Sarah wondered how they could afford it. An inheritance or some form of annuity perhaps. She noticed that Mrs Quinton had placed the parcel on a side table but wasted no time in opening the accompanying letter. ‘I was beginning to doubt whether this would ever arrive,’ she said petulantly, scanning the contents. She folded the letter again and placed it on top of the discarded parcel before sitting down beside Sarah and straightening her skirts.

‘Between you and me, there is a deplorable lack of organisation in that place.’

‘What place?’

‘Well, Queen Street, of course. Mr Quinton says that the household accounts are in a dreadful state. They are very fortunate to have found him as he will surely arrange things as they should be. Although I feel he is being sorely ill-used.’

‘In what way?’

‘He is at Queen Street from early morning until late. Sometimes it is after midnight by the time he returns to us. I do not believe that his salary is sufficient recompense for such excessive demands being made upon his time.’

Sarah felt words of defence rising to her lips, but before she could speak the door opened and a young woman entered carrying a red-cheeked infant.

‘Is it that time already, Nancy?’ Mrs Quinton said as the child was handed to her. ‘I insist on spending at least an hour with young Rochester before lunch.’

Young Rochester did not seem particularly enamoured with this arrangement and began to wail when relinquished by his nurse.

‘Now now, young man. That is no way to behave,’ Mrs Quinton said. She turned to Sarah. ‘Would you care to hold him?’

Sarah stood, took the proffered child and began to rock him gently, his crying quickly subsiding. Mrs Quinton waved her arm to dismiss the nursemaid, who retreated rapidly, leaving the two women alone again.

‘You might be wondering at his name,’ Mrs Quinton said. ‘Young Rochester here is of noble lineage. I know who his parents are, but of course that information must remain in our keeping. It would be quite the scandal if it were ever to be divulged. Fortunately, I am the soul of discretion,’ she said, placing a hand over her heart in emphasis. ‘I felt it was my Christian duty to offer the poor child a home, my husband and I having no children of our own.’

Sarah wondered if such charity would be forthcoming had the child been a street urchin rather than the progeny of the upper orders, but then chastised herself. Agreeing to take responsibility for someone else’s child was no small matter. She looked at the baby in her arms and wondered what her own child would be like; wondered, not for the first time, if she was equipped to be a mother.