For many, though, bereavement was a common condition and while, in the first hours and days, Mary did receive some sweet gestures of sympathy, the special attentions did not last long. No one around her wore mourning – they had never met Mrs Knatchbull, so why on earth would they? And because, presumably, everyone at home had other things to think about, no black was sent over for Mary, so even she had to go about life in her normal attire.

Mr Knatchbull had left without making mention of Mary returning back home; he did not even refer to their plans for the summer in Sandgate. She was left with no choice but to sink into school life – a paler, even plainer, more joyless version of her previous self.

By day, as per her instructions, little Mary endeavoured. Through long hours of labour, her embroidery became something close to exquisite; her curtsey astonishing; her demeanour and conduct never less than becoming: she had her catechism down to a T. Every week, Mrs Grant dispatched glowing reports and Mary sent home, in her copperplate hand, endless tales of her honours and triumphs.

Her father’s replies came perhaps once a month, but – although sometimes he suggested he hoped that he might – he never appeared.

Hot tears hung, scalding, at the backs of her eyes, waiting for the moment when they might gush forth and relieve her. But at night, in bed, however hard Mary willed it, they still would not come. How she longed to give vent to her misery – pour it all out; roll around and wallow, just as her father had done. But there had been something about that new and odd way he had addressed her. Somehow she had got the impression that true grief was a privilege she had not quite done enough to earn. It was not until 1818, when a letter arrived informing her that her sweet little brother Edward had died from a fever, that she could, at last, cry. He was but eight years of age! The sheer cruelty of that was overwhelming enough, but worse: it brought with it a new terror. Would the other boys stay safe? Could she trust any of her family to simply survive?

And as for her own future: Mary lay – lonely, fearful and sleepless – and pondered. Well, first she would stay at Mrs Grant’s until such time as she was simply too old to stay. Thereafter, she would take up position by the side of her afflicted papa, where she would comfort and support him through his unending misery, until came the blessed moment when he was, at last, reunited with his beloved in heaven. And then what would become of Mary? Wither and die too, she supposed.

People like her – the great undistinguished – had no right to expect any more from their lives.