‘I hope you don’t mind, Mr Gibbs, but I’ve already delivered that review of yours directly to Mr Ashman himself,’ says Mary as they walk slowly along the park’s small avenue of trees.

Richard nods, his mind elsewhere.

‘And, I am pleased to say, he has already commissioned another two reviews from me,’ Mary adds. ‘So no more button sewing for Mr Gidley, thank goodness!’

Richard nods again. ‘Mmm. Excellent good. Of course.’

It is not the reaction Mary was expecting. It is most un-Richard-like to be quite so serious and intense, so preoccupied, and it troubles her. He is behaving very oddly today, she thinks, turning up at their lodgings and insisting he speak privately with her on a matter of utmost importance. Jos was already out on a lead for a story and Charlie was soon to leave for the penny gaff where Lou had conjured up some more odd jobs for him. Mary had suggested a walk instead, to make the most of the last of the autumn sunshine.

‘Besides, Millie needs to learn how to navigate the roads, poor thing. Who knows how long she’d been cooped up down there?’ she had said, patting the dog’s head, but Richard’s face was all anxiety and it unsettled her, even more so since he hadn’t managed more than a handful of words the entire way to the park.

‘Shall we sit for a moment?’ he says suddenly, motioning to a bench. She smooths her dress and sits, Millie at her feet, as Richard takes his place next to her.

They are silent for a while, Richard fidgeting and looking out into the distance. Lord, this is hard, he thinks to himself. All those glorious spars with her, all the time he has felt so at ease in her company – and yet now she is the hardest, most impossible person in the world for him to talk to.

‘This is really rather difficult, Miss Ward,’ he says suddenly.

‘I fear I have not been entirely honest with you about several matters.’

‘Oh?’ she says.

‘This is really . . . This is very . . .’

‘Richard, are you sure you’re quite all right?’ she asks, worried.

‘Mary . . . I . . .’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Oh, Lord! Mary, look, when I was in Edinburgh, I formed an attachment. There, it is out.’

Oh. But Mary cannot think more than that, the air squeezed out of her chest and all hope with it. All those times he had looked at her so intently, all those awkward moments where she had dared hope . . . Oh.

‘Please. Let me explain . . . she was the daughter of one of the journalists on the paper I was editing. I saw her almost every day and I’m afraid I mistook familiarity for—’