Sally gave Flower a last affectionate pat before slipping on her well-worn tweed jacket, and tucking her hair into one of her father’s old caps. Fashion had little or no place in Paradise Row, especially when working in the scrap yard or the stable. Ever practical, Sally wore a pair of patched breeches that she had come across in one of the sacks, and a pair of lace-up boots that had also seen better days. She picked up a wicker basket and let herself out into the street, locking the door behind her. A cold wind sent wisps of hay, rotting cabbage leaves and scraps of paper scudding down the road, adding sharp teeth to the swirling snow, and she pulled up her collar, wrapping her arms around her thin body.

Sally made her way to the grocer’s shop on the corner. Old man Jarvis was behind the counter as usual, and his gloomy expression seemed to have been painted indelibly on his wrinkled features. His bald patch gleamed in the lamplight as did the tip of his red nose. Sally had always suspected that he kept a bottle of spirits hidden beneath the counter, taking a nip or two when he thought no one was watching. The smell of gin hung in the cloud above his head, mingling with the aroma of roast coffee beans and the sawdust that was scattered over the bare floorboards.

Sally purchased a loaf of bread and two meat pies.

‘Will that be all?’ Jarvis demanded testily. ‘Got some fresh eggs brought in from a farm today. You won’t get none tastier than these.’

Sally hesitated. Pa was always partial to a boiled egg for his breakfast and that justified the extra expenditure. ‘I’ll take two, please.’

Jarvis wrapped the eggs in a page torn from yesterday’s copy of The Times and placed them in Sally’s basket. ‘That’ll be elevenpence ha’penny.’

Sally placed a shilling on the counter and waited for the ha’penny change. It was the last of money that Pa had given her from the profit he made selling the last lot of rags to Rags Roper, the cloth merchant. She put the halfpenny in her purse.

‘Good evening, Mr Jarvis.’

‘Good evening, Miss Suggs.’

She left the shop and pulled her cap down over her forehead in an attempt to shield her eyes from the driving snow. The horse-drawn traffic rumbled past and the clock on the St Pancras Church was booming out the hour. It was no wonder she failed to hear the approaching footsteps. She cannoned into the man who was struggling to open his umbrella, and the force of the encounter sent her purchases flying out of the basket onto the snowy pavement.

‘Look where you’re going!’ Sally cried angrily. ‘That’s my supper lying on the ground.’

‘You barged into me, you stupid boy.’ The man lowered his umbrella, staring at her in the flickering light of the street lamp. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, miss. Are you hurt?’

‘No,’ Sally said reluctantly. ‘But the eggs are smashed and the pies are covered in slush. That’s our supper you’ve ruined and my pa will be furious.’ She tilted her head back to glare at the man, who was dressed like a country gentleman, which was decidedly out of place in this part of London. He was younger than she had supposed, and his rugged features were creased in a worried frown.