Mary kept her head bent over the tapestry on which she was working and blinked back her tears of frustration.

‘Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling.’

There had been no reading of novels for weeks now. And, though he might still be popular on Drury Lane, in Number 20 Great George Street even Shakespeare had fallen from favour. Instead, she was expected to perform to her parents – sing prettily through her great misery – until the Bible came out every evening. It seemed that her father, always God-fearing, was now close to petrified. Mary could not decide whether the current craze for religiosity was to be put down to his wife’s condition – with this second baby, the doctor came every day – or if it was all part of a programme to subjugate Mary.

The month had dragged on, a sequence of lessons and visits – church twice on a Sunday – and all of it played out against a background of hopelessness. Would March never come? If her parents had thought that, by this deprivation, Mary might forget Ned, or look again at Dr Knatchbull – or be somehow reborn as a quite different person – then they were to be disappointed. With each passing, tedious day, her heart hardened against them. Each night was passed in a state of delirium – neither conscious, nor sleeping – at the edge of her nerves, until Booker came in and roused her.

‘They killed him then,’ the maid announced with great satisfaction one morning, as she swept back the curtains.

‘Who?’ Mary sat upright. ‘Dearest!’ Being so obsessed with her own private drama, her mind went at once to the one person who mattered. ‘Whom did they kill?’

‘Chunee,’ Booker replied merrily. ‘The elephant.’ She went to the fireplace, picked up the poker and added, with relish: ‘Shot him. Point blank.’

‘But that is an outrage! How dare they? And why?’

‘Went for the keeper, according to Cook. She heard from the milkman—’

‘But he was not a bad animal! Merely unhappy. They should never have trapped him. What else would he do but strike back at his captors? What would any of us do if our freedom were taken away? Oh, if only he had found some means of escape.’

‘Lower your voice, if you please. There’s no use getting at me, madam!’ The fire now built – coals starting to catch – Booker turned to the wardrobe. ‘I ain’t been killing no elephants.’

Mary collapsed on to the bolster; let the hot tears fall unabated; considered the fates of Marianne Knight and poor, dear Miss A.

And began to think the completely unthinkable.

At last, the trees in the park became bridal with blossom. The daffodils smiled. The air lifted and sharpened. The world was not turned yet, but still Mary could feel it: the green was upon them. And Mr Knight would return.