The days dragged on; the nights stretched eternal. Though Mary could not lose faith in her mother’s good word, it was hard not to feel a trifle put out by the lack of urgency being shown. Finally, on 8 April – more than a week into baby John’s life – Mrs Grant herself appeared by her side at the breakfast table, to say that her father was waiting for her in the parlour.

Mary had never before been allowed into Mrs Grant’s sanctuary, nor had any of the pupils with whom she was on terms. It was the most astonishing breach of the lady’s defences and – sweetly, unthinkingly – Mary thrilled at her coup. For a minute, she stood in the cold, austere, tiled hall, pledging to remember every astonishing little domestic detail, before she knocked and then entered.

Her first thought was, Oh, my! as her eyes were assaulted by colour and softness. With the almost balmy warmth and chaos of chintz, it was as if she had walked straight out of winter into a garden in bloom. The sheer charm of the ambience – the discovery of this Eden within their grey prison – was nothing less than a revelation. Mary started, and smiled at it, and might even have giggled, had she not then noticed the one black stain in paradise.

‘Papa?’ Slowly, she approached the sofa as she might the gallows. Edward Knatchbull – sunken, crumpled – extended an arm without raising his gaze.

Mary slid in beside him; felt his hand tremble as he clutched at her shoulder. And then he began.

‘My dear Mary Dorothea.’ His voice was thick and damp and frighteningly unnatural. ‘I regret to say that I am here with the most sorrowful news. I fear it has pleased God to inflict upon me the heaviest calamity that can befall the most loving of husbands.’

Mary felt horribly cold.

‘Little did I know, when last we met, what cruel punishment then lay before me. The confinement went well; the child is a bonny one. In the very last minutes of her life, she seemed in better health than she had for a year. And then’ – he stumbled and choked – ‘and then—’ He stopped to collect himself. ‘At the eleventh hour of the morning, four long days ago – without any warning – she, my dearly beloved, was ripped from this world.’

He paused, sniffed; then he retrieved a large handkerchief, blew his nose loudly, and continued.

‘As you are keenly aware, to me she was everything; as you could predict, without her I am nothing. And, as you would no doubt expect, my grief is deep and sincere.’

He paused, as if requiring an answer. ‘Poor, dear Papa,’ was all she could muster.