Having been lucky enough to enjoy a few winters in Town, Mary now understood that numbers worked a little differently in Kent. In her first winter in London, the short month of February had sped past in a flash, a whirl of arcades and outings. This year, all thanks to that new baby, she was stuck out at Hatch and the same twenty-eight days dragged like a decade. No doubt even the thought would be taken as yet further evidence against her true piety, yet Mary was convinced of it: God created the Capital to spare one the trials of an over-long winter.

To add to the misery, it seemed that everyone was up there while Mary was not. Kind Mr Austen Knight had taken his three unmarried daughters to an hotel, from which Cassy wrote often. She reported that Ned had, typically, emerged unscathed from recent events; George was also often around, despite the great pressure of Chambers; and with the House now in session, even Sir Edward was enjoying himself in Portland Place with dear Lady Banks. Meanwhile, Mary stayed alone, with the Mother, her child and multiple nurses. Could life get any worse?

Apparently so. For, as a bluebottle drawn to the fresh corpse of poor Mary’s joy, Dr Knatchbull landed at Hatch.

One afternoon, somewhere in the long middle of that eternal, short month, Mary returned from a solitary walk to find the new guest was arrived.

‘Sir.’ She dropped into a modest curtsey, and made for a chair in the hope of being ignored. Only to find that he leaped to his feet, grasped her cold hand and, rather dramatically, kissed it.

‘Madam.’ The bow was extreme: too long and too low. ‘I had very much hoped to find you in residence, having wished to deepen our acquaintance since that dance in Ashford. Was it not the most pleasant of evenings?’

There was something a little over-moist about the mouth when he spoke. A certain dampness hung in the air between them. Mary waited politely, issued a suggestive stare at the hand still trapped in his. At last, she was free to sit down and take tea.

‘Dr Knatchbull was just saying that he hopes to stay with us through to the summer, while works are done on his rectory at Smeeth.’ Fanny fussed around with a teapot and cakes. ‘Is that not excellent news? I fear poor Mary has found it very quiet here lately, sir, with no other young …’

Mary looked across at the tall, sombre, learned clergyman and tried to guess at his age, but it was not obvious. Though he might still be young, he could just as equally pass as a septuagenarian. She put him down as one of those poor unfortunates, rather like the Mama, who had simply been old since the womb.