So great was the general relief, for the matter had cast quite a cloud, that no one even suspected Mary – cheerful, polite; prettier yet than before – was host to an interior turmoil; that while she played her part to perfection, she was, in fact, consumed with both longing and dread. They never could have imagined that she might be thinking of Ned – their impending union and all that would entail. That her flesh would then tingle with the most delicious sensation, which she could neither identify nor wanted ever to end. And they had no idea that she was, just as often, assailed by the most terrible visions: presentiments of her father’s near future, which then revealed to her the true meaning of agony.

And at last, the great moment was come. After the longest week of her young, difficult life, the night of Saturday 13th was finally upon her. In just a few hours, little Mary Dorothea – that good, Christian child – would take to the stage in a drama set to shock the whole Knatchbull world. But first – for every climax must have its foil – she must somehow endure a few hours of the entirely banal.

Mary’s last family dinner, at a quarter to six of that evening, was all set to be a modest, rather humdrum affair. Sir Edward was out at a long-arranged engagement and, as was their custom – Lady Knatchbull never ordered a hot dinner when menfolk were absent. It seemed to her quite de trop – Mary and Fanny took a simple cold supper in the parlour and talked of nothing that mattered.

‘That was a most pleasant day, Mary dear.’ The Mother dabbed at her lips with her napkin, sat back in her chair and rang for a servant. ‘Thank you for your company.’

‘Thank you, Mama,’ Mary replied, marvelling at her feigned air of serenity. How could she pretend so? Oh, but when they discovered the truth, they would think her so wicked! Mary silently pledged that – once this one, last, heinous act was behind her – she would never dissemble again.

Mary laid down her cutlery, stole a glance at the clock on the mantelshelf and brought a hand to her mouth as if to stifle a yawn.

‘If you do not mind it, Mama’ – a final, petty falsehood. Where was the harm? – ‘I am most frightfully tired. I may withdraw to my bed early—’

But Fanny paid her no heed. Instead, ‘Dear Mary,’ she began, leaning back while a servant cleared all the dishes, ‘with my husband so very busy, I am often alone and you are my great consolation. I shall miss it, my dear, once you are married and settled, and no longer to hand.’