‘And here,’ Henry had said to her, throwing open the side gate to his family’s garden with a flourish all those years ago, ‘is the theatre!’ The auriculas, of all colours – purple and white, blue and lilac, scarlet and cream, burnt orange and lemon – sat in neat pots arranged on wooden tiers nearly five feet high and she had clapped her hands with glee to see them all.

‘Ricklers, painted ladies, bear’s ears,’ he had said. ‘Most excellent names of course, but I do rather like the word auricula itself. And of course there’s so much you can do with them, so many different types – doubles, stripes, alpines, borders – one can create one’s very own unique version with only a little effort.’

Henry had fuelled Etta’s existing passion for the natural world, shared books and knowledge with her, encouraged her inquisitive nature. Once, some years back, Etta had high hopes of being more than mere friends with this polite and enthusiastic man who had shown genuine interest in her for who she was. Alas, fate had decided otherwise when Henry had met the pretty, vacuous and extraordinarily wealthy Miss Emily Swinnerton at a dance.

‘As if he would have been interested in you!’ Walter had scoffed as Etta’s heart had cracked. ‘You would be nothing more than a curio to a man like him. As if he would marry you of all women when he has the freedom to choose.’ Freedom to choose. His words had stung deeply.

Etta is happy for Henry, though, she has remained fond of him and they have continued to correspond long after his marriage. Emily is kind and sweet although Etta knows she does not challenge or stretch him. Perhaps that’s what he wanted, she thinks as she prepares her writing materials on the scratched old desk in front of her. Someone pliant, a wife who will endorse and support, not a ‘difficult woman’ as her half-brother often calls her. ‘Knowledge is a dangerous thing for a woman to have!’ Walter had barked at her on more than one occasion when he’d found her reading in their father’s library.

Never mind, Etta thinks. I am perfectly happy on my own anyway. Scout yawns and stretches himself out behind her, claws scratching the floor as her pen scratches the paper, reminding her that she is never really alone. Her canine shadow, he brings her endless joy.

‘Dear Mr Underwood,’ she begins, remembering that one of Henry’s numerous offspring has a birthday coming up and she must not forget to send her best wishes to little Emilia. She sits and writes as the sky turns jet black outside, stars stretching themselves out like flickering candles across the night sky.

THE MORNING EXPRESS, Wednesday 7 October 1840