Mary stood alone at the window of Number 20 Great George Street, watched the sun trace its path above the grey houses opposite, and let out a sigh. It was the year 1824 and the start of yet another fine spring London day – set fair for a promenade, perhaps, or trip to the gallery. But, yet again, she would play little part in it.

She drifted back to the sofa, selected a stocking from the basket and then put it back. It was quite beyond all darning and, anyway, where was the virtue in work if ‘the Mama’ did not witness her doing it? So she reached behind the pillow, retrieved the Fanny Burney she had stashed away, and fell into the pages. But these days, the very act of reading took her mind not into the story, but instead into another world entirely: one in which Miss Atkinson had never been banished; a place of laughter and interest, possibility and promise. Wrenching herself back to disappointing reality, Mary instead reached back into the basket, and gave in to that which was expected.

The noise from the street – drivers and cabs; sellers competing; a riot of bells now chiming ten – came in sharp contrast to the quiet of the drawing room. Still – she found a suitable thread and cut it to length – Mary found she did not much mind the silence of solitude; indeed, she was getting quite used to it. And rather that than the silences which arose when one was in company: those she could hardly bear.

By ‘company’ of course, she was here referring to the Mother, Lady Knatchbull. With no more governess or lessons, Mary had been returned to her own family, and ‘mama’ and ‘daughter’ were now constant companions. This should have afforded them new opportunities to create some sort of alliance – nay, even friendship. No such miracle occurred.

It was now nearly four years since the fates had brought them together, but still they had not found a means by which to communicate. It was hardly as if Mary was taciturn by nature – with her friends, she was almost loquacious. Yet, somehow, when it came to her stepmother, she was selectively mute.

Being quite so disobliging did not bring her any particular pleasure – indeed, Mary was starting to dislike the person she became when the Mother was around, though she could see how her non-cooperation had come about. First born out of shyness, then – it was true – turned into protest, it was now no more than an unfortunate habit.