Booker now stared directly at Mary, jaw open, eyes stretched. ‘Well, I never did! Little Miss Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt …’ And once she had got over the shock of it, rose to reassert her authority. ‘Well, that’s enough of all that. Now, down to business!’ She marched to the desk and slammed a hand down on the writing paper. ‘You’ve put it off long enough.’

Mary covered her eyes then and let out a groan. She had planned to leave a few, brief words propped up on her dressing table, but Ned had counselled against. A note in the house could be discovered by chance before morning. If Sir Edward was alerted, he would send out a party to hunt them down. Instead, Mary must write a good letter to her father, Ned to his own and they would post them en route, well after midnight. By the time they were delivered, then it would be too late for her papa to obstruct them.

But the task was not easy. Mary sat down at the table, picked up her pen – stared into the vellum – summoned the words, but they did not hear her call. Booker paced, scoffed and chided. Mary wrote a few lines, scratched them out: started again. The clock ticked on the mantel and the long hand marched resolute up to the hour. Mary let out a cry of frustration, threw aside one sheet and reached for another. Until, suddenly, there were but minutes until the point of departure. The matter was urgent and she could only dash out an inadequate message:

My dearest Papa,

I am gone to Scotland with Mr Knight and beg that you not try to follow us, for it would be to no purpose.

I am sure I do feel so much the wickedness of what I have done and that nothing can alter the disgrace which I am bringing myself. I have no doubt that you will think me deserving of every cruel punishment. But, Father, I pray – do not withdraw your love from me. Anything but that evil, for I could never cease loving you – deeply and dearly.

To maintain your affection would bring me such happiness that there is almost nothing I would not sacrifice to effect it. But I cannot give up Mr Knight. As I have tried to tell you on several occasions, we are deeply in love. I only wish that you had troubled to hear me.

Forgive me, Papa. Dear, dear Papa, I beg you forgive me.

Your devoted daughter,

Mary Dorothea

‘There. ’Tis done.’ Mary sat back in her chair, stunned at her own audacity. Through hot tears, she watched as Booker snatched up the letter and packed it into her valise.

‘Right then.’ Booker came over, mopped at her face, then reached for her cloak and held it out like a matador.

Mary rose and let the maid dress her before glancing at the clock. ‘Three minutes to go …’