judgemental about Jessie? Was no one ever good enough for him? Was he just a self-righteous prig?

Mrs Seacole took his hands in hers and rubbed them. They did not pass through him. Here, he thought, is a woman of substance.

‘Stanley,’ she said.

Of course she would know his name.

‘You are too hard on yourself. It is easier to understand life on earth when you are no longer concerned about your own survival.’

He rested his head against her shoulder as he had done with Pearline, until, that is, Clasford told her that if she continued to mollycoddle him, she would make a woman out of his son. One more file catalogued against his father in his huge library of resentments. No wonder he had been so unhappy. It was time to burn the library to the ground.

‘In 1854 I heard about the Crimean War and a passion to embark on that lengthy journey lodged itself in my heart and would not budge. I set sail for England and made many applications to the War Office and nursing agencies but without success. I sought out Florence Nightingale’s office, where I was interviewed by one of her staff.’ Mrs Seacole picked up her book and began to read. ‘And I saw in her face the fact that, had there been a vacancy, I should not have been chosen to fill it.

And one cold evening I stood in the twilight … did these ladies shrink from accepting my aid because my blood flowed beneath a somewhat duskier skin than theirs? Tears streamed down my foolish cheeks, as I stood in the fast thinning streets; tears of grief that anyone should doubt my motives.

‘What do you think I did, young Stanley? Why, I sent myself, did I not? I shall not dwell on the vicissitudes of my travels except to say that the journey took me to Gibraltar, Malta, on to Constantinople, and thereon by boat to Scutari, where I was most excited at the prospect of finally meeting Miss Nightingale. When I arrived at her hospital, safely behind the trenches, her secretary eyed me with much surprise. Miss Nightingale has the entire management of our hospital staff, but I do not think that any vacancy …

‘I stood my ground, so they eventually had to take me to meet her. A slight figure in the nurse’s dress; with a pale, gentle, and withal firm face. She asked what I wanted. I requested a bed for the night and the chance to offer my services to the sick. The former was granted. The latter denied. I would have worked for the wounded, for bread and water.