After some minutes, Fanny finally rose, a little unsteadily. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I am all over fatigue.’

She then bent to kiss Mary’s cheek with a tenderness she had never before shown. ‘I do not expect your papa home until the small hours. I pray he does not disturb you on his return.

‘Good night, my dear child,’ Fanny said softly. ‘May the Lord bless you.’

And then she withdrew.

Mary reeled in her wake. She could not have imagined her mother would ever reveal herself so – and that she should do so just now … Already this was proving to be the most astonishing evening, and the real drama was yet to begin. She waited a while, listening; caught the sound of the latch on Fanny’s door, and began her own, slow ascent up the stairs.

But despite the self-possession she had shown over dinner – and, indeed, throughout the previous week – Mary was surprised to find that she was shaking all over. And more troubling still, she knew why. This was not doubt. She could not change course now. No, this was her conscience – wounded enough by the treachery she was to inflict upon one parent, under new attack from the other.

All these past weeks, Mary had lived under the shadow of her father’s imminent misery. And had she thought to consider the effect upon anyone else? Not once. As Sir Edward dominated the lives of all in the family, so he dominated all of their thoughts and concerns. Such was his tyranny, only now could she see it. Mary paused, tried to grip on the banister with a trembling hand; started to climb again; tripped on the step and was forced to stop by the window at the first landing.

And there – the point at which she could see both upstairs and down – her mind was assaulted by images of what was to come. She pictured the morrow: the discovery of her own disappearance. The household in uproar. Doors flying open; servants searching the house. Sir Edward’s inevitable, stupendous fury that could rock the foundations.

But though she would be its cause, Mary would not be its witness. By then, she would be well clear of London, halfway to the North. It would be down to Fanny – good, decent Fanny, who preferred peace over passion – to deal with the fallout. And oh! – that poor lady. She did not deserve any of it.

CHAPTER XXXIV

Booker was, indeed, in high agitation and already dressed in her cloak. When Mary entered the bedroom, she sprang up in alarm.

‘Oh, it’s you, thank the Lord.’ Booker sank back into her chair, with a hand on her heart. ‘I’ve been that worried about a maid coming in and seeing the place …’

Two sealed trunks stood against the wall, screaming intention. The wardrobe was emptied; the washstand was cleared.

‘And how was the mistress then?’