Mary looked up, almost unseeing. It was a moment before she registered the visitor. ‘Ah! Yes. There has been a development.’ Her scarred face was pink with excitement. ‘I have today heard from my mother.’ She rooted in the counterpane, found the letter in Fanny’s hand and tossed it across for Cassandra to read. ‘My father is sick and – oh, Aunt! – Fanny has seized upon that as her opportunity … My mother is so good … kinder than I ever deserved … And at last, he is persuaded to see me! I am writing to him now.’ She put down her pen. ‘Pray, listen and tell me what you think.’

She picked up the paper and started to read: ‘Hearing of your illness and the possibility of you dying without me seeing you and you forgiving me, causes—’

‘Dying, Mary?’ Cassandra cut in with alarm. ‘Sir Edward is in danger?’

Mary looked up from her writing. ‘My mother suggests that he feels he is in danger, hence him agreeing to meet. He has always harboured great fear for his own health, but somehow, from her words, I did not get the impression that she was over-concerned. Oh dear!’ She looked suddenly stricken. ‘Could it be serious? I believe my mother said he was suffering something called trigeminal neuralgia?’

Cassandra gritted her teeth. For was this not the great inequality? His daughter risks her own life with every confinement; Sir Edward gives every appearance of being entirely unmoved. And yet what was no doubt unpleasant but essentially trivial provokes a great, mortal terror. ‘I am sorry to hear it,’ she replied. ‘But Mary dear – though I am no physician – I do not think one dies from the face ache.’

‘That is a relief, and much as I suspected.’ Mary cheered up at once. ‘Still, if he feels at death’s door, then that is useful for me. Ned and I shall set off in the morning.’

‘My dear girl!’ Cassandra was horrified. ‘Do you not see? You are still convalescent! This comes too soon. The journey into Kent is long and, it seems, not at all urgent. I beg you put it off a few weeks at least.’

‘Oh, Aunt Cass. You do not know my father. When sick, he is vulnerable. But, once he is well again, he will go straight back to his old ways.

‘My mind is made up.’ Mary picked up her pen again. ‘This is my chance, and I must seize it.’

Cassandra left the room in surrender and found Booker waiting out on the gallery. ‘Madam?’

‘No luck, I fear,’ Cassandra said, simply. ‘Mrs Knight is determined.’

The maid let out all the breath she had been holding in. ‘Then mark my words: this is a calamity.’

‘Dear Booker,’ Cassandra said, soothing, ‘I cannot endorse the idea, but it should not prove dangerous. We can trust that her husband will take no unnecessary risks.’